Edward Michaels had been the last of a now-extinct breed, I thought, as I left the Spanish churchyard after his interment.

I missed him badly. Always well dressed, polite, and well mannered, he had been quietly confident of his own worth and had always avoided publicity and the bright lights. A true English gentleman of the old kind, I had always thought. And in our own way, we had been lovers. In recent months he had behaved publicly as if I were his partner and we had married weeks before he died. We had done this more for the legal protection it gave me than because we needed to. And now he was gone I was the owner of Pazo Carbello, a large old stone manor house in Galicia that was still in need of work, along with rather extensive fincas, or vineyards. The last two years had seen those extended and revitalized but there was more work to do.

I had met Edward when I first arrived in England from Australia. Having admired his writing greatly, I had written to him, through his publisher, telling him how much I enjoyed his humor and wit and his writing, and that I was coming to England in a few months and would like to buy him lunch. I had received a polite reply inviting me to get in touch closer to my arrival. I had. I was excited at the possible opportunity to meet one of my favorite authors face to face.

He chose the restaurant, of course, the Rio Mino. It was in a village outside London that took me a morning train trip to reach, and it was a long walk to get to the restaurant. He had parked his old Rolls Royce in front of it when he arrived as if it were in his private parking place. I was amused by the car and impressed by him, dressed smartly in a navy pinstripe suit that fit his lean frame perfectly and was obviously expensive. He was polite and the conversation was engrossing and easy. It was quickly obvious that we had common interests and tastes. We laughed honestly at each other’s jokes but were both serious about other things and shared a love of nature. He was over thirty years older than I was.

At the end of lunch he asked me if I was looking for work as he was considering employing a new secretary, or “office person/dogsbody,” as he put it, for a few months. I said “yes.” I had come to England for a short break to see some relatives and immerse myself in some history. I was a writer too, but a not very successful one, and was hoping a holiday, a break away from the routine or working and writing, might provide inspiration for a more successful book. An extended paid holiday in England working for Edward was a golden opportunity for me. He assured me I’d have plenty of free time to write if I took the job, but I’d have taken it anyway.

We met again the next day. The local cab driver picked me up from the village inn where I had spent the night and took me to Edward’s house. It was a beautiful large, two-story, seventeenth-century country house with four big diamond-paned windows at the front surrounded by ivy-coated stone walls. It was the sort of house tourists all want to see when they go to the English countryside and the sort people dream of living in. . . .

Edward was from a well-connected family, his mother had been the niece of an English duke, though the details about his father and early life in his online biographies were vague. I had thought from his writing that he was probably gay but knew he had been married. A possible relationship had not been my motivation in wanting to meet him, and I had been relieved that he had not invited me to his house the first night to discuss the job he was offering.