“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?”
“No problem,” Jean assured him. “We’re just having a wee dram. Would you like some?”
He held out his glass, placing his arm on Lyssa’s shoulder. “Take just a sip,” he murmured in her ear. “Otherwise it is an insult.”
Lyssa held out her glass and discovered her idea of a “wee dram” and Jean’s were decidedly different. The older woman didn’t hesitate to fill a glass half full.
There was nothing to be done. Jean held her glass in the air. “To James!” she chirped and Lyssa had no choice but to drink with the others surrounding them, who quickly seconded the toast.
She took a sip—and was caught off guard by the whiskey’s burn. She choked as the fire of the liquor went down her throat and hit her stomach. Tears sprang to her eyes though she’d barely drunk more than a few drops.
“Is something the matter?” Jean asked.
Ian rubbed Lyssa’s back. “My sister’s never had whiskey before.”
“But I thought she was Scottish?” Jean wondered.
“She is now,” Ian said and silently toasted Lyssa before downing his own glass.
Lyssa watched the amber liquid go down his throat and wondered how he did it. Then Jean, laughing, did the same—and although she had close to forty years on Lyssa, she suffered no ill effects. In fact, she poured more for herself and Ian. Lyssa had no choice. She had to take a second timid sip.
This time, there was no burn, just a smooth, mellowy, not-too-sweet taste. She wasn’t certain if she liked it or not, but let Jean pour some more in her glass and the third swallow was even better.
The sun was setting. The evening air was turning velvety, and a full, yellow moon, the kind Lyssa liked best, made its appearance in the sky.
The band finished its first selection and now started the dancing in earnest with a merry reel. Couples quickly took their places while others flowed into the house for food.
“So you paid your respects to the miller?” Ian asked, his voice close to her ear. Jean had moved on to greet other friends.
Lyssa looked up at him. “I was shocked to discover him sitting straight up in bed. I’ve never seen such a thing. Nor have I seen such a crowded wake for a person no one liked, or at least, I haven’t attended one. Did you pay your respects?”
“I managed to avoid it so far.”
“Oh,” Lyssa said, “so you haven’t met the widow yet?” She made a great pretense of looking around him for the blondeneighbor and other Anderson female relatives. “And where is your entourage? I can’t believe they are leaving you alone.”
