Chapter Five
Rafe stared in mingled disbelief and horror as the young lady who had captured his fascination, and a good part of his heart in a matter of hours, faded away like morning mist.
He stood rooted to the ground.
Had he experienced a vivid dream? The cold seemed real enough, as did his fatigue.
To have met a remarkable girl who understood him, who made him feel alive, who soothed his inner torments, who composed such moving music that spoke to his heart, and then to lose her...
A ghost?
He had never believed in such stories. Such tales sprang from imagination. They could not be real.
He wandered without knowing his direction. Who was Osanne Jewell? And how could she have disappeared like that? There had to be an explanation. She had looked solid enough. She had righted a table, picked up chairs, played the pianoforte. Surely ghosts could not move objects.
He had heard of magicians who performed fantastic disappearing acts using smoke and mirrors. But Rafe and Osanne had been alone outside. Such parlor tricks would be difficult, at best.
The housekeeper of Ravenswood Manor had said the music room was haunted.
Surely not.
He found himself in the churchyard. Did he dare? What if he found her headstone? He stood in agonizing indecision. If she had lived there in Madding Hollow all her life, died here, her grave would be marked.
One way to find out. He moved among the headstones, pausing to read each one. He didn’t have to search long.
A statue of an angel marked the headstone:
Osanne Elizabeth Ashley Jewell, beloved daughter
Her death date? All Hallows’ Eve, fifty years ago.
She was dead. She had died at the age of twenty. Hot and cold prickles ran down his backbone.
No. This was some intricate ruse. A vicious joke.
He moved on, looking for other names, and stopped in front of two small headstones for John Larkin and Frank Larkin. The dates indicated deaths three years earlier.
The Larkins were ghosts too. No wonder he had never seen them. But then, why had he been able to see her?
Surely Rafe had lost his grasp on sanity.
Whistling caught Rafe’s attention and he glanced up as footsteps neared. A clergyman wearing a traditional cassock strolled along the path past the grave markers.
The vicar called out, “Good morning, friend.”
“Good morning,” Rafe responded dully.
The vicar slowed his steps. “Are you well?”
“I’m...not certain.”
This man of the church, a gentleman about Rafe’s age, offered him a patient smile. “May I help you, friend?”
“I....” Thoughts and questions bumped into each other without leaving room for coherent speech.
“Come inside,” the vicar said. “It’s a mite cold out for a conversation. You look near frozen. I’ll fix you some tea. Or would you prefer coffee?”
Numbly, Rafe followed the clergyman into a small church vestry.
Through a second door, the nave stood empty and silent, dimly lit by pale sunlight.
Beams, black with age, arched over the chapel.
The vicar led him to a smaller room barely large enough to hold the two battered chairs sitting before a tiny hearth.
“Sit yourself down here by the fire,” the clergyman said.
Rafe sank into a chair, wearier than he’d realized.
“I’m Peter Brown, the vicar. What brings you to our parish, Mr...?”
“Beauchamp,” Rafe answered automatically. His voice had a course, breathy quality that sounded foreign to his own ears. Why had he come to this small village? Last night’s events crowded out thoughts of a life before meeting Osanne.
Had he imagined her? Had he gone out of his mind?
Mr. Brown pressed a cup of something hot into his hand and placed a blanket around his shoulders.
“Thank you.” Rafe drank the strong tea, the heat slowly thawing the ice in his chest and returning the feeling to his fingers.
The vicar sat nearby, not pressing him for conversation, merely waiting and watching him with kind brown eyes. Something about the man’s quiet mannerism loosened Rafe’s tongue.
“Do you believe in ghosts, Mr. Brown?” Rafe asked.
Mr. Brown’s eyebrows lifted briefly but he gave no other sign of surprise. “I believe there is a great deal we do not understand. The superstitious are quick to name ghosts or fairies or leprechauns, but that doesn’t make them real.”
Just as Rafe supposed.
“However,” the vicar continued. “I do believe we all have souls and that after we die, those souls move on to another realm of existence.”
“Then you do believe in ghosts or spirits?”
“I believe most ghost stories to be simply stories, and that there are usually more ordinary explanations for what many believe are the actions of ghosts. But I also believe that some spirits do not immediately go to their eternal reward. Some of them stay here, among us.”
“On All Hallows’ Eve?”
“Perhaps. Many believe the veil between earth and Heaven to part on All Hallows’ Eve, so the spirits of the dead may visit the still living.”
Rafe sipped his tea as he mentally examined the vicar’s words. So, the idea of seeing a lovely young lady who was, in fact, a ghost, was not completely unfathomable. “What exactly are spirits?”
“They are the essence of what we are—eternal personalities, if you will—that, for a time, live in mortal bodies. Then, our bodies die, eventually turning to dust. But the spirit lives on. I do not know why some return. Perhaps they have some unresolved problem or task and cannot bring themselves to leave it behind.”
Did Osanne have some unresolved problem? He pressed his hands over his eyes. Acting on a hunch, Rafe asked, “Have you been here long?”
The vicar smiled. “I grew up here. I left for my education and to pursue other interests for a number of years, but recently returned to assume this position after my father died.”
“I’m sorry about your father.”
“Thank you. He is with my mother in a better place.” The vicar waited while Rafe pulled his thoughts together.
“Have you heard the name Osanne Jewell?”
“Jewell is the surname of the owner of the Great House, Ravenswood Manor, though they have let out the house to others now.”
Rafe nodded.
The vicar narrowed his eyes. “If memory serves, Osanne is the name of the young lady who died from a fall many years ago.”
Osanne had said she had fallen.
“People still talk about her,” Mr. Brown said. “She went looking for her younger brother and never came home. Weeks later someone found her remains below a rise.”
Rafe set aside his shaking cup and saucer. It was too fantastical to believe. He could not have met a ghost. Yet, every part of him ached to see her again. He relived the longing to touch her, only to discover she had no form.
Had he dreamed it?
How could he have dreamed about a girl who had died twenty-five years before his birth? He had never stepped foot in this village before, had never known of anyone with the surname of Jewell, could not have simply heard her name in passing and created a dream around her.
The only other explanation was too irrational to entertain.
“Do you have a place to sleep tonight, Mr. Beauchamp?”
Rafe nodded. “I have a room at the Black Horse.”
“Perhaps you ought to seek your bed before you fall over. I wish to spend some time finishing my sermon for the All Saints’ Day Service. If you wish to speak with me later, I will be at your disposal after the service.” He paused. “We welcome newcomers. We ring the bell at ten o’clock.”
Rafe stood. “Thank you for the tea, and for your...perspective.”
They bade each other farewell. Rafe left with even more questions, not the least of which, how could he have become smitten with a ghost?
In his room at the inn, Rafe collapsed on the lumpy bed. Sleep skittered out of reach. His heart yearned for the unforgettable lady he could never have.