Page 4 of A Ghost of a Chance

She nodded. “I was born Easter morning.”

“Fitting.” He paused and gave her a searching look as if trying to memorize her face. “One might almost believe you an angel.”

She didn’t know whether to laugh or swoon. She settled for a smile.

Atwood and the wounded Jake returned to the main room.

Jake staggered to the nearest chair and fell heavily. He slurred, “Another ‘un.”

Atwood patted Jake’s shoulder. “I think you’ve had enough for now, my friend, don’t you? Perhaps you want to head over to the bonfire now?”

Jake sighed. “Nothing helps, anyway.” He got up and lurched outside.

Atwood stared sadly after Jake. “Poor soul. He’ll drink himself to death afore long.” Then he looked around at Rafe Beauchamp’s handiwork “You cleaned up for me. I’m in your debt, sir.”

“No need.” Mr. Beauchamp smiled at Osanne. “I believe I shall join the bonfire, as well. Care to accompany me?” He smiled at Osanne.

Atwood replied, “No, I’m staying open in case any customers come in. Enjoy yourself.”

Glancing at Atwood, Mr. Beauchamp lifted a brow in amusement, then smiled at Osanne. He opened the door and held it for Osanne, waiting. He had invited her to accompany him, to spend another moment with him. Marvels never ceased.

As Osanne passed him, she said softly, “Thank you, Mr. Beauchamp.”

He closed the door behind him and looked at the revelry around the bonfire, then returned his focus to her. “Since we both braved the ‘spooks’ in the pub and cleaned up their mess together, not to mention we’re about as far from any drawing room as we can get and still be in jolly ol’ England, I propose we dispense with formalities. I would be pleased if you would call me Rafe.”

The night seemed brighter already. “Very well, Rafe. Then please call me Osanne.”

“Osanne.” If a gaze could caress, his fared well.

How lovely to hear her name uttered by such a charming and handsome gentleman. ’Twouldn’t last, surely, but she would cherish these few moments and carry them in her heart to keep back the darkness of her loneliness.

As Rafe sauntered about the celebration, Osanne remained at his side. Musical notes took shape in her mind, the first in an age that had come to her, and she ached to play them on the pianoforte in an attempt to continue composing her song. Yet, remaining at Rafe’s side proved the stronger allure.

Women of every age paused to send Rafe admiring glances, but he seemed more interested in the festivities. Children and youth played Snap Apple, gnawing on apples suspended on a long piece of string without using their hands. Others threw nuts in the bonfire and squealed as they popped. Some toasted bread and bits of cheese on long sticks over the flames.

The band of Romani who often camped nearby this time of year mingled with the crowd, more welcome than any other on such a night. They read palms, foretelling fortunes for young men, and prospects of love for young women. Others performed magic tricks or sold potions, hand-carved items, and trinkets.

A few villagers danced around the fire in strange costumes with drunken abandon. Next to the doorways of shops and cottages, the carved root vegetables, illuminated by candles or coals inside, grinned at the crowd with their weird faces. Some cottage and shop doors stood open to welcome in the spirits of beloved ancestors with plates of food or sweets in the doorway. Children cavorted about with hands and mouths full of treats.

Mrs. Larkin, more gray and bent than the last time Osanne had seen her, stood in the doorway of her tiny cottage, staring glumly out at the revelers. Next to her feet sat a plate of sweets and a row of candles leading into her house in quiet invitation to those family members she had loved and lost.

Rafe quietly observed, occasionally returning greetings to people who called out to him, inviting him to join them. Madding Hollow had always prided itself on welcoming strangers, and Rafe’s good looks and bearing didn’t hurt, either. Surprisingly, he remained at Osanne’s side rather than joining the revelry.

For a moment, her imagination painted a future with him next to her, walking together, talking, holding hands....

Impossible. He wasn’t hers. How could he be? Still, he remained at her side almost protectively.

No sign of John or Frank Larkin nearby, thank goodness. Screams from the graveyard gave her a clue as to their whereabouts. At least they no longer caused havoc where the bulk of the villagers gathered, nor at Ravenswood Manor. She eyed the manor, aching to immerse herself in music but unable to bring herself to hasten from Rafe’s presence.

Rafe gestured loosely about at the villagers making merry, and asked her, “Would you like to try any of these games?”

“No, thank you. I am content to watch.”

As he looked around, he turned pensive, much like his earlier mood. Almost to himself, he asked, “Do you ever feel detached from everything around you? To everyone?”

“I do.” Perhaps others felt that way as well.

He watched her curiously. “I suppose that makes us a couple of restless spirits.”