Chapter Fourteen
As autumn deepened into winter Rafe strolled next to Peter Brown, his arms now empty of the baskets they had taken to the poor.
Overhead the sky hung low, sullen, and gray, so near it might have touched the bare tree branches.
A hush lay over the woods through which their path wound.
Rafe turned up the collar of his coat against the chill.
Peter cast a sideways glance at him. “You’ve been very quiet the last few days.”
“I apologize if I’ve been poor company.”
“Not at all. But I feel you carry a burden. I would lighten your load, if I can.”
Rafe lifted a brow. “Are you inviting me to confession, Vicar?”
Earnestly, Peter said, “If that would ease your burden.”
Rafe smiled and shook his head. “I fear you would think me mad.”
“Ah, but as the owner of the Great House now, you are allowed your eccentricities, your lordship.”
Rafe chuckled. “I have no title, as you are well aware.”
“As both your friend and your clergyman, I vow to keep any confidence.”
“I’m sure you’re the keeper of many secrets.”
“As you are, I believe.” Peter looked at him expectantly.
Did he dare tell his friend about Osanne? With each passing year, his secret seemed to weigh more heavily on him. Would confiding in Peter help or only serve to alienate his closest friend?
Peter watched him with an even deeper level of kindness than usual. Rafe could trust Peter.
Rafe blew out his breath. “Very well, but only if you promise to assume that I’m not a bedlamite and consider that what I tell you might actually be true.”
Peter held up a hand. “You have my solemn vow.”
After another fortifying breath, Rafe told him the entire story—how he met Osanne, their first night together, how she faded away with the sunrise.
Peter’s mouth opened in surprise and his eyes widened.
“And now you do think me mad,” Rafe said.
Peter donned an expression that would have served him well in games that required bluffing. “Did you ever see her again?”
“I see her every year on All Hallows’ Eve.”
Thoughtfully, Peter nodded. “Which is why you returned year after year—to see her.”
“It is. Every year, we only have one night but each night feels like a lifetime.” They walked in silence. “And every year I fall more deeply in love with her.”
Peter’s eyebrows shot up. He nodded again. “You purchased the Great House to be near her.”
“Indeed. But also, because Madding Hallow has become home. I care about the people. I feel a sense of purpose here that I have not found elsewhere.”
Peter’s eyebrows drew together in thought as he probably wrestled with the thought that his friend might truly be insane.
Rafe said quietly, “I know it sounds fantastical, and I don’t blame you if you don’t believe me.”
“What I believe does not matter. You believe it.”
A curious lump formed in Rafe’s throat. He had never found such a supporting friendship in anyone other than Benjamin.
After clearing the lump, Rafe glanced at Peter. “I’m not certain which is more mad; that I see a ghost every year, or that I love her.”
After a moment, Peter moistened his lips. “Perhaps you love her, in part, because it’s safe to do so. You need not worry about losing her.”
Rafe blinked. “How do you figure?”
“It’s possible you’re afraid to commit yourself to a living woman who you might somehow fail.”
“But I lose Osanne every year at sunrise.”
“She comes back every year, does she not?”
“She does, but it’s a poor substitute for seeing her every day. And one day, she might go into a light that appears through which no soul returns.”
“Ah. So, if she does leave you, it will be to move on to the next life—not because she is abandoning you, and not because you failed her.”
“Yes. What are you saying?”
Peter held up a placating hand. “It may be exactly as you have described, my friend. But before I returned to Madding Hallow to assume my current position, I counseled with many former soldiers and sailors, all who carried terrible wounds deep inside. Everyone expresses and works through that pain and grief in different ways. I only ask you not to discount the possibility that you have created a perfect woman whom you cannot harm and who cannot harm you.”
“I also can’t touch her for more than a moment,” Rafe grumbled.
Peter halted. “You can touch her?”
“It takes great effort on her part, and we cannot make it last.”
A thoughtful line created Peter’s brow. “Perhaps this is all because you believe you are paying your own kind of penance for past failures.”
Rafe winced. “A valid point. But trust me, if I were to create the perfect woman, I would be able to see her every day and touch her as often and for as long as I want.”
Peter clapped him on the shoulder. “I believe a solution exists, if you have the courage to seek it.”
A tactful way of telling Rafe that he might truly have created a grand illusion. As they reached the vicarage, Rafe said, “Give my regards to the missus.”
“Indeed, I will.”
Rafe continued walking, his footsteps taking him through the woods back to the gypsy camp. He stopped. Did he dare?
Footsteps crunched and the foliage parted. Madam Miska stepped out, smiling. “I’ve been expecting you.”
They sat side by side on the fallen log. The bark had crumbled further and new mushrooms had sprung up since he had last visited.
Madam Miska made a gesture. “You love her, this ghost of yours, and you have come to me for answers that I fear I cannot give you.”
Rafe handed her a coin. “Is there a way to bring someone back from death?”
She muttered in a foreign language and blew out her breath. “You ask the impossible.”
Rafe quoted, “True love. 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. Hold fast to it.”
She frowned.
“Your words to me suggest that there is a way she and I can be together in truth.”
She toyed with the coin. “I have only heard stories, the stuff of legend.”
“Many legends have an element of truth. Do these stories tell of a way to bring back the dead?”
She folded her arms and looked at him as if she were about to divulge a secret. “I have heard tell of a way to summon the Angel of Death.”
A chill ran down Rafe’s spine. “Summon him?”
She nodded. “Once he is summoned, one can petition him for mercy for those who are hovering on the brink of death or very recently died. For someone who has been dead more than fifty years...well, I cannot give you much hope, even if the legends are true.”
Rafe rocked back. Was such a thing possible? Did this tamper with the powers that be?
“So, I ask you, Mr. Beauchamp—do you have the courage to face the Angel of Death?”
Slowly, Rafe said, “In many ways, I have already faced him.”
“If you wish to do this, there are a number of items I must gather.”
“I would do anything to bring her back to life.”
“Very well. Meet me at the henge on the hilltop over there,” she gestured. “Come at midnight tonight. But know that this may not be truly possible.”
“I understand.”
The day crept by at an agonizingly slow pace.
To pass the time, Rafe helped rebuild a stone wall, then went to the hilltop during daylight hours to be certain he could locate the henge in the dark.
He paced around the ring of boulders of varied sizes and shapes placed in a circle.
So many theories abounded as to who had built those ancient henges and for what purpose.
Later, Rafe paced the corridors of Ravenswood Manor. Which bedchamber had belonged to Osanne? Perhaps he’d ask her. Seeing what had been her private space might help him to feel closer to her.
About half past eleven, Rafe put on his warmest greatcoat and took up a lantern. He returned to the henge and waited for Madam Miska. A cold wind blew, shaking bare trees. The scurry of small animals filled the air. A raven flew overhead.
The fortune-teller arrived with a knapsack slung over one shoulder, and a young man carrying a rifle trailing behind.
Madam Miska jabbed a thumb over her shoulder. “This is my grandson. He insisted on coming to ensure you didn’t lure me out here to murder me.” She cast an affectionately irritated look at the young man. “You may wait for me at the bottom of the hill.”
The young man gave Rafe a once-over and did as his grandmother bade him.
In the center of the stone circle, she knelt, opened her bag, and set out several objects. After placing them in a particular order she gestured to Rafe. “Come, sit here.” She patted the ground next to her.
Rafe joined her on the cold ground. She poured salt in a circle around them and made a curious shape directly in front of them. The gypsy closed her eyes, raised her hands, and chanted in an unfamiliar tongue.
Lengthy minutes passed. Perhaps she was right; the legends were all fiction.
A soft light opened up in front of them. The size of a pinprick at first, it grew until it resembled an archway. The shape of a man dressed in brilliant white robes appeared beneath the arch, standing several feet in the air. The light brightened to near-blinding intensity.
Could this be real? Rafe shielded his eyes and squinted into the light, which emanated from the being as if he were the source. Rather than fear, wonder and awe filled Rafe, as well as a tremendous sense of his own mortality, his own insignificance.
A resonant voice boomed and vibrated through Rafe’s chest. “For what purpose have you summoned me?”
Hoarsely, Rafe said, “I have come to beg for your mercy, my lord, and allow Osanne Jewell to return to life.”
“I am not The Lord. And Osanne’s time is long past.”
“I beseech you to allow her another chance. She died very young, and deserves to live a full life.”
“Many die young. It is the way of things.”
“But we have only recently found each other. Please, allow us the chance to have a life together.”
The Angel of Death fixed Rafe with a penetrating stare that left him shaken and exposed.
He boomed, “There is a way, if one’s heart is pure.”
Rafe held out his hands. “I am not without my faults, but I give you my word that my love for her is pure. I will do anything for her.”
“Only someone with a pure heart may perform the Ath-nuadhachadh. It must be done here at midnight on All Hallows’ Eve.”
Rafe’s breath caught. There was a chance.
“But understand this: the Ath-nuadhachadh will either bring the dead caught between worlds back to life...or it will send them on to the next realm of existence forever. And rare is the person who returns to life.”
The light receded and the figure vanished.
Rafe found himself lying on the ground looking up at the stars. Alone.
Had he imagined it or was there truly a chance to save Osanne?
What if this Ath-nuadhachadh consigned her to nothingness as she feared? Could he take such a risk with her mortal soul?