Dearest Patrick,
I don't know if anyone has ever told you, but you're a genius! At the moment I am the most popular aunt in the north of Scotland, possibly north of the border, and it's all because of you.
I'm writing this on Friday, so it's Jamie's birthday. Although we're having a proper celebration tonight with presents, we had a couple of little gifts over breakfast and one of the ones he asked to open was ours. I think Elspeth encouraged him to choose it as politeness to the guest as he was perfectly pleasant but didn't seem incredibly excited until he saw what it was! He absolutely beamed and said it was 'fantastic'. This may not sound like much however Jamie is not much given to exaggeration (or speech really) so it was like an hour's raving from anyone else. Although it turns out he's an even keener cyclist than I'd thought, he didn't have his own bicycle repair kit and you could not have suggested anything better. I did give credit where it was due I hasten to add and I don't think anyone was very surprised. As Jamie had already said it was the best present I'd ever given him and he is quite a smart laddie, I think he'd worked out whose idea it was. So, you are very popular with Jamie now and he is going to write to you himself to say thank you. You're also equally popular with Elspeth and Rob as apparently whenever Jamie borrowed the puncture kit in the past, things always seemed to fall apart on the farm and when he didn't, things fell apart with Jamie!
Jamie and Agnes have grown up and changed so much since I was last here, but I think you'll like them both very much. They both want to call you Uncle Patrick from the start, although for different reasons. Jamie thinks it's stupid to call you Dr Turner for a thank you letter and a couple of days before the wedding then change, which rather sums him up. He's very unflappable and reminds me a wee bit of my father: although he doesn't say much, a lot goes on in his head. However, there's nothing of our family in him to look at – he's all Sutherland, a miniature version of Rob, although not very miniature! He's your height already, with shoulders to match. The Sutherlands have farmed around here for as far back as anyone can remember and I think what with the blond hair and everything there's probably a bit of Viking in there somewhere! Elspeth has been looking out a load of old clothes Jamie's grown out of in case we'd like them for Timothy but I can't imagine when Timothy will ever grow into them – maybe by the time he's ready to go to university!
As for Agnes, she slightly idolises you already. She's quite a romantic little girl and I think she sees us as a real life version of one of her books, with you as the brave hero rescuing the lonely heroine. She was so disappointed I didn't have a photograph, and not very impressed by my description of you (tall, dark and handsome, of course!), that I told her a little about how you wrote to me in the sanatorium and came and found me when I was lost. I think she worships you even more now. I hope you don't mind me telling her; it's such a precious memory to me and in some ways felt wrong to share it with anyone, even my niece, but I wanted to talk about you so much and once I start I don't seem to be able to stop myself from sharing all of the most beautiful things.
So you were right about Jamie's present and you were right about me coming to visit Elspeth as well. It's been great fun and very nice to be back in Scotland too. Tomorrow night I will even be going to a ceilidh for the first time in about a dozen years. I feel a bit daft about it and doubt I'll be doing any dancing, unless I'm dragged into a Dashing White Sergeant with Jamie and Agnes, but it's St. Andrew's Night and Rob plays the fiddle in the local band so we must all be there, including the odd sister-in-law from England! Beyond that however, this visit's become tremendously special. I don't think I ever really knew my sister before, not properly. We cared about each other but had nothing in common. I don't think she ever understood my life with the Order or my choices and I couldn't understand hers. Now we're starting to and I'm watching her in awe, trying to learn how she takes care of her home and family. I hope I'm picking up a few tips for the benefit of you and Timothy. It's not just that though, Patrick. We've started talking about things we've never spoken about before, about our parents and childhood. I don't know why it's happened. Maybe it's because I've been asking her questions and getting advice like I did when I was very young and toddled after her all the time or maybe because she's looked out things that belonged to our parents and given them to me to have, so the memories come back. Yesterday we were out walking and were recalling silly things from when I was little and Elspeth couldn't have been more than Agnes' age, like going brambling in the autumn (collecting blackberries, Sassenach!) and how we'd come home stained purple and covered in scratches to have scones and tea or how our father clicked his teeth and sulked when he was stuck with the crossword in The Scotsman. I'd thought I was the only person who remembered. So I have yet another thing to thank you for. You've given my future, my love, but by encouraging me to visit you've given me my past back too and it's lovely. You have permission to remind me of this the next time I'm not so sure about the obeying bit of love, honour and obey!
It's beautiful here as well. Up until today it's been terribly dreich, to use a good Scots word! That means grey and miserable with constant mizzling rain. I thought Rob and Alistair (his brother) and the men would get trench foot and the sheep wandered around like those poor souls who hang around the docks hoping for work and never getting picked up. Today it's glorious. I'm writing this in the kitchen, keeping an eye on Jamie's cake in the oven, while Elspeth's popped into the village and from the kitchen window there's an incredible view over the hills. The air's shining and the sky's a pinky orange you never see in London. Timothy would enjoy drawing it, although Sister Julienne might have more luck capturing it! The happiest folk in the household at this are Meg and Jock, the sheepdogs, who have bounded all over the place all day. It's very interesting watching these so-called working dogs up close for a few days in bad weather and I'm becoming more and more convinced they don't actually do much work at all and might even just be pets, whatever Rob claims. Heaven forfend! Certainly, they have spent most of the past two days whining at the weather, lying in front of the fire (Meg) and occasionally licking my ankles (Jock).
I have been working though and how I enjoyed it! The wife of one of the men on the next farm is pregnant for the first time and I got asked to cast a professional eye over her as she was having a few pains. All very straightforward - it was colic! I think she felt a little silly, but it's not the first time that's happened, is it? It was wonderful to be back with a patient even briefly and my fingers were itchy for my pinard! I know I'm not supposed to be working, but I couldn't say no when the poor man looked so worried. The local practice covers such a vast area that there's no automatic chance of a midwife or doctor attending a birth, even in good weather. And at least I haven't assisted with any births this time. The last time I visited it coincided with lambing season, therefore my career list of deliveries includes twenty-three lambs in addition to all the babies, not forgetting eight piglets from Evie the sow!
So I'm well and enjoying myself. The only thing which makes it hard is you not being here. Your little letter arrived two days ago and I've read it again and again. (I hope the one I wrote on the train has arrived, as well as a couple of postcards to Timothy.) Sometimes this week I've looked at Elspeth's family life and felt almost jealous of her because she has Rob, Jamie and Agnes here, when you and Timothy are so far away. It's terrible to admit, isn't it? Most of the time when I've looked I've found myself starting to smile - Elspeth teases it's my 'Patrick look' – thinking about how soon it is until our life with each other, the three of us, will start and how we'll have our home and traditions, building on all those traditions you two already have, maybe creating some of our own too. And you'll be there. All I'll need to do in the morning is to stretch out for you or call and know I'll find you. When I hear footsteps at the door in the evening, it will be Timothy running through it or you coming home from work, pinching the bridge of your nose because you're tired. I think I would I know your footsteps anywhere. I used to know it was you when you arrived at Nonnatus House, I didn't need to turn around to know. I never thought I could think about you as much as I did in the sanatorium, however I seem to do so even more now. Please give my love to Timothy – I keep seeing things he'd find interesting which I'm storing up for when I get home. I miss him tremendously. Please tell him the photograph of him you gave me is propped up on the bedside table in my room, so when I wake up in the morning and put on my glasses he's nearly always the first thing I see. As for the rest of my love, you know, I hope, that it belongs completely to you.
Shelagh
That was how it had read when it was finished and enveloped in the late afternoon. However that evening, just as they were cutting Jamie's cake, had come the knock at the door and with it the postman. A school friend of Rob's, he had returned to the post office towards the end of his round to collect any straggling birthday gifts and found, as well as one late card and present, another letter from London. She had tried to put it aside, not constantly let her hand creep towards the pocket she slipped it into while they finished celebrating, but Elspeth laughed when it arrived and even Jamie grinned as he handed her her slice of the cake. When she rose to clear the table, it was Elspeth who suggested perhaps she'd like to go upstairs 'to rest', wryly adding after Shelagh had left the room that that was the last they'd be seeing of her for the next hour.
When she returned some time later, she played her part so effectively nobody noticed her unease. She smiled at the gently caustic jokes at her expense, handing on Patrick's regards and receiving theirs for him in return; then listened to Agnes' eager explanation of the book she was reading and quietly talked with her sister while bent over her knitting needles until Rob and Jamie returned from their evening round of the farm and they all joined in with a card game, scrapping over the trumps. She was used to affecting the smooth blank look with which one covered turmoil. When she returned to her room, however, the mask melted as she once more picked up his letter.
She had yearned for it all week, the sweet, short note he had written within twenty-four hours of her leaving a prologue not a substitute. Its humour and understatement, with short sudden phrases where his brisk handwriting hinted at his love, drew his character so vividly the happiness was close to pain, while the last few words heard her gasp as she tried not to cry. Yet she shivered as she finished it again, standing by the window, staring at indistinct shadows, a strange enormity suddenly so much greater and more real.
Their talk of redecorating the room had come amidst a conversation listing repairs to be made: a wall that needed plastering downstairs, some window frames which were splintering and draughty in winter. The decision was now given to her, not just a room but their room, where daily she would prepare for the world, dress and undress, wake and lie beside him, where they would love and sanctify their marriage. This cluttered room she stood in, its narrow bed in front of her; then Nonnatus House, a room so interchangeable with others there it barely mattered; and then his bed. He called the room theirs, he always had whenever they discussed it, just as he did now. But it was his, even though he asked her to make the choice; an alien world, intriguing and terrifying.
It was not dread, not of him or even of the act. She was too wise to fear a little pain, too rightfully trusting to fear an absence of care or tenderness, still less the slightest impatience at any naïve clumsiness from her. Nor did she think it sin or shameful. She had seen the evil when love was lightly treated, its crowning pleasure made into brief, grasping transactions. Yet those vicious fires were no more obliterating than the long cold freeze of its absence, where man and woman lived side-by-side inhabiting different continents. She knew it was a gift from God, a final union symbolising other unions, deeper and more intrinsic to who they were than they could express, but also itself, unique and a joy.
What she feared was what she did not know, not only outside but also within herself. The previous Friday night had occurred an episode she could not quantify, when her actions shocked her. She was standing in front of the bathroom mirror in Patrick's house, having stopped there en route to her lodgings to pick up an extra suitcase after he collected her from the bus-stop at the docks. As she had been waiting for him, the wind had whipped around her head, teasing strands of her hair out of place, and while he was ferreting in the store room to find the case, she went to tidy it, removing the grips, combing it out, then pinning it back up again. She heard him make some quip about the store room as he appeared on the landing and was brightly responding when she saw his face reflected in the mirror as he paused silently in the door way. The bottom section of her hair was still loose and tumbled over her shoulders and she knew what had arrested him, making him gaze so intensely. There was nothing lascivious in his look. It was closer to adoring and she felt her blush grow and spread over the nape of her neck and along her spine and shoulders into her scalp and face. And although his eyes did not for one instant slip lower than her shoulders, in those seconds she felt as though she stood before him without a stitch on her body. Slowly she set down the comb and turned to face him. Without knowing why, she deliberately combed through the hair with her fingers, lingering as she reached the ends and let them slip through and curl into the hollow where her neck met her collar bone, watching him swallow heavily and his lips fold upon themselves. What she saw written so clearly in his face was not wrong or frightening, but it was desire; loving and powerful, but naked. For some seconds they stood, saying and doing nothing, watching one another; until he looked away, mumbling that he should leave her in peace and vanished downstairs. Briefly she had considered taking out the other pins to see how he would react, before reeling from it. For the first time she realised this new power she had over him in all its starkness; for the first time, consciously, she had exerted it and in confusion had discovered she wanted to.
It was one thing to know what it was which had been unleashed, another to understand it, another again to know how to embrace it, then gift it. Their discreet discussion of making love had been in general allusions and expressions of trust. She did not wish to come to him in timid surrender, but did not know how it should be. She felt it like a current each time he touched her; for long ages she had sensed him each time he was close. The one moment when more of her was revealed to him, even though deadened by shock and terror and drowning in embarrassment, she had sensed his proximity as he peeled back the skin of her habit; conscious of the heat of the fingers so precisely ensuring her breast was only touched by the stethoscope's cold kiss. The thought of a closeness with no bar of any sort between them pulsed within her, a slowly rolling drumbeat of anticipation. Yet for so long denial had bred discipline and love been equated with abjuring. Thinking back to her own letter, she winced from the description of stretching for him, knowing he would be there. It seemed immodest, too knowing, not the simple expression of her peace in him which she had intended.
Silence echoed over the frosty hills. God had been her confidante and granted her rest of sorts; His word told of how wonderfully made her body was, 'knit together in her mother's womb' and known by Him since then, designed to fulfil each purpose for which it was created. But there was no person within the world with whom she could have the conversation she was so desperate to have. Although new affection had bloomed between herself and Elspeth, too many years lay between them and she doubted Elspeth would understand. She found it hard to believe that Elspeth and Rob, young and impetuous then and surrounded by the swelling warmth of the earth in the middle of a world close to explosion, had not taken their chances as they unfolded with nature, not governed by conventions. There were no female friends she trusted enough to confide in who held the wisdom she craved. More deeply than she had for many years, she wished she had her mother, that as a woman she could sit by her side like a child again. While Sister Julienne for so long had taken that place, to have this conversation with her was no less impossible. She was entirely alone.
Abruptly Shelagh turned from the window and sat down at the dressing table, neatly ripping the envelope away from her own letter. A postscript must be added, in the same breezy style as the rest, answering the questions he had asked her. Her pen felt ungainly as she tried to pick it up, oversized; she fumbled and dropped it, watching it roll towards the edge. Clumsily she tried to reach for it, only to jar her wrist against the table's edge, disturbing the oddments arranged upon it. Their clatter covered her sharp, short cry.
She was still flexing her wrist when there was a quiet knock at the door. "Shelagh, are you alright?"
"Yes, I'm fine," she said, pulling her cardigan more tightly around her and opening the door. Elspeth stood outside, in slight concern. "I was noisy. I'm sorry."
"Are you sure? Do you need anything? I thought I heard you footering about and then cry out. Rob's asleep but I'm making a wee cup of tea for myself before I'm off to bed, if you'd like one."
"No, all's well. Just being a bit clumsy and dropping things!" She laughed ruefully. "Goodnight."
Elspeth smiled in sympathy. "You always were getting into fankles! Goodnight."
Returning to the dressing table she bent to pick up the pen and sat down to write.
PS Your letter arrived this evening – I can't believe how quickly it came from London! Reading it was like having you in the room beside me. As regards the matters you raised: firstly, I'd completely forgotten about registering with a new doctor and I'm so glad you didn't. If you have time, please could you start the process for getting me registered with Dr. Reid. We should all be with the same doctor and I'm very happy to be one of his patients. Secondly, I think it might make more sense to have the room redecorated now, unless it will be too inconvenient for you next week. I don't really have an idea about colours and paper and I'm more than happy to be guided by you and Mr. Warren. The idea of yellow sounds nice though, something sunny and cheerful. Maybe a pale yellow? I'm sure whatever you choose will be perfect.
Laying the pen aside once more, she contemplated herself in the mirror. She had stared in search of truth in mirrors before, seeking herself in their objective glare. It was different to search the image to find his Shelagh, trying to discern the tiny flame which ignited the burning in his eyes. Almost furtively, she got up and drew the curtains against the shadows, then slowly started to undress as though for bed, until she stood in her slip, bare-footed and with her hair loose around her. Through the simple cotton she saw faint shadows of her underclothes, while lamplight glowed around the edges and swells of her silhouette when she turned to the mirror to try to see what he saw, what it was he would see.
Her hair was beautiful, a myriad of colours which revealed their changes with each slight swish. Its former hiddenness was what made it shine with health, unsullied by years of tormenting. Beyond that, she was small, slight, younger looking than her age, apart from a strange agelessness in the great bright eyes. Her skin was pale, dry perhaps in places, her hands, although less chapped this year than others gone by, still roughened by work. Her face, however, was soft, despite the storms which had flung themselves upon it. The wimple had protected it. A mole, scarcely bigger than a freckle, sat just above one elbow; her mother had kissed it, claiming it as hers when Shelagh was still small enough to nestle in her lap. At the end of that arm on her palm, a small, faint scar and on the other arm fast fading puncture marks where blood samples had been extracted. Above her knee, just below the hem of the slip was another scar, an inch and a half long, where she had fallen and cut herself as a child; and below, the pale beginnings of spidery veins from the garters she had worn as a nun to hold up stockings covering the calves and neat, deft ankles, slim and taut from a decade of rushing to patients. Her history was written on her body, each part of it, yet still she could not conceive what he saw when he looked upon her.
She wondered if it would be different were she standing in the nightgown she had bought instead of the slip. Perhaps, although in truth it was less revealing than the slip, falling around her body to below her knees. The fine lace trim made its cut higher, the straps were broader. She could think of dresses she had seen which were more provocative as they clung and moulded the wearer's figure. Although shyly uncertain when she purchased it, she had felt brave, seduced by clichéd expectations which then still felt only hypothetical. But its subtle sensuality nagged at her, uneasily stirring a fevered pulse she did not fully comprehend. She could not envisage how she could stand before him in it. Yet she wanted to, letting its silken promise give truth to what she had written: that her love, in every manifestation, was his.
Shelagh picked up both of their letters again, but did not sit; instead she slowly wandered around the room, feeling the carpet tickling her feet and reading the simple words of affection and companionship. She did not know the new world, but wanted to. It was with relief that she reflected that only she was ignorant, trusting him to lead and show her, then allow her to soar. He had done so before in other ways, with the other letters, possibly even before that when he first kissed her. She read again the paragraph she had written about Agnes' vision: a romantic hero finding the lonely heroine. An aging car and a misty field, not glorious sunshine and a magical coach, but she had been found nonetheless. With slow realisation, she knew: the way in which she would find the courage to wear the nightgown was by telling him of it first, allowing herself to be teased and coaxed with humour and gentleness until her fear was gone. The only person whom she trusted enough and to whom she could speak of this was Patrick himself.
She could not write of it now, but when she sat and picked up the pen it was with a quieter sense of restored ease. What genuine union could there be if she did not remove the last bar of her reserve and hand it to him in trust? At every stage it had been him who first risked derision or rejection, forcing his reserve to flake away. She wondered, she suspected, the conversation was one he longed to have so he would completely understand her, but was waiting until she was ready.
It's been a funny sort of evening and I'm not quite 'in sorts' even if I'm not 'out of sorts', so this next comment may sound a bit silly. I suppose I have been thinking about how Agnes sees you and some other things I'll tell you about when I'm home. Thank you for coming to find me, Patrick, not just when I got the wrong bus and was lost, but for finding me in all the other ways as well. Even when I wasn't sure who I was and who I was supposed to be anymore, you found me, and found me as me. Thank you.
All my love,
Shelagh
There was so more she wanted to write, but could not. Instead she whispered it to the letter. "Keep finding me, please."