On the latter side of mid-afternoon, Mr. Anderson turned off the road and headed toward a village nestled against the mountain. “This is Meadhon,” he said proudly. “The mill along the stream there is the one my uncle owned. He’s the one we shall be waking this night.”
“What will become of the mill?” Ian asked.
“He leaves behind a young widow who will not be a widow long,” Mr. Anderson predicted. “Not that she’s ever let marriage stop her from eyeing the lads, if you know what I mean.” He said the last to Mr. Campion in a low confiding tone, one seemingly understood only by gentlemen.
Lyssa did not like him at all.
Several people out and about called a greeting to Mr. Anderson. They were all rushing through their chores so as to ready for the wake. The mood in the air was one of anticipation. They were all good-looking, hardworking people. Many spoke to Mr. Anderson in the Gaelic and they were all curious about Lyssa and Mr. Campion.
Mr. Anderson told everyone they had been invited to the wake, and several echoed his sentiments that visitors were always welcome—especially to a wake like the one the miller was about to have. No one expressed sorrow over the old miller’s death. In fact, his wake seemed to be quite an event.
About a half a mile on the other side of the village, Mr. Anderson pulled into the yard of his own small farm. It was a handsome place with chickens running across the yard, several dogs, a good-size barn, and a solid manor house made out of the local stone.
As he pulled the horses to a halt, the front door opened and four towheaded boys came running out yelling, “Papa!” The youngest’s fat legs had trouble keeping up with his brothers.
They were followed by a frazzled woman of ample proportions who was all too obviously pregnant with Mr. Anderson’s fifth child. Stray wisps had escaped from her braided and pinned blonde hair and her cheeks were red from exertion. She appeared ready to have her baby at any moment.
He jumped to the ground and gave his wife a husbandly kiss on the cheek, apparently without any pang of conscience for having kissed Lyssa earlier.
“Angus, I’m glad you are home,” the woman said without acknowledging the kiss. “The house is full. All of your relatives and their friends have come from far and wide to stay under our roof this night.”
“It is to be expected,” he answered. “Here now, this is Mr. Campion and his sister Miss Campion. They are bound for Appin. I had a wheel stuck in the mud and Mr. Campion helped me out. I offered them a bed for the night.”
“But we haven’t any,” his wife said, worried. She glanced over her shoulder where several of the relatives had already come out on the step.
“We have the room in the barn.” Mr. Anderson looked at Mr. Campion. “That should be fine enough for you and your sister? There’s a cot there and we’ve plenty of blankets.”
“It will be fine,” Mr. Campion said.
“There, it’s settled,” he said to his wife, who looked to Lyssa.
“I am so sorry we can’t offer you better hospitality,” she said in her lovely lilting speech. “But my husband’s uncle was not a beloved man.”
“Do you mind my asking, why is everyone attending his wake?” Lyssa asked.
“Because we are all glad he is dead,” Mrs. Anderson responded frankly. “There wasn’t a one of us that James Potter didn’t cheat, even his own nephew’s family. There will be much to celebrate this night. But I go on and you look worn through from travel. Let me show you to your room.”
Mr. Campion and some of Mr. Anderson’s other guests offered to help unload the wood. Lyssa followed Mrs. Anderson into the barn, which was a large stone-and-timber structure almost a century old with a draftiness to prove its age. Stalls for livestock lined the aisle. Most were empty.
“We don’t keep the horses in here during the summer, or the cattle or sheep either,” Mrs. Anderson explained. “The room I’m letting you use was for a stable manager, if we were to ever have such a thing. My husband’s family had been quite well off before they fought against the English at Culloden. Of course, then they lost all save for this piece of land.”
There was a trace of bitterness her voice.
She opened the door to a dark room used for storing tack. The overpowering smell of moldering leather and a variety of liniments made Lyssa take a step back to allow her nose to adjust.
Mrs. Anderson walked inside. The only light was from the door. Lyssa had no choice but to follow.
“This isn’t much,” her hostess said, pointing out a canvas-covered cot on a less-than-sturdy wood frame. “But you should be fine for one night.”
Lyssa nodded, not ready to draw a full breath.
“Your brother can sleep in one of the stalls. There is hay in some of them and he should be comfortable. On the other hand,youwill appreciate a door.” She placed her palm on the worn wood. “There’s a hook to lock it closed.” Her fingers lightly brushed the metal, before she added thoughtfully, “Angus has ahabit of, um, moving around at night. You will want to lock the door.”
“I will,” Lyssa assured her.
“Good,” Mrs. Anderson said, and gave Lyssa a smile that said clearer than words that she was glad they understood each other. Lyssa’s heart went out to her.
“By the by, I’m Maggie.”
