When they had a son, Henry felt that he could trust his fate once more. He did not have to work hard to be a good husband to Trudy. She was a loving mother, and a sensible partner. She was lively, practical and intelligent. She valued her own space as much as she respected his. Her parents’ marriage had been unhappy; her mother had fled with her to Germany at one point. Henry did not press her on the subject. She had told him that marriage scared her, and Henry had told her that he felt the same. Since then, there had not been a day that he had not been grateful to her for having accepted him. He tried to prove to her that her decision to accept him had been right.

  There was a letter for him in the mail one morning. He turned it around in his hands several times and put it aside.

  “What is it?“, his wife asked from across the breakfast table. Henry answered dismissively, “From an old friend. From a long time ago. We’ve lost sight of each other many years ago. Before our time.“

  “What can he want?“

  “I have no idea.“ Henry sighed. “I really cannot imagine.“ He glanced at the envelope. The sender was Aidan Porter; the letter had come from Australia.

  Henry wondered whether he wanted to read the letter at all. He had carried it into his study. This was the place he retired to when he did not wish to be disturbed. Trudy knew this and respected it. The letter practically glared at him from the desk whenever he turned from the window to look at it.

  Aidan Porter was a sore point on his conscience. Having his servant of twenty years leave him so suddenly had been a bitter blow – and then again, he could understand it, for what had gone down had been cruel on everyone.

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  When Henry, a few days before he had married Trudy, had gone to Aldeburgh to find Aoife’s grave, he had discovered that there was none. Then he had been forced to finally admit the thought, the suspicion that had haunted him for a long time. He finally had to allow certain images to come to the surface when he thought of Aoife – and all of these images involved Porter. Aoife’s hand on his arm on the drive to Margate. Aoife and Porter in the yard at Wotton House, laughing and sharing a smoke. Lady Wotton suspecting Porter of being the father of Aoife’s child. Porter coming to his room to save Aoife from being discovered in his bed. Aoife looking past him so eerily on that fatal night in Aldeburgh.

  And then his imagination forced other things upon him. He could not escape from them. He saw Porter, whom he had only ever seen as the loyal valet, with different eyes. True, he had looked his age, but he had also been an impressive man, tall, with a face that could be described as well cut and handsome. Dark eyes, elegant hands. Perfect manners coupled with undeniable intelligence – he had been an attractive man in his own right. Attractive, no doubt, to a woman.

  Henry had talked to the undertaker in Aldeburgh about the missing grave, and he had learned that the bodies had been embalmed according to Porter’s instructions and picked up by an undertaker from London. That was all he knew. To look in London for a grave seemed pointless. The letter might contain an explanation – or it contained accusations not unlike the ones Henry held against himself. None of that made for a desirable read.

  On the other hand, the letter might contain something else entirely. Questions maybe, or a request. Maybe Porter had run into difficulties, or he needed money, although this seemed hard to believe. Henry shook his head when he picked it up again. Porter had been someone to foresee and avoid difficulties, someone who solved problems instead of succumbing to them. He had been a lot like Aoife in that respect. It had taken his own, Henry’s, mindless, clumsy selfishness to provoke an emotional reaction from the man at all. He had been a better man than Henry the whole time.

  In the end he sat down and tore the letter open.