Here we go. The Letter. Boy, it was an effort to write it. I feel like crying. I know how much The Letter means in the Austen Canon, but this is Patrick writing.

The next day, Shelagh entered her aunt's home. To her surprise, she found Doctor Turner the senior there, having what seemed a serious conversation with Uncle Fred.

"All right, in the circumstances, it might be better if I did it. I can understand how you feel, Mr. Musgrove," she heard Doctor Turner say. Then with just a nod to her, he retreated into the corner of the sitting room and started to write something at the small desk there.

Aunt Enid put two cups of tea before Shelagh and Fred. Then she left for the other Musgrove household to talk about the catering at the Christening service.

"May I offer you something stronger?" Fred asked Shelagh. "We have yet to wet the baby's head."

"No, thank you, Fred. May I ask, what is Doctor Turner doing here? What is he writing?"

"Oh, he is writing to Cynthia's mother and father about Tim and Patsy."

"Oh. I see."

Fred heaved a sigh. "It may be impossible for them to not be a little hurt. Yet I also feel for poor Timothy. It was a dilemma for him, really: we all have our feelings, and I must say that Timothy understands the difficulties in the situation. For obvious reasons, he didn't ask Tom to do it. Then he thought that I as his old scout leader would be the man for the job. It seems he didn't dare to ask Patrick. But I did. Now he is writing that letter. I must say I am happy to be relieved of this task. "

"I think Cynthia wouldn't mind, after all. She was a gentle soul."

"Yes, she was."

Fred grumbled a little."It is not that I think that Timothy...I think he deserves every happiness. Patsy is an admirable girl and she will follow him to the end of the world."

"Quite literally, in this case. I have understood that they are going back to Australia."

Fred harrumphed. "Yes. She will take good care of him and his career."

"We all like Patsy."

"I am not one for brooding. You know me. I am a cheerful old dog. But something in this last war and in its aftermath...does not please me."

"I think you will find many survivors who need to put the past behind them."

"I know, to go on living."

"It is only the few of us...who have the double-edged inclination of ...keeping faith with the past."

"Are you talking of yourself, Shelagh? You should not have any regrets for what you have done or for who you are. There is no reason for that."

"No, I expressed myself poorly. It is a special kind of constancy that I like to reserve a right to. Loving the longest. When existence...or hope is gone. That is the privilege I claim. A slightly sad one. Not anything to be envious of."

There was a pause in the conversation. Doctor Turner's pen was scratching the paper making a noise. He was writing really fast.

"But I wouldn't deny anything from Timothy. Or Patsy. They both have been through a lot, " Shelagh said.

"Oh, you're a good soul. I won't fight with you." Fred patted her hand.

He turned to Doctor Turner. "Are you ready there?"

"Not yet, just a few lines."

"I am in a good anchorage here and in want for nothing, " Fred smiled at Shelagh.

Finally Doctor Turner finished his letter. He was putting it into an envelope in a hasty manner.

"All right, Mr. Musgrove, let's now go and post it."

"Right away? All right. Thank you, Doctor Turner. Let's do that indeed."

They both left the house and left Shelagh there, a bit astounded. Doctor Turner had not made a slightest effort to notice her, he hadn't acknowledged her presence in any way.

Then she heard his voice in the hall. "Sorry, Mr. Musgrove, I forgot my gloves."

Doctor Turner was back, he indeed collected his gloves from the desk. At the same time he pulled a letter under a pile of books and put it on the table, in plain sight for her to see. He glanced at her with eyes of glowing entreaty and in one instant, he was gone.

Shelagh went to the desk. "To Miss Shelagh Mannion", it read on the envelope.

While supposed to be writing only to the Franklins, he had been also addressing her. On the contents of that letter depended all which this world could do for her. Anything was possible, anything might be defied rather than suspense. Sinking into the chair which he had occupied, her eyes devoured the following words -

"I don't know if what I am about to say is too much or not enough. Tell me not that I am too late. I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own than when you almost broke it, eight years and a half ago.

Since the first moment I saw you at the London in 1941, I felt the keenest interest in you. Since our discussion on the Carter twins and other things, your blue eyes have pierced my heart. Since I held you in my arms on that night of a bombing at the Nonnatus Clinic I have loved you, even though I had no right to ask such a thing from a novice.

I don't deny that I was hurt by your rejection in 1941. I don't know if you ever read my letters or heard about my circumstances after 1941. I was a pretty devastated guy, I have to admit. It made me reconsider all relations with women.

Remember "the springs that do not fail?" Am I wrong in believing that you and I could be approaching a second spring? Kind of funny for two such steady, middle-aged persons... But there it is. For you alone I think and plan. Have you not seen this? Can you fail to have understood my wishes? I would not have waited even these two months, could I have read your feelings, as I think you must have penetrated mine. I can hardly write.

I am glad that you believe in the right of loving the longest. Let us compare our experiences on that. I will not be a loser on this one. Take me out to a pub, take me to the lab, take me out on the streets of Poplar, but, please, let me find out what you think of this letter. I will meet you at any place you wish, at any time you wish. Your Patrick."