Page 26 of Of Heather and Thistle

“Here we are,” Reid said as he slowed the car to a stop in front of the wrought-iron gates that guarded the entrance.

Heather swallowed with her heart beating faster as she stared at the imposing structure. This was it: The House. The Family Legacy. The reason she was here.

The house loomed at the end of the drive, its presence pressing against the haze, against the cold air itself.

It wasn’t just a house.

Her fingers tightened around the seat belt.

She wasn’t ready.

Reid cut the engine and turned to her with a slight, reassuring nod. “It’s a lot to take in, but we’ll go inside and chat. I’ll be here for the whole process.”

Heather took a steadying breath and nodded, her fingers tightening around the door handle.

She stepped out, pausing as Glenoran loomed before her.

The mist curled around the stones, softening their edges, wrapping the house in an eerie charm.

She pressed a hand to her coat, bracing herself against the weight of everything she still didn’t know.

Today had to bring answers—about her mother, about this place—something to make sense of what came next.

Her footsteps crunched over damp gravel as she approached the entrance.

The heavy door sagged slightly at the hinges, its once-imposing presence worn by time. Chipped stone, creeping ivy, and the slow pull of decay blurred the edges between past and present.

“Miss Campbell?” Reid’s voice cut through her thoughts. “You ready?”

She blinked, realizing she’d been staring too long. “I think so.”

Reid opened the door with a groan, the sound of old wood creaking as it swung inward.

Inside, the entryway was cold, the vaulted ceiling stretching high above, its exposed beams darkened with age.

The flickering light from a single lamp cast odd shadows across the flagstone floor, catching the carved details of the wainscoting along the walls.

The grand fireplace, once the heart of the house, stood empty and cold, its iron grate rusting beneath a thick layer of dust. Cobwebs clung to the substantial wooden banister of the staircase, and the antique furniture, adorned with intricately carved legs and faded upholstery, stood like forgotten relics of a long-lost time.

A musty smell filled the air—old wood, mold, and damp stone.

Everything felt weighty and forgotten, as if time had passed the house by but left its ghosts behind.

Here, buried beneath the dust and stone, was something almost familiar. A scent. A feeling. Like brushing against the edge of a memory that wasn’t hers but had lived in her bones all along.

A man in his mid-fifties stood near the staircase, his suit slightly out of place in the dilapidated surroundings.

His hands were clasped behind his back, but it was his eyes that caught her attention— piercing blue, cool and assessing.

There was something familiar about them, a nagging sense of recognition she couldn’t quite place.

Like a face from a half-remembered dream.

The way he looked at her was sharp and scrutinizing.

It made her feel as though she were being examined under a microscope.

“Mr. Reid.” He nodded, then turned to her. “Ye must be Miss Campbell.” His voice was professional, but not entirely warm.

She snapped out of her thoughts and stepped forward to shake his hand. “Yes, that’s me.”

The man took her hand firmly, his grip surprisingly strong. “I’m Charles Duncan. Mr. Reid and I will be the solicitors overseeing yer late mother’s estate,” he said, his tone formal. “It’s a pleasure to meet ye, despite the… conditions of the place. I’ll take ye through everything shortly.”

She spoke past a lump in her throat at the mention of her mother. “Thank you for meeting with me,” she said quietly, taking in the room as she tried to avoid crying.

Mr. Reid, standing just behind Duncan, gave a polite nod. “Aye, we understand this can be overwhelming. No rush, lass. We’ll go through everything step by step.” His voice was smoother than Duncan’s—measured, reassuring, as if he was the one meant to soften the edges of what was to come.

Duncan motioned for her to follow him into the sitting room.

The old floorboards groaned beneath her steps, warped with age and wear.

The air was colder than expected, carrying the damp scent of stone and dust. The sitting room was no better than the hallway—furnished with timeworn pieces that had once been elegant but now faded in quiet decay.

A tufted settee, its brocade upholstery faded and fraying, faced a stone hearth that hadn’t seen fire in years.

Dark wooden paneling lined the walls, its carved details dulled by neglect.

The curtains, once rich damask, hung massive and motionless, blocking all but the faintest slivers of light.

Above, a few oil paintings clung stubbornly to the walls, their gilded frames cracked and splintered, their subjects watching with hollowed, timeworn eyes.

“Please, have a seat.” Duncan gestured toward the armchair across from him as he reached for a worn leather folder on the desk, flipping it open with practiced ease.

Papers rustled as he sifted through them, pausing briefly to straighten a loose sheet before glancing up.

“I’ll explain things to ye in a moment.”

Heather hesitated but sat down, the chair’s springs groaning in protest. Reid remained standing by the fireplace, absently dusting his fingers over the cracked stone mantel, his expression unreadable.

“Aye, best to get comfortable,” he added, glancing at her. “There’s a fair bit to go over.”

She glanced around the room, her eyes settling on the peeling wallpaper and the cracks in the ceiling that all seemed to grow wider the longer she looked at them. The house felt heavier with every breath, its history pressing in on her.

“Glenoran House,” Duncan began, flipping through the documents before him, “has been in yer family for generations. It’s a fine estate, but as ye can see, it’s seen better days.

” He gestured toward the worn surroundings.

“The upkeep has lapsed over the years, and it’s no small undertaking to restore it. ”

She nodded, gripping the armrest of the chair. She already knew that much.

Duncan continued, “As the sole heir, ye have a few choices. Ye can sell the estate outright—though it’d be worth more with renovations. Or ye can restore it, either to keep or to rent. There’s historical value, but that comes with its own set of rules.”

Heather swallowed. “Rules?”

“Aye.” He tapped one of the documents. “Because the house is a heritage property, there are preservation guidelines if ye choose to renovate. Ye’ll need approval for major structural changes, but there are grants and resources to help with restoration.”

She exhaled, trying to process it all. “And if I sell?”

Duncan exchanged a glance with Reid before answering. “To a developer? Maybe a private investor? Someone who might tear it down, is most likely.”

The words hit harder than she expected. “I see. ”

Reid spoke up, voice gentler than Duncan’s. “It’s a lot to take in, lass. No need to rush a decision. But once ye sell, there’s no goin’ back.”

Heather tried to listen—tried to focus—but her chest felt tight. She glanced around the room again, her throat becoming unbearably tight.

The cracks in the ceiling. The sagging wallpaper. The weight of generations pressing down on her.

She needed to breathe.

Just breathe.

But it was crushing her, this place—this history that had waited for her, wrapped in silence.

Focus on the paperwork. Don’t think about the dust, the decay, the expectation. “I’ll need time to think.”

Duncan nodded, sliding the documents toward her. “Of course. Look it over, and when ye’re ready, we’ll discuss next steps.”

Mr. Reid replied, “If ye need anything else, dinnae hesitate to reach out.” His tone was gentle but businesslike.

Mr. Duncan nodded in agreement, his expression unreadable. “Aye, we’re here if ye need us.”

Reid exhaled, adjusting his coat. “It’s a lot to take in, lass. But there’s no rush.”

As the conversation wrapped up, Heather lingered by the door. Mr. Reid was about to step outside when Mr. Duncan spoke up from the corner of the room.

“If yer thinkin’ about restoring the place,” Duncan said, glancing at her with a thoughtful expression, “my son runs a business specializing in historic homes. Lad’s got a knack for it.”

Reid huffed, shaking his head. “Aye, and a stubborn streak. But he’s good at what he does.”

She barely absorbed the name Duncan mentioned, her thoughts still too tangled, but the idea of renovations suddenly felt a little less impossible.

As they stepped outside, Reid hesitated by the door. “If ye’d like, I can take ye back to yer accommodations? No point in wanderin’ about in the cold.”

She shook her head. “I think I’ll stay for a little while. I’d like to take a look around.”

Reid’s eyebrow quirked, but he nodded. “Very well. Just be careful.”

Heather offered a small smile. “I will. Thank you.”

She watched him step into the rain, mist curling around him as he hesitated—just for a moment—before glancing back.

Something in his gaze made her pulse stutter, as if he could see the questions tangled in her mind.

But he only nodded once and walked away, leaving her in the looming shadow of Glenoran House.

The night pressed in, thick with unanswered questions, but beneath her unease, something else stirred. Possibility. Whatever this was, it wasn’t over.

She stepped back inside.

One step at a time — for her mother, for herself… and for the history that refused to stay buried.