A Rake By Any Other Name
“Haven’t we all enough misdeeds of our own?
—Phillippa, the Dowager Marchioness of Somerset Rosewood Chapel was a charming gothic confection, a miniature cathedral in its rustic setting. Though small by any measure, its spire pierced the sky above the humble village of Brambleton. The cross-topped steeple was visible from several miles away.
“The main part of the chapel was built in the 1200s. Back then, over one hundred men worked on it for about twenty-five years,” the young vicar told David and Eliza. They strolled down the center aisle beneath the chapel’s ribbed vault, walking through splotches of color tossed onto the flagstone floor from the exquisite stained-glass window. “The village grew up in support of Rosewood. Its construction was the making of Brambleton.”
Since there wasn’t much to the little hamlet, Eliza thought that was faint praise.
“The nave was added during Cromwell’s time,”
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