Free The Runaway Bridesmaid by Daisy James Page B

wreckage of her personal life the last time her world had imploded.
    Would the cottage produce the same magic recovery this time?

Chapter Eleven
    St. Peter’s Parish Church had presided over the village of Brampton for the last five hundred years. Shortly before eleven a.m. on a Wednesday morning in late April, as a golden wreath of sunlight hugged the silhouette of the church’s stone spire, mourners meandered towards the arched wooden entrance gates; some alone, some in pairs, others in solemn groups.
    Rosie doubted she had the strength to enter those doors, even with the staunch support of Emily and Nick at each elbow. But as the only representative of the Marshall family in attendance, she swung her legs from the black limousine in the cortège, straightened her specially-selected Armani skirt, clenched her fists and jaw and summoned every last ounce of courage she possessed to force her steps through the churchyard and through the heavy doors. The heels of her stilettos, their height the source of many teasing comments from her aunt, clacked on the flagstone floor of the vestibule and, as she made her way down the aisle sewn with a tapestry of tombstones, drew curious looks.
    She took her place on the front pew, bracketed between Nick and Emily, and resumed the habitual twisting of her pearl earring. Emily gently removed her fingers and held her hand in hers, not daring to meet her eyes for fear of puncturing the bubble of restrained tears.
    The congregation waited in verbal silence, the calm drone of unidentifiable organ music softening its harshness. Rosie’s soul was saturated with guilt and remorse, yet she knew these emotions were common when a life ended.
    At last, when Rosie thought she could restrain her tears no longer, the minister appeared through the rear door and the service of thanksgiving for her Aunt Bernice’s life began.
    Rosie could recall little of the sermon delivered by the Reverend Paul Hartley. Bernice had not been a regular worshipper at St Peter’s, and Rev. Hartley was a relative newcomer to the parish, having replaced the previous incumbent when the popular village priest, Reverend Aubrey, had taken a mission to Uganda. However, several of his quietly delivered words lingered on in Rosie’s disorientated mind.
    ‘Our faith manifests itself in all that we do, all that we love and all that we create. It is through those creations that we live on in the hearts and minds of those with whom we shared our lives and our loves. Our sister, Miss Bernice Catherine Marshall, was a talented artist and illustrator of children’s books and gave joy to every child and adult who had the good fortune to encounter one of those colourful gems of learning. Under her hand, their vibrant contents sprang to life from the page, and it is in those pictures and in our hearts that her memory will live on.’
    The congregation shuffled from the church, awaiting their turn to clasp Rosie’s fingers, to find the words to express their sorrow and offer their condolences at her aunt’s passing, thanking the Reverend for his comforting words or commenting on his chosen reading from the Bible. Some stalwart attendees asked after the previous Reverend and his presumed success in his missionary work.
    As Rosie made her way back to the waiting limousine, she was probably not intended to overhear the crisp clear tones of Rev. Hartley, more used to preaching from a pulpit than whispering in ears, that sadly the Reverend Aubrey had suffered some recent ill health and was returning from Uganda to see out his ecclesiastical time in the adjoining parish of Carnleigh, should they wish to resume their acquaintance. The march of time favoured no one, even those closer to the director of our destiny.
    Susan had insisted they held Bernice’s wake in the village tearoom adjacent to her shop, newly opened to the summer trade but closed that day as a mark of respect to her best friend. She had been as devastated as Rosie at the loss