Read Chapter 29: The Meeting of the Trustees

The trustees’ chamber at Castle Kintail had never been a welcoming room, but today it felt like a courtroom. Eilidh stood at the far end of the long oak table, the original deed from Finella’s strongbox laid flat before her, its edges cracked with age. Across from her, the trust’s five members sat in uneasy silence, their faces a patchwork of suspicion and curiosity. At the head of the table, Iain MacKinnon leaned back in his chair, a faint smile playing on his lips as if he had already won.

“We are here to discuss the future of this estate,” Iain began, his voice smooth as polished stone. “And I believe we all know the stakes. The documents my cousin—my *alleged* cousin—Hamish has uncovered are of dubious provenance at best. Forged, perhaps. Certainly convenient.”

“They were sealed in a wall for three hundred years,” Eilidh said, her voice steady. “Crafted by Finella MacKinnon herself. The ink has been dated by two independent archivists in Edinburgh. There is nothing convenient about a truth that was deliberately buried.”

Iain’s smile did not waver. “Truth is a malleable thing, Miss Grant. Especially when it serves a family with a grudge as old as yours.”

The trust chairman, a silver-haired solicitor named Mr. Ferguson, cleared his throat. “Let us proceed with order. Miss Grant, you have submitted a claim based on a dormant debt from 1789. Is that correct?”

“It is,” Eilidh said. “The Grant family held a mortgage on this estate that was never repaid. The debt was acknowledged in the estate’s own ledgers for over sixty years, then quietly forgotten when the MacKinnons passed into financial troubles of their own. Under Scots law, the claim is still valid.”

“A claim your family never pursued,” Iain interjected. “For nearly two centuries. One might wonder why.”

Eilidh met his gaze. “Because my ancestors were paid to forget it. Or threatened. Perhaps both.” She turned to the trustees. “I am not here to punish the MacKinnon name. I am here to prevent this estate from falling into the hands of a man who would sell its history to the highest bidder.”

A murmur rippled through the room. Hamish stood by the window, arms crossed, his face unreadable. He had said little since the meeting began, and Eilidh felt the weight of his silence like a stone in her chest.

“That is a serious accusation,” Mr. Ferguson said.

“It is a documented one,” Eilidh replied. She reached into her satchel and withdrew a leather-bound ledger, its pages brittle. “This is Finella’s private account book, found in the same strongbox. It details her brother’s embezzlement of estate funds—funds meant for the tenants’ repairs, for the dowries of her sisters. He stole from his own family to fund a gambling habit. When she threatened to expose him, he had her confined to her chambers. And when she fled—or tried to—she disappeared.”

The room fell silent. Iain’s smile had slipped, replaced by a mask of cold indifference.

“A woman’s scribblings,” he said dismissively. “Hardly admissible proof of murder.”

“No,” Eilidh agreed. “But it is proof of motive.” She let the ledger rest on the table. “And it is proof that the MacKinnon male line has been lying about their heritage for generations. Finella was not a recluse who died of a fever. She was erased.”

From the corner of the room, a soft cough drew every eye. Morag, the castle’s elderly housekeeper, rose from a chair near the door, her hands clasped in front of her. She had been invited as a witness to the family’s habits, a formality no one had expected her to exploit.

“If I may, Mr. Ferguson,” Morag said, her voice thin but clear. “I have something to say.”

The chairman nodded, surprised. “Morag, you are here as a corroborating witness to the estate’s maintenance history. Is there something else?”

“There is,” she said. She stepped forward, her small frame straightening with a dignity that made Eilidh’s breath catch. “My family has served this castle for nearly four hundred years. We have kept its secrets—kept them so well that some of us forgot they were our own.” She paused, drawing a worn photograph from her apron pocket. “My grandmother was a MacKinnon. Not by marriage. By blood. Her mother was Finella’s daughter’s child—the product of a liaison the family was desperate to hide.”

The room erupted. Voices overlapped, questions and accusations tangling in the air. Iain’s face went pale, then red. “This is preposterous,” he snapped. “A housekeeper’s tale to curry favor with the new claimant.”

“I have the letters,” Morag said quietly, and the room fell silent again. “Finella wrote to her cousin Margaret, the same letters Miss Grant found. But she also wrote to my great-grandmother, who was her lady’s maid and cousin by a different branch. Those letters are mine. They name my grandmother as Finella’s heir should the legitimate line fail.” She looked at Iain steadily. “Your great-uncle—the man you claim as your ancestor—was Finella’s brother’s son. Her abuser’s son. He inherited by threat and by murder, not by right.”

Mr. Ferguson raised a hand. “This is… unexpected. Do you have documentation, Morag?”

“I do,” she said. “In a safe at my home in Inverness. I will bring it to the next meeting, if the court allows.”

Iain slammed a fist on the table. “This is a circus! A housekeeper and a restorer conspiring to steal a castle from its rightful owners.” He pointed at Hamish. “And you stand there silent, letting them dismantle your birthright?”

Hamish unfolded his arms and walked to the table. He looked at Iain, and for the first time, Eilidh saw something hard and resolute in his eyes.

“My birthright was a lie,” he said. “My father told me Finella was a recluse who died of grief. He told me the Grants were enemies who had slandered our name for centuries. He destroyed a portrait of her because she looked like—” He stopped, his jaw tightening. He did not finish the sentence.

“I will not defend a lie,” Hamish continued. “Not for the castle. Not for the title. Not for you.”

Iain straightened his jacket. “Then you are a fool. A fool and a traitor to your own name.” He turned to the trustees. “This meeting is compromised. I will return with legal counsel, and we will see how far Miss Grant’s claims and Morag’s fairy tales hold up in a court of law.”

He swept out of the room, his footsteps echoing down the hall. The trustees exchanged uneasy glances. Mr. Ferguson sighed.

“The trust is deadlocked until further evidence is presented,” he said. “We will reconvene in one week. Miss Grant, Morag—I expect your documentation in order.”

The room emptied slowly. Eilidh remained at the table, her hands flat on the deed, the ring on her finger catching the dim light. Hamish came to stand beside her.

“You knew,” he said quietly. “About Morag.”

“I suspected,” Eilidh said. “The family records hinted at a servant branch. But I didn’t know for certain until she spoke.”

Hamish looked at Morag, who had returned to her chair, her hands folded in her lap. “You could have claimed this castle yourself long ago,” he said. “Why wait?”

Morag smiled, a thin, knowing curve. “Because waiting was the only way to make it stick, laddie. Buried claims surface faster than living ones. And because—” She paused, her gaze moving to Eilidh. “Because I was watching for someone like her. Someone who would want to restore the truth, not just the stone.”

Eilidh felt the weight of the ring on her finger—Finella’s ring, passed to her as if the woman herself had chosen this moment. She looked at Hamish, whose face was pale, his eyes unreadable.

“What did you mean,” she asked softly, “when you said she looked like—?”

He shook his head, turning away. “Not here. Not now.”

But the words hung in the air like a door left ajar, and Eilidh knew the answer would change everything.