Aldeburgh was a small fishing village on the East Anglian coast. There were but two or three guest houses, all of them aimed at the lower middle classes. It was a void, as far as Henry could see. Aoife had made a smart choice. A pregnant woman with limited means could very well stay here for a while, under some pretence. She could easily wait out the pregnancy, and then move on. She must have told a story about a seafaring husband or the like. If she had sold the jewellery he had seen on her, or the dresses he had given her, a place like Aldeburgh was the best choice she could have made. They had looked for her in Norwich and Ipswich and even in London, but he would never have looked in Aldeburgh.

  They arrived late in the afternoon. The address was easy to find; Aldeburgh had but three rows of houses, all lined up along the wide and empty beach. Porter stopped the car, according to Henry’s directions, at one of the last houses facing the beach, a red brick building, two storeys high. Henry hastened to the door. A sign informed him that guests were welcome. The steps to the entrance were weathered and uneven. He had never been to such a place before. He rang the bell, an old woman opened the door, and when he inquired about Aoife, she pointed up the dark stairway inside. He forgot everything else, calling out Aoife’s name as he began to run up the steps.

  He was halfway up when a door was opened at the top and Aoife stood in the hallway, Henry froze. The light from the room behind her set her hair aflame. She stared at him as if he was a ghost.

  “Aoife“, he called, running up towards her, reaching out for her already, reaching for her hand, in his mind already holding her in his arms once more, when suddenly he lost his footing on the uneven steps, instinctively gripped her hand and slipped. He fell on his knees and heard her cry out. He felt her fly past him, and before he could turn, he heard the landlady cry out and also Porter, and he heard several crashes. Then there was silence, and then Porter was saying Aoife’s name, over and over again.

  Henry got to his feet and looked down. Aoife was lying at the bottom of the stairs, strangely contorted and unmoving. Porter was trying to wake her up, the landlady had her hands pressed to her mouth. Henry had the weird sensation that this was a painting he was looking at.

  “She lives“, Porter said, which also brought Henry back to his senses. “Go get a doctor”, his valet ordered the landlady. She ran out into the street. Porter lifted Aoife’s still motionless body into his arms and carried her upstairs, passing Henry in the hallway.

  His hands were bloody when he had put her down on the bed.

  “The child“, Henry whispered. “She is losing the child.“

  He moved closer to the bed, where Porter was trying to stop the bleeding from the wound on her temple. She opened her eyes.

  “Are you in pain?“, Porter asked.

  “What happened?“, she replied, her eyes unsteady.

  “You took a fall. Are you in pain?“

  “No – yes, my head...“

  “You’ll be fine. Keep calm. The doctor is coming...“

  Henry had moved closer to the bed, and she became aware of him. He was still lost for words. “Aoife“, he said hoarsely. “I am so sorry. I’ve been looking for you all over. I did not want...“

  She looked at him as if she was trying to remember him. “Henry... But everything is fine, really...“

  Then she closed her eyes. Henry sank to his knees by the bed and covered his face with his hands.

  “My legs,” she whispered suddenly, and now there was panic in her voice. “I cannot feel my legs. I cannot move...“ Porter told her again that the doctor was on his way, and Henry just knelt in silence.

  This is how the doctor found them. The man was in his fifties, the landlady poked her head through the door behind him as well. Porter was the first to speak. “She is bleeding excessively. She also cannot feel her legs. She says she does not feel any pain. I fear that...“

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  The doctor cut him off and told them to leave the room. He asked for hot water to be brought up. Henry followed Porter downstairs. They did not look at one another. Porter eventually carried the boiling water upstairs and it took a while until he came back. He went straight to the window and looked out into the darkness.

  An hour went by until the doctor reappeared. He looked at them, trying to decide whom to address. In the end, he just said, “She has lost the child, a boy it was. I cannot make the bleeding stop. She does not feel it, though, because her back is broken.“

  Henry was still processing the information about the lost baby boy and Aoife’s broken back, when Porter asked, “How long will it be?“

  Everything seemed to come to him as if through a thick fog. How long? How long?

  The doctor shrugged. “A few hours at most. I am very sorry.”

  Suddenly Henry realised what he had to do. He had come here to find the woman he loved, and he had wanted to take her with him and make her his own. He could still do that. He turned to the landlady and ordered her to find a priest. Then he walked from the room and up the stairs. The others followed him.

  Aoife lay on the bed, covered in blankets, she was very pale, her breathing was flat. There was a bundle of bloody sheets by the door, and another bundle on the chest of drawers next to it. Henry lifted the corner of the sheet and saw that it was the child. It was bloody also, but human, it had hands, a mouth, dark hair, a tiny nose. A dead little boy, his life aborted through his actions. He could at least do right by his mother. He turned to the bed. His lover, his angel. There was one thing left that he could do for her.

  When the priest arrived, the room began to feel very crowded. Henry straightened his shoulders and said, “I want you to marry this woman and myself.“

  Silence followed his words. He continued, “My man Porter and the doctor will act as witnesses. I came here to marry this woman, and this is what I am going to do. Sir, if you please.“

  The priest was a young man. An older man might have objected, but he did not. He just looked around, and then he began to stammer out the wedding rites. He said that marriage was an image of the love God bore for his children, a mystery not to be taken on lightly or when in doubt. He talked about honouring one’s partner, and holding on in good days and bad. The doctor looked embarrassed, the landlady shocked, and Porter was standing with his back to the window, exhibiting no emotion at all.

  The priest stumbled again when he realised he did not know the names of the people he was about to marry. “Do you...“ He broke off, flustered, looking at Henry.

  Henry said, ?Henry Routledge. And the lady is Aoife O’Hare.“

  The priest asked whether he intended to love her, to cherish her, to be true to her always, until death did them part. Henry said, “I do.“

  Then the priest turned to Aoife, who had kept her eyes closed the whole time. He asked her the same question. Would she take Henry Routledge to be her lawful wedded husband? And Aoife whispered, it was but a whisper, but it was clear for everyone to hear, “No, I do not.” Then she opened her eyes, again looking past Henry, or through him, as she had done before. “No.”

  “Aoife“, Henry whispered. “Aoife, I love you!“

  But she just closed her eyes again.

  The doctor, after a few seconds, had the good sense to usher everybody out of the room. Henry, as if following an unwritten protocol, accompanied the priest and the doctor downstairs. The men expressed their sympathies. Henry paid them, they thanked him, they left. He returned up the stairs again to Aoife’s room. Porter was still standing with his back to the window, his hands behind his back, like a sentinel.

  Henry knelt down by the bed once more, taking Aoife’s cold hand in his. They waited.

  When her head fell to the side, her mouth open, her eyes broken, Porter stepped forward, straightened her head, closing her eyes and mouth. Then he left the room. Henry heard the entrance door close. He remained as he was, unable to comprehend what had happened, except that he had lost everything at the very moment that he had found it.

  In the grey morning light, Porter brought him a cup of tea. “Sir, there is nothing you can do here. You ought to go back to London. I will take care of everything.“

  Henry knew immediately that the man was right. Why cause further excitement? He left a large sum of money with his valet – too much for a simple burial for the woman and the child, even if it was the woman who had refused to marry the Earl of Ashwood. He realised, too, that Aoife’s refusal had saved him from a lot of explanations and legal difficulties. But it was enough money, hopefully, to ensure that the witnesses did not feel the need to talk about last night’s proceedings. Porter would know how to handle these things.

  He left the house half an hour later and drove away from the village before it woke up to another day.