His light was still on when Aoife opened the door and entered his room. She stopped in the centre of the room, waiting. Henry looked at her, trying to control his breathing. She was in a white shift, simple, with modest cotton lace, and above it an oversized cardigan. This old house had no heating, and the nights were still cold. She stood unmoving, calm, not shy or unsure at all. He rose from the armchair, walked towards her and held out his glass of wine. She drank without taking her eyes off him. He took the empty glass from her, put it on the table and stood close to her. She did not flinch when he reached out to touch her hair. Then he pushed the cardigan from her shoulders. He hesitated before he touched her body through the cotton fabric, but once he felt her warm flesh under his hands, there was no turning back.

  Henry’s head was still spinning. She had come to his room, he had had her – and then she had had him. This had been unexpected. He had also not expected that she would go to sleep in his arms, but here she was, her mouth a little open, utterly defenseless. And in a way it seemed entirely right. Everything that had happened since he had first seen her seemed logical. Even the way she had allowed him to take his pleasure and only later had touched him, had quite expertly aroused his desire again, and had proceeded to take her own pleasure with him seemed logical. “Tomorrow“, she had sighed, out of breath, before going to sleep beside him, “tomorrow I’ll show you what a woman wants.“

  He had observed her in her moment of ecstasy, never having wasted a thought on what his partners might be experiencing. Oh, she knew what she wanted, what she did, and where she had to touch him – she clearly was a woman of some experience. She had not acted like a whore, though. She had acted like – like his equal, really. She had pursued her pleasure like he had pursued his. And it had been her pleasure that had pleased him the most. It still did. He wrapped his arm around her, enjoying the warm confusion the night had left him with and went to sleep.

  In the morning, she was gone; his bed was empty. The maid who kindled the fire was somebody else. Henry was almost convinced that it had all been a dream when he discovered a long reddish blonde hair on his pillow. So it had not been a dream! “Tomorrow“, she had said, so today, tonight... He could hardly wait. His head felt light, as if he had been drinking, light and in a sweet fog. What a night! He was still holding the hair in front of his eyes when Porter stood beside his bed. “Sir, good morning.“

  Henry returned to reality with an unwelcome snap. Porter went on calmly. “So as not to cause a disturbance, sir, and since Miss O’Hare is sharing with the first maid, there is an arrangement which you ought to be aware of.“

  Henry looked at his valet in confusion. “Miss O'Hare has spent the night in another room, sir. - I brushed up your riding suit. Are you going to need it again today?“

  Riding suit? Arrangement? Share? “Riding suit? - No, I don’t think so. I dont think so.“ Henry blinked, still confused. Arrangement? He had understood that Porter knew and that Aoife somehow had to explain her nightly absence from her usual sleeping quarters. This could only be to his advantage, even though it was nothing he had considered. If that had been taken care of, fine. Aoife seemed to be able to look after herself, indeed. Again he felt the reminiscence of her touch, her movements, his hands on her body, her hands on his. He wished Porter would arrange his clothes elsewhere, would be his discreet self in some other room. “Porter, thank you, I can manage.“ The valet bowed and left.

  Henry had a hard time not to search the whole house for her. He turned towards every creaking door because it could have been her coming in. He struggled to partake in normal conversations, and when he saw her at last clearing the buffet his hands were shaking. Lady Wotton asked promptly whether he was alright. He said that he had slept fine, but he had had a dream that still lingered on his mind. Aoife left the room. Henry pulled himself together. Alfred patted his shoulder. “Old boy, I know what you need“, he said, and Henry raised his hand, waving him off. His friend’s grin told Henry that he had found release elsewhere, and Henry could not think ill of him any longer. The effect seemed to be different, though. Alfred seemed in no way confused. His friend was relaxed and appeared to look forward to the arrival of the first guests, whereas Henry was not able to muster up the smallest bit of interest.

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  He had coffee brought into the library around eleven, and he could hardly believe his luck when Aoife entered with the tray. He jumped up and pulled her close, his hands ran down her back, he pressed her body against his and tried to kiss her, but she pushed him away. For a moment they stood like this, and he became aware of the image in the mirror above the fireplace: the master and the maid, the pose said it all. He was pursuing her, encroaching upon her, their bodies were joined from the hips downward, but her arms held him at bay and her back was arched backwards. The image was exciting, the hands digging into the fabric of her dress, the curve of her body, but it was also sobering. He let go of her. She adjusted her dress. “I’ll come to you tonight, but until then...“ - He nodded, ashamed of himself. She left. He cursed.

  Finally, it was night, and the waiting was over. He did not lose any time. Having spent the whole day imagining what he wanted to do, now it had to happen. She should forget the world in his arms. He wanted to please her like no-one ever had pleased her before. He wanted to, and like before, she let him, and only later she took his hand and gently led it across her body to where she really wanted to be touched. Then she let him explore, and her surrendering to his touch, moaning and writhing, drove him out of his mind.

  This time he was awake when she slid out of his arms before dawn. “Where are you going? Porter told me about an arrangement of sorts. I didn’t understand. I want you to stay!“

  “I cannot stay. And I don’t want anybody to know of this. You don’t want it, either. This is fun. We don’t want gossip.“

  She sounded sensible and calm. Henry was not having it. He reached for her hand and pulled her back towards the bed, she had to struggle to keep upright. “But I want you here. What kind of arrangement is this anyway?”

  Aoife put her free hand on his chest, still trying to get away. “I’m sharing quarters with Maggie, the first maid, and she, and I must ask you to keep quiet about this, she has taken up with Fenton, the under butler. The two of them have gotten used to me sleeping elsewhere, which was not a problem when there were no guests. We always had to be careful, you would not believe what is going on in this place at night. I really have to go now.“

  He let go of her hand. “Then go – if you really have to be sensible.“

  “I do. And so do you. No more weird behaviour when we meet, please.“

  He watched her putting on her shift and the cardigan, shivering in the cold. He sighed. “No. I’ll behave. I promise.“

  “That is good. Save it up for later.“ Then she was gone.

  He succeeded in distracting himself better during the days. The house was filling up, he did not have so much time to think. He still watched out for her, and when he saw her, desire threatened to overwhelm him every time. There was even a moment where he felt jealous, when he looked out of a window and saw a group of servants standing in the yard near the kitchen door, drinking tea and smoking. Aoife was standing next to Porter, the group was chatting, somebody said something that made the others laugh, then Porter replied, more laughter, and Aoife put her hand on Porter’s arm without him taking any notice. Then someone seemed to call from the kitchen, for she held her cigarette up and Porter took it with his lips from her fingers as if it was nothing. Henry felt his face glowing. Witnessing the ease with which these two treated each other was strangely painful. He felt excluded, it was unbearable.

  He called Porter, making an unimportant request. Then he said, “What is the arrangement you have been telling me about? The one concerning Miss O’Hare?“

  Porter replied without missing a beat. ?Miss O'Hare spends the nights at my quarters when she does not spend them at her own, sir. We keep the gossip downstairs this way.“

  “At your quarters?!“, Henry burst out without thinking. “You could be her father!“

  Porter did not reply. He looked towards the window instead.

  Henry swallowed. He had been rude. He had no right to insult his valet, on the contrary. But this had been unexpected. Or rather: He had not thought about it at all. The logic behind it was striking. “You don’t happen to share with the under butler, do you?”

  “I do, sir.”

  “I see. This will be all. And, Porter – I thank you.“

  “Sir.“

  A watertight arrangement, indeed. The under butler and the first maid, and on the other hand the valet and the maid, covering for each other, except that the valet was also covering for his master. Plus, Aoife was safe from Simmons; Porter was not a man anyone would want to cross.