Chapter Seven
Rafe stared into the air where Osanne had been reaching for him a moment ago.
Anticipating her disappearance took away the shock, but it failed to soften his loss.
In fact, the emptiness came more quickly and profoundly than before.
Of course, it did. After spending additional time with her, he cared even more about her than he did last year.
How foolish he had been to think seeing her again would cure him of his obsession. Over the past year, memories of her had frequently crept into his ruminations.
He feared now she would inhabit all his waking thoughts.
She had not been a dream; she had been real. But a ghost. Knowing that had satisfied his curiosity. Now what? She was still a ghost. Fate had finally sent him a woman for whom he had true feelings, but cruelly, one he could never have. No woman had ever been so far out of his reach.
Perhaps it came as a fitting punishment for his past sins. He had not loved any women he could have touched. Now, the one he might one day grow to love was a woman he never could.
Either that, or he was mad as a March hare.
He refused to believe that.
What had frightened her? She had seen something out of his sight, something about the Larkins being gone. It had filled her with abject terror.
Nothingness. She feared going into a shaft of light for fear of finding nothing, that she might cease to exist at all.
He had no answers for her.
A pity the vicar had not seen her instead. A man of faith could help her better than a disillusioned former cavalry officer.
As the morning brightened, Rafe stood in the cemetery and stared at Osanne’s headstone. He ran his hand along the stone angel.
“Goodbye, Osanne.”
He returned to the inn and fell into bed in his private bedchamber.
After a few hours’ sleep, he awoke with the words of the gypsy woman who had told his fortune repeating in his mind: You, sir, are haunted by many ghosts, some from within, some from without...
the chains that bind you each to your solitude.
Was it possible Madam Miska spoke of Osanne as the ghost that haunted him?
It certainly felt more like courtship than a haunting, but he could no longer doubt that she was a ghost.
Being trapped in her half existence, no longer living but unable to move on to whatever awaited them after death might be the chains that bound Osanne to her solitude. Perhaps Madam Miska knew more.
Or she could merely be a fraud who played at telling fortunes to add to the fun and earn a few extra coins.
Still, Rafe never would have imagined seeing a ghost, either, so at this point, he would believe almost anything. Surely, speaking to a gypsy fortune teller was no stranger than talking to a vicar.
Generally, mingling with the Romani folk was frowned upon—except in small villages during All Hallows’ Eve, apparently—but Rafe would find them. Surely, they remained camped nearby.
Rafe dressed, headed downstairs to the pub, and ordered a meal. As he spooned up the last drop of stew, he eyed the innkeeper.
Mr. Atwood, like most pub owners, clearly recognized a man who wanted to talk. He sauntered over. “Anything else I can get for you, Mr. Beauchamp?”
Rafe complimented the food, then said, “I hear there are some old Roman ruins in the area.”
“Aye. There are some out past the Great House yonder.”
“You think they’d mind if I explored them?”
“Probably not. They’re out far enough from the gardens that they probably won’t pay you no mind.”
Rafe affected a thoughtful expression. “Is the Romani camp out that way?”
“Nah, they camp in the woods south of here. They pack up and leave within a couple of days of All Hallows’ Eve. But you’ve nothing to worry about from them.”
Rafe nodded. “They seem a decent bunch.”
“They are. Been coming here for All Hallows’ Eve for generations. Never been no trouble for us.”
Rafe thanked him again and set off for the woods south of Madding Hollow. The Romani people might not welcome an Englishman into their camp, but he had to try.
He checked on his horse, Solo, in the inn’s stable to be sure he was being well cared for, then set out on foot for the gypsy camp.
Voices and soft laughter filtered out of the wooded area.
The scent of apples, decaying trees and campfire smoke filled the air.
Dried leaves and twigs crunched beneath his boots.
Overhead, a thinning canopy of autumn colors in every shade of crimson, orange, and gold still clung to trees arched overhead.
A clear brook trickled over mossy rocks, leading the way toward a cluster of wagons.
Two children ran across his path but stopped short, staring at him with wide dark eyes.
“Good afternoon,” he said.
They ran toward the camp, calling out in a foreign tongue. Rafe followed after them.
“Halt!” commanded a male voice. The barrel of a gun protruding from a scarlet shrub pointed at Rafe.
Rafe held up his hands. “I come in peace.”
“You’re not welcome here. Leave.”
“I’m looking for Madam Miska.”
“She don’t give refunds if you don’t like your fortune. Now go!”
“No, that’s not it. Please, it’s very important I speak with her. She may be the only one who can help me. I’m willing to pay her well for only a few moments of speech with her.”
Low voices murmured as if conferring. Rafe held his breath. Several heartbeats later, the fortune teller stepped out from a nearby wagon.
Less bejeweled than the last time he’d seen her, and her hair coiled up at the nape of her neck, Madam Miska strode toward him. “You are a strange man to venture into our camp.”
Rafe bowed as if he were greeting a duchess. “Madam, thank you for seeing me. If you recall, you read my palm last year.”
Nodding, she chuckled. “I remember you. It seems the unbeliever believes, now. You said you have coin for me?”
Rafe fished one out and flipped it to her. She examined it, tucked it away, and gestured to a fallen log sprinkled with mushrooms.
After they sat, she looked at him shrewdly from beneath thick lashes. “What is this that is so important that you must have speech with me?”
Rafe had already rehearsed what to say to her so he wouldn’t blurt out the chaotic thoughts in his head, which would surely make him seem a bedlamite.
“Tell me more about what you meant when you said I was haunted by many ghosts, some from within, some from without. And when you said, and I quote: ‘You have it within your grasp. But only when you live true to yourself will you find your heart’s desire, the mate for your soul, and free you both from the chains that bind you each to your solitude. Free yourself, free her. Find love.’”
She lifted her brows and cocked her head to one side.
He explained, “I remember every word I hear or read.”
“A unique gift.”
“Please, I must know more. What did you mean?”
“I regret that I have no additional knowledge. I utter the words the spirits give me. Sometimes, they tell me nothing and I am left to offer vague predictions based on what I observe of the person and what many wish to hear. But in some cases, such as yours, these exact words were placed in my mouth.”
He chewed on that information. Then he came to a realization that had nothing to do with what he sought. “You speak extraordinarily good English, especially compared with how you spoke last year at the celebration.”
She grinned sheepishly and shrugged. “Yes, it all adds to the mystique, and sometimes we must play a role to meet expectations. But you understand that, do you not?”
“I do.” During the war, he had maintained the demeanor of a strong, decisive leader even when fear and uncertainty chilled his blood. He studied his hands clasped in front of him. “The ghosts you mentioned were figurative rather than literal?”
“Ah.” She nodded. “The ghosts I mentioned were both literal and figurative. I saw the spirit of the young lady with you both this year and last.”
He shot to his feet. “You did? You saw her?”
“Fair hair, very pretty.”
“You knew she was a ghost?”
She shrugged. “It is not terribly uncommon for me to see departed spirits, especially on that night. I have the ‘sight’—in more ways than one.”
Someone else had seen Osanne. That niggling fear he was going mad quieted. He resumed his seat. “She’s been dead for over fifty years.”
“And you care for each other.”
“We do.” More than he thought his hardened, damaged heart could bear. Her affection for him felt more real than a living woman’s—and not because only he could interact with her. “How can I free us from the chains that bind us?”
“That I do not know. It is something you must discover.”
“Can’t you ask your spirits?”
She spread her hands. “I could perform a séance but that would only call forth a departed soul—not give you the kind of answers you seek.”
“You can call her back?”
“Only for the duration of the séance; I cannot keep those spirits here for a lengthy period of time.”
He slumped over. “It seems rather a hopeless situation.”
“I’m sorry I could not be more help. I truly am.”
Rafe blew out a long exhale then pushed back his disappointment and stood. “Thank you for your time.”
On his way back to the inn, singing drew him towards the stone country church. The All Saints’ Day Service must have started. Out of obligation to the kind vicar, Mr. Brown, Rafe entered the nave and stood against the back wall near the baptismal font.