Chapter Ten
WHEN Lyssa came outside at the appointed hour, the Andersons, along with a host of others were waiting for her.
Always self-conscious about meeting new people in social circumstances, she found herself feeling a bit shy as she was being offhandedly introduced to the Andersons’ relatives and neighbors, who had joined them for the walk to the village.
There were so many people that Lyssa couldn’t catch everyone’s name, not that anyone seemed to care. The women were busy talking amongst themselves about children and the men groused about farming. And when it became clear to them that she was Ian’s “sister,” their acceptance of her became warmer.
Ian had already made himself at home. He was trying to beat the Anderson boys in a chase after a barrel hoop. The adults laughed, enjoying the sight of such a big man getting his legs run off of him by their children.
And Lyssa was happy to blend in.
In the tack room while she’d been getting ready, she’d worried about the increasing shabbiness of her dress.
The wool of the skirt was good, but both her skirt and blouse were showing signs of hard travel.
She didn’t have anything else to change into or even a bonnet to wear.
However, when she saw how the other women were dressed, she relaxed.
There wasn’t a bonnet to be seen. True, the married women all wore very high white caps, but the unmarried girls, her age and younger, either neatly braided their hair or plaited it in front and let it flow down their backs in the Grecian fashion.
Since her curls were impossible to tame into braids, Lyssa had to be satisfied with her simple style of tying it back with Ian’s leather cord, although she wouldn’t have minded a snood or bit of ribbon like some of the girls had.
She was pleased to see that everyone, save for Ian, wore plaid, and her tartan was well received.
The matrons wore plaid shawls with white kerchiefs beneath them.
Several men wore kilts, including Mr. Anderson, who topped his off with a blue jacket, no doubt a sign of his former position and prosperity.
Some wore their tartan as a wrap as Lyssa did, others as a drapery.
Even the children had plaid, either tied around their waists or as garters.
What really raised Lyssa’s eyebrows over Highland fashion was that most of the women were barefoot and seemed completely at ease with the fact. Thank goodness she had shoes, because she did not think she could do without.
Ian jogged up to her. “Put my knapsack in your room if you please,” he said.
“Of course.” Lyssa turned back toward the barn and was surprised when two young women offered to go with her. She found out why, when the first, a pretty blonde who was an Anderson neighbor and had the sort of lush figure any man would admire said in her melodic brogue, “Is your brother married?”
They had reached the door to her room. “No.”
“Any sweethearts?”
“Not that I know,” Lyssa hedged.
That was all the girls wanted to know. They left her like a shot, and by the time Lyssa came out of the barn after hiding the knapsack under her cot, she could see Ian was surrounded by lovely young lasses.
He didn’t seem to mind.
“It’s a nice night for a walk, isn’t it, Lyssa, my dear?” Mr. Anderson said, coming up and attempting to put his hand around her waist.
“Yes, it is,” she answered, skillfully avoiding his arm. “And I must help Maggie carry the basket she is holding.” Staying by his wife should cool his ardor, although he didn’t seem to be the least put off by her snub.
“Save a dance for me,” he called softly, and she wanted to punch him. If Maggie overheard, she gave no indication.
Most of the women were bringing food for the wake. Maggie had a ham and a dozen hard-boiled eggs in her basket. She also had a pudding that David, her youngest son, had helped himself to. “Just like his father, he is.”
Lyssa hoped not.
James Potter had lived in a good-size house built beside the mill, and it was there that the wake was held. The house was made of the same gray stone as the mill and outbuildings and there was a large yard of dirt beaten down into a hard floor from years of carts delivering grain to the miller.
The Anderson party was not the first to arrive. The house was so crowded, people stood outside. An ale keg had been tapped and a row of whiskey bottles set up. Lyssa was surprised to see that everyone had brought their own glass. Maggie had thought to bring one each for her and Ian.
All in all, the air was festive and a far cry from any wake Lyssa had ever attended. She was relieved to learn that no one could have a drink until they’d gone in and paid their respects to the dead, which seemed the least that people could do in sympathy to the family.
Lyssa had assumed she would not be expected to perform such a serious chore, because she’d never even laid eyes on the man.
However, one of Maggie Anderson’s aunts, Jean, cheerfully said she’d hardly known the old miller either and now was as good a time as any to say hello and good-bye.
She was all of sixty and as tiny as a bird with bright brown eyes to match.
She took Lyssa by the arm and led her into the house.
The halls and rooms were packed with neighbors and friends greeting each other. Here, the atmosphere was a touch more somber, but not much. Food was being set out in the kitchen and children darted amongst the grown-ups, anxious to play until someone shooed them out.
“There’s the widow.” Jean nodded to a surprisingly young, sandy-haired woman with the plumpest breasts Lyssa had ever seen.
“I do know her. She worked at her father’s tavern a few miles south of Meadhon and was always a handful.
Little better than a whore and would take anyone to her bed, until that goat James took a liking to her and offered his name.
Now, look—she’s wealthy,” Jean confided.
Approaching the woman, she immediately changed her tone of voice. “Mary, what sad news.”
“He was my life,” the widow murmured. Black was a good color for her complexion, something Lyssa sensed the woman knew.
“Yes, he was, yes, he was,” Jean agreed. She patted Mary’s hand twice and moved on without taking the time to introduce Lyssa, who hesitated.
“Shouldn’t I let her know I’m here?”
“She doesn’t care about you,” Jean said. “Now, when she meets your brother it will be a different matter. You’d best watch him close. Just because she’s a widow doesn’t mean Mary will want to sleep by herself tonight. She’s carried on with Angus for years.”
Lyssa was shocked at Jean’s candor. “You’re not serious? Why, he’s her husband’s nephew?”
“Aye, and I and the rest of the family don’t have any use for him. We all worry about poor Maggie, but she seems blind to her husband’s bad habits.”
Lyssa also observed they were receiving more than their share of attention.
Coming up to them, Mr. Anderson noticed, too.
“Visitors, especially beautiful ones, are always welcome in the kirk.” He laughed as if he’d made some small joke and steered Lyssa and a now frowning Jean into the low-ceilinged bedroom.
Lyssa hoped Jean didn’t think she encouraged Mr. Anderson’s nonsense.
Nor was she ready to pay her respects to the dead.
The viewing was in the bedroom and Lyssa wanted to hang back, but the movement of the other guests prevented her.
People stepped forward and then to the side in what seemed a relentless tide and before she was ready, she found herself standing in front of the body of Mr. Potter, sitting straight up in bed.
The position startled Lyssa into a hiccup of surprise and a step back. Everyone else acted as if he appeared completely natural for a dead man.
He’d been shaved and dressed in a blue jacket with a drape of a red and green plaid over his shoulder.
The few gray hairs on his bald pate had been combed to the side and he appeared to Lyssa simply to be a rather reluctant member of the party.
His was not the expression of one “resting in peace.” If anything, he appeared ready to bite someone’s head off.
“That is him,” Mr. Anderson crooned. “That’s my uncle, looking as real as life.”
Lyssa could see why no one liked him. Feeling remarkably awkward, she shifted the empty glass Maggie had given her from one hand to the other.
Mr. Anderson patted his uncle’s leg, covered by the bed clothes. “James, we won’t miss arguing with you at all.”
“Amen,” another gent said, a sentiment echoed by several other mourners.
Jean turned toward Lyssa. “Och, you look like you could use a wee dram. Come, let’s go outside.”
Lyssa thankfully followed her, slipping away from Mr. Anderson, who was waylaid by another guest. As she and Jean walked out the front door, a group of local musicians started tuning their instruments.
Because the night promised to be a nice one, they were set up outside by the house. This was no string quartet like the ones Lyssa often listened to at London soirees. There was a drum, a pipe, and a fiddle, and in a matter of minutes they set up a tune that filled the air.
“That is more like it,” Jean said approvingly, moving toward the bottles of whiskey. She poured a healthy measure into her glass and offered some to Lyssa.
“No, thank you,” Lyssa demurred.
“No whiskey?” Jean acted as if she’d never heard of such a thing. “You have to have whiskey at a wake. It’s the water of life. Why even the babies drink it.” She proved her words by pointing Lyssa toward a group of children sipping on their whiskey.
“I don’t think so,” Lyssa said uncertainly. She’d never had strong spirits before and usually drank no more than a glass of wine at dinner.
“Come on,” Jean pushed, filling Lyssa’s glass whether she wanted it or not. “We are guests. We have to drink to the miller’s health. How else is he to go off to heaven or hell without us?”
To her relief, Ian joined them. “Is there a problem?”