“It’s not a history degree, but a master’s program in English studies,” I explained. “Eighteenth century and Romantic studies. The coursework includes various antiquated texts and works of literature, as well as research methods.” I felt the degree in English studies would bridge my interest in history, literature and research. “I’ll submit my dissertation at the end of the program,” I added, though my voice shook at the word dissertation. Gaynor raised her eyebrows as I explained, “The lost apothecary—her shop, her register, the obscure ingredients she used—I’m hoping to make these the subject of my research. An academic, preservationist approach to sharing what I’ve found.”

“My God, you sound like a scholar already.” She grinned, then added, “I think it’s absolutely brilliant. And you won’t be so far at all! We should plan a few weekend getaways. Maybe hop over to Paris on the train?”

My stomach flipped at the thought of it. “Of course. The program starts after the first of the year, so we’ve got plenty of time to plan a few ideas.”

Though I could hardly wait to get started, in truth it was probably best the program didn’t start for another six months. I had some difficult conversations ahead of me—my parents and James, to start—and I’d need to train my replacement at the family business; secure student housing at Cambridge; and complete the paperwork for a marital separation, which I’d initiated online last night...

As if reading my thoughts, Gaynor wrung her hands together and asked in a hesitant voice, “It’s really none of my business, but does your husband know yet?”

“He knows we need to be apart for a time, but he doesn’t know I plan to return to the UK while we sort out our lives. I’m calling him tonight to tell him that I’ve applied.”

I also intended to call my parents and tell them, finally, the truth about what James had done. Whereas a few days ago, I’d meant to protect them from the news, now I realized how unreasonable that was. Gaynor and Rose had reminded me of the importance of surrounding myself with people who supported and encouraged me and my desires. This encouragement had been missing for far too long, and I was ready to reclaim it.

Gaynor resumed placing books on the shelf, looking over at me as she did so. “And the program, how long is it?” she asked.

“Nine months.”

Nine months, the same amount of time I had so desperately wished to carry a baby. I smiled, the irony not lost on me. A child might not have been in my immediate future, but something else—a long-lost dream—had taken its place.