The first to arrive at All Saints, while the last drifts of mist were lifting from its spire, was Patrick. It was twenty past nine, over an hour earlier than most guests might be expected, yet he had been awake for hours. The alarm clock had had no meaning for him; by six he gave up on any chance of sleeping again. Instead he got up, washed and shaved, partially dressed, returned the things he had moved to the spare room back to more familiar homes in the now barely familiar bedroom, checked the water in the vase he had filled the previous night and placed on Shelagh's dressing table, put the box with the rings at Timothy's place on the dining room table, then stood smoking on the back doorstep, waiting for Michael and Timothy to wake. Drawing heavily upon his cigarette he wondered whether he should feel guilty that within his wealth of anticipation for the day one small, unworthy thought furtively ambled: that after over a fortnight in the spare room, he was looking forward to returning to the more comfortable mattress of his own bed.

Watching the burning tip glow, he desperately wished he had some work to complete, but his typed up case notes were with the local colleagues whose wedding gift was covering his practice until Tuesday, while his instructions for the management of imminent labours lay in a file at the maternity hospital. Earlier in the week he had briefly fretted over the three days of idleness, crisply reminded by Shelagh that she had had three months to endure in the sanatorium and almost another three would have elapsed by the time she returned to work. He took the resolute squashing in good spirit, acknowledging it was unlikely any mules would be killed by so limited a break. Still, it unnerved him, for in three years he had not taken longer than a weekend off.

After Timothy and Michael stirred he tried not to harass them, responding to their jokes and biting back suggestions they harry themselves. Both felt the unnaturalness in his joviality though, pitying him as he paced up and down the hall. When he vanished to clean his teeth and brush and comb his hair, they quickly cleared and washed their breakfast plates and were changing while he was sliding in his cuff links and carefully knotting the tie Timothy picked out for him. Just after the clock in the hall struck nine, Michael assumed the role of valet in taking a clothes brush over the jackets of his brother and nephew, pronouncing them perfect before they left for the church.

Unoccupied save for the rector flitting in and out, All Saints seemed cavernous, its vaulting like the skeleton of a great whale, absurdly big for the little congregation who would gather there. Had the chapel at Nonnatus House been marginally bigger, it would almost have been possible to have held the ceremony there. Its emptiness echoed with every prattling remark Timothy made, speculating over what Shelagh might be doing, and every riffling through the orders of service which they arranged into neat piles by the door.

After fifteen minutes, however, another pair arrived: Kenneth, accompanying his goddaughter, Katherine. Due to play the piano during the signing of the register, she was as eager to try out the touch of the church piano as Kenneth was to run through his reading, and they had left the Watsons' house early in the hope of finding time to rehearse. They eased the three Turners as much as they did the emptiness of the church, Kenneth's enthusiasm infectious. Animatedly, he discussed the logistics of ushering with Michael and enlisted the children in checking whether he could be heard from behind the pulpit, all the time carefully watching Patrick, sharing small words of cheer and encouragement and ensuring he was given space and peace.

As Katherine began to practise, Patrick sat in a pew near the back, listening to the shimmering notes of the Field nocturne she had prepared. How great was the enormity of the vows he was about to make to Shelagh, so much greater than just a profession of their feelings or intentions. A binding of lives, cleaving to one another, a changing of priorities, an acceptance of all that might be, in all its random or cruel unpredictability. He understood them more this time, exactly how much they demanded and the price which could be extracted for joy. There was beauty to them, the vision of a rare happiness which could be earned, but the promises were so easy to mar or let slip. As Katherine lifted her hands from the piano, leaving only the fading memory of the sound, he got up and with a few brief words to Timothy on his way, slipped outside for another cigarette.

It was there shortly after ten, against the side wall of the church and out of view, that David found him.

"Morning, Patrick."

"David." They shook hands warmly. "Where are the others?"

"Alice and Louisa are taking photographs and trying to stop Gareth escaping. The boys are making noise. Katherine's pretending she's not their sister. They're fine."

"And everything inside? I should be there, shouldn't I?"

"All in hand, old man," David interrupted. "System humming like a well-tuned engine. I'm the jolly banter as people arrive, Michael'll take the groom's side, Ken the bride's. Come in if you're ready, they'd like to see you, but everything's in hand."

Slowly they walked back inside, Patrick checking the arrangements for where the more elderly guests would sit and the final details of when David would go to collect Shelagh, she having baulked at the extravagance of a car for so tiny a journey.

Once they were within the church, David reached into his jacket for his wallet. "Patrick, before I forget, something to give you." Patrick knew him too well to fear that David was offering him money, however he was baffled by a piece of paper with two names and numbers on it which was produced.

"What's this?"

"The names and telephone numbers of a couple of people I know who are now doing locum work." Seeing Patrick start to protest, he held his hands up defensively. "Patrick, Patrick, listen, please, just for a minute. Yes, I know how busy you are and that now's a terrible period with all the winter illnesses and Christmas and so on. Obviously now's impossible. But sometime, half-term or Easter, at some point, have a proper honeymoon. Take Timothy as well if you want, it would be good for you all to have memories together as a family, but take a holiday away from here. Go somewhere."

"I'm intrigued by a world where taking Timothy constitutes a proper honeymoon," said Patrick dryly.

David's face twitched. "Point taken." He would not be side-tracked, though. Putting his hands in his pockets, he eyed his friend. "Patrick, she's still convalescing."

"I know," he said very quietly.

"I know you do," said David gently. There had once been a conversation years ago, one they never referred to but which both remembered with grim vividness. Patrick had sat in David's sitting room, his head in his hands, caught in an endless cycle of berating himself – for the signs he had missed, the symptoms he had not noticed – his blaming of himself as cruel as it was unfair and pointless, while David could say or do nothing to help him. "I just wonder if the most effective way of making her rest might be to model it yourself. Even if it was just a week, it would do her a world of good. And you, frankly." Eventually Patrick gave a quick nod and put the paper into his pocket. "These energetic women with their desire to serve," he mused affectionately, seeing Louisa walking towards them. "Easier to vow to cherish them than to do it at times if they won't let you."

"Hello, poppet!" declared Louisa. "Have you given him those potential locums, David?"

"Yes, darling," David replied, assuming his customary pose of hen pecked husband.

"And told him how reliable they are?"

"They're very reliable, Patrick," he said quickly, then reverted to his wife. "Yes, I have, darling."

"Good. Make sure you contact one of them, Patrick, or else I'll dust off my stethoscope for the first time in a decade and kick you out of your practice and be your locum myself! And if I did, then where would he be?" she added to her husband.

"Somewhere on the coast perhaps, if we nag him enough. Torquay, maybe? Brighton's rather vulgar these days."

"The New Forest would be delightful at Easter."

Patrick's shoulders began to shake. "I'll discuss it with Shelagh."

"Wonderful! You're looking very dashing, Patrick! Have you bought a new suit? Where did that idea come from?" She twinkled, wondering how Timothy had managed it.

"Half a suit," replied Patrick and explained. He loathed buying on credit, however the instalment payment method had seemed a not entirely insalubrious half-way house in a month with numerous bills.

"Hm," she observed. "Which you would rather lose, the jacket or the trousers?"

"Behave, lady," said David and, beckoned by Kenneth, he made his apologies. "Excuse me."

"Is there anything you need done, Patrick? I could help in place of David while he's collecting Shelagh if you'd like." Patrick shook his head. "Anything later on? Nothing apart from talk literature with your elderly nun at the reception?"

Patrick gave a small laugh. "That's all." He stopped, distracted by the noise of the first guests who had no role in the wedding arriving. They could not be seen yet from where he was standing, but Timothy had called out the names Joe and Lizzy, two children appearing in response to the cry, and running over to the door he was hugged by his grandmother as she entered, her daughter and son-in-law close by her. "Except," began Patrick awkwardly, "Louisa, could you – "

"Be kind to Joan?"

"Yes. And Anna."

Louisa's mouth twisted into a protective smile for the man who was the brother she had never had. "It's done." Laying her hand on his forearm, she lightly kissed his cheek. "We're so happy for you, Patrick," she said quietly. "Good luck, poppet."

Nodding, he reciprocated, then swiftly walked up the aisle towards the chatter in the doorway.

In Nonnatus House the maelstrom was in the corridor. "Mum, Mum! I've lost my kilt pin. I think I left it at home.", "The bally thing's busted.", "Trixie, have you got my Eau de Cologne?", "Absolutely not. You're too young to wear make-up.", "Yes, Sister, however we must leave Keats for the time being.", "Jenny? Where's Jenny? Jenny! Can I borrow your lipstick?"

"In a minute. Go away, Trixie. I'm busy."

Inside her room, Shelagh smiled. Kindly but firmly she had resisted Trixie's and Jenny's offers to prink and paint her then tease and lacquer her hair, instead preferring to arrange it herself. The modest French twist, neatly pinned and comfortingly familiar, shone glossily. In front of her was Jenny, applying a subtle film of powder over her pale skin and hint of colour to her lips, scarcely noticeable concessions she had made on the grounds of the photographs and to cover the darkness under her eyes after the night of broken sleep. She felt each fine grain and spot of stickiness, so much more expert than her few feeble teenage experimentations, every careful brush stroke reinventing the surface of her skin.

"There. I hope you think it's alright."

Putting her glasses on again, Shelagh turned to the mirror and stared: not a new face, but the paleness become translucent, the eyes more lustrous in their contrast. "Thank you, Jenny."

Left alone once more, Shelagh removed her dressing gown and contemplated the dress hanging on the door of the wardrobe, augmented now by veil and underskirt, and its dizzying patterns of lace. Running her hands over the shoulders as she took it from the hanger, her heart beat deepened. Over it, at first she did not hear the gentle double tap at the door. Only on its repetition did she recognise it. "Come in, Sister."

"I wondered if you might like some assistance?"

"Yes. Thank you, Sister." They did not need to speak as Sister Julienne started to help her, waiting while Shelagh fastened the long layered underskirt which Jenny had lent her before easing the dress over her head, carefully protecting its edges from the mites of dust upon her face and cupping a hand over the pins in Shelagh's hair to save one being dislodged. Together they smoothed down the skirt, until the folds fell naturally to the floor. The long row of minute buttons down the back was a discreet sham covering a simpler, easier zip, but the two hooks and eyes at the top had never seemed so intricate as the nun secured them, missing one the first time. Similarly Shelagh fumbled as she started to button her cuffs, her hands clumsy as though the slim loops of silk had shrunk and grateful when the work worn fingers of Julienne interceded. With childlike docility she stood, hand and wrist outstretched, first one, then the other, until the last button was completed and the hand of her mentor closed over hers.

Only the veil remained, old and old-fashioned, a different shade of white and a deeper set of memories. Hesitantly, Shelagh picked it up. "I think perhaps Elspeth should help me with this."

Julienne nodded. "Shall I fetch her?"

"If you wouldn't mind? You will come back?"

"Of course."

Distantly voices called out good wishes as heels clattered in the corridor and heavier footsteps made thumps upon the stairs. A conversation murmured on the landing. Downstairs the telephone rang. They were far removed, not yards from where she stood in front of the chest of drawers, exploring her reflection and trying to anticipate Patrick's reaction. She was still there when Elspeth entered, watching her some moments in silence before speaking. "You look very nice."

"Did Jamie find his kilt pin?"

"Bottom of his suitcase! Remarkable what the threat of having to use Agnes' brooch will do," said Elspeth with asperity. "Let's be having a look at this." Deftly she gripped the veil into her sister's hair, adjusting a slight hitching of the cloth so it was even. "There you go. All done."

Both sisters were visible in the mirror as Elspeth took her place behind Shelagh, the folds of the veil floating the sisters as both thought of its first wearer. "It looked so beautiful on Mother in their wedding photographs."

Elspeth nodded. "Yes." For a moment her lip quivered. "They would've liked him, Shelagh, very much." She started fussing with the edge of the veil before Shelagh could open her mouth to speak. "There. You're perfect. Is there anything else I can do?"

"No. I don't think so. Just tell Patrick's friend David we're ready when you get to All Saints."

With a tight embrace and hasty kiss, Elspeth departed, brushing past the waiting Sister Julienne, joining her family to walk the short route to the church, where a sandy haired man she did not know would espy her, introduce himself and accept his commission to drive to Nonnatus House to collect her sister for her wedding.

Alone, Shelagh and Sister Julienne waited like statues in the middle of the room, their wisps of conversation mingling with the scent of freesias and lilies-of-the-valley waiting to be picked up from the top of the chest of drawers. They heard the doorbell and knew what it must be.

"Sister, will you bless me?"

Laying her hand on Shelagh's head, her fingertips overlapping with the edge of the different veil, the palm on her forehead, Sister Julienne closed her eyes and spoke. "The Lord bless you and keep you. The Lord make his face to shine upon you. The Lord lift up his countenance upon you and grant you peace." Opening them again, the green eyes met the blue.

Timothy and Patrick had already taken their place at the front, having slipped there as unseen as possible, when the distinctive accents of the Sutherlands told Patrick the last guests had arrived from Nonnatus House and only two people remained to join them. Behind them noise subsided and swelled in polite arcs, more lively at the piping voice of Gareth indiscreetly observing "Daddy, that man's wearing a skirt! So's that boy!" Timothy began to giggle, turning to his father to share a grin at the silliness of little boys, but Patrick's head was poised like marble, staring in front of him. Hidden from all apart from Timothy, his knee shook in a constant tremor and the fingers were clawed over the kneecap. For a moment Timothy badly wanted to turn and ask Uncle David how to dissolve nerves into mirth, except it was not his uncle's task. Scouring his own memory, he hauled out the one method he knew. Leaning forward until he caught Patrick's distracted eye, Timothy winked at him.

It was done with such grave sobriety it had its desired effect immediately, albeit not entirely as the boy had intended. Marble anxiety thawed into a snorting chuckle and patting Timothy's knee, Patrick winked back, only half hearing the mild flurry at the door and the quick, purposeful footsteps down the aisle which preceded a hand rested on his shoulder.

"She's here. She looks beautiful. Time to step up to the crease," said David. His fingers contracted on Patrick's shoulder. "Try not to look too much like a stunned mullet when you see her."

The opening sounds from the organ were tranquil and reflective, no bombast of Wagner, but a purer, subtler exaltation from Mozart. It grew deceptively, the melody initially tiptoeing up the scale with artless simplicity, apparently moved on only by the gentle ripple in the bass; until there came the first soaring note, transcendent in the air as though it had evolved from it. It wove around the notes above and below, descended with a brief, repeated motif and began its climb once more, an aching interplay of incandescent flight and richer, deep discovery, until at last, recapitulated, it found fulfilment in long, ecstatic phrases which cried out with joy.

It was gradually that the congregation shuffled to their feet, their direction coming from Patrick standing, upright as the soldier he had once been, as much as from the rector. Around him, Timothy heard undertones and mutters: a buzz of appreciation, a sigh which overlapped the murmur "Like Princess Grace". He wondered if he was allowed to look, dragging his eyes to the front in case he was not, thrusting his hand into his pocket to check the rings were there and distract himself from the overwhelming temptation, more devastating as a sob escaped somewhere. A dark blur in the corner of his eye moved. He knew his father had turned around and followed the example.

At first Timothy stared, transfixed, startled beyond belief, as he did not recognise her. It was not just the dress or the slow paced walk, so different from her usual brisk strides, or even the way the veiled face was held erect, the customary fractional bowing of her head gone and her confidence found in seeking them. Something else recreated her, something indefinable, not frightening, yet more strange and incomprehensible even than the first time he had seen her not wearing the habit. Then she had appeared slowly. He had recognised her from her gait and height, certain it was her until he saw the wrong clothes, still convinced despite them. Wonderingly he looked at his father and saw with a queer happy ache the look on his face. He had seen it only once before: the moment his father stopped the car in the mist in October, stared at the woman they still called Sister Bernadette trembling in front of them and got out to join her.

The road Patrick had taken to find her had twisted and diverged; he had been dazzled by flashes of sunlight and her nearness obscured by mist until she emerged, a tiny figure far away in a grey wasteland, and where, from the moment she turned and stopped and waited, only he and she existed. This then was the final section of that journey, what had been lost now found and his approach, a stumbled half-run which faltered into urgent steps and an uncertain pause, become this steady procession. And it was she who approached him now, and he who waited, assured and expectant, both aware that now, as then, the next minutes would transform their lives. Even this last walk through the nave was long, but it was fitting and with all confusion blown away, watching her come to him, radiant in her choice of him, both entirely herself and yet somehow completely different, Patrick would not have had it any other way; for he had needed the wilderness too, to know this was no passing infatuation as he emerged from the hibernation of grief, but as deep and complex and enduring in its different way to the last time.

The last resolution of the music was still drawing to its consummation when she reached him and they waited for it to come to its close. While he wanted to speak, he could not, this reality too astonishing for him.

Instead it was Shelagh who whispered to him. "Better than a potato sack, then?"

"You're exquisite."

Under the veil, the head slightly bowed and a spot of colour heightened despite the thin frost of powder. "Chummy's doing."

"No," he said firmly. "You."

And there were words of greeting, a prayer and a hymn and he heard each word, but heard them like sounds heard through water. As he joined in singing the hymn, the voices behind him were identifiable and separate, yet muffled and distant. Only her bell-like soprano seemed entirely real, penetrating the muddied soundscape with its unsullied clarity.

She heard his voice joining with hers. Standing side by side she could only sense his profile in her blurred peripheral vision: the limber frame; his head, above hers and held upright; the thin, straight nose, its curve at the nostril which curled so sharply when he laughed; short, neat black hair, parted with ruler-like precision and tidily combed today, no hint of the tousling she sometimes saw when they worked; the strong mouth and chin, often serious in repose; his eyes. She could trace every line of it yet was urgent to see his face, to see it truly, not just in her imagination.

The music ended and the congregation sat, another direction from the rector and they turned to one another, Sister Julienne first assisting her in lifting the veil back from her face and taking her flowers, a posy rather than a bouquet, little more than the nosegay he had put in the vase on her dressing table. She was not smiling as the rector began the poetry of the aged preamble, although she seemed close to it; instead her lips were set, her face infused with a shining intensity, clear-sighted in her absolute certainty. His own lips started to smile as he realised that was the word which occurred to him.

"Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together according to God's law in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour and keep her, in sickness and in health?"

He had honoured her as long as he had known her, but not as he vowed to now; not quite as this woman; this strange marvel never expected, recently learnt to love and understand.

"Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honour and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him – "

There was no doubt of the truth of her answer, for she had already forsaken all that she had been, prepared to accept estrangement from the world she left and scorn from the one she entered for his sake. She loved with the freshness and abundant selflessness of first love, for such he was to her, but her passion was refined by her maturity into something so scarce he barely believed the prize which he had won.

Her hand was passed from Sister Julienne to the rector and then to him. He felt it tremble as he took it and his heart was swamped with even greater tenderness for her, wondering if only he had felt it. He knew it was not doubt.

She felt him absorb her shaking, soothing it and stilling it with the simplicity of his own conviction.

"I, Patrick, take thee, Shelagh, to my wedded wife,"

The name he had not known, nor had he imagined, so very dear to him now.

" – to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer, for poorer; in sickness and in health;"

He knew how brutally the last demands of that vow could be unleashed, the bitterness of that privilege; gladly he made it though, open-eyed, accepting what it would mean until and beyond their final breaths.

" – to love and to cherish, till death us do part,"

But not yet, dear God, please not for many years. Hard to believe looking at her now, beautiful in her radiance, that she had wandered by the edge of the valley of death and that its shadow would linger over them for years to come.

" – according to God's holy law; and thereto I give thee my troth."

Her voice was clear and strong, resonating beyond the pews where their guests were sitting. It was not for their sake however, their existence was hardly remembered. She declared her promise to Patrick and to a greater witness.

"I, Shelagh, – "

She was still discovering what that meant in its reclaimed state, for it altered week by week, yet what it meant she willingly gave to him.

" – take thee, Patrick, to my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer – "

All that she brought was the dwindling remains of a hundred pounds and the scant possessions that would have been detritus in any other's life. Meagre belongings, mostly decanted into the dressing table he had given her, but they were everything she had.

" – in sickness and in health, to love, cherish – "

How little care he asked for, how much he needed, if she could provide it; her love first kindled by his unnoticed suffering and loneliness.

" and to obey, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I give thee my troth."

And in His presence she vowed it, with knowledge and confidence, with faith, hope and love.

Timothy stepped forward, brow creased with the seriousness of the moment, shyly peeking at them as he delivered the rings to be blessed upon the book, nurtured by their responding smiles to him. Entirely right that it was he who stood with them, the fourth point of the compass along with them and the priest who represented her God.

"With this ring I thee wed; with my body I thee honour; and all my worldly goods with thee I share."

Little enough to offer her: a heavily mortgaged house and a battered car. The only treasure he had was the boy standing beside them.

"In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen."

It caught on her knuckle and he twisted it slightly, no increase in pressure, just a careful change of position which freed it, letting it slide naturally to the base of the slim finger and nestle there.

"With this ring I thee wed; with my body I thee honour; and all my worldly goods with thee I share:"

She echoed his inflections and his cadence, the utterances not a repetition of the celebrant but of her husband, a slow and languid improvisation of their own.

"In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen."

A different weight and slimmer dimensions, but easily it slipped onto his finger and found its place.

In front of the rector, illuminated by the dusty light issuing from the altar window, they knelt and their hands were joined. Words were spoken, the group behind them giving their chorused affirmation, a last declaration and they were married.

They did not let go of the other's hands as they stood, the smiles appearing now, mirrored and reflected in the other's peaceful delight. The grip grew stronger, tighter, as though the fingers could never be held closely enough as Shelagh gazed at her husband and he his wife. Timothy heard Nurse Franklin's comment, too audibly projected for it to be accidental, "Oh come on, Dr. Turner! It is 1958 after all!", but he doubted they did. He doubted they were aware of anything beyond themselves in that moment.

He was wrong. His father drew close to her, letting go of her hand at last only to lightly touch her shoulder while he leant down to whisper something to her, more intimate and precious than any teasingly requested display of affection, then they both turned to him. Shelagh outstretched one hand, his father gestured to him, both nodding when he hesitated; and he joined them, grinning and laughing within their embrace and the first person to kiss her, and stood together with them in the sunlight streaming from the stained-glass window, dappled by pale patches of coloured light.