Halfway there, guys! Thanks to purple-roses-words-and-love for betaing.
She found the wimple stuck to the bottom of her suitcase a week after she'd come home from the sanatorium.
"I must've overlooked it, even though I hardly see how that's possible," Shelagh said, wringing her hands. She kept her eyes trained on the virginal white. The wimple had become limp and would have to be washed and starched before it could be used again.
"You've had more important matters on your mind," Sister Julienne said. She took Shelagh's hand in hers, her nail catching on the little stone of her engagement ring.
Shelagh smiled. "Yes," she said, wishing she wouldn't sound so giddy, so girl-like, not in front of her former religious sister.
She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, suddenly self-conscious of how uncovered her head was, how much her clothes accentuated her figure. She shouldn't have been surprised that her clothes of ten years ago were snug around the waist and chest, but it had still caught her unawares somehow. She'd bought some new clothes, but most of those were still being altered, and the one blouse she could've worn today had become soiled when she'd helped Timothy paint his science project.
Her stomach gave a soft twinge. She pressed her hand against it, willing it to still. She'd been nauseous ever since she'd started the triple treatment. She wanted the after-effects to go away, so she could finally leave that time in the wilderness behind her.
Sister Julienne let go of her hand and leaned back in her chair. "Sister Evangelina will bring in the tea things presently, I've no doubt."
"Oh, there's no need. I just wanted to bring this back to where it belongs," Shelagh said, patting the wimple.
"Shelagh, please. You could've let Doctor Turner bring this wimple. It would've saved you the trouble of coming all the way to Nonnatus, but here we are. Am I wrong to think you're not just here for a piece of cloth?" Sister Julienne asked, smiling her usual, friendly smile, the one that opened her face and invited the other to spill their secrets and worries.
Shelagh took a shivering breath and looked at her ring. Patrick had asked her three days ago, three glorious days she'd spent with him and his son as much as she could.
She'd had to do some shopping, of course, and Patrick had patients to see, so she'd been alone at times. When she'd gone to the post office to buy some stamps, she'd heard the women behind her whispering. She'd tried to ignore them, but it seemed as if their words had grown louder and louder until it was impossible not to overhear their hushed conversation.
"Who'd ever have thought it of her? She looked a proper nun…" the first woman said.
"There's no saying what goes on underneath those habits, now is there?" another woman responded.
"Or behind closed doors, for that matter. Makes you wonder, doesn't it? Maybe they've been at it ever since the Doctor's wife died. Maybe he had to marry her," a third woman chimed in.
Shelagh had slammed some coins on the counter, not bothering to wait for her change. She'd taken the stamps in hand and marched away, trying to keep her breathing steady. The women stepped out of her path, their faces startled as they realised in whose vicinity they'd been gossiping.
Shelagh was sure Patrick heard his fair share of wagging tongues, too. Just yesterday he'd been in a foul mood when he came home. She'd thought something must have gone wrong with a patient at first, but it wasn't that. He'd pulled her in his embrace and held her very tightly after he'd walked her to her lodgings, had kissed her brow and her cheek.
"What's wrong?" she'd asked him.
"I just want to hold you," he'd whispered, and hugged her tighter, as if afraid she'd bolt and leave him. "I'm sorry," he'd said before kissing her goodnight, but whether he apologised for his bad temper earlier, his bone-crushing embrace, or for something unnamed, she didn't know.
"There's been… talk, Sister," Shelagh said.
"A little gossip was to be expected, surely?" Sister Julienne said, folding her hands.
Shelagh gave her a wary smile. "I expected a little, yes. I just hadn't thought it would be quite so… vicious." She told the older woman of the things she'd overheard in the post office. "I'm sure other people say such things, too, maybe things that are worse," she concluded, eyes moist. She fished her handkerchief out of her purse. She had to tug at it; a corner had somehow lodged itself between the pages of her diary.
"But you and Doctor Turner know the truth, and you'll always have the support of Nonnatus," Sister Julienne said.
Another spasm of guilt shuddered through Shelagh. She did not think her actions with Patrick at the surgery that night were sinful or sordid, but to hear others speak of it as if they were made it hard to cling to her own convictions. It made her stomach tie itself up in knots till she could hardly eat for fear of vomiting. Would Sister Julienne still support her if she knew what had transpired between her former religious sister and the doctor that evening?
"Thank you, Sister. That means a lot to me," Shelagh said.
"Now, have you and Doctor Turner agreed on a date for the wedding?" Sister Julienne asked.
Shelagh was saved from answering that by Sister Evangelina. She came in, carrying a large tablet with a teapot, cups and saucers, and plates with cake.
"It took a while to find the cake tin. I couldn't remember where I'd hidden it. I could've saved myself the trouble: Sister Monica Joan has eaten most of it, anyway." She looked at Shelagh. "Morning, Miss Mannion," she said, voice curt.
She can't stay upset with me forever, Shelagh thought, stomach twinging.
"Good morning, Sister Evangelina," Shelagh answered, doing her best to smile.
"I assume you still drink your tea the way you used to?" Sister Evangelina asked. Without waiting for a reply, she poured tea in one of the cups and added milk, then shoved the cup into Shelagh's hands.
"Thank you," Shelagh murmured. She brought the cup to her mouth to take a sip.
The scent of the milk was sickening. It was thick, and overwhelmingly sour. Her stomach, already sensitive because of the months of penicillin and stress, rebelled. She gagged and almost dropped her cup on the table, pale tea sloshing over the rim.
"Watch it!" Sister Evangelina cried out. Sister Julienne hastily shoved a stack of papers out of the way of the droplets of tea.
Shelagh inhaled deeply, but her stomach refused to quiet down. She pressed a hand against her mouth, stood so quickly she almost knocked her chair over, and ran for the lavatory. She made it just in time and vomited once, twice, three times. Her face was shiny with a thin layer of perspiration by the time she was done, her lashes wet with tears. She came to her feet and flushed, holding on to the sink as her legs trembled.
"You all right?" Sister Evangelina asked. She stood on the threshold – I must lock the door next time –, arms folded in front of her chest.
Shelagh gave her a weak smile. "It's the Triple Treatment. My stomach still hasn't fully recovered, I'm afraid." She ran the tap and rinsed her mouth, then washed her hands.
"Hm," Sister Evangelina said, handing her a damp flannel to wash her face with.
"I think the milk was off, as well," Shelagh added.
"Nonsense. I drank from the same bottle myself this morning. Nothing wrong with that milk," Sister Evangelina huffed. She turned around to go, then hesitated. "I'll tell Sister Julienne that you're unwell and that you've gone home, all right? I'll fetch your purse and coat. You shouldn't do too much too soon when you've just come out of the sanatorium."
"You're using the same voice you use for your patients," Shelagh murmured.
"You are a patient, aren't you? You've been ill with TB." Sister Evangelina snorted. "Though if I didn't know any better, I'd say you were pregnant." She closed the door behind her.
Shelagh stood rooted to the spot. Pregnant, she thought. Then: surely not! Was it possible? But no, she'd been unwell, had been weak with consumption. You know that TB doesn't prevent pregnancies, though, a stern voice told her.
She looked at her face in the mirror. She was pale, but she hadn't lost much weight, not even in the sanatorium. Your clothes did fit rather snugly… She pressed a hand against her abdomen. Was there something there?
Sister Evangelina returned with her coat and purse. Shelagh thanked her with a tight smile. Her fingers trembled as she did up the buttons of her coat, until Sister Evangelina batted her hands away with an exasperated smile and did it herself.
Shelagh clutched her purse to her chest with white-knuckled hands. She went to her lodgings as if in a dream, her toes and fingers numb, her head pounding. She didn't bother to put away her coat and shoes as she came in. Instead, she went to her bed, and flopped down on it. She pulled her diary from her purse, stroking the soft leather with the back of her hand before opening it.
She'd marked her cycle with a red dot. The first months of the year had a new dot every twenty eight days. Then, after her TB diagnosis, after that night with Patrick's hand in her hair, her legs around his waist, they stopped.
"It's the TB," she whispered, "Surely it's only the TB and the penicillin. The doctors said the Triple Treatment could cause my cycle to stop…"
She'd attributed the lack of her cycle, the constant nausea, the constant need to cry, the fatigue, all of it, to her illness and its treatment.
But what if she was wrong?