There is still at least one chapter and perhaps some epilogue scenes. At this moment, the story becomes very modern, and some of my choices are truly not in the spirit of un-fluffy Austen or even the chaste Call The Midwife. I share with Austen one trait: it has been said that she couldn't wait for the love scenes to be over so that she could write comedy.

"Fred! Uncle Fred!"

Mr. Musgrove turned around and saw his niece. The happy grounds of The Coach And The Horse had rarely been visited by her. "Shelagh, what are you doing here. Fancy a pint?

"They told me at the post office that you had talked of going to this pub. Where is Doctor Turner?"

"Oh, he suggested that we come here, but then he seemed to have changed his mind after drinking only some sips of his drink. See, it is this glass, half full."

Shelagh tried to be patient. "Where did he go?"

"He said he'd like to take a stroll at the port. He said he wasn't feeling very well. To tell the truth, it seemed that he had something on his mind. I must say that he didn't seem to be that anxious about writing to the Franklins, in the beginning, but the task seems to have taken its toll, oddly enough. He has never met the Franklins..."

"Uncle Fred. Where at the port he said he was going?"

"Oh, to Bath Park, I assume. That small wilderness by the India Street. Shelagh, are you leaving already?"

She was gone. Fred stared after her. Some odd goings on today.

She ran as fast as she could. There was a little bit of rain in the air. She could feel the dampness, her own ragged breath and the expectation in her mind and body. She felt dizzy.

She came to the steps leading to the Bath Park area and she saw Doctor Turner standing there looking at the ships.

She ran the stairs down. He had turned around and saw her taking jumps over two steps at a time. At the bottom of the steps she made a conscious effort to calm down.

She came forward to him, taking tentative steps now, trying to avoid some puddles from earlier rain showers. It was like watching a movie in slow motion. The seagulls kept screeching in the sky, the ships were being filled with cargo, the workmen were shouting their orders and children were riding their bikes at high speed, laughing at each other. He could see or hear nothing of this, only the small, graceful creature approaching him. Her eyes shone, and her lips were pinched together.

"Hello, Patrick."

"Hello, Shelagh."

He lifted his hands to her collar and tried to turn it up to protect her from the cold and damp.

"Don't you ever leave the house properly prepared for rain?" It was a bit arch, but Shelagh could instantly see that the archness was needed to control his tears. She put her still shaky hand on his cheek and wiped his corner of the eye.

"Sometimes I do. At other times I have to run for my life..."

Although he would have preferred to let the hand rest there for a hundred years, he thought he should act.

"This won't do. You'll get cold." He took his overcoat off with one swift movement and put it around her despite her resistance.

"Patrick, you don't need to...I am not cold." He was covering her with his coat in a determined manner. Then his hands drew the collar together below her jaw and held it there. His thumb was caressing her chin.

He lowered his head and their lips met briefly, then he pulled her close to him in one violent move and deepened the kiss. He could feel her arms around his neck and shoulders, hugging him with such abandon. There was no caution, no limits, no reservation in her embrace of him. He felt his breath taken away. He felt, rather than saw, how her cheeks flushed. He wasn't sure if he should continue, but she felt so soft, so small and so responsive to his administrations, that he didn't wish to end it.

Her body seemed to anticipate his every yearning, it yielded to his slavish adoration with astonishment and gratefulness, it seemed to pity his brokenness, it understood his abject need that only she would satisfy. If he seemed a bit single-minded and headstrong in this first taste of bodily discourse, if a bit clumsy in his intensity, or a bit helpless in his dependency on her comfort and caresses, it was not in the least difficult for her to engage in it. She reveled in his directness, she surrendered easily to his passion that thrilled her and caused her to shiver. There seemed to be a well of sweet sensations in her body and it just flowed over. She could have shouted a thousand joyous affirmations to everything he was doing to her.

"Not cold, you say..." he murmured. "Yes, you are quite warm."

"Patrick, this is a public place."

"You know what, I don't wildly care..."

She giggled. It was a most exquisite sound to his ears.

After some moments he loosened his hold and took a proper look at her.

They grinned at each other in happy rapture.

"My girl. You're so beautiful. Didn't I say that eight years ago...a beautiful creature."

Shelagh silently took the honey in this compliment and let the earlier sting forgo. It was lovely to be thought beautiful, because it told of the strength of his returning feelings for her more than anything else. The discerning critic was gone. Only the enchanted fiancée remained.

"You have said more important things to me this past month than eight years ago. Let that be what matters."

"I am glad that we are finally talking."

"So am I. Oh, to have...gained this. Never could I have thought it possible."

"Shelagh. I know I may have been unjust and angry. But I was never indifferent. That 'never possible' was what made me so angry."

They sat down on a bench that Patrick first tried to dry with a newspaper he found in his pocket, but was yet forced to put his jacket underneath them, since his coat was already in use. The event, after all, called for grand gestures.

"This is such a ...teenage thing, to sit on a park bench talking of ...love," Shelagh snorted.

"I would say you still are about nineteen, and me. I feel like...twenty. Seriously, we deserve this. Don't you dare to question our right to a bit of silly happiness. How old are you, by the way? "

"Thirty here."

"And I am thirty-eight. Let's talk about love—as you suggested—in such an appropriate manner," he laughed.

"Oh, you tease me. I loved your letter."

"Good. Will you marry me?"

"Oh my goodness, this came so suddenly. Was there a notion of that in the letter? I didn't notice."

He drew her close again. "Sweetheart, you are the tease here. What else would a man do...when he finds the love of his life...again...than contemplate marriage? This is a match made in heaven."

Her eyes were suddenly filled with tears. "Shelagh, please, don't cry."

Shelagh made a gesture with her hand, but her trembling lips revealed the level of her agitation. She found a refuge in the crook of his neck. He put his arms around her and let that moment of bliss and tremor continue in silence. She seemed unable to stop crying.

"The last time I held my arms around you, you were crying, too."

He had to help her over that last bridge.

"So how many years you will keep a man on hold? I am still waiting here for a straight answer."

She lifted up her happy, teary face, trying to say something...She could only nod.

"I take that as a yes, then." He let his head lean on her golden head and held her tight.

Finally she found her capacity to speak.

"Patrick. Take me...out of here. Anywhere. Not to the Musgroves, please. Not to the Nonnatus House."

"Oh, I think we might go to the Nonnatus House. To the Clinic."

"Why?"

"I think there is a certain corner there where a couple of examination tables might be pulled together. We might enjoy some rest there. It is after all an evening, and it is quiet there. Does this please you, madam?"

"It does. I love the way your mind works."