Return to Butterfly Island by Rikki Sharp Read Free Book Online

people who had gathered from all over the island and beyond. A great, supportive family that she never realized she’d had. It made her heart beat a little stronger at every touch, as if the funeral guests each transfused a little of their energy and strength into her. Getting her through this sad day.
    When the time came for her to walk around the hill to where the Kirk stood, that tiny stone built church too small to hold even a quarter of the mourners, she found Donald appearing at her side in a neat if not old-fashioned dark suit and tie, linking arms with her on the right hand side, and Mrs. Baxter doing the same on her left. The sun was sparking off a relatively calm sea as a mild breeze stirred her mass of blond hair, the usually fickle curls tied back with a black ribbon and behaving themselves.
    Over a hundred strong, the crowd of mourners was waiting outside the Kirk in relative silence. Even the children had been given a spit and polish then squeezed into their best clothes. Irene had charge of Morgan on a new black lead and he was sitting patiently waiting for all the people he loved.
    More pleasantries were exchanged with the people who hadn’t had time to call in The Cuckoo earlier on. Then, carried on the breeze, came the sound of gentle hoof beats. As one, the crowd turned and looked down the stony track to see a pair of black horses resplendent in polished harness and tall black plumes on their heads pulling a black hearse, in which laid the plain coffin of Aunt Beatrice. Leading them with his top had tucked under his arm, dressed in Victorian funeral garb, was the serious-faced undertaker, presumably Nesbit or one of his sons.
    Donald left her side on a nod from Mr. Nesbit, as did three other younger men of the island. With practiced grace, they shouldered Beatrice Stuart’s coffin and walked solemnly towards the Kirk’s open door. In the mouth of the church, they balanced the coffin on a stand, where Reverend Fisher draped the simple wooden box with a rich red-based tartan cloth, emblazoned in the centre with the Stuart emblem. An offshoot of the House of Stuart, the Stuarts of Uist' shield contained a red Lion Rampant on a blue background above a green Rowan tree, which grew profusely around the island.
    With a brief smile to the gathered crowd, the Reverend stood behind the draped coffin with one hand touching the shield. “Gathered family and friends,” he began. “We are gathered here today in the sight of God to commit the soul of our sister, Beatrice Victoria Stuart, into his arms, and place her earthly body into the ground . . .”
    The service went by in a blur. More than once, China sought out Donald’s hand and he gave it a squeeze of reassurance. Having watched the tiny coffin being lowered into the grave, she found the mass of the assembled mourners a little too much, and escaped into the cool solitude of the stone Kirk.
    The church, or kirk as it was locally known, had stood on the edge of the cliffs since the 14 th century, when China’s ancestors first settled on the rocky island, stranded between the Inner and the Outer Hebrides. Out here on the tongue of land it had withstood the battering of the elements, much as the Grange up on the hill had, since the day it was built. Never having had electricity, there was a cold atmosphere inside its small knave. Only six rows of dark wooden pews lined the two sides of the church, with a nondescript altar at the front.
    As if guided by invisible hands, China walked to the front row, where a faded carved Stuart shield was inlaid into the left-hand shelf. On the bench was an old, faded maroon cushion, still indented as if the visitor had only just got up and left the Kirk. Before the cushion, sitting on the heavy oak shelf was a small, black-covered bible. Daring to sit on her aunt’s cushion, China reached forward and touched the leather-bound book, not wanting to disturb it on the shelf. It was as if the past was suddenly linked with the