Page 37 of A Ghost of a Chance

Rafe spent Christmas with his family. Gradually, Kitty Potter became more familiar to him as her grown-up self, and less a feminine version of Benjamin. After all, Ben had never been that pretty.

They passed many hours together playing games, chatting, and riding when weather permitted. Her laughter trilled frequently. Sometimes they sat side by side as he read and she drew. Being with her grew increasingly more comfortable. Yet, always his thoughts centered on Osanne.

A week after Easter, he bade his family farewell. Wrapped in a shawl to protect her from the brisk wind, Kitty arrived to see him off. This time, she offered him a folded piece of paper.

“Don’t open it until after you stop for the night,” she said. Swiftly, she kissed his cheek and hurried away.

With his arm resting on the saddle, he lowered his head to his arm. Had he raised Kitty’s expectations by spending time with her? Could he ever return her regard?

That night in a wayside inn, he opened the paper Kitty had pressed into his hand to reveal a drawing of Rafe astride Solo—a good likeness, and in such detail that she had even captured the folds of his greatcoat.

Yet, Osanne’s face, the timbre of her voice, her soothing presence, haunted his every idle moment, and riding about the countryside to pay the calls he had vowed to make provided many such moments.

Later, as he helped repair the roof belonging to the widow of one of his fallen men, he paused. Would Osanne approve of his efforts for them? Had he done enough?

Did he truly do this for them, or did he seek something for his own benefit?

Once the roof had been properly repaired, he climbed down the rickety ladder where the pretty young widow stood clutching her shawl about her.

“I’m grateful to you for your aid, Captain Beauchamp.” She tugged on Rafe’s hand, leading him toward the door of her humble cottage. “Stay the night with me?”

Inside the doorway, she dropped her shawl, revealing only a shift beneath. Slowly, she lowered the shift to reveal curves any man would desire. He was not immune.

Still, Rafe had never been a libertine and he was not about to start now. He caught the fabric before it fell completely from the young widow, and raised it back up to her shoulders.

He gave her a kind smile and shook his head. “I have not come to take advantage, nor do I expect any repayment.” He stepped back. “Farewell.”

She blinked at him, then hugged herself.

In the small barn, after saddling Solo, the only other occupant besides a milk cow, he tucked a small bag of silver coins in the chipped milk pail for the widow to find in the morning.

At a crossroads, he paused. The northerly route took him toward a handful of villages he planned to visit. The other way lay the path to Osanne’s village. Four months separated him from All Hallows’ Eve and Osanne, yet Madding Hollow had become familiar. Its inhabitants, his friends, beckoned to him.

He patted Solo’s head. “What say you? Shall we go a bit early and pay a call on my friend Mr. Brown and his bride?”

His horse waffled and nodded his head, all the justification Rafe needed. He turned toward Madding Hollow and reached it as the rising sun cast a golden glow over the land. Summer gave the remote area a lush, wild beauty so different from the dying barrenness of late October. The scent of rain-kissed flowers and leaves, and freshly-turned soil lifted his spirits. Sunlight winked at him through the canopy of trees reaching over the road. Birds flirted and sang all around him. A tangle of verdant green fields, wildflowers, fruit-laden trees, and shrubbery peppered with blooms tumbled over the countryside in charming disarray.

When he strolled into the familiar inn, Mr. Atwood took a second glance. “Well, bless my soul, it’s Mr. Beauchamp. You’re a mite early this year.”

“I am. Do you have a room I can have for a few days?”

“For you, always. Weather’s a bit warm for your usual mulled wine. What can I get you?”

“How about a few slices of bread and cheese?”

“Done. I have fresh pears, too.”

Rafe ate his fill before ambling to the Browns’ vicarage. Outside the front door, he found them murmuring with an older man in hushed tones.

“I understand,” Mr. Brown said. “Thank you for coming.”

The man, wearing the clothes of a laborer but carrying a leather satchel like a physician’s medical bag, put on his hat and nodded to Rafe as he passed by.

“Mr. Beauchamp,” Mr. Brown called. “How delightful to see you. Do come in.”

Inside, Mrs. Brown smiled at him. “I’ll have Molly put on the kettle.” She disappeared inside.

Rafe glanced at the direction of the departing visitor. “A doctor? Is everyone well?”