November 14th 1793.
A Thursday.
It would be two years after the shipwreck when Rebekha took another trip to St. Madoc’s church. This time, I fancy she took a pony and trap, with her father John, proudly at her side. Little Ann, with a headful of ringlets, ribbons and fairytales squeezed between them. She’d pass the spots where blackberries, hazelnuts and sloes would provide their Autumn bounty in just a few months. High above in an oak tree, Rebekha made note of a bundle of mistletoe, although there would be no fanciful sweetheart kisses for Rebekha at Christmas this year, for this would be her wedding day. Mother and grandfather and child, giving the pony the lightest touch of the whip as they trotted onwards singing:-
In and out the dusty bluebells.
In and out the dusty bluebells.
In and out the dusty bluebells.
Who will be my lover?
DustyBluebells3.mp3But there again, and we’ll never know but maybe Ann wasn’t there. Maybe she’d been tucked away safely somewhere in order to avoid any lingering shame.
Rector Moses Grant was there to greet them and indeed he was far more welcoming today. The bride and her father were greeted with open arms. Shuffling through to the back of the church, Rebekha raised her eyes, held her head high, and glimpsed down the aisle to her awaiting groom. In my mind’s eye, at that moment, the congregation also lifted their heads and sung, to the Glory of God.
Fairest Isle, all Isles Excelling,
Seat of Pleasures, and of Loves;
Venus here, will chuse her Dwelling,
And forsake her Cyprian Groves.
Fairest Isle.mp3