Munro ate breakfast in the busy dining room. He’d risen late, having finally fallen asleep after deciding in the middle of the night he was behaving like a spoiled child. Sarah’s insistence on a short period of separation was the right thing. She was being mature while he was acting like a jilted lover. It didn’t make the parting any easier, but it wouldn’t do to give the wrong impression of himself at the Shrewsbury School.

The gravel-voiced landlady estimated it would take him ten minutes to walk to the school. “If you want to see the headmaster, you’d best make an appointment,” she advised. “Reverend Taylor is a stuck-up bugger.”

Munro refrained from replying most grammar school headmasters were probably considered haughty. He simply smiled and bade her good-day.

He huddled into his cloak as he exited the inn, holding on to his hat in the brisk wind. The route took him across the footbridge spanning the Severn. He kicked at dead leaves whipped into piles by the autumn wind, and his spirits began to lift. There was a hint of winter’s chill in the air. It wasn’t the ideal time for Sarah to arrive in Scotland. On the other hand, they’d hopefully be married before Yuletide. He found himself whistling a few bars from The Holly and the Ivy in anticipation.

He stopped abruptly at first sight of the massive stone building that, surprisingly, was more impressive than Birmingham’s King Edward. His father had always been tight-lipped about his years at Shrewsbury, so he hadn’t known what to expect. He mounted the front steps, aware he was about to enter a bastion of privilege where many powerful men had received their education. Chuckling, he paused for a moment and scanned the surrounding meadows, conjuring a vision of his father as a boy, newly arrived from Wales. While Morgan Pendray rarely spoke of his accomplishments, there was no doubt he’d played a significant role in changing the history of England and Scotland. The headmaster would surely be interested in learning of a former pupil’s achievements.

Munro had always been proud of both his parents, but he strode into the school’s hallowed halls feeling ten feet tall.

Two small boys opened the double doors, heads bowed. A third, older boy greeted him. “Welcome to our school, sir. James Pontefract. Your name?”

Munro resisted the urge to chuckle. All three pupils wore white ankle-length tabards over black cassocks—somewhat reminiscent of the Birmingham uniform—but here the prefects’ knee socks were bright red. He wouldn’t have thought white a practical color for small boys, but perhaps Shrewsbury lads didn’t indulge in the usual boyhood pursuits. “Viscount Munro Pendray,” he replied, certain the title would impress. “My father is an Old Boy.”

Pontefract gaped for a moment, clearly surprised by the brogue, but quickly resumed his polite role. “Follow me, sir. You’ll want to see the plaques.”

Munro obeyed, keeping up with the boy’s brisk pace. “Aye, but I’d like to speak to the headmaster. I’m sure he’ll be…”

The prefect interrupted without stopping or turning to look at Munro. “Reverend Taylor doesn’t see visitors without an appointment, sir.”

Munro halted. “Even if they’ve come all the way from Scotland?”

Jaw clenched, Pontefract turned and looked at Munro as if he were a disobedient underling. “No, sir. I’m afraid not. It’s always best to make an appointment.”

“I’ll make one for the morrow in that case.”

Pontefract rolled his eyes. “You’ll have to speak to his secretary about that, sir. Now, if you’ll follow me.”

Miffed, Munro trailed behind into what was obviously the assembly hall, its walls lined with wooden plaques listing the boys who’d matriculated in past years.

“You’ll know the time frame, sir.”

Munro walked the length of the cavernous hall, his bootsteps echoing off the high walls, until he finally found what he sought.

Pendray, Morgan.

It was maudlin to get emotional, yet he had to swallow the lump in his throat. The gold letters chiseled into oak shone like a beacon. The years at the school had helped form his father’s character and thus his own. Shrewsbury was no longer just historical trivia. It was real.

Pontefract cleared his throat. “Will you be wanting to see the secretary now, sir?”

Munro saw no point in returning to converse with a stuck-up academic who had no interest in the achievements of a boy who’d left the school long ago. “Nay, laddie,” he replied with a smile. “I doot the Reverend Taylor wants to hear about the exploits of the Earl of Glenheath.”

A brief spark in the boy’s eyes indicated he’d heard the name, and was keen to know more, but Munro hadn’t made the effort to come to the school to chat with a prefect. He’d fulfilled his mission. “If ye’ll lead the way to the exit.”

The same two student porters held the door as he walked out and down the steps. He filled his lungs, recognizing at last exactly why he’d wanted to come to Shrewsbury. Sarah had known he needed to see an important part of his history for himself, just as she had to come to terms with her past.

Intensely meaningful as his experience at the school had been, he was glad he’d come alone. He intended to tell Sarah about it, but doubted he’d share the deeper emotions the visit had engendered. They were for him alone.

It gave him a new understanding of her desire to process the changes in her life for herself.

Whistling, he returned to The Lion in time to enjoy a hearty Ploughman’s Lunch and a thirst-quenching tankard of dark ale.

Friday brought a steady stream of customers to Sarah’s shop. The prospect of running her own successful business was gratifying, but meant the enterprise would be that much harder to leave.

She began to recognize personal characteristics she’d possibly inherited from Henry Marten. Was it a constant desire for something better, something more that had led him to regicide? She’d learned her mother was patient, steadfast, loyal, and wise, but Mary was a follower, not a person who blazed a trail.

Sarah could be considered a standard-bearer for women who wanted to be independent of men. She had the gumption, the expertise and the drive to succeed in apothecary. She’d more or less run the shop before, without much help from Reginald. However, life without Munro would be colorless, and filled with regret.

Giles proved once again to be a quick study, but he was also personable with customers, a skill he’d probably acquired in his father’s shop. She soon felt comfortable allowing him to ascertain clients’ requirements if she had to spend a few minutes in the workroom. This advantage was another double-edged sword. It would be impossible to leave Birmingham without securing a promising future for the boy.

By late afternoon, trade had dwindled. A quick glance along the deserted street confirmed the probability it was pointless to remain open. Sarah donned her shawl. “I’m off to the cemetery,” she told Giles, not completely sure why she was drawn to visit her mother’s grave.

“I’ll escort you,” he replied.

“No need.”

“It’s my duty. Mr. Pendray would expect it of me.”

Resigned to the truth of his statement, she waited while he retrieved his new cape.

After locking the door, she paused, holding up the key. “When we return, remind me to give you the spare.”

If she’d had any misgivings about the decision, his broad grin sent them packing. “I’m honored, Mrs. North.”

Warmth blossomed in her heart. Motherhood wasn’t so difficult after all. Mayhap, she should allow Giles to address her by her given name.

She looked towards St. Martin’s. Reverend Grove waved from the steps. She’d trusted the cleric with too much information about herself, and look where that had led. She wouldn’t have become aware of her father’s death, except eventually through local gossip. But then she wouldn’t have learned more about her parents, and herself. There’d have been no inconvenient coach journey to Chepstow. No Munro.

“Why is life so complicated?” she mused aloud, not expecting an answer as they entered the cemetery.

“Is it?” Giles replied.

It was an answer one might expect from a child, but it served to underline that she was making matters more complicated than they needed to be. She had to decide what she truly desired, and keep her eyes on the prize.

It took only a few minutes standing beside her mother’s grave for her to be absolutely sure Munro was the prize she wanted.