Dear Shelagh, wrote Patrick, then stopped. It was not the first time he had used the writing pad since the last of the letters to the sanatorium; only a week ago there had been the letter written to accompany a Christmas card to Tom Anderson and his wife in Melbourne, slightly longer than the previous year's note, but still staggeringly brief given its attempts to explain that their card, already criss-crossing the globe, was remiss in its direction only to 'Patrick and Timothy'. Writing once more to her, he expected comparisons to cloud his mind, but the blankness created was akin to fog. Then he had known all he wanted to declare, how his brokenness without her would fill the pages with words so passionate the paper itself seemed to burn, were he permitted. Instead he had hidden behind mild inquiries after her health and pale phrases: 'Dear Sister Bernadette', 'With very best wishes, Yours, P. J. Turner, 'With warm regards, Yours, Patrick Turner'. Even signing his name, which he had never introduced himself to her as, had felt an imposition. In the last one, despairing, he wrote 'Yours affectionately, Patrick Turner' regretting it the moment the letter was posted. Now, everything was permitted; the privilege was his, his alone. Yet he did not know how to begin. Even 'Dear' seemed weak when none was more dear to him. Should he begin again with 'Dearest'? Sipping the whisky at his elbow while static crackled across the concert on the radio, he stared at the page, wondering what advice she would give him were she next to him. Then he snorted, knowing exactly what she would say: tell him off for even considering wasting a sheet of his best writing paper when he had written only an address, a date and two words, after which he would tease her for her Scottish tight-fistedness and she would pout and when they started to kiss, they would still be laughing and it would feel like a hiccup against his mouth. He knew it exactly, as though it had occurred in front of him. Taking another sip, he continued:

A certain postcard of Edinburgh arrived this morning, much to Timothy's delight! It is now in pride of place on his bedroom wall and he was immensely smug to have heard from you first, quite apart from the pleasure of a card from a new place. (Timothy insists from a new country, having been infected by Kenneth's tedious 'Wales is not England' lectures.) Genuinely, it made his week. He has been quite gloomy since you left, although he had a good weekend with Joan and Eric, Eric having had a fairly lucid period on Sunday. I suspect we were both right on Saturday: the prospect of your absence had upset him, but essentially, as you rightly said, I was worrying over nothing. He seems more settled, with no more odd questions at any rate. As for the letter you wrote on the train from Edinburgh to Aberdeen, which arrived in this evening's post, its recipient was – and is – every bit as happy as the recipient of the postcard, and feels so very lucky. I hope the note I wrote on Sunday has arrived.

Another piece of post arrived today which was as precious to me as your letter. I now do have some photographs of you, as, not before time, your paperwork arrived back from the sanatorium, complete with your final set of X-Rays. This did remind me that we need to get you registered with someone else – would you like me to get this process started now? I imagine you will be very busy when you return. Timothy and I are registered with Michael Reid and he and his family are registered with me, although in practice we usually take care of our own families unless prescriptions are needed. Would you be happy with that? He is an excellent doctor, as I'm sure you don't need me to tell you. Similarly, I'm sure you don't need me to tell you how much I would like it if you found time to have a proper photograph taken while you are in Scotland. Much as I appreciate the joy of gazing at your internal organs (and contemplating those X-Rays was a very great joy, my darling), I don't think they will quite do for carrying around in my wallet!

Unfortunately, there is another piece of (literal) housekeeping which may have to be put in progress before you return. I spoke to Len Warren on Monday about getting our bedroom redecorated before the wedding, as we discussed. His proposed charge is very low, which I put down to gratitude to you, however unfortunately the only time the work can be fitted in is in the evenings at the end of next week, which means selecting the paper and paint in your absence. I'm so sorry and if you would prefer to postpone and finalise the choices yourself, of course we will. However, if you'd like him to proceed do you have any preferences about paper or colour? It is a rather dull mushroom at the moment and I thought maybe something brighter? Mr. Warren suggested yellow or maybe a warm blue.

He read back the paragraph, with an derisory little furl of the nostrils at the last words. He had no idea what a 'warm blue' meant. Elizabeth had been the artistic one, who could pair unlikely objects and colours so they made their home rich, even in the days when they had nothing. It had been a little romantic notion he had had, hoping to make the room fresh and special for Shelagh, knowing that she would pass her bridal tryst there, and brush away the dust of death and loss lingering in its shadows. These days, who knew who was supposed to make a home for whom, whether he should be making the home to lay before her feet, or she make the home from the house? He had hoped they would do it together, fumbling through decisions which would make his house hers. Now he seemed to wrest away from her the promise he had made that she could change the house as she wished. She knew him, though, in ways that seemed impossible, reading nuances in him he did not always know were there; would she not see the sincerity in the black ink and know the choice was still, and always would be, hers? She had before when the words were far more elliptical. He must believe and trust she could.

Mr. Warren was asking warmly after you, very keen to know when you are returning to work. His wife is now expecting number fifty seven or whatever it is and he is hoping you will be their midwife once again. More accurately he said he hoped 'your missus'll be back and see Conchita through it'. They had a preliminary check on Monday with the temporary replacement Sister Julienne has got hold of, Rachel Simpson. Just as Jenny Lee did, she found the Warrens fairly eye-opening! Are the Warrens a test case given to all newcomers to see if they are up to the job?

He wondered how much he should tell her about what had occurred at teatime after Nurse Simpson returned from the call. The start was decidedly entertaining, almost irresistible, the ending bittersweet. Yet as he had pondered it in the past two days, the sweetness in its kernel had grown until it became more than an anecdote: the bridge to making peace with himself, leaving him more fit to be the man who would stand by an altar waiting for Shelagh to come to him.

It was Sister Julienne he stopped in to see, exchanging diagnostic notes about two elderly brothers, the older spry but half-blind, the younger crippled, both struggling with bronchitis in a flat riddled with damp in a building from which tenants were being steadily scattered. As much as drugs and treatment, they needed affection. She had persuaded him to stay for tea and they were walking down the hall, discussing what options there were for supporting men who asked for so little from a society which was rattling past them, when they heard the voices raised from the kitchen.

"Which one's Sister Bernadette?" asked Nurse Simpson, testily. Although she was experienced and able, Patrick had not completely warmed to her when he met her a few days earlier. Perhaps it was sentimental, but in general practice he would rather a Cynthia, breaking her heart for a grieving patient, or a Chummy, breaking every piece of equipment in her earnestness to care, than sterile, efficient competency. This tone in her voice did not endear her to him any further.

"Why?" asked Trixie. It was not evasive, yet the voice glittered with protectiveness.

Nurse Simpson sighed heavily. "I just had the most extraordinary call, with some Spanish woman who has had heaven knows how many children and whose husband turned up in the middle and started pawing her. He can't even speak to her!"

There was a general explosion of mirth. "Conchita Warren," said Cynthia.

"I delivered her last one. I felt exactly the same when I first met her," offered Jenny sympathetically.

"Did he spend the whole time telling you 'Sister Bernadette says this' and 'Sister Bernadette says that' and 'That's not what Sister Bernadette does'?"

Patrick smiled to himself in gentle pride, while Jenny answered. "A few times."

"Didn't it make you want to scream?"

"No," said Jenny, adding honestly. "Well, it made me feel a bit stupid, but I was saying that I should test for toxaemia when she couldn't possibly have it, so I was being quite stupid."

"Hmm. She's sounds a terrible know-it-all! Which one is she? Is she the big one?"

Such was his desire to laugh, Patrick was in pain resisting it, wondering both what Shelagh would make of being mistaken for Sister Evangelina and what Sister Evangelina would make of being described as 'the big one'. What he achieved, Trixie, Jenny, Cynthia and Jane could not.

"Ask Dr. Turner," said Trixie, just after the spluttering of giggles had ceased, which initiated a fresh eruption.

"Why?" asked Rachel Simpson. "Does she tell him what to do as well?"

"Not much now. I suspect it's going to come with the territory later on!" Trixie's voice became higher and higher as the sentence progressed until she was almost incoherent by the end, even without the patchwork of noise from the others smothering her.

Calming herself, Cynthia tried to explain. "I think the person you're thinking of is Sister Evangelina. Sister Bernadette isn't here, as she's convalescing from illness. And she's not Sister Bernadette any more. She left the Order a while ago. Her name's Shelagh. You've probably heard us mention her."

The gleeful intake of breath started before Cynthia finished. "Isn't Shelagh the name of the doctor's fiancée? No! The doctor's fiancée used to be one of the nuns? Lord, that's a bit of a scandal, isn't it!"

It was less scurrilous than the Peabody Buildings, but his frustrated bolt of shame was exactly the same.

"Not really," said Trixie sharply. "I don't know what you mean." Rachel began some response, already slightly daunted, but Trixie gave her short shrift and allowed her to go no further than her opening word. "Two thoroughly good and honourable people with more kindness and integrity between them than most towns can muster up, not to mention intelligence, one a widowed man, the other a single woman, have fallen in love and decided to get married. I don't see what's remotely scandalous about that. In fact, we all think it's beautiful. And we don't use words like 'Lord' as oaths here. Pass me the Swiss Roll, Jenny."

He had known Nurse Franklin some years and he respected her. The glibness was all a show; it was the compassion and the iron will which were real. It was something to see himself and Shelagh through her eyes, delineated by a tongue which was so frequently biting. It loved wit and gossip, but loved truth more and protected those she loved.

"If you would still like to stay for tea Dr. Turner, I suspect you will have a defender," said Sister Julienne mildly. She was smiling; nonetheless he was reluctant to follow her into the kitchen, embarrassed by what he had heard and even by its vigour. He saw no alternative, however.

"Dr. Turner!" cried Trixie. "Are you staying for tea? Mrs. B has outdone herself today!" She was vamping, as she always did. It was easy to dismiss: her earlier remarks had been a mirror to him, showing him the true reflection of the man she believed he was. Not only she, he realised. For twenty minutes the band of girls flustered around him, filling his plate and cup and gaily asking endless questions about Shelagh and the wedding. Warmth encircled him with attentions so ostentatious they were faintly ridiculous and he began to pity Nurse Simpson, quietly sat at a chilly corner of the table; for it was not only the young nurses who marked him as their own.

Sister Julienne was far too gracious ever to descend to crude partisanship, yet she too stood resolutely by him, with such charm and poise that made her allegiance the most crushing of all. "You must be missing her already," she murmured gently under the cover of anecdote Trixie was telling at the other end of the table. He briefly acknowledged he was. "And Timothy just as much, I imagine?"

"Yes, very much so."

"She has always been terribly fond of him. I remember a treasured drawing which he produced for her of the two of them, which you 'carried around for weeks', was it not?" He wondered how far she guessed that it had not only been absent-mindedness which led to the picture's long sojourn in the briefcase. "It is lovely watching them together, Dr. Turner," she added, suddenly finding herself speaking into a pocket of silence where all faces watched them. With dignity, she smiled to Rachel Simpson, as though they had not overheard the previous discussion. "I was commenting to Dr. Turner how charming it is seeing Shelagh, his fiancée, with his son, Timothy, Nurse Simpson. She has always been particularly skilled with our younger patients, however there is a very, very special bond there. I sometimes wonder if it is because she lost her own mother when she was very young." She turned once more to Patrick. "Shelagh's niece is named after her mother, is she not?"

"Yes, Agnes."

"Is Shelagh's brother-in-law going to give her away at the wedding?" asked Cynthia after refilling his cup.

"No," he replied, uncertain what to reveal.

"I am," said Sister Julienne. "And I truly am very honoured to have been asked, Dr. Turner." Amid the squeals of pleasure, he still heard a voice clearly and distinctly, Jenny's, giving its involuntary response on behalf of them all: 'That's perfect'.

The community of Nonnatus were a strange family and this was a familial instinct, to huddle around one of its daughters. It was more than that however. They had spoken of integrity and decency when they did not know he was there and their rejoicing was not just momentary glitter to shut out the world's dark criticisms. They genuinely saw no reason why he did not deserve what he had been given, nor any reason for censure, truly considering it as Trixie had described it: beautiful. There would be no condemnation. Behind them stood David and Louisa, Kenneth, the Parkers, his brother Michael, Shelagh's sister and brother-in-law, united in simple, happy joy. It touched him, not to the same extent, but in exactly the same way as Shelagh's letter had, which had been waiting for him when he returned home an hour ago. He did not feel he had earned her words of love and faith, still struggling to understand why she had chosen him. Yet there they had been.

For weeks he had waited for denunciation which had not come, except in pockets of spite from those who did not know them. He had wondered why he was so sure it would, worrying that he had become so warped by experience he was afraid of trusting love, not hers or his, but Love itself. But it was not love he could not accept; it was grace. Trixie's simple stridency when recounting his story, the nurses' embracing of the romance, Sister Julienne's acceptance, above all Shelagh's gentle affirmations of love, all were based on gracious acceptance of what had happened; and that was what made them joyful and whole. He had never blamed fate when Elizabeth became ill, never believed he should be immune from pain or complained that it was not fair, but simply accepted it as what was, to be endured as best as could. Now he must accept fate's kindness, not its randomness. There was no point in grappling with the unfairness of why he was gifted this second chance when so many others were not, expecting himself to be punished. Instead, he must learn not only to love and give, but to receive with joy and finally let go of fear.

He wanted to explain to her, but on paper could not make sense of this still unfolding epiphany. Picking up his pen again, he resolved not to tell the story now, but wait until she was sat beside him. Pausing for a moment, he wondered if she would know herself, instantly, that something had happened without him saying. Then he started to write again. A propos of Nurse Simpson's experience with the Warrens, please remind me when you're home to tell you about how Sister Evangelina was mistaken for you and what happened when Nurse Franklin became St. George attacking a dragon (Not Sister Evangelina, I hasten to add) during afternoon tea after this mistake. Part of it will amuse you and the other part will move you, I hope, but is better told in person.

Work has been desperately busy and I only got home from my calls an hour ago (at half nine). We had vaccinations going on at the clinic yesterday, which meant it was utter carnage. My own cases were fairly straightforward, apart from one batty consultation with our favourite lunatic patients from the past year, the Carter twins. Twenty years of practice and a St Thomas' degree are insufficient with them for me to be able diagnose that a rash is a rash, not some medieval nonsense from their mother's book. Odd women. That said, I think I owe them something. It was during that delivery when you took on Meg Carter after she manhandled me that I first suspected you possibly felt something for me and realised what exactly I was starting to feel for you. In all honesty, when she slapped you it was the closest I have ever come in my life to considering hitting a woman. Of course, your confessing of your criminal past during our post-match cigarette was obviously an added inducement.

Apart from the clinic, it has been typical winter busyness. The weather has been filthy although no smog yet, so I have had an epidemic of 'itises': bronchitis, laryngitis and arthritis seem to be taking up about 70% of my time, although thankfully no hepatitis. (As yet. I have my suspicions about one case, but the blood sample is still being tested.) As for mastitis, Nurse Lee is dealing with that case.

I must confess I am quite glad to be busy, however. I miss you very, very much, my dear, as does Timothy, something we are not alone in: there hasn't been a single time I have seen any of Nonnatus residents without them asking me to hand on their love, while I believe Sister Julienne intends to write to you herself. Nurse Noakes also asked me to remind you to bring back your mother's veil with you, while reassuring me that you will be 'as pretty as a princess' in your wedding dress. Writing the phrase, he started scouring his memory, trying to recall each time he had heard it recently, every time accompanied by coy laughter or giggles. I may be wrong, but I am fairly certain that every single one of the nurses has used that identical phrase to me in the past few days. I don't know if it is code between you all, but I am handing her message on. May I also add that I have no doubt you will be far prettier, although I am not a particularly qualified judge as I'm no expert on ladies' fashion and I think you'd look beautiful in a potato sack. I suspect I'm partial.

I hope you're having a good time and that your nephew's birthday goes well. I will keep my fingers crossed that the repair kit hits the mark. Please hand on my warm regards to Elspeth and Robert and keep having a wonderful time. If you are reading this on Saturday morning, as I hope, it is only one week before we see each other again and only three until you are shackled to me for the rest of your days. In comparison with that, a number of days we can count on our fingers isn't really very long!

Now he reached the end, he turned back to the beginning and re-read it. It was much shorter than hers and its outlining of business matters dull. But he knew he was no poet and what they chattered about again and again in their private moments were odd and funny moments of their shared lives. All he had to say which was truly important could be said in only a few words and – the greatest miracle – he was allowed to say. As he recalled, once more, the other letters, he knew that all it took was two phrases and the slightest twist of the customary way those former letters had ended. Quickly, smiling, he wrote them.

With all my love,

Your Patrick