Category Archives: The Emerging Butterfly

Buttoned Up

Posted on by

0

@ILoveMushyStuff hinted pretty strongly on Tumblr that she’s like to see a fic inspired by this blouse Shelagh wore in s8e3, and considering how much I owe Mushy for all her kindnesses and posts, I jumped at the chance.

It’s a pretty blouse, as you can see, but it’s the buttons down the back that provoked this little bit of fluff. (I can’t get a decent screen shot of that angle, but here’s a pic you’ll like of pretty Shelagh!)Screen Shot 2019-02-03 at 6.34.05 PM

Shelagh huffed and blew a stray lock of hair out of her eyes.  “Ridiculous blouse,” she muttered. She dropped her arms and glared over her shoulder at the reflection in the dressing mirror.

“That’s a face that’ll scare the children,” Patrick warned as he came to stand behind her, his hands deftly knotting his tie.

“You’re not helping!”  She raised her arms over her head, nearly knocking his chin as she tried to reach her back.  “Oh, bother!”

“Why don’t you simply put on another blouse?”

She dropped her arms again in defeat.  “They all need ironing, and there’s no time.”
“You could ask me, you know,” Patrick tried to hide his grin.  

Shelagh rolled her eyes.  “I’d be better off asking Angela.”  

He clutched at his heart dramatically.  “I’m wounded.”

“Wounded, my granny.  I need to put this blouse on me, not on the floor beside the bed.”

He laughed.  “Alright, turn around.  I’ll try to restrain myself.”

He moved close and smoothed her hair over the nape of her neck, his breath caressing the smooth skin there.  “Not so many buttons,” he murmured, trailing his fingers along the opening and coming to a stop at the bottom button.  “One.”

He stroked his thumb against the silky slip she wore underneath and moved to the second.  “Two.”

Shelagh sighed.

The third button hovered over the clasp of her bra.  Somehow, a finger slipped beneath the strap and stroked the skin there.  “Three.”

This time, it was Patrick that exhaled deeply.

His hands were not quite as sure as he reached the fourth button. He lingered there for a long moment and stared at the small triangle of pale skin above it.  Swallowing thickly, he fumbled but threaded the enameled green disk. “That’s five.”

Shelagh stood stock still, wondering which she wanted more:  for him to finish, or for him not to finish.  When his hands came to rest on her shoulders, she leant back ever so slightly against him.  Long fingers slid under the neckline and caressed her collarbone as his thumbs stroked the back of her neck.  Any thought of resisting him flew from her head and she relaxed against him.

“And that’s me finished”  In an instant, he had the sixth and final button fastened.  With a avuncular squeeze of her shoulders, he turned to leave the bedroom.  At the door he stopped and looked back, a mischievous grin on his face. “No blouse on the floor, then?”

Shelagh turned to face him squarely.  “Well, not now, anyway. But I rather think you’ll be home early tonight.”

 

Reader, he was.

 

A Moment’s Peace

Posted on by

4

This fic is set soon after the Carter birth and the shared cigarette.  Thanks to my betas for making this more than I thought it could be.

Sister Bernadette cycled sluggishly through the streets, the late morning sun already hot against her back.  She was grateful the rattle of the wheels against the cobbles drowned out the rumble of her empty tummy. A late night delivery had called her from her bed out to one of the poorest of the neighborhoods Nonnatus covered, and the tea and sandwich she’d packed for sustenance through the long hours had been more needed by the young woman’s family.  It was too bad today was Tuesday. She’d have to settle for cold cereal or toast until the unsatisfying cold lunch they’d set out for themselves several hours from now.

Ahead, she saw a Lyon’s Tea House, and impulsively pulled up to the window.  The room was empty, its early morning rush over, and she felt drawn by the luxury of a quiet cup of tea made by someone else.  The emergency shilling buried at the bottom of her pocket felt heavy against her thigh, and without letting herself think, she pushed open the door.

The bell tinkled as she entered, and the proprietress called out from behind the kitchen hatch, “Mornin’, Sista’! What kin I get ya?”

“Just some tea and dry toast, if you please,” she replied, and she tried to ignore the lingering scent of bacon in the air.  There was no need to compound her transgression with gluttony.

“Just a cuppa?  Comin’ right up, Sister.  You take a seat and I’ll be wif ya in two ticks.”

True to her word, the spry old woman soon placed a steaming cup and toast before her.  “You look done in, Sister. You just put yer feet up and take a nice long break. Me morning rush is finished, but I’ve me taters to peel for me pies.  Anyfink else you need, just give a holler.”

She bustled away and Sister Bernadette released a sigh.  Sister Evangelina wouldn’t approve, but she let the thought go.  This was such a little thing. It wasn’t as if she was treating herself to dinner at the Ritz.  One cup of tea and a few pieces of bread wouldn’t hurt anyone.

The bell jangled her from her reverie, and she glanced up.

“Good morning, Sister Bernadette.”  Doctor Turner stood looking down at her.

His voice was husky, as if he’d already smoked too many cigarettes that morning, and she recognized the lines of weariness on his face.  Like her, he’d not seen his bed that night. She felt a flush rise at the thought. Since that odd delivery at the Carter’s, she’d found him too present in her thoughts, and fought for composure.

“Good morning, Doctor Turner,”  she answered, her voice cool. “Another long night with Mr. Tweedy?”  

“Yes.  There’s nothing more I can do, I’m afraid.  I’ll refer him to hospice, but my receptionist won’t be in until Thursday.  I’m not sure I’ll be near a telephone for the next day or two.”

“I shall tell Sister Julienne, Doctor.  Nonnatus House can manage that for you.”  Equanimity began to return as she focused on the administrative task.  

The café owner appeared at his side.  “Good morning, Doctor Turner, what’ll I get fer ya?”

“Oh, I wasn’t going to order anything, I just wanted to—”  he stopped, uncertain, and then a sense of resolve lifted his shoulders.  “Strong coffee, Mrs. Potter. And maybe a plate of your eggs?”

She winked.  “For you, Doc?  The world. Just sit yerself down and have a nice chat with the Sister.  It’ll be right up.”

He smiled awkwardly.  “Do you mind?” His long fingers gestured to the chair across from her.

“Of course not, please, sit.”  She didn’t mind, precisely. The poor man looked run off his feet.  Yet still she felt unnerved. His chair scraped against the floor, the sound louder than she expected.  Perhaps it was the fatigue that made her senses seem sharper?

“It must be Tuesday,” he joked as he spread his paper serviette across his lap.  He tilted his head to meet her questioning glance. “Mrs. B’s day off? I feel the same way when my housekeeper’s away. Tim and I usually end up at Capriano’s.  A good “English” any time of day—Mr. Swanson never serves anything else.  I cut back on work those days, but somehow it’s still  hard to find a moment’s peace.”

Peace.  Is that what she’d been seeking when she came into the café?  An image of the chapel flashed in her mind and she felt a stab of guilt.  She should be kneeling in prayer, not sitting across from this man.

“I suppose you have the chapel for that,” he mused.

Her eyes darted away from his, surprised he could read her thoughts.  She sipped her tea, unwilling to answer.

Mrs. Potter appeared, the plates and mug in her hands a miracle of balance.  “I had to brew fresh, and here’s a plate of eggs fer ya’, too, Sister. Yer looking peaky.  You need takin’ care of, I’m sure. No, no arguments. Eat.” Just as suddenly, she disappeared into the kitchen.

Doctor Turner handed her a fork.  “Best listen to the lady.” His grin was boyish, and for a moment she wondered what he looked like as a child.  She bit her lip to keep the curiosity at bay and did as she was told.

The eggs were warm and soft, and she closed her eyes in delight as she chewed.   “I had no idea I was so hungry,” she said. “It snuck up on me. These eggs are delicious!”

“Good,” he leant in conspiratorily and spoke softly.  “I’ve never been that impressed by Potter’s Cafe, and I have quite a low bar.  But this morning, it’s very good!”

Unable to resist, she smiled back.   The nervousness she’d felt when he arrived had dissipated, replaced by a burgeoning sense of ease.  For several minutes they ate in companionable silence, the low sounds of a popular song on the radio.  

“Marianne hated when I stopped at a café,” he said suddenly.  “She said the greasy food would make me run to fat.” He patted his midsection.  “She may have been right about that.”

Uncertain how to respond, and unwilling to glance at his knobbly jumper, she sat in silence.  Marianne Turner had not spent much time with her husband’s medical practice, busy with her own pursuits, and later, the needs of a young boy.  Sister Bernadette wondered if that had caused friction between husband and wife. Marriage was a mystery to her, she freely admitted. It was just as likely the Turners had found their own set of rules for their marriage.

“I know little of married life, of course, but I’ve seen enough with our patients to know that a wife often teases her husband out of worry.”  She tore her toast into small pieces, discarding them on her plate.

He picked up the last triangle of toast and pointed it at her, his grin returning.  “You’d be surprised how often a nun shone light on the state of my marriage, Sister.  Something about being on the outside, looking in, I suppose.”

He smiled, but she could see traces of sorrow in the lines around his eyes.  

“We were very different, Marianne and I, but we…” he put the uneaten toast down and sighed deeply. “We filled in the lonely places.”

She felt more than saw his hand clench, thumb agitating against forefinger, and she wondered when she had first noticed that symptom of his unease.  It seemed as familiar to her as his dry grin and the forelock of hair that never seemed to stay groomed. Her lungs tightened uncomfortably, silencing any words of comfort she might have uttered to soothe another’s pain.  The breathlessness pitched her into a moment of confusion, and she struggled to muster a sense of detachment.

She could not.  For years, she had been able to meet the rigorous demands of the Order, accepting her vows with joy and devotion, but in these last weeks–months, even–she chafed against them.  The rigorous training could no longer be relied upon to summon universal Christian love. She did not feel that communal connection with all. Rather, she felt a bewildering connection to this man in all his individuality.  

She forced air into her lungs and stood.  “I must go, Doctor Turner. I’ve tarried from my duties long enough, I’m afraid.  I will advise Sister Julienne of Mr. Tweedy’s condition, and we will handle the matter accordingly.”  Without looking she could see his perplexed expression. She placed a coin on the table. “Good day, Doctor.”

Her feet carried her the few steps to the door, her arms pushed the heavy door open, and she found herself in the over-bright sunshine.  The ride to Nonnatus would banish these thoughts, she told herself. Physical exercise would clear her head of these troubling thoughts and prepare her for the hours of prayer she required.  In Chapel, she would search for the sanctuary she once knew and banish her disorderly yearnings.

I was nearly finished with this fic when I was reminded by one of my betsas that I had written a coffee shop fic (of sorts) before.  That time I added the bonus of a bit of an unlikely crossover:  Parks and Recreation.  Not sure what I could possibly mean??  Think I couldn’t possibly be so insane?  Oh, friend, here’s the proof:  Wise Words.

Losing Her Breath

Posted on by

0

2016-07-02

The crisp efficiency of the weekly Mother and Baby Clinic began to lag as the Parish Hall began to empty.  Sister Bernadette glanced about the room and wondered how they would ever manage to have the place set to rights in time for Madame Rocco’s dance class.  She noted with approval that Nurse Miller seemed to have the screens on hand, and Nurses Franklin and Lee were nearly finished storing the baby scales.  Stacks of chairs stood like soldiers awaiting an order, quickly arranged before Sister Evangelina left with Sister Julienne for chapel.  Even Sister Monica Joan played her part, amusing–and being amused by– the little ones.  

Her eyes drifted to the kitchen, where a lone figure leaned against the hatch, weary head resting upon his hand.  Her breath hitched and she turned away.  It was no business of hers if Doctor Turner looked so dreadfully tired.  Briskly, she walked to the play area on the far side of the hall.

“I’m sorry, Sister, do you mind if I sit here for just a moment longer?  My back is that tired.” Margie Peterson asked from a chair beside the dollhouse.  Her son, barely more than a baby himself, chattered at her feet.  “Of course, Mrs. Peterson, we’ll put your chair away last.”  She smiled at the tow-headed boy.  “Little Gregory has certainly grown these last few months.  Has he started walking yet?”

“Hasn’t he just!  Not a step for fourteen months, and last week he up and runs across the flat.  I can’t keep up with him.  I’m not sure what I’ll do once the baby comes.”

“You’ll manage, I’m sure, but if you have any trouble, please be sure to come to us at Nonnatus.  You can count on us to help.”  With her hip, she shifted the toy chest away from the small boys reach and began to pile toys away.  

Single-minded as only a child can be, the tot struggled to his feet and waddled over to investigate.  He reached in and pulled out a block then handed it to the nun with a grunt.  

“Why thank you, Gregory.”  Her soft burr grew a bit more pronounced in its tenderness.  “You’re a good wee boy. Can you help me put the toys back into the box?”

With a gurgling laugh, the boy shook his head. “Da!” he waved the doll in her face. “Da!”

“Is that your dolly, then?  He’s very nice. May I see him?”  

He looked up at her, a coy expression coming over his face.  He held the doll out just a bit, then tapped her palm.  His eyes widened with mischief, and he swerved out of reach, then made a break for it.  His mother pushed against the toy chest, valiantly trying to go after him.  “Listen to ‘im, his feet are like thunder when he takes off like that!”

“You stay there, Margie, I’ll get the little scamp!” Light on her feet, Sister Bernadette was up and after the child.  

Her eyes fixated on the bright head before her, running around in wide circles about the Hall.  She saw him zip by the kitchen, but would not let her eyes glance to see if the doctor was still there.  She darted about after him, conscious of a trill of laughter from her elderly sister.  She knew she must look ridiculous, running after the child in her habit.  Frustrated, Sister Bernadette pulled up short.  She would keep her dignity, even if she could not catch her breath.

Blood pounded in her ears, muffling the sounds in the room for a moment.  She watched the boy complete another circle about the room and felt her embarrassment grow.  

“Hello, Gregory,” Doctor Turner’s husky voice called across the room.  He kept his eyes on the boy.  “What have you got there?”

With a crow of laughter, the boy held out his doll and thumped towards the doctor.  He stopped short at the kitchen hatch and gazed up at the tall man, then pushed his doll forward.  

Sister Bernadette took the moment to move quickly and scooped the boy up into her arms.  Her firm voice belied the breathlessness she felt.  “Thank you, Doctor. Now, Gregory, it’s time you went back to your mother.”

Gregory cried out, “No!’ and shook his head vehemently.  “Da!”  He pointed to the doctor.  “Da!”

Sister Bernadette pressed her lips together.  All she wanted at that moment was to be somewhere–preferably a very far somewhere–away from this scene, away from him, but to resist the child would only make the scene more humiliating.  She drew in a deep breath and waited for the boy to calm himself before returning to his mother.

Young Gregory Peterson had little empathy for her predicament.  Sure of his victory, he again pushed the doll towards Doctor Turner and asserted, “Da!”

“I think he’s talking about his doll,” Sister Bernadette told him, her voice clipped.

“Is that right?” the Doctor asked, his eyes fixed on the boy.  “Well, I’ve learned never to negotiate with a toddler.  Come show me your doll, Gregory, I’d like to see him.”

With little choice but to move closer, Sister Bernadette shifted the toddler on her hip and approached the hatch.  Gregory stretched out an arm and passed the doll over the opening.  Doctor Turner accepted the offering, careful not to touch the sticky parts.  

She tried hard not to notice the softening lines in his face as he examined the toy.  “He’s quite nice, old chap.  I reckon he’s one of your favourites.  My Timothy had a doll much like this one when he was your age.”  He glanced up, a crooked smile lighting up his face.

Thoughts of Timothy, and three-legged races, and kitchen hatches, flooded her mind and she sent a small prayer up for strength.  It was so confusing to be near him and hear his voice rasp quietly as if there was no one else in the Hall.  She grew agitated and tried to make her escape.

Again, Gregory would have none of it.  He twisted back to the doctor, his empty hand extended expectantly.  He shook his head vehemently as the doctor made to return the toy.  “No!”

“He wants your cigarette case, I’m afraid.  For a trade.  All the children play that way, he must have picked it up from them.”

Turner picked up the gold case.  “This?” His brows climbed up in surprise.  “I’m afraid you’re a bit too young for these nasty things, Gregory.  Here,” he opened the case and removed the sole remaining cigarette, tucking it into his shirt pocket.  A red brace peeked out for just a moment, and Sister Bernadette was grateful that the distraction caused by the child hid her blush.

“I only had one left, that’s why I was standing here moping,” he confided, his voice a bit over-cheery.  “The shops’ll be closed, and I didn’t think to get more.  I seem to let things slip through the cracks these days, I’m afraid.”  He nodded quickly.  “Let him have the case for a few moments.  It’ll give you some peace, and I’ll get it back just as his mother’s ready to leave.”  His hazel-green eyes tried to meet her blue ones.

“Thank you, Doctor.  Your help is much appreciated, as always.”  Resisting the urge to meet his look, she walked the little boy back to his mother.  Was he watching her go?  No, she would not look back to see.  

The young mother stood waiting with Sister Monica Joan.  “Here you go, Mrs. Peterson.  Doctor Turner will meet you at the entrance.  Gregory can return the case then.”  She brushed down her habit smoothing it into order.   

“You two make a good team, Sister.  Thanks for the help with my boy.  Come on, then, Greggie.”  She reached her hand down and took the tiny one in hers.  Gregory looked back and waved as his newest conquest watched him leave.

“He’s quite a lovely child, isn’t he?” Sister Monica Joan’s voice came from over her shoulder.  “I never felt the desire to have my own.  That was no sacrifice in my vow of chastity.”

Sister Bernadette glanced up in surprise, uncertain of her response.  “I’m sure we must all determine our own sacrifice, Sister.”  

The elderly nun moved to the door.  “Ours is a life of spiritual fulfillment, my dear sister.  We have chosen a larger family, and it is time for us to rejoin our sisters in prayer.”

Sister Bernadette watched as Sister Monica Joan glided to the doors, past the last of the mothers and children, past the busy nurses and the arriving dancers.   A breath fluttered past her lips and she bent her head in a moment of prayer then followed her sister from the Hall.

 

A/N:  Special thanks to @thatginchygal.tumblr.com for her help as my beta for this.  She really helped me reconsider some things, and the title is all her.

The Call the Midwife characters do not belong to me, alas.  However, any mistakes, writing flaws, etc you find are purely mine.

Beyond the Grief

Posted on by

8

Before the great romance, there was a nun looking to heal her own spirit and a doctor and son who needed to rebuild their family.

 

She loved clinic days. She loved watching the mothers with their babies, catching up and comparing notes, the older children playing. The noise and barely controlled chaos of the weekly Mother and Baby Clinic was the beating heart of the world of Nonnatus. The drama of midwifery, with its tests of mothers’ courage and her own skills, fueled her mind, but it was here that she felt she made the most difference.   

For a few hours, women would come to her to soothe their fears and anxieties. They would share intimate pieces of their own lives, revealing the power of love in the ordinary life that she had renounced. Life in the Order had provided her with a community when she needed one, had provided a place to worship and serve her God apart from the world, but of late she had become aware of a need to be part of a larger world. At the Clinic, she could pretend for a short while that she was part of their world.

From her corner in the back of the Parish Hall, Sister Bernadette scanned the room for a particular face. She told herself it was merely concern for a lost soul, nothing more, but she knew that wasn’t entirely true. She felt a sense of connection with him that should not have surprised her.  The sadness she saw in his eyes touched a past sadness of her own.

Twenty years and more had passed since her own sadness, and at times, the sting was just as fresh as the day her mother died. She pressed her lips together in concentration and pushed her own pain to the side. Today he would need some help, and if he would accept it, she would offer it.

There, she saw him. He stood just inside the doors to the Hall, his face nearly expressionless. She sighed. His was a face that should smile, she thought. He had such a clever smile and his eyes would light up with humor if he let them, but he was working so hard to be brave that she rarely saw his face light up.

For a year now, Timothy Turner would come to the Tuesday clinic straight from school. He would spend the housekeeper’s day off tucked in a back corner, his nose in his schoolbooks, trying so hard to seem indifferent to the commotion before him. Perhaps because she saw so much of herself in him, Sister Bernadette saw beyond the facade. She could see his eyes follow children as they sought out their mothers to settle squabbles or ease childish indignities, and her own heart clenched in pain.

She glanced at the charts before her, trying to determine when she would be able to appear at his side to offer a bit of cheer. He would smile at her, and for a moment, they would each find solace with the other. Perhaps a shared joke about one of the boys, or a math test score shyly presented for the hoped-for accolades. A small moment between them to fill a tiny bit of the hole in his heart. If it meant more than that to her, she was unwilling to admit it.

“Sister, Mrs. Peters will need a special visit later today. I’m not happy about her blood pressure. Could you place her on the evening calls list, please?” Doctor Turner’s voice interrupted her thoughts.

Quickly, she turned her face to the chart in his hands, anxious not to be caught watching his son. “Certainly, Doctor. Nurse Lee will be able to see her this evening. Shall I put her down for tomorrow as well?”

When there was no response, she glanced up and saw his eyes on his son. The poor man, she thought.

“It’s a year today,” his voice was quiet, only for her ears.

“Yes,” she answered. Marianne Turner had been remembered by the Sisters during morning Lauds.

Doctor Turner stood quietly for a moment, his thoughts elsewhere. She thought he would turn from her, his thoughts kept to himself, when he confessed, “He hasn’t said anything. I wonder if he even remembers the day?”

She wanted to reach out and place her hand on his but held back. “I’m certain he does. He–It’s quite possible he’s afraid to mention it for fear of upsetting you. He’s always been such a sensitive child.”

Dr. Turner sighed heavily. “He’s only a boy. He shouldn’t be worrying about me.” He paused, “Was it like that for you, too, Sister? Forgive me, I shouldn’t pry…”

A compassionate smile crossed her face. “No, please ask me, I’d like to help. Yes, I think I was rather a lot like Timothy. But my father was quite different from you, Doctor. It was too difficult for him, and I was sent away to school.” Unable to help herself, her hand gently pressed his coat sleeve. “I know it must be so very difficult, but you will get through this.”

He rubbed his thumb nervously. “Thank you, Sister. It’s been a hard year, but I’ve been managing. Marianne wasn’t one to dwell on the past, she wouldn’t have wanted us to get stuck, but I am worried about Timothy. I was so wrapped up in my own pain for so long that I’m afraid I’ve done damage.” His eyes met hers. “Is it too late?”

The young nun felt a flood of tenderness for this man and his son, and she understood in that moment that it was more than grief that made them suffer. Their love for one another had made them afraid to touch wounds and in their pain, they had turned away from their own best source of comfort.

“It’s never too late where there is love. Doctor. Forgiveness is the greatest gift God has given us, but we must find a way to it ourselves.” Her eyes were soft as she looked over to the boy in the corner. “Pain doesn’t disappear, but if we learn to accept it, it becomes another layer in our love for one another. Don’t be afraid of it. Timothy needs you more than ever. I’m quite certain there’s no permanent damage. He’ll follow your lead in all things, Doctor, you’ll see.”

The lines on his face softened into a grateful smile. “Thank you, Sister. We’ll try.”

Their eyes met in a moment of understanding. Sister Bernadette felt her heart lighten and a smile lifted her face. She could feel God’s grace in that moment of comfort, and sent up a prayer of thanks.

Doctor Turner seemed a bit taller as he rolled his shoulders back in determination. “Ask Mrs. Peters to wait a moment, would you? I have something to do.”

She watched him cross the Hall to meet his son, and was pleased to see him take the chair beside him. Timothy looked, up, his face guarded as he listened to his father’s words, and a crease formed between her eyebrows in worry. It wouldn’t be an easy path back to each other, she knew. Grief could prove to be a formidable barrier.

In that moment, however, the boy’s face lit up with a smile.

“There,” she whispered to herself. “They’ve made a start.”

The Birth of a Nightgown

Posted on by

2

Time for some classic pre-wedding Turnadette. Maybe I’m trying to distract myself from impending Series 5 doom. Whatever.

I’ve lit the stove and put two, maybe three kettles on for steam, I think.

Notes: Mannion was given as Shelagh’s maiden name in the cast list for the 2013 Christmas Special. We never heard it said, but that put it in the canon.

 

The light of the late spring dawn woke Shelagh Mannion from a light slumber. Stretching, she brought the covers up under her chin and turned into her pillow. She felt decadent sleeping past the sunrise, but after three months of life outside the convent, she appreciated the quiet solitude and ease of her mornings.

She smiled to herself and snuggled deeper into the blankets. She had enjoyed this time on her own, but soon her mornings would no longer be solitary or quiet. A week from today, she would wake for the first time as Shelagh Turner, wife and mother.

Her eyes opened in surprise and she sat upright in her bed. A week! Their engagement seemed to go on forever these last five months, and now suddenly she and Patrick would be husband and wife in seven days. A slow smile crept across her face and she pulled her knees up to rest her chin.

Married to Patrick in one week. It was hard to believe, after all they’d been through these last months. She wiggled her toes into the mattress. If things had gone according to the original plan, they’d have been married for more than two months by now. She sighed, and turned to look out the window.

Her life had taken so many unexpected turns, but her path felt sure. She felt such a deep happiness, one greater than she had ever known, and she was grateful. There was grace in the sadness, too. Shelagh knew without the pain of the past, she would not be where she needed to be now.

And she was definitely where she needed to be. Timothy was home from hospital finally, and despite the boy’s attempts at independence, he and Patrick needed her more than ever.

Good planning left the last of the wedding to-dos in the hands of her bridesmaids.  Shelagh could devote her energies to her soon-to-be family this last week. All there was left for them to do was try out Timothy’s suit and enjoy their time together. She would join them after church and spend the entire day with them. Content, Shelagh rose from her bed to pray.

Prayer was once again the salve for her soul, and she offered her petitions to a God she knew would accept her and love her, despite her human failings. Her breathing slowed and her mind stilled for a moment, and Shelagh let her peace fill her heart.

Standing, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her hair was tousled from sleep, her face still bore the impression of the hand it rested upon through the night. And the nightgown! The peace of the moment before fled as a crease formed between her eyebrows. All but her face, hands, and feet were shrouded in white winceyette. What would Patrick think? It was hardly a nightgown suitable for a wedding night, she realized. She looked like a child, or possibly someone’s granny.

She chewed her lip. She was completely certain this was the right path. Pledging herself to be Patrick’s wife was exactly the life she wanted. She felt complete with him, and this prolonged engagement gave them the chance to build a partnership. Together, they could face the challenges life put in their path. But as of next week, there would be one more element to their life together that made her nervous.

Her cheeks grew warm with her confusion. Why was she embarrassed, she wondered? There was no shame in the physical expression of love. The unique closeness it created between a husband and wife could strengthen their union, and she did not shy from the act. But what would it mean? How would it change things between them?

She shook her head, trying to erase her confusing thoughts. She had no need to fear what lay before her, indeed she longed for it. Patrick would be gentle; he would help her learn. Of course, a sexual relationship would bring them closer.

She knew this, and yet she did not. For weeks now, Patrick kept her at arm’s length. Their time together was filled with Timothy, their time alone shadowed by fears of gossip. Despite their good intentions, Patrick and Shelagh, the couple, fell from the priority list. Yet, somehow, this lack of closeness felt deliberate, somehow.

She found she missed him. Even when they were together, he held himself away from her. The gentle experiments in intimacy became fewer and fewer. No longer did he sneak quick kisses or whisper words he knew would pinken her cheeks.

“You’re being ridiculous,” she told her reflection. “Patrick loves you. After the wedding, then things will settle into place.” But she could not shake the worry that her fiance was more interested in her as a partner than a wife.

 

That evening, a tired Timothy swayed before her in his calipers, his black suit crisp in its newness.

“It’s perfect,” she told him. “You look very handsome.”

“You do look smart, Tim,” his father agreed. He tilted his head to get a better look and added,  “Quite grown-up, really.”

“Yes. You’ll need a haircut this week, perhaps your father–”

“It’s all in hand, Shelagh. Haircuts Thursday after clinic. I’ve asked Mr. Floyd to keep his shop open for us. Then Capriani’s for our stag dinner on Friday, and by Saturday morning, the Turner men will be fit and ready to be presented.” Shelagh watched the same grin crossed both of their faces.

“If it’s alright with you both, I think I’d like to get out of this monkey suit and into bed,” Timothy informed them. “I’m not much good as a fashion model.”

Patrick nodded. “I’ll help. The last thing we need is to find your suit in a pile on the floor tomorrow morning.”

Left alone for a few minutes, Shelagh set the room to rights. Tim’s school books were stowed in his bag, and his lunch left in the refrigerator to be packed in the morning. Knowing it was more likely to make its way to school if Patrick had a reminder, she left a note by his morning coffee cup.

She looked up at the sound of Patrick’s feet returning down the hall. “All’s well?” she asked.

“All’s well. He won’t read much tonight, despite what he thinks. He’s tired.” He relaxed his lean frame against the door jamb. His eyes followed her as she took care of those small chores that helped to make the flat so much more of a home in the last months. “Today was a good day,” he told her.

Their eyes met across the kitchen. “Yes, it was. I can’t remember the last time we spent so much time together.” She stopped herself, unwilling to douse the relaxed mood.

One step brought him before her. “I can’t either. Thank God there’s only one more week and we can be together like this all the time.”

Something in his voice surprised her. His timbre softened, luring her closer. Shelagh felt her heart begin to skip. She searched his face for signs of withdrawal, but his expression remained warm.

He reached for her hand and led her back to the sitting room sofa.

Shelagh chattered, filling the silence. “You’ll both look so smart together in your matching suits. I’ve chosen the boutonnieres for you, you’ll be quite dashing.”

“It’s not quite fair, you know,” Patrick teased, pulling her beside him. His eyebrows lifted with his grin. “You know exactly how I’ll look on Saturday, and I haven’t a single clue as to what my bride will look like at our wedding. All I know is that your new dress took the efforts of the whole of Nonnatus!”

Shelagh pressed her lips together, hiding a smile. “Patrick, you know you can’t. I know it’s just a silly superstition, but I want you to be surprised.”

He picked up her hand and entwined their fingers. “Surprised? I’m amazed you’re marrying me at all!” His eyes traced her face, his own growing serious. “I don’t even know what your hair looks like down,” he murmured.

Her cheeks grew warm. “Of course, you do, Patrick!”

With a small laugh, he grazed his fingers at her temple. “No, I don’t. You kept it buried under a wimple for most of our acquaintance if you remember. And since…since then, you’ve always worn it up like that. How long is it?” His voice seemed muted.

Shelagh gazed up into his face. Though he was smiling, his eyes glittered, their hazel color greener. The air in the room seemed to disappear and it became more difficult to breathe. The distance she had sensed between them was gone.

Without thinking, she answered the question in his eyes. Blood pounded in her ears, silencing her doubts, and she let instinct take control.  Reaching up, she removed the pins that kept her hair in its sleek twist, letting it fall down to her shoulders. The silence between them grew deeper, and Patrick buried his fingers in the blond tresses.

“You’re so lovely, Shelagh,” he whispered, and she felt for certain he would kiss her.  Then he pulled away, making some space between them. “I should take you home.”

The air between them still crackled, for all his attempts to bring things back to normal. Bewildered, she watched his Adam’s apple move convulsively in his throat as he swallowed. Tired of the distance, Shelagh pressed a kiss to his mouth.

Surprised by her sudden move, Patrick sat ramrod still, and after a long moment, Shelagh released his lips. A small breath fluttered from her lungs as her eyes opened to meet his.

Her bold gesture triggered a change in him. “Well, then,” Patrick exhaled.  He slipped her glasses from her nose and placed them on the table. “Home can wait.”

Something opened up in Shelagh, something she’d felt those few times Patrick loosened his control. She met his mouth in a slow, lingering kiss, one hand caressing his cheek whilst the other wrapped around his neck. She held his face to her, their kiss building to a sweetness she did not want to end.

She knew he must have sensed her eagerness, for he deepened the kiss. His scent filled her head, the intimate taste of his mouth thrilling her. Her arms wrapped tighter about his neck and she pressed herself closer to him.

In response, Patrick shifted and pressed her back into the arm of the sofa. The angle was awkward, and they could not find the closeness they sought. In a single movement, he slid his arm beneath her knees and swept them over his lap. They were now closer than they had ever been.

Patrick kept the kiss slow, his hands gentle as they rested against her knees. A low sound escaped from Shelagh’s throat, and in response, he slid his mouth along her jaw.

“My love,” he whispered. His mouth found the soft skin at the base of her ear as his fingers stroked the smooth skin behind her knee.

She coaxed his mouth back to meet hers and she gave him the kiss she had been thinking of all day. The suppressed passion of the last months rose to the surface, and she was overwhelmed by the strength of it.

Too soon, Patrick pulled back, easing her away from the intensity of their embrace. He traced the line of her cheek with his nose.

“Alright?” he breathed.

“Yes, alright, Patrick.”

They stayed that way, heartbeats slowing and minds clearing. After long moments, Patrick shifted, helping her up to a less amorous position. He pulled her close to his side and nuzzled her hair.

Shelagh pressed her face against his chest. The feelings aroused by their embrace calmed, but her confusion did not clear. “I don’t want to disappoint you.” Her words were soft, barely audible.

His head turned to her, baffled. He stayed silent, waiting for her to find her words.

“It’s so confusing. I’m so happy, and content and…it feels so right, Patrick, being together with you. But we haven’t . . . Done things in so long . . .and I thought…I thought that maybe you didn’t think of me this way. That maybe this wouldn’t be an important part of us.”

“Not important!” he groaned. “Shelagh, I’ve spent the last five months taking twice daily cold baths to keep myself from “doing things” to you. I had to hold myself away from you or I’d have–My God, Shelagh, I’m mad for you! I didn’t want to–to frighten you, or make you feel uncomfortable about any of this. But I can tell you, without any doubt, that I very much want this to be an important part of our marriage.”

This time, it was Shelagh who lightened the kiss, placing her hands on his shoulders and keeping her face even with his. “You don’t have to treat me like a china doll, dearest, I’m not afraid. But you’ll be patient with me? You’ll help me learn?”

“Absolutely nothing would make me happier, sweetheart. We’ll learn together.”

Much later, so much that she nearly missed her curfew at the boarding house, Shelagh stood at window of her rented room and watched Patrick drive off. She pulled down the blind and turned to her bed. There, folded neatly, was her old winceyette nightgown.

She held it up for inspection. “Sorry, old girl,” she murmured, surveying the yards of fabric. “It’s time for you to go. I’m going to be a married woman, after all. It won’t do to wear an enormous granny nightie for our wedding night. I’ll need something pretty, maybe with flowers? Yes. I’m certain Patrick will like that. Something pretty and flowery, with a bow in the back, perhaps…”

 

Building Up Through the Cracks, Part One

Posted on by

7

A/N: This is set during Series 3, Episode 5. I always think of the third series as a period of trial and error for Shelagh. She’s not completely certain who she wants to be, or how to become that woman. Her only certainty is the “rightness” of her choice to be a wife and mother to Patrick and Timothy.

Also, I’m definitely in the Timothy-calling-Shelagh-Mum-from-Early-On camp. He calls her “Mum” so naturally in episode 8 and wanted so much for the wedding to go forward, that I think he’s much more likely to admit vulnerability than his father.  Perhaps a trait from his mother?

The flat seemed too quiet without Timothy and Patrick now. Each had somewhere else to be, out in the world, and Shelagh could feel the walls closing in on her. Patrick was right, Timothy needed time to be a boy, to play out, to get into a bit of mischief. Here in the flat, months after his release from the hospital, he must have felt trapped.

Shelagh shook her head to clear the fog of self-doubt. What was done was done. She would have to apologize to the boy, and move on. Yet somehow, knowing the path she must take did not make it easier to follow. Her hands felt so idle, her mind adrift without Timothy’s time to consider.

What now? she wondered. For so much of her life she had followed a plan, had a purpose. Patrick’s solution, that she help at Nonnatus whilst Sister Julienne rested, seemed the best course. The task of keeping the midwifery and nursing practices going would certainly busy her hands and mind. Perhaps that would be enough, for now.

The door of the flat creaked open slowly, and she could hear the halting steps of her stepson as he quietly returned. Shelagh felt her face relax into an amused smile. She knew Timothy well enough to know he was feeling remorseful for abandoning her this afternoon. She sighed and put her unread book down.

“Hello, Timothy,” she called cheerfully. Best to let him know he wasn’t in trouble from the start.

Cautiously, he appeared at the sitting room door. He swallowed tightly.

“Your father told me you were playing cricket this afternoon. I suppose I’ll finally have to learn the rules, then! I hope you had a pleasant time.” Even to her own ears, her voice sounded stiff. She smiled brightly to cover her unease.

“Yes,” Timothy replied. He bit his lip, hesitant. “Dad said I could.”

Shelagh nodded. “Of course. Did you get anything else to eat, you must be hungry. I can reheat dinner unless you’d prefer to wait until your father gets home?” She nervously moved into the kitchen, conscious of the strain between them.

“No, thank you. Dad gave me pocket money for an ice cream. I can wait ‘til he gets back. He said it should be a light list tonight.” He glanced quickly at her, then away. “I think I’ll go to my room now if you don’t mind. I’d like to read for a bit.”

It was as if they were strangers, on their best behavior. Memories of her distant father flooded her mind. Stoic as to character, made even more so by the death of his wife, Douglas Mannion had preferred silence. The physical distance of the convent school Shelagh attended soon after her mother’s death was nothing to the emotional estrangement she felt from her father.

This was not why she left the Order, Shelagh thought. The emotional connection she felt with Patrick and Timothy filled in places in her heart she hadn’t known existed. She would not let misunderstandings and doubt take that joy away from her.

Taking a deep breath, Shelagh tapped on Timothy’s door. A muffled, “Just a moment, please,” came through the wooden door, followed by rustling and a thump.

“Alright, you can come in.”

Timothy sat on the edge of his bed, his calipers in a heap on the floor. His face was tense, and Shelagh nearly lost courage. They had grown so close in this past year. Had she undone that in her desire to mother him?

“Timothy, dear, I’m afraid I owe you an apology.” She swallowed heavily. “I’ve been so anxious to keep you safe that I’m afraid I’ve … smothered you a bit. It’s only right that you should want to be outside with your playmates, and I’m certain they would welcome you. I won’t stand in your way any longer.”

Timothy didn’t respond, his eyes to the floor.

“Well, then,” Shelagh forged on, her voice cheerful. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.”

The hallway seemed dimmer as she made her way back to the kitchen. She had made the effort, but it seemed the damage was already done.

“Mum?” she heard him call through the flat. Worried, Shelagh returned to his doorway.

Timothy hadn’t moved from his place on the bed, his eyes still on the floor. His voice was hushed. “I’ve been a bit of a beast to you lately. I knew you just wanted to protect me, but it made me angry. I’m sorry if I’ve hurt your feelings. It wasn’t nice of me to be so rude.”

Shelagh stepped into the room, closer to the bed. “I understand, dearest. You’re not a little boy any longer, nor-” she added certainly, “nor are you an invalid. If we want your legs to get stronger, it’s silly for you to stay inside with me. Sister Evangelina always says “A bored boy is a naughty boy.’”

“Is that why she’s always giving me things to do?” Timothy quipped. “Maybe she should give Gary a list!”

Shelagh chuckled and sat on the bed next to him. “I’m not sure even Sister Evangelina could think of enough things to keep Gary out of trouble!” She reached down, reaching for his calipers. “I suppose these aren’t necessary to wear whilst you’re reading. Call me when you’d like to put them back on, and I can help.”

Tim nodded, but his face clouded over.

“Timothy, is there something the matter? Can I help?”

He fiddled with the leather straps. “I had so much fun today, I really did. The others were brilliant, and no one seemed to mind I was so slow.”

“That’s because you’re smart enough to pick good friends.” She pushed his fringe back from his forehead, waiting for him to say more.

“I know it’s your job to worry about me, but I’m going to be fine. The doctors are all pleased with how well I’m doing, and playing out will only help.” He paused, gathering his thoughts. “If I tell you something, you promise not to hold it against me?”

“You sound like a barrister,” she joked.

“Promise?”

Shelagh nodded. They weren’t starting over, but it felt a bit new, somehow.

“I’m glad I went out today. It was great fun, but I’m sorry that I made you feel bad, and I won’t do it again.” He looked up and met her eyes. “I am a bit sore now. That’s why I’ve taken off the calipers. My legs feel rather like when the physical therapy is a bit difficult.”

Of course, Shelagh realized. It would hurt. Pushing out against the old ways always did. But it had to be done.

“Alright, then. Lay back whilst I get the liniment. We’ll get these poor pins rubbed down and ready for tomorrow’s adventures.”

Courting Shelagh, Chapter 4

Posted on by

15

Previous Chapter

Chapter 1     Chapter 2     Chapter 3

Footsteps echoed in the dim hallway as Patrick climbed the last of the stairs to the flat. Unable to stop himself, he glanced at his watch for the hundredth time. Nearly nine. Too late for dinner, certainly, and more than likely not enough time for even a brief visit with Shelagh before the door to the boarding house was locked for the night. This was definitely not the evening he planned.

He rolled his shoulders to try to ease some of the tension stored up, and turned the key in its lock. As he pushed the door open, he was surprised by the warm light that flooded the hallway. Had he forgotten to turn off the lights when he left?

Patrick shook his head. His head had been in the clouds this morning, full of plans now unfulfilled. Eager to find a florist so early, he must have forgotten to close up the flat properly.

He reached to hang his battered coat on its hook and paused. Was that music? He was certain he hadn’t had the radio on this morning.

At that moment, Shelagh stepped from the sitting room. “Hello, Patrick,” she welcomed.

“Shelagh!” He exclaimed. “How on earth…”

She smiled shyly. “I thought we might have a better chance of seeing each other tonight if I met you here. I’ve brought some dinner, you must be famished.”

Patrick stood staring down, his face frozen in surprise. Shelagh had been at the forefront of his thoughts for so much of the day, he wasn’t sure she wasn’t a figment of his tired and lonely imagination.

The woman before him was different somehow, and finally, Patrick’s brain registered the change. Shelagh’s typical subdued attire was left behind, her dark neutral dresses and cardigan replaced by an eye-catching navy blue velvet dress and new black pumps a bit higher than her usual fashion. He swallowed thickly.

“You walked all the way from Mrs. Trevell’s dressed like this?” If Patrick had been distracted this morning by the unexpected sight of her collarbone, there was little hope of concentration now. The supple fabric dipped into a demure portrait collar, somehow all the more alluring for its reserve. Again,  Patrick could hear the blood pounding in his ears. He shook his head to clear it. It wouldn’t do to startle her with his thoughts.

Shelagh glanced down and ran her hands over the folds of the skirt. She blushed. “This? My coat covered it up. I know the shoes must look a bit silly, but they’re quite comfortable really. I let Trixie talk me into them, and I bought this dress back before…when I first came back from St. Anne’s. It was silly to spend my money on something so frivolous, but I couldn’t resist. I was already dressed when you called, so I thought I should at least get some wear out of it.” She looked up, her smile wide. “Besides, it’s not such a very far walk, Patrick. You used to walk me home each night before Christmas, remember?”

He closed his eyes at the memory and took a deep breath.  He left the coat on its hook and turned to her with a gentle nod. “I remember.” In control, he moved closer and said, “I’d like to greet your properly, but I’m a mess. I’ve got grease everywhere, and I’ve probably ruined this coat. Let me go wash up and I’ll be with you in two shakes.”

“Your coat?” Shelagh asked, a crease appearing over her nose.

“Yes, it got caught in the door of Fred’s van. There’s a tear right down the back. I’m fairly certain it’s irreparable.” He placed a quick kiss on her cheek. “I’ll be right back.”

A quick trip to wash the remnants of the evening’s detour away, and then a change of clothes was in order. As he closed the door to his bedroom, he smiled widely. His plans had certainly fallen apart: no dinner and dancing tonight, perhaps, but Shelagh was here. All the rest didn’t matter. The night was perfect.

He pulled his tie loose and went to the wardrobe for a clean shirt. There he found more evidence of Shelagh’s presence, for she had begun to collect his shirts each week from the cleaners, leaving them neatly folded for him in his room. The thought of her in this place stirred him again, and he sighed.  They might not be often at the flat together, but in her small ways, Shelagh was making it a home. Soon, it would be their home.

He tossed his soiled shirt in the washing bin and shrugged a clean one over his shoulders. As he buttoned it up, his eyes wandered, then caught a slip of paper left on his pillow. His eyebrows creased in question as he unfolded the sheet.

Dearest Patrick,

Thank you so very much for the lovely flowers this morning. Their scent has traveled with me all day.

As I’ve gone about my day today, people have commented again and again that I look very happy. I’m not surprised they can see it. I feel as if I’m fit to bursting with it.

I look forward to our date this evening (I still blush when I think of it), and know I am the luckiest woman alive.

Your

Shelagh

 

The bed creaked under his weight as he sank down upon it, struggling with himself. He thought he had gained a certain mastery of himself. Tonight should be about making Shelagh feel special. He intended to court her tonight, not ease his own desires, but this note brought his passion back up.  It was all he could do to stop himself from thrusting the door open and in several strides taking her in his arms. Determined to master himself, he stood. Shelagh deserved a gentle courtship, so he tamped down his desire and finished dressing.

A few minutes later, dressed in his best suit, hair smooth, he joined her in the sitting room. Tonight wouldn’t be the Ritz, but he would woo her as she deserved. He closed the door to the private part of the flat, expecting to find her waiting in the sitting room. Instead, Shelagh was just as he had left her, standing at the coatrack. Her hand held a sleeve as her fingers caressed the old wool.

She glanced up as she heard his step, and her cheeks flooded with color.

“My love?” He asked, his head tilted in a question.

Shelagh dropped the sleeve and turned to him. “It’s silly. Promise you won’t make fun.”

He couldn’t help as a smiled tugged at his mouth crookedly. “I’ll try.” His eyes wandered over the coat in question.

“You’ll definitely need a new coat. The tear isn’t on the seam, and the fabric’s too worn to mend.”

He nodded. “I thought so.”

Her eyes shifted away from his face. She bit her lip, and he waited for her to find the words she needed.

Finally, she looked back up at him, her clear eyes meeting his squarely. “Don’t throw it away, Patrick.”

This was not what Patrick was expecting. He shook his head slightly. “I don’t follow. I can’t donate it, no one will want it.”

She reached out again and stroked the fabric. “I want it.”

A memory crossed her face, and Patrick began to understand. He reached behind her, taking the coat from its hook. Gently, he wrapped it around her, his hands holding it closed at her neck.

“It’s not so very misty, here, is it?” He asked quietly.

She shook her head. “No,” she answered.

They stood together, a mirror of themselves that fateful day. So much had happened since then, his life turned right-side-up. All the emotion of that day came back, and yet there was more.

“I held you like this that day,” he whispered.

Beyond words, Shelagh nodded.

“I didn’t kiss you, then.” His voice grew husky. “I didn’t, but I wanted to. I was so afraid that if I moved, you would disappear.”

A quiet breath shuddered from her lungs. “I was afraid, too.”

His thumb caressed the old coat at her chin, then slowly, his hands turned and held her face.

“And now?” He whispered.

Her voice came to him quiet, but clear. “I’m not going away, Patrick.”

The words were barely across her lips before he pressed his mouth to hers, tender and gentle. For weeks-no, months- he had kept his passion for her under a tight leash. After so long, the feel of her soft mouth beneath his broke that restraint. His arms wrapped around her tightly, and he pulled her close. Shelagh relaxed against him and he felt her lips move under his. A small sound came from her throat and he felt his remaining control slip. Gently nipping at her lips, he felt her mouth soften even more and he deepened the kiss.

Her acceptance of him, the shift in her breathing, made him desperate to know more of her. As her arms slid up around his shoulders, he groaned and pulled her impossibly close. The taste of her, the scent of her, consumed his senses.

The coat fell from her shoulders, pooling at their feet and the moment was broken. Patrick slowly lifted his head from hers, ending the kiss slowly. He rested his lips against her forehead as they struggled to regain their breath.

A smile crossed his face. He knew Shelagh loved him. Every day she showed her love in the little things she did for him. The passion was there, he felt it in her body still, yet he also knew this passion would confuse her. He would slow things down, he would court her. Tonight, Shelagh would know just how special she was.

“Shelagh,” he whispered against her hair, “shall we begin our date?”

Next Chapter

Courting Shelagh, Chapter 2

Posted on by

10

Previous Chapter

A/N: No more chess, I’m afraid, but a clever Nonnatun will spy a version of one of Shelagh’s most frequently spoken lines from Series 3.

Oh, sorry about the hand kiss. It seemed “entirely appropriate.”

Chapter 1

The following morning, Patrick stood in the foyer of Shelagh’s boarding house, full of plans. Despite a night spent more in plans than in sleep, he was brimming with energy.

As he waited for Shelagh to come down, he glanced about the entranceway to the ladies’ boarding home. The strict rules of the house demanded he go no farther than this, and after over three months of residence here, Patrick had yet to see any of Shelagh’s temporary home. If he had his way, Patrick thought, this wouldn’t be her home for much longer.

“Patrick!” Shelagh called as she came down the final flight of stairs. “I never expected to see you here this morning. Last night, you didn’t say…” A little flustered, Shelagh’s hair was pulled back in a hasty knot, a few damp tendrils escaping around her neck.

She’s just had a bath, Patrick thought. He could feel his own pulse begin to race as he fought the urge to step closer to better breathe her in. He cleared his throat and straightened. A warm, fresh-from-the-bath Shelagh was a new experience, and a man could only withstand so much.

“I thought I’d surprise you.” Bringing his hand from behind his back, he presented her with a bouquet of freesias. Fortunately, he had been able to convince the neighborhood florist to open early.

Shelagh made a small sound of surprise in her throat. “Patrick, how lovely.” She hid her blushing  face in the sweet-smelling blooms. “You didn’t have to do this.”

Smiling, he tilted his head as he gazed down at his fiance. “I wanted to. You do so much for me, and I wanted to thank you.”

Shelagh’s eyes met his. “Please don’t think you have to thank me, Patrick. I want to be there for both you and Timothy. You’ve given me so much.”

“We’re the grateful ones, my love.” He took a step closer. “Before you came, Tim and I were afraid to be happy. I’m sure we would have never managed this last month without you.”

A brief shadow of guilt crossed Shelagh’s face, chased away by his next words. “We both love you so very much, Shelagh.”

For a moment, they stood facing each other in silence, happy just to be near each other. Patrick’s lips lifted in a crooked smile. “Don’t go back to the hospital this afternoon. I want to take you out tonight. A proper date.”

The blush returned to Shelagh’s cheeks. “I’m very happy as we are, Patrick. There’s no need to take me out.”

He stepped closer to her so she had to crane her neck up to see his face. With a slight movement, his hand reached towards hers, the backs of his fingers brushing lightly against hers. “I want to spend time alone with you, Shelagh;  treat you as you deserve to be treated.”

He watched as the blush travelled down her neck, past her collarbone. Was this a new dress? He wasn’t sure he had ever seen her collarbone before. If he had, he knew he would have felt this strong compulsion to press his lips against the fine bone, to caress her silky skin and fill his head with her scent.

His own pulse sounded loud in his ears and he tried to resist the urge to pull her close to him. Shelagh was still shy, he knew. He had hoped that by now she would be more comfortable with physical affection. Perhaps Timothy’s time in the hospital had affected them more than he thought.

Time together was becoming more of a necessity with each moment.

“Shelagh,” he whispered, his voice husky.

Her eyes met his, and he was stunned by the emotion pouring from them. Her pupils dilated widely in her pale eyes, and he could sense her own breathing quicken.

Softly, his fingers moved to entwine with hers. “I miss you, Shelagh. Tim will be fine tonight. Fred can visit him, or I can call Jack’s mother. Whichever, he’ll be fine. But I’m desperate to spend time with you.”

In that moment, understanding crossed her face, and Patrick knew she felt the same. His head lowered slowly, and both forgot the dim foyer, the sounds coming from the kitchen fading quickly.

“Oh, Doctor Turner, are you still ‘ere?” The omnipresent landlady tromped through the front door, the scrub brush and pail testament to a front step scrubbed spotless.

The two lovers moved apart quickly, slightly embarrassed and rather a bit more frustrated by the interruption.

Clearing his throat, Patrick answered, “Yes, Mrs. Trevell. I’m off in just a moment.”

The bustling landlady, whose skills of romantic observation had been honed by years of watching residents with their beaus, grinned knowingly. “Well, don’t keep Miss Mannion from ‘er breakfast, then. Ask her what you want, and be off with ya.” She turned and sloshed the bucket back to the kitchen.

The intensity eased for the moment, Patrick and Shelagh grew comfortable again.

“Tonight. I’ll pick you up tonight by seven, I promise. I’ve cancelled all my calls for the late afternoon, and I’ll get Greenwood or Hammond to back up. God knows they both owe me enough favors.” He took her hand in his and pressed a gentle kiss to her fingers. “I am determined that nothing will get in the way of our date.”

Next Chapter

Courting Shelagh

Posted on by

10

A/N: I haven’t played chess in years, and even then was never very good at it. So, if you know chess, and my strategies are all wrong, let’s just chuck it up to alternate universe stuff.

A children’s ward in a large hospital can be an unusual place. In one corner, a young girl lay quietly, asleep, but not asleep, her nurse anxiously watching. In another, a small play area was set up, a trio of boys dressed in a uniform of illness collectively try to solve a puzzle while another girl wheeled a tricycle in widening circles.

Timothy Turner, a resident of this ward for well over a month, watched as the nurses tried to corral their patients for the evening medication round. Soon, it would be bath time for those mobile enough for such ablutions, and then lights out for the entire floor.

Tim knew he was luckier than most of the other patients on the ward. Visiting hours were long over, but his father and Shelagh were permitted to stay beyond the assigned hours. Shelagh said it was because of his father’s position in the community. She was always saying things like that, Tim thought. It was lovely to see how proud she was of Dad, but Tim knew the extra privileges had more to do with Shelagh’s own helpful nature. Right now, in fact, she was assisting in Teddy Hardstrom’s final physical therapy for the day.

“I wish the nurses would let me have my own lamp,” he groused. A copy of Captains Courageous idly rested on his bedside table, its binding likely to remain unbroken until the morning.

“Sorry, Tim,” his father commiserated. “If Shelagh couldn’t convince them, no one can.” He winked at his son and moved his knight. “Knight fork, Tim. I’m afraid that’s check.”

Tim groaned and rolled his head back. “I liked it better when you let me win.”

Chuckling, Patrick answered, “I liked it better when it was easy to beat you. You’re getting quite good, Tim. I can tell you’ve been practicing, who’s your partner?” He idly placed the black bishop and rook with their fallen brethren.

“Why, Shelagh of course. Who else?” Timothy’s eyebrows climbed up his forehead.

“Shelagh?” Patrick’s face was a near mirror image of his son’s surprise.

“Of course. Didn’t you know? Shelagh’s brilliant at chess. Her father taught her.” The young boy considered his next move. Save the Queen, but the knight, oh, he hated to lose his final knight. The Queen was strong. He was pretty sure she could defend herself against his dad’s last remaining Bishop. That would leave his King unprotected, though, and Tim was pretty sure the King depended a bit too strongly on the Queen. “She even beat him the last time they played.” There, he’d give up his Knight to save the Queen.

“Shelagh plays chess? I had no idea,” Patrick admitted, looking up from the board.

“Shelagh does lots of things you wouldn’t guess. Did you know she can dance a reel?”

Patrick laughed at the image. “No, I can’t say I did know that. What other dark secrets do you know?”

Patrick was grateful that Shelagh devoted her time to Timothy, and was convinced his son’s rapid recovery was in large part due to her attention. She spent every afternoon on the ward, and had even convinced the Sister that her help was necessary on the ward off of visiting hours.

His own busy schedule kept him away from the ward more often than he liked, but he was usually able to stop in every day to spend some time with his son and fiance. He had to admit, he was a bit lonely. Prior to Christmas, home had become such a welcoming place, Shelagh finishing the dinner as Tim did schoolwork, the two happy to see him complete the family when he returned. And later, all-too-brief time alone with his fiance, time when they were learning the details that would soon fill their life together.

“Nothing too dastardly, unfortunately.” Tim sighed as he studied his next move.

“You sound disappointed. Were you expecting tales of Scottish Highwaymen?” Patrick flushed a bit, remembering a story of a surprisingly bold young Shelagh, and the dreams that story began.

Timothy shrugged. “I reckon not. You know, I’ll bet I know more about Shelagh than you do, Dad. I spend more time with her,” he added a little bit smugly.

Patrick sat back in his chair, his eyes alert. His first instinct was to deny such a thing, but the boy was right.

Concentrating on the board before him, Timothy continued. “Since the nurses won’t let me read at night, I have to listen to them chat before I fall asleep. There’s this one nurse, she’s new, she talks about her boyfriend all the time. How he brings her flowers, takes her on these fancy dates,” he glanced up, “you know, mushy stuff like that. All the other nurses love it. They practically drool over her stories. It’s really quite revolting.”

Patrick laughed. “Women!” he huffed semi-mockingly.

“Absolutely,” agreed his son. “But I was thinking Dad, you might want to try that with Shelagh. I think she’d like it.”

Startled, Patrick looked at his son’s innocent face. What exactly was Tim trying to say? “I see Shelagh nearly every day, son.” His fingers touched his knight, then moved away.

“Here at the hospital, or when you drive her home, maybe.” Timothy’s eyes watched nervously as his father considered his next move. “But maybe you should take her out alone sometimes. You can miss a night here, I won’t mind.”

Patrick’s hand lay in his lap, his eyes on his son as he considered his words. Tim was right, he had never really courted Shelagh. Suddenly, they just were. Months of desperate loneliness and silence miraculously resolved in a moment on a misty road. Afterwards, the weeks leading up to the original wedding date were filled with becoming acquainted with each other, finding ways to fit together as a couple and a family. Nearly all their time had been spent at the flat, quiet and isolated from the world.

Patrick was certain Shelagh had wanted it that way. Her new life needed some getting used to, and prying eyes had made her wary. To find her new self, Shelagh left her old life behind only to realize that she could find a way to unite her old life with her new one.

Since the polio, they spent nearly all their time with Timothy in hospital. Shelagh had found her feet, but had not had the chance to try them out. Tim was right. Shelagh deserved a proper courtship. Patrick grinned, his face relaxing. They deserved a proper courtship.

Absently, he moved his knight across the board and was startled by his son’s shout.

“Checkmate!” Tim cried. “I won!” Ignoring the hushes from the nurse at the nearby desk, Tim crowed, “I beat you, Dad. Fair and square. You moved your Bishop to protect your King, but you left my Queen, and she took down your King! I finally beat you!”

Leaning back in his chair, Patrick mused, “So you did, son. So you did.”

“It’s okay, Dad,” Timothy consoled. “I was trying to distract you. I knew you’d break concentration if I talked about Shelagh. You always do.”

Patrick shook his head and rubbed his hand across his tired face. “All’s fair, Tim.” He leant in and whispered conspiratorially, “You’ll have to find someone else to beat tomorrow, Tim, my boy. Shelagh and I are going out.”

Beaming, Timothy advised, “Not fish and chips, though, Dad. From what the nurses say, chip shops are definitely not romantic.”

“Don’t you worry, Tim. The old man still has a few tricks up his sleeve. Shelagh will-”

Timothy’s hand shot up in the air, his face desperate. “Dad, no. Please. It’s bad enough I have to hear about the mushy stuff from the nurses. No boy should have to put up with it from his own parents.”

Patrick laughed and tousled his son’s hair. “Sorry, Tim. I’m afraid that’s exactly what’s going to happen.”

“Ugh,” Timothy groaned as he threw himself against his pillow, outmaneuvered. “Strategy in chess is much easier than love.”

Next Chapter

Writing Her Own Rules, Epilogue

Posted on by

15

Author’s note: Apologies for the “Dad Dancing” reference. I’ve been trying to get that one in for a very long time.

Previous Chapter

Late afternoon sun poured through the window above the kitchen sink as gurgles of infant laughter filled the room. A blue plastic infant tub converted the typical white porcelain basin into an indoor water playground.

“Well, that’s certainly a happy sound, little Miss. I suppose we’ve made friends again?” Shelagh Turner cooed. “I always say, a bath can fix everything!” Offering up a toy giraffe of indeterminate age, she watched as the baby kicked and splashed. Two towels sat at the ready, one for baby, one for clean-up.

Down the hall, she heard the doorbell, followed by the still-brisk steps of her husband. “Guess who’s here, dearest,” she asked the baby.

Moments later, Angela Turner entered the kitchen. “Mum, you didn’t have to give her a bath,” she declared.

“I know, dear. But there was a bit of a disagreement over the peas for her ladyship’s tea. Besides, you know I don’t mind, and it will be one less thing for you to do tonight.” Shelagh unfolded a towel and offered it to her daughter. “Since I’ve had the bath time honors, would you like to dress the little princess?”

Angela sighed and moved to the pantry closet. “No, you can do it, Mum. I’ll put out the tea.”

Years of practice made Shelagh a dab hand at changing wet, slippery babies, and in the work of a moment, her granddaughter clean, dry and dressed.

“Dad was on his way out to the garden when he let me in. He looks good,” Angela commented as she scooped tea into her mother’s favorite teapot.

“Your father always looks good, dear. He’s a very handsome man.”

The spoon clanged on the countertop. “Ugh, Mum. You’ll put me off my dinner.”

They both laughed. “Your father is doing quite well, actually,” Shelagh answered as she placed the baby into the nearby playpen. “Tim came by and asked that he do a seminar at the college on patient care next month. Don’t tell your father I said so, but he’s really quite thrilled to be back in the field. His practice was too much, I think, but his work with the medical students has revitalized him since his retirement. He wants to go dancing tomorrow night!” Shelagh’s cheeks pinkened.

“Dad dancing? Sorry, Mum.” Angela grimaced.

Shelagh waved her daughter’s sympathy away. “Not that ridiculous disco nonsense you do-”

“Mum, disco’s been dead for a decade!”

“Proper ballroom dancing, Angela, at the Dorchester. They’ll even have a band!” Shelagh’s eyes glowed.

No longer satisfied with the companionship of a toy giraffe, Julienne reached for her mother. Angela reached into the playpen and lifted her daughter into her arms.

Shelagh smiled to herself as she watched mother and child settle into each other, and turned to finish the tea.

“You look a bit tired, dearest,” she remarked gently. “Would you like us to take Angela tonight? With your final boards coming up, you’ll need your rest.”

“Not tonight, Mum, thanks. I just want to bring Julie home and snuggle her. I haven’t had a night home with her and Charlie all week. Tonight’s the first night in weeks Charlie isn’t teaching a class, and we need a bit of family time.”

Three generations of Turner women settled quietly into their tea. After a long moment, Angela spoke up.

“I am tired, though. I knew this would be hard, having a baby while I’m still qualifying for my obstetrics license while Charlie finishes his doctorare, and I could never have gotten this far without you and Dad and Charlie supporting me. But sometimes I think maybe I should just give in and wait until after Julie’s grown to finish.”

She looked up at her mother. “I must seem very cowardly to you.”

“Cowardly?” Shelagh asked, stunned.

Angela sighed deeply. “Thinking about giving up. I have so much help, and I can barely manage. Some days I don’t manage at all.” She rubbed her cheek against her daughter’s head, her eyes damp. “You did it. You did it back when there was no such thing as on-site day care, or working mothers groups. You didn’t even have your mother to help.” Angela looked up, sad and confused. “How did you? You raised Tim and me, you ran Dad’s surgery, served as a nurse and midwife, all by yourself.”

Shelagh smiled. “It was hardly by myself, dearest, and there were many days when I didn’t think I could manage. But you’re wrong, you know. I had so much help. I had your father. Back then, most fathers did very little in the way of child care, but I could always count on your father to try,” she giggled. “Dinners were a mess, and he never could do the laundry correctly, but he always made the effort. Your father knew I needed to help make a difference in the world outside our family, and he wasn’t afraid to pitch in when necessary. So, we wrote our own rules.” Leaning in, Shelagh added, “He was quite good at getting the nuns to lend a hand, too. One word from him, and I never had to mend another pair of your brother’s trousers again!”

Angela gave a watery chuckle. Gratefully taking the hanky her mother held out, she wiped her eyes. “I remember when Dad had to help me with my hair before hockey practice when I was nine. “A” for effort, but that’s why I learned to do my own plaits before anyone else on the team!” She kissed the sleeping baby’s head.

“Yes, and Tim mastered shepherd’s pie just to avoid your father’s cooking!” Shelagh reached over and caressed her daughter’s arm. “Marriage, motherhood, they’re hard, Angela. It’s hard for everyone, but it’ll get easier. You’ll write your own rules, I’m sure of it. The world doesn’t usually see change overnight. It changes nearly unnoticed, one woman at a time.”

“One woman at a time what?” asked Patrick as he entered the kitchen, a bundle of freshly cut blooms in his hand. “I should think one woman would be enough for anyone!”

Shelagh got up from the table and took a vase from under the sink as Patrick began to trim the stems. “The hydrangeas,” Shelagh admired. “The soil’s so funny this year, I didn’t think we’d ever see them turn pink.”

Patrick grinned, “I know the right things to say, my love. You just have to make them blush.”

“Right, then. That’s my cue.” Angela stood, shifted her sleeping child in her arms and crossed to kiss her mother goodbye. Heading for the door, she grumbled, “Why we never wrote a rule against that sort of thing I’ll never know!”