Henry spent the following weeks in London. He went to the Club, dined with friends, received guests at his house in Belgrave Square. Once he went to visit his parents in Ashwood Hall. He frequented the theatre and the opera. It did not help. Beneath the surface of his social life he found nothing but an acute sense of emptiness and loss. At night, he lay awake. He was too clever to take to drinking; that would only have been temporary relief.

  It took him four weeks to admit to himself that he wanted Aoife by his side. Then he alternated between imagining the possibilities of a life with her and dismissing them again. He could offer her a position in his household, or his mother could take her up, and they could continue from where they had left off – but he did not fool himself: Aoife would never do that. He could install her in a flat somewhere and she would wait for him always, they would have their own private world – but again, she would never agree to that. He could go with her to Australia, or to America, away from England, and live with her as Mr and Mrs Routledge – but he could never do that to his parents. Or he could chance it all and marry her – but that would cause the perfect scandal, ridicule the Ashwoods forever, they would have social hell and probably would have to leave England anyway. Still, he knew that he wanted her.

  It was hopeless. He tried to erase her memory with other women. He flirted at every social gathering and felt bored the whole time. He frequented prostitutes, always picking women who shared some of Aoife’s features, and he was bored. It was her he wanted.

  Three months after he had left Wotton House, he was so disgusted with himself that there seemed to be only one way out. He had to see her again.

  “Porter, do you know whether Miss O’Hare is still in Lady Wotton’s service?“

  “I have no reason to believe that she is not, sir.“

  “I would like to invite her to Margate, for a few days. I – you know – well, it is just that I cannot do it officially, if you see what I mean.“

  Porter hesitated for a second before replying, “I see, sir.“

  Henry took a deep breath. This was the most difficult part of the plan he had devised. “Would it be possible, do you think, for you to contact Miss O’Hare and suggest my proposition to her?“

  Porter’s face did not betray any feelings, but he took some moments to think about Henry’s request. Henry counted the seconds, they seemed like hours, and he was on the brink of calling it all off when his valet said, “I can relate your suggestion to Miss O’Hare and ask her whether she can request a few days leave from Lady Wotton. Miss O'Hare will surely be able to to make a suitable excuse. What date do you have in mind, sir?“

  “In two weeks, or in three. Depending on Miss O’Hare’s preference.“

  Again Porter did not betray what he thought. Instead, he said, “Shall I, as soon as Miss O’Hare has replied, book a room at the Metropol? After consulting with you again?“

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Henry nodded. “And make the booking under the name of Crawford.“ He hated this, it was utterly humiliating, but he saw no other way.

  A few days later Porter informed him that Aoife had been able to get a week’s leave and that he had booked the rooms at the Metropol Hotel. Henry was torn between relief and loathing. He could hardly wait to see her again, but the amount of disguise and deceit it required was disgusting and a brutal reminder of the impossibility of the affair. In the end, he succumbed to joy. She had agreed to meet him.

  At Liverpool Street Station, half of London seemed to be running around him. It was, fortunately, not his half, Henry thought when he was waiting with a bouquet of flowers at the gate, far too early. He was nervous. What if she did not come? What if somebody recognized her, or him? It was highly improbable, which also applied to Margate, which was fashionable mostly with the middle classes. What if they missed each other? What if she had missed her train? Endless questions raced through his head until her train finally arrived at the platform.

  When the smoke had lifted, the passengers were streaming towards the gate. And there she was, a gentleman was carrying her bag. She acknowledged Henry with a nod, thanked the gentleman, who bowed and smiled, and she came towards him. Henry swallowed. She took his breath away. Whatever he had remembered or imagined was surpassed by the reality of her. Her dress was grey, her coat black, and only a touch out of fashion. These dated back to Madame Daylesford, no doubt, as did the bag. She moved with casual ease, obviously used to a city crowd, her face was radiating with joy, her eyes were bright. He loved her.

  He did not dare to embrace her. He took her hand and kissed it. “It is wonderful to see you. It is... “, he stammered.

  “I’m happy to see you, too, Henry“, she said.

  Her radiant face, turned up towards his, prompted him to dare to kiss her. “You are so beautiful. You have no idea how beautiful you are“, he whispered.

  “Don’t be so sure about that, Mr Routledge“, she said teasingly. Then she accepted the bouquet, took his arm, and it was as if the crowd parted to let them through as they walked to the exit.

  When Porter saw them coming, he opened the car and took her bag. “Madam“, he said, holding the door for her. Then he stowed the bag away and they drove off.

  Henry could not take his eyes off Aoife, who visibly enjoyed the little adventure. As if she had read his thoughts, she said, “Henry, you have no idea how boring the last couple of weeks have been! No guests, just Norfolk. Thank you so much for inviting me.“ And before he could reply, she turned from him, leaned forward and put her hand on Porter’s arm. “And it’s so good to see you again, too, Aidan.“

  Henry was shocked. ‘Aidan’ and the open display of familiarity towards his valet were unexpected and completely inappropriate. Porter saved the situation by replying politely, “Thank you very much, madam.“

  Henry saw Aoife’s face turn red when she withdrew her hand from Porter’s arm as if she had burned her fingers. “I see“, she murmured. She thought for a minute, biting her lip. Then she turned to Henry. “So you and I are…?“

  “Mr and Mrs Crawford“, he said. “If you don’t object?“

  “No, Mr Crawford. I just had not been thinking it through. I am sorry.” She paused. He smiled. She spoke again, “I’m afraid, Mrs Crawford’s dresses are not quite appropriate.“

  “Don’t worry about that,“ he said, taking her hand. He found her concern all the more endearing. He wanted to see her smile again. Aoife shook off the moment quickly enough.

  “Tell me how you’ve been”, she said. “Or better yet, tell me what we are going to do in Margate. What kind of a place is this?“