Chapter Nine
As sunrise approached, Rafe stuffed down his panic that he must once again lose her for an entire year.
Instead, he donned a charming guise and held his arms out to Osanne.
“Forgive me for becoming maudlin. These nights with you have been the happiest of my life, and I look forward to them all year long. I’m fortunate to know you. ”
She offered him a wobbly smile. “I feel the same way about you. And I thank you for the gift of your companionship.”
“Until we meet again.” He stopped just short of calling her ‘my love.’
He loved her. After only three nights together, he loved her.
No, it couldn’t be. Infatuation, to be sure, but not love. How could he love a woman he only saw once a year and could never touch?
As she faded away, he kept his smile in place and waved. Instead of dissolving into a puddle of messy emotions that lapped at his heart, he went straight to the vicar’s house. Humming, Mr. Brown stepped out of his back entrance.
Rafe hailed him. “Mr. Brown.”
The vicar’s face lit up. “Ah, Mr. Beauchamp. I didn’t see you last eve.”
“Did you attend the soiree at the Great House?”
He smiled. “I did, with my bride of four months.”
Rafe grinned. “Bride? Congratulations. Is she the Morris girl?”
Mr. Brown chuckled and nodded. “Can you believe she would have me—a poor country vicar?”
Rafe shook his head mournfully. “There’s no accounting for a girl’s taste.”
Mr. Brown chuckled. “How are you this morning, my friend?”
Friend. How long had it been since someone called Rafe that?
Perhaps Mr. Brown only meant it as a casual expression, but Rafe had missed true friendship.
Since Benjamin’s death, Rafe had maintained cordial but distant relationships with everyone.
Until now, he had failed to realize how much he missed deeper connections.
Mr. Brown cocked his head. “Was that a difficult question?”
Rafe smiled sheepishly. “Forgive me. I was woolgathering. I’m well, thank you.”
“You look better than the last few All Saints’ Days.”
“Well, for one thing, I drank a great deal less last night.”
“That will do it. You seem to have something on your mind.”
How could he answer that? Instead, he asked, “Do you know who has lived here the longest—anyone who might have known the Jewells when they resided in the Great House?”
Tapping his chin, Mr. Brown said, “Hmmm. That would probably be the widow Grainger. As I understand, she and Mrs. Jewell were friends way back. She still speaks of her.”
“Would you introduce me to Mrs. Grainger?”
“She doesn’t often leave her home. I’m not sure she’s entirely all there,” he tapped his head, “if you know what I mean.”
“Is she lucid enough to tell me of the family?”
“Perhaps, but she is over 90 years old. Don’t be surprised if she suddenly starts complaining about a cow that got into her garden yesterday, when, in fact, it happened about ten years ago.”
“I understand,” Rafe said. “My grandfather was the same way and he didn’t live that long.”
Mr. Brown added, “After the service today, I can take you with me to pay her a visit. I’ll bring my wife, too, so Mrs. Grainger feels more comfortable with us calling upon her.”
Rafe inclined his head. “Thank you. I’m most grateful to you.”
After sleeping a few hours, bathing, and shaving, Rafe attended the Sunday service to support his new friend, and gave generously to the plate being passed around.
Rafe had never been much of a church-goer.
Such a luxury proved a difficult feat while mired in war.
Still, this little country church held hundreds of years of tradition.
Generations had come here. A certain steadiness abounded here. And a bit of peace.
At the conclusion of the service, Rafe remained seated while Mr. Brown spoke with the members of his little flock who needed his attention. When the church emptied, Mr. Brown and his pretty young wife approached Rafe.
Mr. Brown put a hand on the small of her back. “My dear, please allow me to introduce Mr. Beauchamp, who visits every year for All Hallows’ Eve. This is my beloved bride, Mrs. Brown.”
Laughing gaily, Mrs. Brown dropped a quick curtsy. “I’ve not yet grown accustomed to being addressed as Mrs. Brown, but I’m delighted to meet you, Mr. Beauchamp.”
Rafe bowed. “The pleasure is mine, Mrs. Brown.”
The lady beamed at Rafe, then turned an adoring gaze to her husband.
A small ember of envy flared in Rafe that this couple had discovered such joy. Would Rafe ever find that measure of happiness?
As they walked to the abode of the woman Rafe hoped would give him answers about Osanne and her family, they chatted easily.
Overhead, a few stubborn leaves of red, gold, and orange clung to bare branches that reached to a cloudless autumn sky.
A few birds who had not yet fled the coming of winter trilled their songs.
Strange how autumn had become such a beautiful time of year.
Strolling along with his wife’s hand tucked into his elbow, Mr. Brown gave Rafe a curious look. “Forgive me for prying, Mr. Beauchamp, but what, may I ask, is your interest in the Jewell family?”
Rafe paused. He dared not tell them he had met and formed an attachment with the ghost of one of the Jewell family members. They might declare him mad and ship him off to Bedlam. “I have an interest in history, if you’ll recall. It’s not confined to ruins.”
Mrs. Brown smiled impishly. “And you’ve heard tales of the ghost that haunts Ravenswood Manor?”
Rafe kept his tone and his expression benign. “I have heard the tale, yes, but that is not my sole interest.”
“Very well,” Mr. Brown said. “I won’t press you. Ah. Here we are.” The vicar gestured to a thatched cottage surrounded by a crumbling rock wall.
A young maid with disheveled hair and dark circles under her eyes let them in.
She caught Rafe staring at her red and blistered hands and quickly hid them in the folds of her apron tied askew around her thin waist. She led them to a tiny dark parlor with no light except that which came in through the single window. Rafe blinked to adjust his eyes.
The maid addressed a bundle of blankets sitting in a chair between a grimy window and a smoking fire. “The vicar and his wife and a...friend are here to visit you, madam.”
“Ah, how nice of you to call,” creaked an old woman’s voice. “Do come in.”
The vicar introduced Rafe, and the woman graciously greeted him. “Shall I ring for tea?”
Mr. Brown took one look at the clearly overworked maid and politely declined. The maid bobbed a curtsy and left them.
“Please be seated,” Mrs. Grainger said.
They exchanged pleasantries, then the vicar mentioned the annual ball at the Great House, a brilliant segue to Rafe’s area of interest.
“Did you know the family who owns Ravenswood Manor?” Mr. Brown asked.
“Oh, indeed. Mrs. Jewell and I both married about the same time and became great friends. So tragic.” She shook her head.
“What was tragic?” Rafe asked.
“Their daughter going missing like that.”
“Their daughter?” he pressed.
“Osanne. Such an unusual name. Lovely girl. Very gifted musician. She liked to write songs. She had rather a fondness for daffodils, and her mother had several varieties of the bulbs shipped in to plant in their garden. Pretty flowers, daffodils. Have you ever seen one?”
Rafe nodded. “I understand something happened to her brother?”
“Henry. He left during their ball, and Osanne went looking for him. She never returned.” Mrs. Grainger shook her head.
“Mr. and Mrs. Jewell were devastated. They never recovered. The next spring, Mrs. Jewell tore out every single daffodil. They moved away a few days later and let out the house. I never heard from them again.” She frowned.
“I thought we were friends but she never wrote to me.”
Mrs. Brown leaned forward. “That must have been difficult for you. Perhaps she withdrew from everyone due to her grief.”
Had Rafe withdrawn due to grief? His wanderings had been the perfect excuse. Perhaps his desire to visit all his fellow comrades came from a less noble desire than he had first supposed.
Mr. Brown asked, “Did they ever find Henry?”
Mrs. Grainger blinked. “Who?”
“Henry, the Jewells’ son who slipped away the night Osanne disappeared?”
Mrs. Grainger frowned and blinked. “Henry. Henry?” Confused, she fluttered her hands and muttered. Then she reared back and rolled her eyes wildly. “Who are you people? Nellie! Nellie, come quickly! There are strangers in my house!”
The girl came running. “All is well, madam; they’re your friends—the vicar and—”
“They’ve come to rob me! Get out!” Mrs. Grainger shrieked, waving her arms.
The girl gave them an apologetic look as she poured dark liquid out of a bottle into a glass and brought it to Mrs. Grainger’s quivering lips. Laudanum, most likely.
Rafe and his friends hastily bid farewell. Outside in the blinding sunlight, they let out audible breaths.
Rafe said the first thing that came to his mind. “That girl is clearly underpaid and overworked.”
The vicar nodded soberly. “I wish I could do more for her.”
His wife explained, “That girl is her great-granddaughter, Fanny. Mrs. Grainger’s granddaughter ran off in her youth and married an impoverished fisherman.
They sent Fanny here so Mrs. Grainger could train her to serve as a maid.
” Her mouth twisted slightly. “That is, when she remembers Fanny is her kin and not a girl-of-all-work whose name changes.”
Rafe frowned. A pity he couldn’t help that poor girl.
They turned their steps back to the vicarage. Along the way, Rafe stopped as he caught sight of someone slumped next to a tree several paces from the lane.
“What is it?” Mr. Brown followed Rafe’s line of sight. “Oh, dear. It seems Jake Wilson has overindulged again. Poor soul. I can’t seem to help him find peace.”
“Let’s get him home,” Rafe suggested.
Mr. Brown nodded. “He lives nearby.”
Rafe and Mr. Brown picked up the drooling, snoring Jake Wilson and got him to his small, ramshackle cottage. As they lowered him into his bed, Jake mumbled something about war, Spanish women, and earrings.
Cold pinpricks raced down Rafe’s spine. He took an unconscious step backward. Apparently, Jake Wilson had been with that group of soldiers who turned into hellhounds and sacked the town of Badajoz, Spain. “So sorry,” Jake whimpered. “No forgiveness....”
Rafe took another step backward as if the other man’s crimes might somehow rub off on him.
Though Rafe had been hundreds of miles from the scene of the bloodiest battle of the war, he had heard about the horrific violence battle-enraged British soldiers had rained down on the innocent civilians of that town.
Mr. Brown patted Jake’s shoulder. “Rest now, Mr. Wilson.”
Gently, Mrs. Brown put a blanket over the man’s sleeping form before they left him to sleep off his drunkenness.
The sight of such a kind and pure people touching such a depraved scoundrel set Rafe’s teeth on edge.
Back outside, Mrs. Brown smiled up at Rafe. “Won’t you please join us for dinner, Mr. Beauchamp?”
Taken aback, he held out his hands. “I wouldn’t wish to impose.”
“Not at all,” Mr. Brown said. “We’d love to share our table with you. And perhaps we can convince you to give up your wanderings and settle down here in Madding Hollow.”
If only he could. Until he had done all he could for all of his men, he would never be free to settle anywhere.