Chapter 4: Joy
Patrick came down the stairs, shaking his head and wearing a grin. He didn't think Timothy would ever get to sleep tonight. Not that Patrick could blame him; he knew he had little chance of sleep himself. Full of nervous energy, he checked his stocked cigarette case and stepped into the back garden.
Funny, he thought as he took his first draw. He couldn't recall smoking a single cigarette since this morning. Not one during the long, anxious drive to the sanatorium, nor the too short drive home. Perhaps there had been one, while he waited at the foot of the stairs of Nonnatus House, knowing Shelagh was taking the last step necessary to step into a new life with him. A smirk replaced the grin as he reasoned that one cigarette to calm his nerves on the most tumultuous day of his life was really quite impressive. He knew, however, that the lack of nicotine wasn't the cause of his restlessness. He could smoke every cigarette in the house and he would still be bursting with exhilaration.
He laughed out loud, unable to contain it. "Shelagh," he breathed. Her name fell from his lips like a sigh. It was a name that promised a world he had never imagined; it changed everything. Her name made it all a reality. Before today, his dreams were ephemeral and elusive; based on an enigma, a woman loved but inscrutable, unattainable. Now, with a moment's introduction, the path to knowing the true woman was open before him.
They hadn't needed many words. Once free from the constraints of her old choices, Shelagh's face opened to him, and he could read all her thoughts and feelings there. Before, her clear blue eyes had fleetingly revealed depths to him, only to shutter himself just before he could see the truth. Today he had looked into her eyes and saw certainty. Today he saw love and his heart pounded with the joy of it.
He had never envisioned a world where Shelagh could love him. Even as he dreamed of her, he would wake to the emptiness of knowing he would always be on the outside of her life. He knew the most he could hope for, if he were ever able to repair the deepest of the fissures in their friendship, was cordiality and respect. Her professionalism and forgiving nature would make it possible for them to work together, but there would be nothing more.
The night before, Patrick secreted away the watercolor she had sent Timothy. Alone in his room, he read her words again and again, trying to find some hidden clue meant only for him. "Thank your father for his kind letters," she had written. He had agonized over those letters before sending them. Would they cause her more pain rather than the healing he had hoped for? Had she forgiven him for his transgressions? She would respond "in due course." Her words were so formal, so distant. Never believing he could hope for more, he had caressed her words with his fingertips, imagining her fingers in the same place.
He thought now of that watercolor, intrepidly replaced before its recipient awoke. There were clues in it, after all. Just as he had, she spent this time in solitude trying to understand the world, and what her point of view would be. She had emerged from this seclusion, like a butterfly from its chrysalis, eager to embrace a new life. Patrick smiled, thinking of how, too impatient to wait to join her new world, she had pushed on: wrong bus, misty long walks mere inconveniences when faced with these new choices. And he was her choice.
When he found her, it was all he could do to keep from holding her close. Her past life of seclusion still stood between them. He hid his need beneath doctorly gestures of concern: checking for fever, warding off chill with his own coat wrapped around her. Her declaration had opened the doors to his own passion, which he would have to repress. He would have to be patient still and give her time to adjust to this new life.
But perhaps not so very patient, he thought, a small smile playing on his lips. After her visit to Nonnatus, just when the confusion seemed to overwhelm her and shut him out, he saw in one unguarded moment how much she needed him. He saw not uncertainty and regret, as he feared, but vulnerability and need. Enchanted, he took her face in his hands and kissed her gently. Determined to treasure and protect her, even from himself, he ended the kiss after all too brief moments. Watching her reaction, he thrilled to see her own disappointment at its brevity. Yes, he would need to be patient, but his patience would be rewarded. Shelagh would love him in every way.
He marveled at this new confidence. Never before had he had such faith with so little evidence. So many things made her love unlikely: the difference in their ages, spiritual faith, life experience. He did not think he was so good a catch, despite the murmurings of the ladies of the district. Overworked and underpaid, he carried responsibilities that few would willingly share. Yet he knew none of this mattered to Shelagh, and he felt the truth of it deep within himself. This love was no side effect of an enormous life change, or simply a sweet temporary dalliance to help distract from life's pain and loneliness. Long an agnostic, Patrick could not help but feel there were larger forces at work. His skeptical mind bowed to a power that had made them not only possible, but a foregone conclusion.
As he put his cigarette out, the glint from his wedding ring caught Patrick's eye. Thoughtfully, he twisted it around his finger. Margaret would be happy for him, he knew. She had never wanted him to mourn for her, but to rejoin life. During their last, long talk, she had told him to take the band off after her funeral, but he wore it still, first out of dedication to her memory, then as protection against the prying eyes of those around him. A widower, he was an object of interest, and it's absence would have been interpreted as open season on the doctor, or worse yet, given hints to the feelings he had tried to hide for so long. He would offer no proof as to the growth of his love for Shelagh for fear that she would not welcome the attention. Coming to a decision, he slipped the ring off and placed it in his waistcoat pocket. Tonight, he would put it in the mahogany box on his dresser, saved with his other memories.
Today, he began to live again.