Free The Cold Light of Mourning by Elizabeth J. Duncan Page B

Elen’s, the beautiful stone church that had been given pride of place several centuries earlier in its majestic setting beside the river. The group made their way along the path leading to the church where a small group of wedding guests had gathered. The pastel blues, pinks, greens, lilacs, and ivories of the women’s elaborate hats and coat dresses contrasted with the sturdy stone of the church’s façade, lending an air of festivity and lightness.
    Emyr and his groomsmen passed quickly into the church, with a few nods here and there, and walked to the vestry where the rector had said he would be waiting for them.
    “Ah, Emyr,” said Rev. Evans as he stretched out his hand. “I am so sorry to hear there has been a problem with Meg Wynne. I do hope she’s all right. We must try to think how we can handle this for the best, to give as much dignity as we can to the occasion. I take it you have still not heard from her?”
    “No,” said Emyr, “nothing. We’ve rung the hospitals but nobody has seen her.”
    “Right, well then,” said the rector. “Then here’s what I suggest we do.”
    By four o’clock, as gentle organ music provided a soothing backdrop, the congregation was seated, amid the usual rustling, whispering, throat clearing, glancing about to see who had been invited and who had not, and smiling and gesturing at old friends.
    Emyr and David took their places at the front of the church, and stared ahead.
    Silence fell as Robbie appeared at the back of the church with Mrs. Thompson on his arm. She was dressed in a floor-length beige dress with a detailed floral pattern embroidered across the bodice. Her matching hat, with broad brim and spiky leaves bobbing off it, could not hide her puffy, red eyes or look of bewilderment. The guests watched as the two made their way slowly down the aisle, followed by Mr. Thompson, red faced and sweating.
    As they realized what they were seeing, guests turned to each other and a low murmur filled the church. Why wouldn’t the father of the bride be walking down the aisle with his daughter? Something must be very wrong. After seeing Mrs. Thompson into her pew, and watching as her husband awkwardly took his place beside her, Robbie returned to the rear of the church to watch and wait.
    The sanctuary, with its whitewashed walls, carved rood screen, choir stalls, and dark roof beams had been tastefully decorated in an understated way; there were no bows on the pews or strategically placed flower arrangements. The only floral pieces were two enormous baskets of pink peonies, in perfect proportion for the size of the room, which had been set at the front of the church on either side of the altar.
    The rector stepped in front of the congregation, and held up his hand. As the late-afternoon sun filtered through the stained-glass window, scattering a kaleidoscope of colours across his snowy surplice, the music stopped and a heavy, ominous silence settled over the assembled guests.
    “Prynhawn da,” he greeted the congregation in Welsh. “Good afternoon.
    “Ladies and gentlemen, I am afraid I have an important announcement to make.”
    An immediate hush, lightly laced with a frisson of excitement at such an unusual beginning to a wedding, swept over the crowd.
    “It seems that our bride, Meg Wynne Thompson is missing, and …”
    The wedding guests turned to one another with varying degrees of shock, confusion, or mild misplaced amusement on their faces and began whispering.
    The rector, looking as stern as members of his regular Sunday morning congregation had ever seen him, again held up his hand and looked sternly from one side of the room to the other.
    “… and as I have never been in this position before, I am not sure exactly how best to proceed. But I think we should all sit quietly here, and please remember exactly where you are, for about twenty minutes to give the bride time to arrive if there has been a delay or she has been held up for some reason we