Chapter Text
“Now this is a celebration!” chortles a slim, nattily dressed man. He carefully wipes sweat off his brow and beams at the bustling scene before him. “Happy jubilee Sister Evangelina,” he reads slowly. “Oh my, it seems we picked the wrong day to party crash!”
A small, slight woman appears behind him. She freezes at the sight of nearly a hundred people milling about and fiddles nervously with the plain gold band around her left ring finger.
“I think Sister Julienne would have both our hides if we trampled over Sister Evangelina's festivities, don't you agree?” he observes.
The woman chews on her bottom lip anxiously and glances around. A tentative smile crosses her face when she sees a broad woman in a woolen habit loudly berate the crowd for fussing over her.
“Sister Evangelina was always kind to me,” she says softly. “Although she did call me a clamp thief, once.”
“Dearest, by the time I left Nonnatus House, I'd say you'd stolen more than some clamps.”
The woman blushes furiously. She's been married for six months already but remains hopelessly tongue-tied around her husband.
“I still have the conch shell you gave me,” she remarks quietly.
“You darling, sweet woman! By the time we reach the United States, that shell will have traveled nearly ten thousand miles.”
A stray brown curl escapes from her tightly coiled bun and the man tenderly tucks it behind her ear.
“Are you sure you don't want to say goodbye? It may be your last chance to see all them together,” he says gently.
The woman mulls the situation over. Although she was only at Nonnatus House briefly, the people there made more of an impression than anywhere else she lived or worked. Jane Applebee-Thornton had been absolutely terrified of working with such a close-knit, spirited group of people. But the experience tempered her into something far stronger than she ever imagined was possible. She'd emerged from a silent, lonely life to one that was certainly less quiet, but all the more joyful. Her lack of loquacity only made her more endearing, according to her husband, because when she did choose to speak, it was never without significance. But finding a means to communicate her gratitude was still quite impossible for a woman of so few words.
Jane slowly removes a slightly wilted arrangement of sky-blue flowers from her valise and hands them to her husband. He examines the bouquet and nods approvingly.
“Myosotis scorpioides,” he proudly declares. “Did you know that according to a German legend, this little flower was nearly forgotten by God when He named all the plants in the world? The flower pitifully cried out to Him, 'Forget-me-not, O Lord,', and He replied 'That shall be your name'. A quaint bit of local folklore, is it not?”
Jane smiles in response and points to a nearby table laden with gifts. John Applebee-Thornton cautiously sets the blossoms on top of a towering pile of presents and returns to her side.
“You are absolutely certain about leaving without a farewell?”
Jane nods steadily and loosens her grip on the valise.
“Sometimes words aren't needed between friends,” she states, and walks away with her head held high.