Page 26 of A Ghost of a Chance

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.”