“The original land grant from 1842 specifies that the north ridge cannot be severed from the main estate,” Lydia said.

“And Warren Bellamy knew that,” Blake said, walking over to Aunt Caroline.

Blake put a hand on Caroline’s shoulder to steady her.

“We have to do it now, Caroline,” Blake said quietly.

Caroline looked up at him, her eyes filled with tears. “Are you sure we have the authority?”

“We are the majority trustees of the Mercer Family Covenant,” Blake said.

He reached into his leather briefcase and pulled out a thick sheaf of cream-colored paper.

“Marcus has breached his fiduciary duty by attempting to sell the burial grounds,” Blake said.

“You can’t do this,” Marcus sneered, though he didn’t move toward Blake.

“We can,” I said, stepping forward.

I looked at the portrait of our grandfather hanging on the wood-paneled wall.

He had trusted us to keep the land whole, not to auction it off to pay for Marcus’s bad investments in Richmond.

“Caroline,” Blake said, spreading the papers on the small mahogany hall table. “Sign here.”

Aunt Caroline looked at Marcus, then at the deputy, and finally at me.