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Over the next week, the family saw little of  Patrick. The demands of his practice seemed quite high, and even Tuesday, his one night a week guaranteed to be off, he had to go to the London.  Shelagh was growing concerned that the plans for their first wedding anniversary would have to be postponed.

“Not a chance, sweetheart,” Patrick promised when she told him of her fears. He pulled her away from the sink and whispered in her ear, “I have every intention of celebrating our anniversary. I’m looking forward to unwrapping my present tomorrow night. After the children go to bed.”

“Patrick,” Shelagh flirted. “You’re very greedy. How do you know I’ve gotten you anything at all?”

Nuzzling her neck, her answered, “Hmm, I’ve got my present right here in my arms. It’s my favorite gift ever.” His fingers trailed along her back, making her knees weak. “I particularly enjoy unwrapping it again and again.”

“Dad,” Timothy’s voice interrupted them as he entered the kitchen. “Please let Mum go. You’ll put me off my breakfast.”

Patrick’s head came around. “Sorry, son. I should think you’d have developed a stronger stomach by now.” Reluctantly, he released his wife and picked up his case. “I’m off. Late again tonight, I’m afraid. But tomorrow, it’s family time at the Observatory, then Tim, you’re off to a night at Colin’s and my little Angel will spend the night with Nonnatus.” With a quick tickle of the baby’s tummy, he was gone.

“Dad sure is chipper today,” Timothy grumbled.

Shelagh’s eyes danced as she tried to hide a dimple.

“Don’t you start, too,” the poor boy groused.

 

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Fortunately, by the big day Patrick’s schedule settled back to normal, and after a chilly picnic at the observatory as a family, the no-longer-newlyweds were able to enjoy their dinner out. By nine o’clock that night, Patrick unlocked the door and ushered his wife into their home. The scent from the large bouquet of hyacinths and stephanotis wafted through the flat, welcoming them.

“I think it’s lovely you brought me the same flowers as our wedding, Patrick. You’re very romantic,” Shelagh confessed. She turned her back to him and let him slide her coat from her shoulders, and then reached up to remove her new pretty blue cap.

“Oh!” she cried as Patrick shifted from chivalrous to libidinous and pressed her body up against the wall. Not one to complain about her husband’s attentions, Shelagh happily responded.

Long moments later, Patrick rubbed his nose to hers. “As I recall, you didn’t give me a chance to make the first move a year ago.”

Shelagh couldn’t stop the blush that spread across her cheeks. “I was so nervous, dearest. I thought if I didn’t do something, I wouldn’t be able to do anything!”

He laughed and bent to lift her in his arms, heading to the bedroom door. “Oh, we would’ve figured something out, sweetheart. If I am certain of only one thing, that’s it.”

Sometime later, light filtered in through the open door, revealing a tangle of sheets and limbs. The passion that had raged only moments ago satisfied, their bodies slowly calming. Gingerly,  Shelagh moved her weight from above her husband and slid down alongside him. Patrick shifted to face her, propped up on his elbow.

He watched as her breathing slowed, and the flush faded from her cheeks. A year, he thought. One year ago tonight they had been so new to each other. He had known that being her husband was all he could hope for, that simply sharing his life with her would make him the happiest of men.

He never guessed that his prim wife, so long apart from the corporeal world, would be so ardent, so enthusiastic in their bedroom. Then again, he chuckled to himself, his Shelagh never did anything by halves. The joy of loving brought them even closer.

He kissed her lightly, and she smiled against his mouth. They lingered; glancing touches of lips and tongues fired more by intimacy than passion. Shelagh stretched contentedly and nuzzled her head against his shoulder.

Suddenly, Patrick sat up, sending Shelagh to the edge of the bed.

“I nearly forgot! Wait here,” he climbed out of bed and grabbed his dressing gown.

“No, Patrick. Stay,” his soft wife tempted.

He grinned wickedly. “I’ll just be a moment, love. Stay exactly as you are,” he told her as he headed out the door.

Shelagh sat up, pulling the sheets up as high as she could for modesty and reached for her glasses. The noises coming from the sitting room were strange, indeed. “Patrick, are you in the piano?” she laughed. He was definitely up to something, she thought. Spying his abandoned shirt on the floor, she scooped it up and slipped it on.

Practically dancing as he returned, Patrick sat on the bed beside his wife. “I’ll have to find a new hiding place. Tim wanted to know why the piano sounded so strange.” He stopped and took in the sight of his wife, hair tousled, lips swollen. “I like you in my shirt, my bold girl.” He held out his surprise.

“You already gave me a present, Patrick. The flowers are lovely.” Her eyes were on the inexpertly wrapped packages Patrick had set before her.

“That was for in front of the children.” With a lopsided grin, he reached over and tucked her hair behind her ear.

They had exchanged gifts at breakfast, Patrick receiving a formal portrait of Shelagh and the children; one copy for home, another for his surgery.

“I thought photographs, Patrick, for paper,” Shelagh had told him as she poured out more tea.

He had looked at her quizzically, seeming to not understand her meaning. Shelagh had continued, “Gifts are supposed to follow a theme. The first anniversary is paper. You know, like silver for twenty-five…”

“I reckon you’ll have to count the paper the flowers are wrapped in, Dad,” Timothy had teased.

Now, settling next to her on the bed, Patrick confided, “This is private, just between us. Open the little one first.”

Shelagh smiled, puzzled by his nervous state. The first package was small enough to fit in her hand and very light. She turned it over and untied the green ribbon, then began to peel the paper away.

Her breath caught in her throat, closing her lungs. The paper fell to the bed, revealing a new packet of cigarettes. Stunned, she looked up at him. “Patrick?”

His words rushed out. “Paper. I knew it was paper, Shelagh. The cigarettes, the packet, they’re paper.”

“But I don’t understand.” Surely Patrick wasn’t giving her cigarettes, not after Sunday’s talk?

“I’ve given them up, Shelagh. Cigarettes. I’m quitting for good this time.” His eyes glittered, anxiously searching her face. “I’ll need your help, Shelagh. I can’t do this without you.”

Shelagh stared at him; her pale eyes huge as the meaning of his words sank in, then let out a cry of joy. She sat up and wrapped her arms about his neck and clung tightly to him.

“Yes, Patrick. Oh, yes. Dearest, of course I’ll help. Anything.” She covered his face with kisses, laughing and crying all at once.

Laughing with her, Patrick held her away. “That’s not all. There’s one more present.”

Shelagh placed her hands on his cheeks. “I don’t need anything else, dearest. You’ve given me so much already.” She pressed her lips to his in a slow kiss.

Her body was warm pressed against his, and his hands slid under his shirt along her bare back, holding her tightly to him. His body stirred with his need for her again, but that would wait until after she opened the second gift. Coming to his senses, he returned his hands to her arms, making space between them. “Shelagh, open it.”

Wiping the tears from her face, Shelagh picked up the last gift. An extra large envelope tied with another bow, it gave no hint as to its contents. She slid her hand under the flap and pulled out its contents.

Few women are ever given an x-ray as a gift, and even Shelagh, with her own unusual history with the films, was confused.

Patrick waved a long finger in the air. “More light. You need to see it properly.”

He reached past her and flicked on the overhead fixture. Light flooded the room, and Shelagh took a moment to let her eyes adapt. Was this her x-ray from her time away, she wondered. She peered at the page and saw Patricks name, not hers across the top. Blood pounded in her ears as she felt a slow wave of panic come over her.

“Tuesday, when I said I was seeing a patient at the London? I was having this done. I’ve been to pulmonology this week.” He slid the film from her fingers, noticing how cold they had become.

“My lungs are clear, Shelagh. Between these and the tests done on the TB van, Dr. Parton is convinced there is no sign of any abnormalities in either lung, not even a shadow of an anything. Though he did give me a thorough lecture in the ‘Physician, Heal thyself” model.” He stopped speaking. Shelagh had gone very quiet.“Sweetheart?” He tucked his forefinger under her chin, coaxing her face to meet his.

Patrick knew Shelagh was a beautiful woman. It was a fact that his wife was empirically a truly beautiful woman. This knowledge wasn’t simply biased on his own observation; others were aware of it as well. The rest of the world could see her beauty: the glowing eyes and clear skin, her warm smile  and perfect form and more all added up to a loveliness unmatched.

He knew he was particularly attuned to her beauty because he loved her. He had known she was beautiful even when so little of her was exposed to him. When she became his Shelagh, he was astounded by her loveliness. She took his breath away when she smiled her answer to his proposal. She stunned him when he had turned to see her approaching him in the church.

He knew, more than anyone, how very lovely she truly was. He saw her beauty in her smiles at their children, as she lay asleep in their bed. The lovely serenity that crossed her face as she made their home, the winsome grace of her form as she walked, or did even the most mundane of tasks. And he alone had the privilege of seeing the beauty of her face when he loved her, sharing the joy of her body.

He knew right then that he had never seen her so glorious as at that moment, when she lifted her eyes to him, shining with love.

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