Sarah rose at dawn. It was at least an hour’s walk to the school. Shivering in the early morning chill, she struggled to strike a spark to get the kindling going in the upstairs hearth.

“Good thing you set the fire before you left,” her mother said, coming to warm her backside by the fledgling flames.

It was scant praise, but Sarah would take it. She went downstairs and eventually got the wood-stove to light. Bracing herself against an anticipated blast of cold air, she opened the back door and hurried to fill the kettle from the pump in the walled yard.

Reginald had taken care of these manual tasks. The upstairs room was usually warm and the kettle boiling by the time she got out of bed. She’d have to learn to fend for herself, but life would be easier in every other way with her brute of a husband gone. “I don’t suppose Munro Pendray lights his own fires,” she grumbled.

Good grief! Would the Scot haunt her days as well as her nights?

She hauled the kettle upstairs and set it on the hob. “I’ll make oatmeal,” she announced, relieved when there was no grumbling in reply.

The question of what to do with her mother weighed heavily. Training an apprentice and operating the shop would take all her time and energy. Worrying about Mary Ward would be a distraction; distracted apothecaries made mistakes.

Two more souls to feed and clothe. The apprentice was an investment in the future. Her mother could earn her keep by cleaning the shop and the apartment. The prospect of leaving the woman alone with the medicinals made Sarah shudder.

And what would a young apprentice think of Mary Ward?

She shook her head as the kettle boiled. She hadn’t met the lad yet and was getting ahead of herself. “Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,” she muttered, retrieving oatmeal and a pot from the cupboard.

She cringed when Mary cackled, “That was your father’s favorite saying.”

“Not till Thursday,” the landlord informed Munro when he inquired about stagecoaches to Shrewsbury. “Just once a week. Hope thou’s not in a rush.”

“Nay,” he replied. “My father attended the Shrewsbury School in his youth and I thought to pay a visit there on my way to Flintshire.”

The man’s eyes widened. “Strict discipline, I heard tell.”

“Calvinist,” he confirmed.

“Thy father must be gentry then, if his family could afford the fees,” the publican remarked.

Munro might have taken the time to explain that his Welsh great-grandmother had paid the fees, but he was reluctant to divulge too much of his background. Not that he knew a lot. His father was always tight-lipped about the Welsh branch of the family. He shrugged off the question and asked, “I can keep my room here until Thursday?”

“Thou’s welcome.”

“I have laundry.”

“O’ course. The morrow’s Mrs. Richards’ washing day, and I’ll give thee the name of an ostler in Shrewsbury who’ll gladly lend thee a horse for a good price. No coaches to North Wales.”

He’d suspected such would be the case and thanked the landlord for his thoughtfulness, then went to the empty dining room.

The scullery lad who’d removed his boots was having trouble generating a spark to light a fire in the hearth. Judging by the anxious glances over his shoulder, the boy feared his master’s ire if he didn’t get the fire going.

Munro hunkered down beside him, took the flint and soon had the kindling crackling. “Gently does it,” he explained, demonstrating again. “Dinna strike too hard.”

“My thanks, sir,” the lad replied. “I’m new at this.”

Munro stood. “Ye’re welcome. One good deed deserves another. What’s yer name?”

The boy came to his feet, took hold of the poker and nudged the logs closer to the struggling flames. “Luke. Art thou a Puritan, sir?”

His mode of speech was reminiscent of Mary Ward and he could readily believe she was a staunch Puritan. But Sarah? “My father was brought up Calvinist, and served in the Parliamentary army,” he answered, “but my mother’s a Royalist. So there ye have it. Why do ye ask?”

“There’s mostly Puritans here in Birmingham. But thou art from foreign climes. My mother was a Puritan,” Luke explained. “God rest her soul. She used to say the same thing thou just said about good deeds.”

Munro fished out a penny and passed it into the boy’s hand. “She was right, and I’ll wager she also told ye to be frugal with coin.”

Luke tucked the money in his pocket and grinned in reply. “For a rainy day.”

Munro tousled the boy’s blonde curls, fearing there’d be many rainy days in Luke’s life. “Aye.”

He found a seat and lingered over the smoked ham and bread, toying with the idea of going back to bed. However, there was nothing to do in his room except brood on Sarah’s rejection. The brief encounter with Luke underscored how fortunate he was to have loving parents and a secure home.

Fresh air was what he needed. A Sunday morning walk would do him good. He sought out Richards. “Can ye direct me to St. Martin’s?” he asked.

Satisfied he understood the general direction, he retrieved his cloak and hat from his room. The late September air carried a hint of autumn chill. Outside, he inhaled deeply and set off for Edgbaston Street, avoiding pondering the reasons he’d chosen the church close to Sarah’s shop.

After a five minute walk, he found himself outside North’s Apothecary. The dark green wood of the exterior looked pleasing. The square panes of bullseye glass rendered the window impossible to see through, and the CLOSED sign hanging in the shaded door wasn’t a surprise. It was Sunday after all.

Usually a man of action, he dithered. The street was full of people, most of them probably heading for St. Martin’s. Hammering on the door would attract attention, and there was no guarantee Sarah would open for him.

Jaw clenched, he continued his walk towards the church.

Sarah fussed with the ribbons of her bonnet. “This is a disaster,” she complained. “The bow simply doesn’t look right and my hair is sticking out all over the place.”

“Sit,” her mother ordered, pointing to the bed.

Seething with frustration, Sarah perched on the edge of the bed where she’d hardly slept at all, wondering why she was allowing her mother to tinker with the recalcitrant hat.

“There, take a look.”

Expecting to have to wrestle with the bow once more, Sarah was pleasantly surprised by the elegant woman who stared back from the looking glass. She was about to offer her thanks when they heard a loud rapping on the door of the shop. “The sign says we’re closed on Sundays,” she said. “Ignore it. They’ll go away.”

Whoever it was knocked again, more insistently.

“They’re going to shatter the glass,” she fumed.

“Mayhap it’s that Pendray fellow,” her mother said.

Hope warred with uncertainty in Sarah’s breast. “I don’t intend to see him again,” she murmured.

Mary Ward gaped. “Why-ever not? Such a nice young man. Handsome too.”

The annoying knocking came again. Seizing the chance to avoid answering her mother, Sarah slid the rolled indenture into her pocket and grabbed the key. “I’ll see to it and set off now.”

She hurried downstairs and pulled open the shade covering the door glass, ready to give her unwelcome visitor a piece of her mind.

She gripped the doorknob when she set eyes on Battersby’s driver, the private carriage parked behind him on the street.

“The headmaster sent me to fetch you,” the scowling man shouted. “Feared I’d be obliged to bang the door down.”

“I’m sorry,” she babbled. “We’re closed on Sundays…and I thought…well…never mind…I’ll just…can you wait five minutes? I wasn’t expecting…”

He rolled his eyes. “Best get a move on. Mr. Battersby don’t like to be kept waiting.”

It wasn’t yet nine o’clock. She was tempted to protest, but he cocked his head in the direction of the carriage. “You can’t trust the urchins in this neck o’ the woods.”

Sarah had always found the precincts around St. Martin’s a safe place to do business, the urchins friendly and from solid merchant families, but the driver would only get more agitated if she argued. She turned the key in the lock, stepped out into the street and locked up behind her.

With one foot on the step of the carriage, she glanced towards St. Martin’s, just for luck. A tall, broad-shouldered man had paused, looking up at the spire. She was certain it was Munro. He’d obviously walked past the shop without knocking. An irrational sense of disappointment settled in her heart.