The days went by. The guests had left, and only Henry and Alfred kept the Wotton’s company. Ironically, under different circumstances, there might have been some success where the matchmaking was concerned. Lady Wotton had invited a young heiress whose company Henry had found delightfully distracting. Trudy Grave-Jennings was rich through her English father and had a noble background through her German mother, and she had been an intelligent conversationalist on a few surprising topics, among them Oscar Wilde. He had been under the impression that he knew her from somewhere. But with Aoife being the centre of his thoughts he let the opportunity go by.

  Aoife had also been an insightful partner and an excellent listener. Henry had told her about his life: He expected to inherit his father’s title, he would be the Earl of Ashwood some day, and he would have to make sure that the family line continued. Aoife laughed at him when he described his worries.

  “You poor man!“, she said. “You have to marry! And father a son! What an inhumane fate! Unbearable!“

  He had laughed, too.

  Then she had become serious. “Look at you. There is no problem. Just look at you! It does not matter whom you marry. You can always do what you want.“

  “But what if I don’t want that“, he answered. It came to him right there. This was not what he wanted.

  Not every talk satisfied him. Once he asked what she would do if she became pregnant, and again she had laughed. “Oh, you ask this question now, after having had me in your bed for more than a week! Don’t worry, I’m not going to get pregnant. I know when that could happen, and I will not let anything happen on those days.“

  He had allowed himself to be educated on how things worked and learned more details from her past. Madame Elise had been thorough in her education. Thanks to her, Aoife had become the confident partner in lovemaking he had come to appreciate so much. For a young woman of nineteen, she knew almost too many things.

  “She has taught me so that I would be able to find a good man if I wanted to. It had worked for her, so why not for me?” Aoife spoke as if it was the most simple thing in the world. “But this is not my way, I think. Or not right now. I want to return to Australia. I miss the coast and the wind and the night sky.“

  After such talks, Henry was glad to have time to think, even though thinking always had him to tangled up in his imaginings. In the next night, he pulled her in front of his full length mirror and asked her what she saw.

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  She looked at his face in the mirror and asked back, “Henry Routledge, what is the matter? You are the man who pleases me at night, as I hope I can please you.“

  “So you like coming to me?“

  “I would not be here if I did not like it. Henry, is everything alright?“

  He had no answer. Was everything alright? Her answer was not what he had wished for. He looked at her image in the mirror, she caught the light while he was behind her, in the shadow. He was touching her, he could smell her, but the image in the mirror seemed to render her ultimately out of reach. He did not know what to say, and she did not understand him. What was there not to understand?! He felt his helplessness turning into anger. He would make her understand if he had to. What had she done to him?

  She seemed to sense his tension, for she turned around, put her hand on his chest and said, “I’m leaving you now. Let me know if you want me to come back tomorrow. Good night.“

  Before he could think of a reply, she had left. He suffered like a dog all through the night and used the first opportunity he got when they met in a quiet corridor to ask her forgiveness and beg her to come to him again that night.

  After that he avoided speaking to her. Instead, he tried to make up for the night they had lost until they were both exhausted.

  In the grey light of the morning Porter stood next to the bed like a shadow. Henry did not understand what he said, but Aoife sat up and threw on the pieces of clothing Porter was handing to her. Not five minutes after Porter and Aoife had left, another servant entered to light the fire.

  The last night in Wotton House came and went by. Henry tried to hide his helplessness and despair. Aoife smiled at him, but she, too, seemed tense and sad and distracted when they said good bye. He found nothing to say. He let her go, from his bed, his room, his life.

  After breakfast he got ready to leave. Lord Henry Routledge stood in front of his mirror for the last time. Thirty-three years old, the only son of the Earl of Ashwood, hopelessly in love with a housemaid. He scrutinized himself. Medium height, quite attractive in a boyish fashion still. An aunt had said once that he would always be a boy. Elegant and well dressed. Made miserable by a servant. At this moment, he would have told her what he felt. What their nights together had done to him. Maybe he even loved her. He closed his eyes and wished her to come in, so much so that he actually thought she was there, but when he opened his eyes there was just Porter.

  “The car is ready, sir. We can leave any time.“

  Henry nodded and they went downstairs. At the door he said good bye to his host and hostess. He thanked them for the pleasant stay. Alfred’s parents told him that he must come back soon. Lady Wotton gave him back the book he had lent her on the first evening. They exchanged further pleasantries until Porter brought the motor around. Henry got in and Wotton House and everybody in it sank into the Norfolk Hills like a dream.