The room was quiet, save for the rhythmic scratch of the needle on the record player. Patrick hadn’t wanted to get up to turn it off, so sweet did Shelagh look asleep against his arm. He smiled softly as he watched her doze against him, her own book abandoned, glasses folded in her lap. It wasn’t so very late, but perhaps she had walked further today, he thought. Her long walks through Poplar seemed to be helping. She smiled a bit more readily, and laughed more easily with them. Maybe it was just the healing effect of time. Soon, he hoped, she would be happy again.

It felt good to have her pressed against him now. He had kept his distance for weeks, waiting for Shelagh to recall the spark between them, the spark that had warmed them so many nights since their wedding, but dimmed since her surgery.  He sighed as he allowed memories of her wash over him, just this once. He would be understanding when she woke, he could wait until she was ready again. It was enough to have her here safe beside him. But for now, he remembered how she felt, so small and light against him, her skin smooth and velvety beneath his hands, his mouth. The sound of her breath as she sighed from delight. He knew she loved him, that though shy, she had embraced the physical side of their marriage. They would return to that, in time, but he did miss her.

A small sound stirred him from his thoughts, and he put his book down as he watched her wake. Blinking rapidly, she tried to focus on him. A warm smile spread across her face and she gripped the hands wrapped around his upper arm snugly. Nuzzling against him she murmured, “You shouldn’t let me sleep like this. Your poor arm must ache you dreadfully.” She squeezed the muscle gently, massaging any stiffness from it.

“I’m fine, love. I’d cut my arm off before I let you go,” he answered with mock gallantry.

A warm chortle escaped her lips. “Ridiculous man.” Her hands crept up to his shoulder and she shifted her body up on her knees to better reach the base of his neck. He groaned quietly as she found the spot, right there, where her fingers would do the most good. Quiet moments passed as Patrick felt the tension in his body change. This wouldn’t do. He found himself struggling with the urge to press her body deep into the couch, silencing her hesitation. If he was going to be patient, he would need to do it with a bit more space between them.

Standing, he stretched and said, “Well, I’m for bed. I’m completely knackered, and tomorrow’s clinic.” He removed the needle from the phonograph and picked up his teacup. When Shelagh made no move to join him, he asked, “You coming?”

Shelagh placed her glasses on her nose and nodded. “It is late, after all.” In the kitchen, he watched as she made quick work of the few dishes to be washed and made for their room.

“Shelagh?” Patrick reached for her hand. “Is there something wrong?”

“No,” she answered a bit too quickly.

“Shelagh,” he smiled, but could not hide the concern from his eyes. “Tell me. Were you all right alone, today?”

“I was fine, Patrick. All is well.” She smiled up at him then squared her shoulders. “You’ve been very good to me, dearest. Very…patient.” She glanced away.

Now he understood. She had picked up on his growing frustration. Step lightly, lad, he told himself. Smiling crookedly, he replied, “It’s all right, Shelagh. I can wait until you’re ready.I don’t want to rush you.”

Her eyes flashed something he couldn’t read, then she nodded and led the way to their bedroom.

***   ***

She was sitting up in their bed when he joined her after his wash, nervously squeezing her hands. Patrick tossed his towel in the laundry basket and began to button his pyjama top closed. He could ask again what concerned her, but he knew its source, and he knew she would say it in her own time. Climbing under the covers, he kissed her cheek and turned off the light. Still she hadn’t moved.

“Patrick?”

He loved how she said his name, as if she were the only one in the world who said it. It gave him hope. He reached up and pulled her into his arms, guiding her head to the spot on his shoulder that wouldn’t ache later and would allow him to press a kiss to her hair.

“My love?”

“You’ve been so kind. Its been weeks since my…surgery, and you haven’t once…”

His breath brushed her forehead as he kissed her. “All in good time, Shelagh. When you’re ready, then we can.”

“But that’s just it, Patrick. What if I’m never ready? I couldn’t do that to you.”

His heart clenched in fear for just a moment. It was a possibility, after all. Shelagh had blossomed sexually a bit on the late side, and trauma had been known to play havoc with a woman’s sexuality. How would he cope then, he wondered. Would he remain patient, or would resentment start to take root? He turned his head, avoiding her eyes. “You’ll be ready one day soon, Shelagh. I’m not worried,” he fibbed.

“How do you know? I think, sometimes, perhaps I want to, and then I remember…and I can’t. How could I possibly when I know there’s no chance we could…” her voice trailed off into his shoulder.

Patrick held her for a long time, then he spoke. “This love between us, Shelagh, it’s precious. But it isn’t wonderful simply because we might have made a baby. It’s wonderful because every time I touch you I feel closer to you.” He tipped her chin up to his face and kissed her gently. “It wasn’t always about making a baby before, either, if you remember. I seem to recall a few -activities- that you enjoyed that made pregnancy highly unlikely,” he teased. Perhaps laughter would help them through. He hoped so, because he didn’t think he could go without her for much longer.

Shelagh blushed furiously and buried her face in his neck. He frowned, grateful she couldn’t see his face. “We’ll make it back, sweetheart. Now stop worrying and go to sleep.”

***   ***

Shelagh didn’t sleep, though, so she wrapped herself around her husband, comforted by his quiet snores. She could nudge him to his side, his breathing was quieter when he wasn’t on his back, but she liked sleeping against him this way. It had been a long time since she felt willing to be so near to him, for fear of arousing his hopes. She pressed more closely to him and felt his arm squeeze her closer in his sleep. Even unconscious he tried to comfort her, and she longed to repay him.

He would be patient, she knew. From the very start, he had allowed her to lead when he detected uncertainty in their bed. For the first time, however, she considered his sacrifice. Out of love for her, had he held himself back from his own fulfillment? Her diagnosis had been a blow to them both, but his feelings were never discussed. In fact, it was always about her. Her decision to chose him over her life in the Order, her worries for acceptance, her fears for the new world marriage opened up to her, those issues had been their focus. She had never asked about his feelings, once assured of his love.

Shelagh’s eyes opened widely, trying to understand. Was she being selfish? She knew so little of relationships and had never mastered the give and take they seemed to demand. The diplomacy practiced in her life before had been to soothe others and create temporary peace. Perhaps marriage required more than that. She took care of Patrick and his son, and knew life was happier for them both since the marriage. But was she doing her share of the “heavy lifting,” as Sister Evangelina called it?

Part of her wanted to close her eyes and go to sleep, but ignoring her fears would not make them go away. She had felt doubts before in her life and found ways to resolve them. Her confusion surrounding their…sex life… she made herself think the words, needed to be resolved.

Patrick would be gentle with her. Any fears on that score were easily settled. So what was holding her back? She had known before they married that she would be glad of the closeness it created, but had been surprised on the wedding night by the joy and ecstasy she found in his arms. She had never expected to be as eager for him as she had been those happy first months. Could she feel that way again, knowing no baby could come of it? And even if she couldn’t, didn’t she owe Patrick some measure of her own offering? She could tell he was suffering, too. Didn’t she bear some responsibility for his happiness?

Sister Julienne’s face appeared before her eyes, her expression warm and understanding. Bewildered by the connection, Shelagh felt a memory surface.

In the parlor room of the old Nonnatus House, a young Sister Bernadette sat by as the older nun spoke with a young bride-to-be frightened of  what was to come. “Do not be afraid of your feelings, my dear,” she told the young girl. “God has given us the gift of touch to bring us closer to one another. A handshake or embrace between friends, or the caress of a mother for her child, they soothe us. A husband and wife should be closest of all; there is no shame or disgrace in their closeness.” A beatific smile graced the nun’s face. “I sometimes think procreation is a secondary benefit to humans. Love is its real purpose.”

Shelagh trembled at the memory. Patrick’s words tonight had been very nearly the same. She smiled. Not for the first time, she found clarity from the words of two people she loved best in the world. She wanted a baby of her own, yes, but that was not the source of her love for her husband. Now it was necessary for her to put her grief to the side and focus on him.

Nervously, Shelagh shifted her weight against him and whispered his name. Grunting, he turned in his sleep to face her, pulling her close.

“Patrick,” she repeated.

He responded with a sound low in his throat.

“Patrick,” she murmured again, gaining confidence, forgotten sensations returning. Her hands slid between them, finding the soft skin beneath the buttons of his top. “Patrick, wake up.”

“Hmmm, Shelagh?” he asked, his voice gravelly with sleep. “Something wrong?”

“No, nothing is wrong, dearest.” Her hands moved to quickly open the buttons, then slid down to the drawstring of his pyjama bottoms. “I thought that perhaps you wouldn’t mind if I bothered you?”

***   ***

Much later, Patrick fell back to his pillow, the happiest of men.

“Shelagh?” he asked, still a bit out of breath.

“Hmmm?” came the contented reply.

“Always bother me.”