Some nights were worse than others.
It was possible she'd dropped into a doze now and then, but as she watched the familiar objects in the room take shape in the silvery light of dawn, she didn't feel she'd slept at all. The night had passed in waves of earnest pleas for understanding, wild flights of fancy that had no business in the mind and body of a nun, and exhausted attempts to reach for prayers that only came in rote words.
The worst was not even the vivid and incessant memory of his fingertips stroking a place on the inside of her wrist that sent a sudden sharp, erotic charge all through her. Or the intimacy of his mouth, soft but intent upon her palm. The wondering, despite herself, of how he would have looked if she had stepped in and kissed him the way she wanted to. Urgently. Unthinkingly. How he'd pull her in tight. How the solid warmth of the back of his neck would feel under her hand. The sound he'd make. The way he'd kiss her back.
It was all the harder knowing that it was not these sensual longings that endangered her vows, but Patrick himself. The thought of living apart from him, of facing the long years of the future without him, sent her into a cold horror. If he asked her to come away with him, even if only to join him at another posting as his nurse, she would. In a heartbeat.
How could she continue in good conscience as a nun, knowing that her feelings for a man could rise above her vows?
Because, quite simply, she loved him. And now she'd told him.
At this moment, I only know I'm not turning my back on you because of you. I'm doing it because of Him.
And if I didn't accept that, I wouldn't deserve to live.
He loved her, too. He sounded just as broken by it.
If he'd turned around, if he'd spoken her name, she wouldn't have been able to resist running to him. Wouldn't have thought of resisting it. And being the man he was, he hadn't. He wouldn't let himself complicate her life like that. Ah, God, she loved him all the more for it.
That was the last she'd seen of him for days. Was that the last time they would allow themselves a moment of closeness? Just like that, so suddenly?
It had to be so. That, or go to him. She felt quite nauseous with dread, even more than fear.
God was remaining stubbornly silent, and she had no way to know how to bring her whole self back to her vowed state. Or if that was even what she was meant to do.
But that was not the worst this night had to offer.
The very worst had been waking from a dreamlet in which a small voice asked, "Sing us anither? I'm nae waabit yet."
And herself: "Aye, I will. Fit ye wintin like?"
"A long'in. The longist ye ken."
And she rocked and sang a haunting lullaby that she'd never heard, but knew all the same, every note rising and falling true. And she looked down, and in her arms the child slept. Messy dark curls over its forehead. Brilliant green eyes dreaming behind the delicate lids. Tiny hands relaxing their grip on the edge of the shawl, so that the little extra membrane between each finger showed translucent in the firelight.
In the dream she looked across the room to where her old habit hung drying by the fire. The dark satiny fur around the eyes and down the back was nearly soft and fluffy again, the back flippers still dripping on the hearth.
"He never took it from me, your Dad," she whispered to the child in her lap, in her storytelling voice. "I gave it him, and he only kept it safe. For when I've need of it. Wasn't that a braw lad?"
The waking tears came then, silent and wracking, leaving her with no resolution but sore eyes and a cold, wet pillow slip.
That was just cruel of her mind.
At least everyone usually had bleary eyes at Lauds.
She rolled to her back and took a deep breath, assessing the time by the light in the room. About half an hour to the knock on the door.
She sought out the ornate cross above her dresser. How the sight of it used to greet her days, reminding her of how far she had come and why she was here. Her eyes dropped to the small mirror propped on the dresser. Lately she'd spent untoward amounts of time staring into it. Wondering what he saw when he looked at her. If he saw Shelagh. Wondering, God help her vanity, if she was pretty.
From the look on his face, he seemed to think so.
She pulled her hand out from the covers and inspected the cut on her palm. Still healing, the flesh new and tender. No fairy tale creature with hands toughened by salt and sand, but only a woman pulled asunder by too many good reasons. She should be ashamed at her excess of choices when so many had none. But she hadn't signed up to make choices, but to follow the Word that had led her here.
If only she hadn't fallen over, things might still be unspoken and kept at bay. But then he wouldn't have had cause to be so near her. And that was a precious thing.
Two fingers traced over the sensitive place he'd found.
As memories rose up again, she kicked off her covers and swung her legs out of bed, dropping to her knees with the grace of long years of practice. The daily morning prayer and the quick wash-up before donning her habit refreshed her somewhat, but even so, it would be another long and tiring day on not enough sleep.
For the past few months, the quiet early morning hours had brought her a measure of comfort, and clarity of mind. She could fix her purpose on the day's work, and know that even in the silence of God, at least trying to be a good midwife and a good sister were unassailable aims. Until she had some sort of certainty about the rest.
Dressed, with her room tidied, she sat on her bed and opened the little leather-backed Bible that had been with her since her Confirmation. She tried to focus on the day's chapter. 4 Luke. It was only appropriate. Forty days of wrestling tribulations and temptations in the desert. But her eyes blurred and her attention wandered. She knew the chapter by heart, and chanting over the words brought no peace.
I'm not turning my back on you because of you.
I'm not turning my back on You because of You.
She was still trying to marshal her attention on the text when Sister Julienne's knock came softly at the door, calling her to Lauds. She had a moment of wishing she could feign ill and stay in bed, like a reluctant schoolchild. But she got up and opened the door, to Sister's kind smile and searching eyes.
She was grateful the Great Silence was still upon them, so that Sister Julienne would not ask after her, and she would not have to lie to give her peace of mind.
The first shock of the day came directly after Lauds, as they left the Chapel. Normally they had a period before Prime that they could use to get ready for their day - tidying, journalling, meditating alone. But today, her knees suddenly locked as her eyes found his.
Patrick. Sitting on the bench outside Chapel, at this hour of the morning. Underslept and hastily shaven.
She hadn't seen him since he'd walked out of the Parish Hall.
She had to remind herself that he could not have come to see her. That something must have happened overnight that required Sister Julienne's attention. And indeed, that seemed to be the case. He spoke quietly to Sister Julienne, and then turned with her towards the corridor, but not before nodding politely to the Sisters. And taking a flicker of a moment longer to rest on her face.
What on earth had happened? She would have to wait to find out. She wanted to return to her room, but she felt she would either fall asleep or go mad staring at the walls a moment longer. She decided to walk in the garden instead, until Prime. The exercise and fresh air helped. It had grown cool for June, after a too-hot May, and pleasant to be outside moving around again.
She'd felt Sister Julienne's concerned eyes upon her in Chapel, as often happened lately. She wished she could reassure her, or at least speak further, but there was nothing yet that she could say. But Sister Julienne either had more faith in her than she realized, or was more devious than she realized - or both. For as the nuns and nurses were heading to the refectory for breakfast after Prime, Sister Julienne slipped into the chair beside her.
"Sister, have you anything urgent on for today?" she asked quietly.
"I don't believe so." Sister Bernadette thought for a moment. "No, none of my mothers are due this week, and there's been no cause for concern among them. If any are early, one of the nurses can step in. How can I help,?"
"I need a lieutenant to stay here and mind the troops. I'm to meet with the Coroner this afternoon and bring evidence for an inquest. The letter was dated a week ago. It was just blind luck that Nurse Lee found it last evening at the telephone desk. It had not been seen before."
"Oh, dear." That was serious indeed. "Had it…walked away?"
Sister Julienne looked more tired than concerned. "Yes. I think it was probably in somebody's pocket, who meant to hand it to me and forgot about it. In fact, I'm sure that's what must have happened."
They looked towards the end of the table, where Sister Monica Joan was happily ladling marmalade onto her toast and chatting with Nurse Lee.
"What more can we do, Sister?" Sister Bernadette whispered. "She's been told not to answer the telephone. And the door. Are we to tell her not to speak with the postman, who's known her longer than any of us?"
"That's just it. We have to balance common sense with kindness."
"At least in this case the letter was found in time."
"Just in time. And it's serious enough that I think I must have serious words with our elder sister again."
"Well, let me handle proceedings here. I'm sure you'll need every minute to prepare for the Coroner."
They resumed their normal voices.
"Thank you, Sister. You know the routine. There are just a few notes in the appointment book to pass along. Oh, and Sister, there's one outside appointment I must ask you to take in my place - Dr. Turner asked me to accompany him to the County Medical Board at two o'clock. He plans to make another appeal for a TB screening van as a matter of urgency. You might not know that Nurse Miller alerted Doctor to a third case, on her early morning rounds today. We can supply information to the Board about the impact upon the families, and how we are well-placed to provide ground support for screenings. You know that as well as I, I am sure."
Her heart seized for a moment. Her mouth fell open but she could not speak.
"And good luck to you with that lot," Sister Evangelina muttered in sympathy, on her other side. She emphasized with her butter knife: "Poplar's not known for being high on the tax rolls - that's all they're concerned with."
"We'll make 'em mind. We canny wait any more."
Sister Evangelina looked at her, amused. "Good and mad, are you?"
She flushed slightly. It wasn't as though anyone cared about her slipping into the comfort of home-speech, but it was so revealing of her emotional state. "We'll explain everything as best we can, Sister."
To be sure, a good square go up against belligerent menfolk on behalf of Poplar would get her blood going and be clarifying to the mind. It was nice to be trusted with it. And she did enjoy the feeling of being Sister Julienne's chosen reserve, as happened occasionally. It made her think she might possibly do a good job as a Sister-in-Charge at one of the houses one day.
She wondered if Sister Julienne could possibly know the full nature of her turmoil. And if so, why she'd given her this task, knowing she'd be making the trip there and back and fighting alongside Patrick. Dr. Turner.
Well, if he could weather the storm and maintain his professionalism, so could she. And she was happy enough standing in for Sister Julienne, otherwise.
But nobody had told Dr. Turner.