Chapter One #2
“I’ll see to him,” Atwood said to the stranger. “Come, Jake. Let’s get you cleaned up.” He escorted the victim of John and Frank’s cruel pranks into a back room.
The stranger picked up a table and set it to rights. Behind him, a wisp of smoke from an ember smoldered. A tiny flame leaped up. Osanne hurried to snuff it out lest it turn into a blaze. She quietly righted a stool.
The stranger continued picking up tables and chairs, and even put the candles back where they belonged. What kind of man would help an innkeeper set his room to rights? A kind one, of a certain. Inspired by his kindness, Osanne quietly helped clean up in the darkest corners.
“You aren’t afraid of the spooks then?” he asked with a tinge of humor in his voice.
Perhaps he spoke to Atwood or the injured man, Jake. She glanced about, but the two of them were alone in the room.
“You and I are the only ones who didn’t run.” He paused, looking directly into her eyes. His were both bright and pale at the same time.
Osanne froze. She dared not move. How was it possible that this courageous, handsome man spoke to her?
His lips curved into a gentle, wry smile. “You’re shy, aren’t you?”
Did she imagine this? Could it be a product of her loneliness? Cautiously, she said, “I did not see the need to run.”
He nodded. “Nor I. There’s always a logical explanation. You can’t convince me that spooks and ghouls roam the earth—not even tonight.”
Osanne remained motionless. How long had it been since someone such as he had acknowledged her existence—someone other than the annoying Larkin boys, that is? Still cautious, she asked, “You do not believe anything is unique about All Hallows’ Eve?”
A wry smile touched his mouth. “I’ve seen a great many strange things, but nothing that would convince me the dead walk about.” A chuckle shivered his words and he looked her in the eye again.
’Twasn’t her imagination. This handsome stranger was, in truth, having a conversation with her. “Perhaps you haven’t visited the right places,” she suggested.
He grimaced. “I’ve slept in the middle of battlefields where the dead lay where they fell, and in graveyards where they were buried—yes, even on All Hallows’ Eve—but I never saw or heard anything to give me reason to believe ghosts float around scaring people on this or any other night.
” He picked up another table and set a candle in the middle of it.
Battlefield? He must have fought in the war against Napoleon. Such news had reached even this tiny corner of England.
She moved closer and asked, “What, I pray thee, did you believe when everyone else here thought spooks were about?”
“That a couple of mischievous boys good at sneaking about were taking advantage of shadows and the superstitions of this night.” He looked back at her with those intriguingly pale, bright eyes.
She smiled, bathing in the unique sensation of a gentleman like him conversing with her. “You are correct. ’Twas the Larkin boys. I’m persuaded ‘tis a tradition of sorts for them to frighten people on All Hallows’ Eve.”
The extraordinarily handsome stranger—who spoke to her!—nodded as he picked up a lit taper behind the bar. “I suspected some such.”
Smiling, Osanne placed the rest of the candles back on each table.
Though taller than most men, the stranger stood on a chair and re-lit the candles on the chandelier.
“Forgive me,” he said. “I’ve broken all rules of etiquette.
Since there’s no one to introduce us, please allow me to introduce myself. I’m Rafe Beauchamp.”
“Rafe Beauchamp?” An unusual name, to be sure.
Smirking, he held up his hands. “I know; Rafe is odd. It’s an old family name.
Generations ago it was Ralph, but the old way of pronouncing Ralph was Rafe, so my grandfather changed the spelling of his son’s name to reflect the pronunciation.
” He gave her a self-deprecating grin. “But that’s probably more information than you wanted.
Forgive me if I put you to sleep with that explanation. ”
She smiled. “No, I found it fascinating.”
“And you are, if I may be so bold as to ask?” he said.
“Osanne Jewell.” She curtsied.
He bowed, without taking his attention off her face. His eyes went soft. “Jewell? Yes, I believe you are.”
Osanne found herself speechless.
He added another log to the fire in the hearth. “But Osanne? Now that’s a fascinating name one doesn’t hear every day. It’s a variation of Hosanna, isn’t it?”
She nodded. “I was born Easter morning.”
“Fitting.” He paused and gave her a searching look as if trying to memorize her face. “One might almost believe you an angel.”
She didn’t know whether to laugh or swoon. She settled for a smile.
Atwood and the wounded Jake returned to the main room.
Jake staggered to the nearest chair and fell heavily. He slurred, “Another ‘un.”
Atwood patted Jake’s shoulder. “I think you’ve had enough for now, my friend, don’t you? Perhaps you want to head over to the bonfire now?”
Jake sighed. “Nothing helps, anyway.” He got up and lurched outside.
Atwood stared sadly after Jake. “Poor soul. He’ll drink himself to death afore long.” Then he looked around at Rafe Beauchamp’s handiwork “You cleaned up for me. I’m in your debt, sir.”
“No need.” Mr. Beauchamp smiled at Osanne. “I believe I shall join the bonfire, as well. Care to accompany me?” He smiled at Osanne.
Atwood replied, “No, I’m staying open in case any customers come in. Enjoy yourself.”
Glancing at Atwood, Mr. Beauchamp lifted a brow in amusement, then smiled at Osanne. He opened the door and held it for Osanne, waiting. He had invited her to accompany him, to spend another moment with him. Marvels never ceased.
As Osanne passed him, she said softly, “Thank you, Mr. Beauchamp.”
He closed the door behind him and looked at the revelry around the bonfire, then returned his focus to her.
“Since we both braved the ‘spooks’ in the pub and cleaned up their mess together, not to mention we’re about as far from any drawing room as we can get and still be in jolly ol’ England, I propose we dispense with formalities.
I would be pleased if you would call me Rafe. ”
The night seemed brighter already. “Very well, Rafe. Then please call me Osanne.”
“Osanne.” If a gaze could caress, his fared well.
How lovely to hear her name uttered by such a charming and handsome gentleman. ’Twouldn’t last, surely, but she would cherish these few moments and carry them in her heart to keep back the darkness of her loneliness.
As Rafe sauntered about the celebration, Osanne remained at his side. Musical notes took shape in her mind, the first in an age that had come to her, and she ached to play them on the pianoforte in an attempt to continue composing her song. Yet, remaining at Rafe’s side proved the stronger allure.
Women of every age paused to send Rafe admiring glances, but he seemed more interested in the festivities.
Children and youth played Snap Apple, gnawing on apples suspended on a long piece of string without using their hands.
Others threw nuts in the bonfire and squealed as they popped.
Some toasted bread and bits of cheese on long sticks over the flames.
The band of Romani who often camped nearby this time of year mingled with the crowd, more welcome than any other on such a night.
They read palms, foretelling fortunes for young men, and prospects of love for young women.
Others performed magic tricks or sold potions, hand-carved items, and trinkets.
A few villagers danced around the fire in strange costumes with drunken abandon.
Next to the doorways of shops and cottages, the carved root vegetables, illuminated by candles or coals inside, grinned at the crowd with their weird faces.
Some cottage and shop doors stood open to welcome in the spirits of beloved ancestors with plates of food or sweets in the doorway.
Children cavorted about with hands and mouths full of treats.
Mrs. Larkin, more gray and bent than the last time Osanne had seen her, stood in the doorway of her tiny cottage, staring glumly out at the revelers.
Next to her feet sat a plate of sweets and a row of candles leading into her house in quiet invitation to those family members she had loved and lost.
Rafe quietly observed, occasionally returning greetings to people who called out to him, inviting him to join them.
Madding Hollow had always prided itself on welcoming strangers, and Rafe’s good looks and bearing didn’t hurt, either.
Surprisingly, he remained at Osanne’s side rather than joining the revelry.
For a moment, her imagination painted a future with him next to her, walking together, talking, holding hands....
Impossible. He wasn’t hers. How could he be? Still, he remained at her side almost protectively.
No sign of John or Frank Larkin nearby, thank goodness.
Screams from the graveyard gave her a clue as to their whereabouts.
At least they no longer caused havoc where the bulk of the villagers gathered, nor at Ravenswood Manor.
She eyed the manor, aching to immerse herself in music but unable to bring herself to hasten from Rafe’s presence.
Rafe gestured loosely about at the villagers making merry, and asked her, “Would you like to try any of these games?”
“No, thank you. I am content to watch.”
As he looked around, he turned pensive, much like his earlier mood. Almost to himself, he asked, “Do you ever feel detached from everything around you? To everyone?”
“I do.” Perhaps others felt that way as well.
He watched her curiously. “I suppose that makes us a couple of restless spirits.”
She allowed herself a small smile. “I suppose so.”