“How on Earth is she sleeping through all this?” Patrick Turner asked his wife wonderingly.

Shelagh smiled contentedly down at the sleeping infant in her arms. “Babies always shut down when their environment gets to be too overwhelming, Patrick, you know that.” She glanced around the crowded table. “It’s a good thing, too.”

The dining room at Nonnatus House was filled to capacity, chairs rubbing up against each other, but the close quarters didn’t seem to bother anyone. Arms reached across the table to pull crackers, voices called down the length of the table sharing stories, and whilst Sister Evangelina was distracted by Sister Monica Joan’s demands, a bread roll or two may have been lobbed over heads.

Patrick’s eyes swept the room, a broad smile across his face. With his red paper hat tilted at a jaunty angle, he looked more like a mischievous lad than a responsible GP.

The joyful cacophony of the holiday was new to Patrick. For years, his life had been characterized by either the chaos of his professional life or the quiet sadness of home. Even last Christmas, expected to be so happy, had instead been filled with silent fear and dread.

He glanced over at his wife. She had brought this happiness to them. Shelagh’s love had healed so many wounds, and together they had built a loving family. He watched her cuddle their daughter, and knew his wife was a happy woman. The knowledge that her own happiness was tied up with his filled his heart with pride.

He caught her eye and grinned. “Not much chance of having any Christmas pudding with Angel Girl in your arms,” he said.

“If you think you’ll get to eat my helping, Patrick, you most certainly will not. You’ll have to help me, that’s all there is to it,” Shelagh tried to sound prim, but was failing miserably. In the months since Angela’s arrival, Shelagh had relaxed into a happier, more confident self, and Patrick was grateful for it.

“More than happy to, my love. Shall I peel you a grape, perhaps? Or crack you a walnut?” His eyes gleamed as he teased her.

Shelagh pressed her lips together, suppressing a smile. “A walnut, if you please, Patrick.”

Grinning, he kept his eyes on hers as he placed two large walnuts in his hand exactly so and squeezed with bravado, cracking the larger one. It was silly, this desire to show off in front of his wife, but his chest swelled when her eyes grew wide at his trick. She must have seen a trace of what he was thinking in his eyes, for she glanced away, blushing.

They were distracted by a great cheer that went up around the table as Timothy marched out bearing the flaming Christmas pudding. Applauding loudly, happy in the warmth of tradition and familial love, they all watched as the tall boy ceremoniously  placed the traditional dessert before Sister Monica Joan. The flames blown out, Patrick’s attention again turned to his wife.

Using the extra room granted them for the baby, he shifted his body to better admire her. This was no longer a woman eager to hide. Her hair, her dress, even her bright lipstick all spoke of a confident, certain woman. She was glorious.*

She turned to Timothy as he returned to his seat, a laugh exchanged between them, and Patrick used the moment to pop her walnut into his mouth. He waited for her reaction; he would get a rise out of her, certainly. His habit of taking the last biscuit, sometimes right from her plate, never failed to exasperate her.

The smile was still wide on Shelagh’s face as she turned her gaze back to her husband. Patrick kept his face a blank mask, blithely chewing, feigning innocence. But experience had taught her to never trust that look, and she looked to her plate.

“Patrick!” she cried. She sighed deeply and shook her head. “Really, Patrick, will you never let me eat in peace,” she  laughed.

He grinned lopsidedly as he presented another nut with a flourish. He held the treat out to her, nodding as his eyebrows climbed up his forehead. Glancing nervously at the others, Shelagh closed her eyes and let him feed her. For half an instant, he let his finger rest on her lip, then turned his attention, seemingly, to the baby.

As he leant in, he whispered, “You’ll need to sleep well, tonight, Angel Girl.”

 

Dinner wound down, and the sated revelers began to clear the remains of the feast. Angela, awake, fed, and ready to be entertained, was in the arms of Sister Julienne.

Shelagh headed towards the sink with a pile of cake plates. Patrick lifted them from her, turned them over to Trixie, and slyly took Shelagh by the hand and guided her out into the hallway.

“Patrick, there’s an entire kitchen to clean! Where are we going?” Shelagh asked as she followed him out the doorway and down the wide stairs to the foyer.

“To find some mistletoe,” Patrick returned determinedly.

Shelagh stopped, pulling him back. “Patrick, we’re in a convent. There’s no mistletoe here.”

He stepped towards her until they stood very close and Shelagh had to crane her neck to meet his eyes. His hands slid up the length of arms, over her shoulders and to her neck, cradling her head in his hands. “We’ll just have to pretend, then.”

Making good on his promise to cherish her, he pressed his lips gently to hers. For a long, quiet moment they stood together, alone in their world. Patrick lifted his head mere inches away and whispered, “I’ve been wanting to do that for hours.”

Shelagh’s hands slid up his forearms to join his. Her thumbs stroked over the curve of his palm, nestling in the perfect fit of their hands. “We should go back, dearest,” she murmured. “It won’t do for someone to find us here in the hallway.”

Hearing the tinge of regret in her voice, Patrick smiled. He nodded his head and answered, “Then we’ll be sure not to be found.”

Their bodies nearly dancing, he led her to a corner out of sight. He met her eyes, looking for permission and was pleased with her response.

Pushing up on tiptoes, Shelagh tugged his head to hers and kissed him. Patrick groaned quietly in response, his arms wrapped tightly around her waist. He pressed her tightly against his body as the kiss deepened. She tasted like Christmas, and wine, and Shelagh, and he would never have enough.

His body pressed against her, her back now against the panelled oak wall. She was soft and yielding, and as she shifted her waist, he could sense her invitation. Bloody hell, he thought, if he had taken her to a room, he could have her. His heart pounded with desire, but he forced his head to clear. This really wouldn’t do.

Breathing heavily, they pulled away from each other.

Shelagh giggled.

“I’m afraid you’re wearing my lipstick, Patrick.”

He grinned, and reached into his pocket. He rubbed his mouth clean, then gently dabbed at her smeared lips. “They’ll probably laugh at us,” Shelagh told him, still slightly flushed.

“They’ll smile because they’re glad, sweetheart. Now let’s get our family home. A man can only resist for so long.”

---

“This was no longer a woman eager to hide. Her hair, her dress, even her bright lipstick all spoke of a confident, certain woman. She was glorious.”

This passage was directly inspired by a comment made by @atearsarahjane on @thymefortea’s blog post. You hit the nail on the head with that one, my friend!