Page 117 of Of Heather and Thistle
Heather sat, carefully placing the case on the desk between them. With gentle precision, she unlatched it, lifting the lid to reveal the faded battle flag, its fabric worn but still striking, the St. Andrew’s cross stitched into the cloth. The Mackenzie tartan lay beside it, frayed at the edges but still vibrant in its green and blue pattern. The same note she had found tucked away in Glenoran:
April 16, 1746.
Culloden.
Dr. Henderson let out a soft breath, reverence flickering in her expression.
“It’s one thing to read about history,” she murmured, “but quite another to hold it in your hands.” She looked up at Heather, her expression serious but kind. “The authentication process is complete. We’ve confirmed that the flag is an original battle standard from Culloden, likely smuggled away after the battle and hidden for generations. The tartan matches records of Mackenzie’s regimental colors. And the parchment…” She exhaled. “It’s an eyewitness account. A firsthand letter written by one of the men who fought that day.”
Heather’s breath caught. “Someone in my family?”
Dr. Henderson nodded, pulling out a document and sliding it toward her. “Yes. We traced the handwriting back to Harris Mackenzie—your direct ancestor. He was there at Culloden. He fought and survived.”
Heather’s fingers trembled as she reached for the letter—Harris’s words, folded in time like a secret waiting for her. Faded but still legible, carrying the weight of a battlefield lost to time. A desperate plea to a loved one. A vow to return home. A promise never fulfilled.
What must it have been like for Harris, and how must it have felt to ultimately lose a fight he believed so strongly in? Yet his voice was reaching out from the shadows of history, bridging centuries with tales of valor and sacrifice.
She swallowed hard as the weight of history settled in her chest. The thought that she’d nearly left all of this behind—nearly gone back to Millhaven—felt impossible now. The thought now seemed unimaginable, as if this discovery was a calling she hadn’t yet realized. Dr. Henderson watched her carefully.
“This is a significant piece of Scotland’s past, Heather. The museum would be honored to house it, to ensure that it’spreserved and shared with the world.”
Heather nodded absently, still staring at the letter.
“You don’t have to decide immediately,” Dr. Henderson continued. “But given its historical value, we’d like to create an exhibit around it—around the flag, the tartan, and Harris Mackenzie’s account.”
Heather exhaled slowly. She’d come here thinking she was handing these things over. But now, as she sat there, holding the letter of an ancestor who had fought and bled for his beliefs, she realized she wasn’t just giving away artifacts.
She was telling a story.
Not just Scotland’s.
Not just history’s.
Hers.
She looked up at Dr. Henderson. “I want that too,” she said firmly. “I want people to see this, to know what happened. But I’d like to stay involved. To help tell the story.”
Somewhere, her mother was smiling.
Dr. Henderson smiled. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
A lightness settled in Heather’s chest. She thought she was closing a chapter, but instead, she’d found a way to carry it forward.
“One more thing,” Dr. Henderson added, reaching for another folder. “We’ve also been working on additional genealogical research into the Mackenzies of Glenoran.”
Heather’s heart pounded. “And?”
Dr. Henderson slid the folder toward her. “It seems your family’s connection to Culloden and Scotland runs even deeper than we thought.”
Heather stared at the folder, her hands steady now.
She had come here expecting to let go.
Instead, it felt like she was just beginning.
Chapter 36
Heather’s fingers hovered over the folder, her pulse steady but fast. She had already uncovered so much—fragments of history that had survived for over two centuries, remnants of a past she hadn’t known was hers. And yet, here she was, about to open another door.
