A/N: Inspired by Sister Bernadette's moment in the mirror in Episode 1.4.
Sister Bernadette hadn't meant to eavesdrop. She'd only been passing through the chilly main hall of the convent on her way to the kitchen when she overheard rock 'n' roll coming from one of the nurse's rooms, and she stopped a moment to listen to the music. It was impossible not to hear the conversation too.
"Have you ever thought about setting your hair, Cynthia?" she heard Trixie say. "It might look quite lovely with a bit of curl in it."
"Oh no," the quiet nurse responded. "Too many pins - I wouldn't sleep a wink. My hair is too thin to hold a curl anyway."
"Mater once made me get a permanent wave, before my coming out ball," Chummy said. "The trouble was, I came out looking like Great-Aunt Tilly's poodle, dressed into much crinoline."
More giggles and then Jenny's voice. "Well, you don't look like a poodle tonight. I'd die for your complexion. Let's just try a little mascara, and then you'll be done."
Sister Bernadette crept closer and peered through the crack in the door. The acrid smell of cigarette smoke and hair lacquer drifted toward her. She could see Chummy and Jenny's profiles in the vanity mirror, and Trixie's back as she reclined on the bed nearby; Cynthia must be seated elsewhere. Tiny bottles of make-up, nail lacquer and other beauty potions, mysterious to her, were scattered on the dresser, along with a drinking glass and a bottle she was sure contained something much stronger than water.
"There," Jenny said, flourishing a tiny brush near Chummy's eyes, then putting it aside. "Glasses on, and take a look."
Sister Bernadette watched as the tall nurse slipped her glasses back on her nose. She blinked, once, twice in astonishment, and a shy smile blossomed on her face.
"Goodness," she said softly. "I look quite pretty."
Trixie slid off the bed and took her friend's arm. "Of course you do." She winked saucily at their joined reflections. "Peter won't know what hit him."
Another burst of giggles, the glass was filled and passed around, and the record player turned up slightly louder, nearly overpowering the ringing sound of the convent's doorbell.
Sister Bernadette left to answer it. It was Jenny's gentleman friend. She left him in the front hall and returned to the nurse's room.
At her knock, the music came to a halt with a screech of the record needle, and she could hear the distinct clink of glasses being secreted away before the door was opened. All of the nurses stood before her, like a row of colorful butterflies, fluttering with excitement.
"There's a gentleman at the door. Oh, you all look very nice. Have a lovely evening."
Later, after the girls had left, trailing clouds of laughter and perfume, Sister Bernadette returned to her own room. She possessed only a small mirror, and only used it to make sure her veil was straight every morning. The process took less than a minute.
Now, she stared at her reflection for much longer than that, wondering and assessing.
Before she could question it, she removed her veil and took off the cap covering her hair. Without the wimple, she already looked like a different person: her face pale and unadorned, with not quite brown, not quite blonde hair.
She took out the clip holding it back, felt the whisper of it falling against her neck and combed her fingers through the strands. She rarely looked at or touched her hair, washing it once a week and twisting it back into a bun while it was still damp. It was thin, but soft, she was pleased to note.
She removed her glasses, and suddenly her late mother's face stared back at her - goodness, when had that happened? She ran her fingers through her hair again, combing it over one shoulder as she'd seen her do once, and remembered a time when staring into a mirror and admiring one's appearance was not forbidden.
Quite pretty, she thought. I am quite pretty.
Shelagh threw her comb down on the dresser in frustration and sighed at her reflection in the mirror. She might as well just accept it - she had no idea what she was doing.
There was no logical reason for her to be this nervous. It was only dinner. She'd eaten with him dozens of times before in their previous lives. There'd been rushed cups of tea after clinic, Sunday meals with Timothy on the housekeeper's day off, holiday feasts every Christmas.
But all of those times hadbeen different. Then, she'd been shrouded in the safety of the habit and only one of a dozen nurses and nuns at the table. They barely spoke to one another most times.
Tonight, it would be just her and him. Shelagh and Patrick. She was still getting used to hearing her old name again, but she'd already decided it sounded best from his lips. Two syllables, spoken tenderly, and she felt loved.
He'd be here in less than ten minutes - well, more like fifteen, knowing Patrick - to take her to dinner. It would be their first true date, without Timothy acting as a pint-sized chaperone, and Shelagh's first dateever, at the tender age of 32. She'd been thrilled when he'd asked her and delighted in the way he'd grinned in astonishment when she'd said yes. What else would she say? She wanted to spend every moment of her life with him.
But when the appointed evening arrived a few days later, all of her excitement dissolved into anxiety over the realization that she was hopelessly out of her depth.
Shelagh had felt that way nearly every day, about one small thing or another, since she'd signed the papers to leave the order. She hadn't handled money for nearly ten years, and everything she needed to start over seemed so expensive. Going clothes shopping had been a nightmare. She'd tried to summon up some of the confidence she always saw Jenny and Trixie exhibit when it came to fashion, but in the end, she lost her nerve and chose the first four dresses that fit her properly.
In her heart of hearts, she knew this was the right path for her, but it was getting rather frustrating, being lost all the time in a place where she used to know exactly where she was. Only her afternoons with Timothy, a few short but lovely evenings with Patrick and church service on Sunday had provided any semblance of comfort and familiarity.
But Patrick and Timothy couldn't help her now.
She fingered the material of the outfit she wore, a simple dress patterned with grey and blue flowers, almost like storm clouds. It felt more suitable for church rather than a date, but out of the few dresses she had - all of them laid out on the bed - it was the nicest. She'd had better luck shoe shopping, and easily found a pair of modest heels to replace her utility shoes, though she still felt a little wobbly in them. She traversed the length of the room slowly, so she could see all of herself in the mirror that hung on the back of the door.
Shelagh pursed her lips in disappointment. She looked like a pleasant, well-dressed young woman. But she wanted to look pretty. She wanted to look the way Patrick made her feel when he looked at her - like she was the sun, and he would go blind rather than take his eyes from her.
It was definitely her hair, she decided. She just didn't know what to do with it. She'd never been to the hairdressers. She'd heard the nurses talk about different styles and cuts, treatments that could curl, color or straighten, elixirs to make it grow and creams to make it shine. She'd seen and been offered several hair treatments to try by the saleswomen she met in the shops, but had refused them all. She wouldn't know what to do with all those products anyway.
It was just easier to twist her hair up and out of the way. That was how she'd done it now, just like she'd done every Saturday after her bath for ten years. A part of her longed to continue the ritual, cover her head again, and hide in her room for the night.
You didn't leave so you could hide, Shelagh reminded herself. You left to live a new life. This is just a tiny part of it. You just have to figure it out.
She gazed at her reflection in the mirror again, considering and assessing. Carefully, she tugged the pins out of her hair one by one, fluffing the strands out at the roots as they floated down. Then she took up the brush again, parted her hair on one side and combed through it until the soft waves shone gold in the late afternoon light. She thought about Patrick. She thought about how handsome he'd looked when he come by the boarding house to ask her to dinner and the brief, warm press of his lips on her hand that she'd carried through the days like a promise. She thought about what was to come and all her hopes for the future - their future - and she didn't feel lost at all.
A short time later, there was a knock on her door. It was her landlady, Mrs. Fenning.
"I believe there's a gentleman downstairs to see you. Oh, don't you look lovely?" she said, resting her hands on her ample hips as she surveyed Shelagh's outfit. "That color is just right with your hair. I can never wear blue. Not since my hair went grey. Washes me out. But you look a right picture."
Shelagh felt herself blushing at the compliments. "Thank you, Mrs. Fenning."
"Well, don't keep a fella waiting. I don't need him wearing a hole through my good carpets with his pacing about."
Mrs. Fenning watched Shelagh practically float down the stairs to the nervous doctor, who stopped pacing the moment he saw her.
The landlady chuckled softly to herself. "You'd never know she used to be a nun."