The Cold Light of Mourning Read Online Free PDF Page A

care to the Hall.
    When the bridesmaids’ manicures were finished, Penny suggested they might want to sit quietly for a few minutes to make sure their polish was completely dry before setting off. Impatient to get on with their day, however, they said their good-byes, gingerly opened the door, and pranced off into the street.
    Penny finished her work for the day and, leaving the shop clean and ready for the next morning, went upstairs for a light supper before setting off for Wightman and Sons. She didn’t expect too many people would be at the evening visitation for Emma, just a few old friends, and that was how it turned out. The rector and his wife, Bronwyn, were acting as unofficial family, greeting the few people who had dropped in. Penny quietly made the rounds, speaking briefly and politely with everyone, and then made her way home for a quiet cup of cocoa and an hour or so struggling to concentrate on a library book as her thoughts kept drifting back to Emma and the meaning of a life fulfilled. And, as waves of grief began to wash over her, she realized how dearly she would miss her friend because as of today, her own life had begun to move slowly forward, leaving Emma frozen in the past.
    And then she smiled as she thought how Emma would have enjoyed hearing about the bridesmaids’ shoes.

Four
    T he private road leading to Ty Brith wound its way up the hillside for about three kilometres. At first narrow and flanked on each side by trees and brush, the road widened as it got closer to the Hall and the trees gave way to lush, green fields.
    On this night, from the bend in the road where the trees ended and the fields began, lanterns had been placed alongside the fence to light the visitors’ way to the Hall and to let them know that a magical evening was about to unfold.
    It seemed that every window in the Hall was aglow, and the welcoming sound of excited party voices greeted visitors as they emerged from their cars on the warm summer evening and crunched across the gravelled forecourt to the porte cochere.
    Emyr Gruffydd, with Meg Wynne Thompson by his side, was standing just inside the front door to greet his guests. Tall, with dark wavy hair, a determined chin, and deep-set blue eyes, Emyr was good looking in a way that would have been better appreciated thirty years earlier. But the woman beside him was definitely of her time, and by anyone’s standards, she was exquisite.
    Meg Wynne, dressed in a strapless emerald green vintage Valentino gown, was tall, with the perfect posture and long legs that suggested a pampered childhood filled with ballet and riding lessons, and holiday visits to London for the pantomime, followed by a walk down Regent Street to see the Christmas lights. Her shoulder-length, frosted blond hair was brushed softly back from her face and held in place with a diamond clip. Chandelier diamond-and-emerald earrings, a wedding gift from her soon-to-be father-in-law, almost brushed her bare shoulders. Her smile was polite but superficial, and if she felt any excitement, she did not show it. Her calm, poised presence was reassuring but discomfiting at the same time, as if she was deliberately holding something back. The aura around her was not of happiness, but of triumph.
    At twenty-eight, she seemed on the brink of a charmed life: adding great wealth to her great beauty. She had worked tirelessly for both.
    The daughter of a lorry driver father and a shop assistant mother from Durham, Meg Wynne had set about early to reinvent herself. As a fourteen-year-old schoolgirl she worshipped the princess of Wales, knew the names of all the best designers, and dreamed of the day she would travel with Louis Vuitton luggage, wear Armani and Versace, and have closets filled with Chanel shoes and Prada handbags. She devoured fashion magazines and used them to carefully plan her escape from working class to first class.
    She instinctively knew she would have to find a way to get into the orbit of the