Page 65 of Scotlander

She had to stay. Right? This was one of those quests where you didn’t find the answer until the end. So that’s what she’d do. She’d stay.

For herself. For Val. For all the guests who thought they were here on a legitimate holiday. After all, what they were doing probably wasn’t that far off from what the real Jacobeans did. A stark reminder that farming life continued to be physically and emotionally draining several hundred years on. The fact Finn, a man who struggled to spend time with his family was here, trying to help them with this deceit, told her all she needed to know. These were desperate measures.

If this failed, they’d lose Balcraigie.

‘I don’t know how easy it’s going to be to keep this quiet.’

Finn’s expression twisted as if she’d shivved him. ‘If I could give everyone their money back I would.’ He gave the piglet a stroke. His hand was shaking.

She bit her lip. ‘Look, it doesn’t have to come to that. When they understand your life history—’

‘History doesn’t matter. The future does.’

Willa sucked in a breath. ‘History does matter! It’s part of who you are. Being twelve and watching your mum marry her dead husband’s chief rival the year after he died is . . . is . . .’

How did you say a real fucker of a start in life but prettier?

‘Movie stuff?’ Finn volunteered.

‘Yes,’ she agreed. That was it, exactly. ‘Actors would totally fight it out to play you.’

‘Yeah? Well . . .’ He shook his head and sighed a big, heavy sigh. ‘If you could ask the scriptwriter how I can save the farm I’d owe you.’

‘Well.’ She grinned. ‘Putting other people’s real-life problems into film context is actually one of my superpowers.’

Finn raised a go-on eyebrow.

Willa instantly warmed to the task. ‘We need to turn your life into the equivalent of an inspirational underdog story. One of those low-budget films no one thinks will do well but actually pulls in millions at the box office.’

‘Comedy or tragedy?’

She gave him a come-on look. ‘Inspirational with funny bits, but deep, inescapably gut-wrenching emotion at the heart of it.’ She held up a hand so she could continue. ‘I know being the dour Scot is kind of your thang, but hear me out. Everyone, and I mean everyone, loves a grump who is touched by the largesse of his community. Especially if he’s a hottie.’

He shot her a look. She blushed. It was all very embarrassing.

‘Okay, then.’ He spread out his hands as if opening the floor to her. ‘What do I do to avoid turning this into a tragedy?’

‘You’ve got to ask the villagers for help.’

He lifted his eyebrows. ‘Yer bum’s oot the windae, lass.’

‘Translation, please.’

‘Not a chance. They hate me. Always have.’

‘No,’ she corrected. ‘They hate who they think your father was and, by proxy, you – mostly because you’ve done nothing over the years to change the impression because, from your perspective, you were protecting your father’s honour.’ On a roll now, she shifted round so she was facing him, cross-legged. ‘Look, I don’t like to brag, but I am a bit of an expert on the inspirational film oeuvre, and this is one of those moments when you’re going to have to dig deep, realise you’re part of something bigger than yourself and reach out to the people you’ve never thought of as allies.’

‘Now you’re speaking in tongues.’

She thought for a moment then said, ‘I’m going to do a shrink thing and repeat to you what I heard when you told me about your past and, more pressingly, your future.’

He made an oh-god groan.

She held up her hand. ‘You want my help? We have to do a bit of touchy-feely stuff. I need to make sure we’re on the same page.’

‘Fair enough.’ He leant back against the thick wooden ties and closed his eyes as she repeated his story to him.

His parents – Scottish mother and English father – had met at a pub in Edinburgh when his mum was finishing her university course. It had been a love-at-first-sight connection. His mum was from Balcraigie and had been having a long-distance relationship with a boy she’d known for ever and wrote to him the next morning to tell him it was off. It had been his father’s idea to buy Balcraigie Castle. Finn’s mum used to play in the derelict castle as a girl and had countless, unfulfillable dreams about living there one day. His dad wanted to make those dreams come true and poured every penny he’d earned, and some he’d inherited when his own parents passed, into buying it. There hadn’t been a solitary room that was fit for purpose, but they hadn’t cared. They had hopes and dreams enough to carry them through the renovations his architect father had for the castle. Finn had grown up living as wild and free as a boy in the Jacobean era might have. Roaming the hills. Fishing in the loch. Picking berries from the hedgerows in the summer and teaching himself to start fires with a pair of sticks in the winter. Money was tight. They lived in a double-wide caravan parked in the walled garden. When it began to look as if they might never be able to afford to do up even a handful of rooms, the council had come to them, asking if they would sell some perimeter land so that the village could build some more affordable housing. It would be enough to do up five rooms in the castle. His parents agreed. Finn’s father volunteered to design the houses for free. He was, after all, an architect. The council said no but kept the decision quiet. Some pretty awful homes were built – shoddy workmanship, an eyesore – and the only one who looked as if they’d come out of the situation with anything positive was Finn’s family who everyone knew were going to be living in a castle.