Chapter Three #2
“Oh, no, sir,” the woman said in a working-class accent. “I...eh... someone thought the...I mean... that one of the children had crept out of bed again.” She gave him an embarrassingly admiring stare as she stepped closer.
Then she lifted her brows, looking him over from head to toe.
No doubt she noticed the plainness of his clothing.
No self-respecting gentleman would show up to a ball, even a masquerade, without an appropriate evening suit and dancing shoes.
At least his buckskin breeches and bottle green coat were clean, but there could be no excuse for his dusty boots and coat. And he hadn’t shaved in a few days.
He made a point of looking down. “Do forgive my attire. I did not expect an invitation to a ball when I arrived here to visit. Had I known, I would surely have brought my superfine. I really must speak to my valet about packing one even if I don’t expect to need it.”
“You...you are a guest, then?”
He glanced over the woman’s head just as Osanne peeked out from behind the open door. The young lady grinned at him conspiratorially.
Rafe let out a half laugh. “Would I be here if I weren’t?”
The servant looked abashed. “Of course not, sir. Forgive me.” She took a step back. “I’ll just, er, leave you, then.” She gave him another admiring look.
“Thank you, madam.”
Without taking her eyes off him, the woman backed up a few paces, side-stepped, and bumped into a table, upsetting a vase.
With a wild grab at the vase, she righted it and let out a girlish giggle.
Finally, she turned and fled the room. A second later, she darted back in.
Still giggling, she shot him an apologetic look, grabbed the doorknob, and closed the door behind her.
Osanne’s musical laughter brushed across his skin and brought an answering smile. “Oh, my, you certainly managed her.”
He shrugged and made a point of examining his fingernails. In a bored tone, he said, “All part of my charm.”
“Your charm is exceeded only by your humility,” she said merrily.
He bowed. “At your service.” Straightening, he gestured at the pianoforte. “Shall you play more?”
“You don’t mind?”
“I’d be delighted if you would.”
She played another song, more intricate and lovely than the first. Then she paused and played more slowly, almost hesitantly. “No, not quite.” She played a variation of the last few bars, nodded, and continued. She stopped rather suddenly.
“Why did you stop?”
She gave a start as if she’d forgotten his presence. “It’s a piece I began composing but hadn’t been able to make progress on it... in a long time.” She smiled a blast of pure delight. “Not long after we met, I heard the next stanza in my mind.”
“You composed that?”
“I’m still working on it.” Her smile faded. “Was it terrible?”
“Quite the contrary. It was exquisite. Will you play more?”
“I do not hear any more at the moment. Perhaps additional stanzas will come to me later. Moreover, I dare not continue playing, lest we tempt fate overmuch. Perhaps ‘tis time we take ourselves off to other parts.”
“Indeed.” Her formal tone and speech of a bygone era had a certain charm. Everything about her had a certain charm.
He opened the door and peered about. The housekeeper who had caught him in the music room was hurrying down the corridor again but stopped short when she spotted Rafe. “Oh, it’s you. Were you playing just now, too?”
Rafe casually pulled the door partially closed to shield Osanne from view. “I hope I didn’t disturb anyone,”
The housekeeper nervously giggled like a girl half her age. “Oh, no. It was beautiful. I just thought...well, I didn’t want to alarm you earlier, but some say the music room is haunted.”
Rafe lifted his brows. “And you believe that nonsense?”
She giggled again. “I’m sure I don’t know.”
“Well, good evening, madam.” Rafe walked toward the drawing room with his head high. As he had hoped, the woman opened a door leading to the servant’s stairway and disappeared.
Rafe glanced back toward the music room.
Osanne had stepped out. She gave him another heart-stopping smile and led him out of the house.
Outside, the crisp night air chilled Rafe’s cheeks.
As Osanne led the way down the path, she turned.
Her backward glance of longing at the house stirred his imagination.
“Was that your family home?”
She paused, then answered quietly, “It was.”
Ah. That explained why she knew her way around it so well.
She had clearly been the daughter of a fine gentleman, accustomed to living in the village Great House.
The estate had probably been entailed; when she lost her family, the new male heir—possibly a cousin—took possession.
But why had they failed to provide for Osanne?
“The owners are distant relatives, I take it?” he ventured.
“I truly do not know, only that they have been renting the house for the past several years.”
“And you....?”
She looked at him, her dark, dark eyes unreadable. “I make do.”
Had he asked too personal a question? “Forgive me,” he hastened to say. “It was not my intention to pry.”
She gave him a sad smile but offered no explanation. “Thank you for giving me the opportunity to play.”
“Thank you for favoring me with your beautiful music. I still hear your composition over and over in my thoughts.”
They headed back toward Madding Hollow while the notes of her haunting melody repeated in his mind. He shot her constant admiring glances like a schoolboy in the throes of his first tendre, and finally said, “Have you named that piece?”
“I believe I shall call it Reflection.”
He nodded. “It’s fitting. Truly, I’m impressed. Have you composed others?”
“A few, but that one is my favorite thus far. I’m gratified that you like it.”
Osanne paused and then called out, “I know you’re there, John and Frank Larkin! Go on and leave them be. You gave me your word!” She let out a humph and kept walking.
Rafe looked about but saw no one. “Was someone there?”
“The Larkin boys. They are trouble.”
In the near pitch darkness, Rafe saw no one. She must have exceptional eyesight.
Back in the square, subdued villagers had gathered around an old man with a face like a carved apple that had dried and shriveled.
Adults and children alike sat wide-eyed in enthralled attention as the ancient man’s words painted a tale of sorrow and death.
The bonfire had died down to a gentle glimmer, illuminating the storyteller’s crinkly face and making deep hollows around his eyes.
The storyteller held out his hands. “When the line between the living and the dead is thin as it is on All Hallows’ Eve, you may see her wandering, still searching.”
Osanne stood very still, her gaze fixed on the old man. Rafe stopped next to her and gazed at the remarkable young lady he had met but hours ago. For the first time in months, he felt truly awake, as if he had been aimlessly wandering the earth half-asleep.
An eerie wail went up and a few villagers gasped.
The culprit, a matronly woman, stood, wailed again, then laughed in earnest. “Let’s not be so carried away with all the festivities that we forget what’s real and what’s superstition.”
Nervous chuckles came in reply and the crowd broke up.
Osanne turned to the horizon, her expression falling. The pale silvery light of predawn crept over the horizon, silhouetting trees. “It’s almost dawn. Our time is coming to an end,” she said mournfully. “I must go now. Goodbye, Rafe. And thank you. It has been a memorable night.”
It was all he could do not to let out a gasp. She was leaving?