Page 17 of A Ghost of a Chance

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.