The House Between Tides Page 21

  And then she came across a link to Blake’s role in bird conservation in Scotland, and switched to that. If she was going to find herself in dispute with the reserve, the more she knew, the better. “Established in 1939 with a generous land grant from the landowner, the painter Theodore Blake, it was one of the earliest of its kind. Using his collection of Hebridean birds begun by his father, Blake published an early catalogue, together with his own exquisite illustrations. Some of these specimen, including what must be one of the last native sea eagles, still survive . . .” And there was a photograph of the faded sea eagle that James Cameron had pointed out to her in the museum, with a caption: Sea eagle shot in August 1910, by Theodore Blake. And there was that date again—1910. The date of the photograph of the family in front of the house, the date after which the conservatory was built, the date after which a body had been hastily buried.

  She read on. “Other surviving specimen include a red-necked phalarope and what has recently been identified as an isabelline shrike, but tragically much of the collection was put on a bonfire and destroyed after Blake’s death in 1944.” And then the next lines had her sitting bolt upright. “The establishment of the reserve coincided with other land claim settlements, leading some writers to speculate that Blake, who was by then a recluse, was troubled by a guilty conscience and that these gifts were in atonement for the damage his Edwardian shooting parties had done to the local wildlife, as well as resolving other long-running disputes over land . . .”

  “Giles! Come and look at this.” He came through carrying two cups of coffee.

  “Guilty conscience, eh?” he said, reading over her shoulder. “But about birds—”

  “And land.”

  “Yeah, maybe. But it’s what happened after his death that matters. Those alleged gifts of his sister’s are in the forties, and that, like it or not, is what we need to unravel.”

  She stood up and took her mug to the window. Understand what you’re getting into, James had said. It goes deep.

  Giles took her place at the computer. “Hmm. Girls and boys?” he said after a minute, and she came back to see that he had flipped back to the previous link of the sketch of the young boy heaving himself out of the rock pool. “No wonder his wife left him.” She flicked the laptop off and closed it. “Sorry, darling!” He laughed. “But Blake’s past redemption, you know. Drink up. I said we’d collect Matt at eleven.”

  An hour later they pulled up outside the auction house and got the last parking place. “The Blakes are his weird later stuff,” Matt told them. “More William Blake than Theodore, with a healthy dose of Munch for good measure. Rather an acquired taste, I imagine, so I’m hoping we might get at least one of them.”

  Matt was right. Two of the paintings were dark-toned and sinister, with broad brush-strokes emphasising strong patterns, and in one a caricature of a man in evening dress stood beside surf breaking on the shore, with a scarf knotted into a noose blown back behind him. He was staring intently out to sea just beyond the waves, at a face masked by a wild tangle of seaweed hair which floated back towards the curve of a finned tail. Half-woman, half-seal, the creature held up her palm in greeting—or was she forbidding an approach? Behind her, riding the swell, was a young seal. An oversized moon rose from the horizon to cast an unnatural, green light over the surface of the ocean, illuminating the anguished face of the man on the shore, his mouth wide open, calling. The whole composition had been executed with heavy swirls of charcoal, viridian, and indigo, in the manner of a woodcut, to disturbing effect.

  “They’re weird, but feel the tension between those two figures.” Matt and Giles had come to stand behind her. “What d’you reckon he was on?”

  Hetty moved to the second painting, and stopped, finding it oddly familiar. And then she remembered the sketch of the boy they had been looking at just that morning. This painting depicted the same scene except that this time it was not a young boy emerging from the pool, but a seal. No, not emerging, slipping back; she could see trails of water on the rocks where the fins had lost their grip. Except . . . She leant closer. They weren’t fins but long webbed human fingers splayed across the rock surface, and the head was half-human. Two figures, far distant, were running towards the scene from opposite directions, and Blake had conveyed a sharp sense of urgency across a madly undulating landscape.

  “Wild!” said a man beside her, lifting a tattooed arm to beckon a friend.

  She moved on again. This last work was much smaller, clearly unfinished, and in it Blake had contorted perspective to depict a series of images on overlapping, vertical planes. On the first was a figure, a woman, but as the planes receded, the figure was deconstructed, Escher-like, until by the last planes it had resolved itself into a graceful wing, a gull’s wing. Then the wing became a wing tip, and the final plane was empty.

  But it was the first image which had grabbed Hetty’s attention. In it the woman was looking obliquely at the artist, her hands raised to her hair, smiling, and Hetty recognised her.

  It was Beatrice. Without a doubt.

  Giles tugged at her sleeve, pointing to the seating, and a moment later the bidding began. She sat, but couldn’t tear her eyes away from the painting where it now stood on an easel beside the others. She was barely aware that Matt had dropped out early, relentlessly outbid by the man with the tattoos, who paid considerable sums for the first two paintings, exchanging looks of satisfaction with his black-clad, elaborately pierced companion. Giles whistled softly beside her. “Never even considered the Goth market for Blake. Must tell Emma.”

  Matt leant across him. “It’s Jasper Banks! Wacky, but worth a fortune,” he whispered, and Hetty saw the auctioneer step towards the last, unfinished, work.

  Again the tattooed man kept early bidding lively, and she clenched her fists, gripped suddenly by a desperate anger. The Goth market. Was that to be Beatrice’s fate? No one would know it was her. She’d be lost and the work would become just another example of a once great painter’s mad phase, fuelling idle speculation as to who she might be. Almost without thinking, she raised her own hand as the auctioneer reached two thousand pounds. “Whoa!” Giles looked at her in astonishment, but she stuck with it until the bidding reached two and a half thousand, and then she began to feel panicked; only the tattooed man was still with her. Two and a half thousand! What was she doing?— She glanced over her shoulder at her adversary as he raised his hand again, but he seemed to catch her eye, stopped, stared at her a moment, and then shook his head at the auctioneer, folding his hands on his lap. The hammer fell and the painting was hers.

  Matt raised his eyebrows. “Might be a good investment. Who knows?” he said, but Giles looked at her as if she were mad.

  As the room began to clear, the tattooed man came up to her and proffered a card. “If you change your mind, I’ll give you what you paid.” She looked at the card and then back at him. He gave her an odd smile and put a hand on her shoulder. “Sorry I bid you up.” Hetty watched his retreating figure as he passed the clerk for the auction house coming towards her, carrying Blake’s deconstructed painting of his wife.

  Chapter 26

  1910, Beatrice

  Beatrice sat again on the window seat in the drawing room, looking out over the dull surface of the bay, her chin cupped in her hand. It seemed that Emily and Kit had taken the brightness of summer with them, and skies were now low and heavy, the winds fretful, and a thin persistent fog hung over the island. The horizon had disappeared, the world turned in on itself, and Theo, keeping to his study, did not send for Cameron.

  The picnic at the seal island lingered in Beatrice’s mind like a lovely dream, unfocussed and insubstantial, but persistent. What was it that had passed between them that day? Surely nothing, something more imagined than real, brought on by the warmth of the sun and the wine, truly a mirage. Since the disastrous luncheon party, she had only glimpsed him as he came and went around the buildings or set off across the strand with Bess at his heels, but she was con
scious of watching for him.

  Then Theo appeared abruptly at the door, interrupting her daydream, clutching an account. “Beatrice, did you request that Dr. Johnson visit Duncan MacPhail’s child?” It was his Edinburgh face, and she felt herself flush like a negligent housemaid. He had stonewalled her concerns following her visit to Mrs. McLeod’s croft, telling her firmly to leave matters relating to the tenants to himself and John Forbes. But she had pursued her intentions to help nonetheless, guided to where there was need by Mrs. Henderson, uncertain how much Theo knew of her activities.

  “They had no money for the doctor.” She met his eyes with determination. The account should have been sent to her, not the estate. “But the child is better now.”

  He contemplated her a moment. “We agreed, my dear, that you would leave such matters to me.”

  “The child was suffering, Theo, and her mother was desperate. She herself is unwell.” After all, what were a few shillings to the estate? Pin money.

  “I’m not necessarily disputing the need, Beatrice, but I’m wondering why you said nothing.” He came further into the room. “I particularly asked you not to get involved, especially in matters relating to the MacPhails.”

  But their need was the greatest. The hostility between Duncan MacPhail and the estate had been brought home to her during the last few days of Emily’s visit, when their walks had taken them down to a small cove in the south-west of the island, and Emily had stopped in surprise. “Oh, look! Someone’s repairing the old croft house. We used to play there as children.”

  At the sound of their voices, a thin, drab woman had appeared at the doorway and Beatrice started down the rough path towards her. “Eilidh! It’s you! Good morning. Do you know Mr. Blake’s sister, Miss Emily Blake?” The woman gave a bob, her eyes warily bright in their dark hollows. “Is Morag quite better now?”

  “Aye, madam, she’s—” A man appeared from behind the house, carrying a spade and an old tin bucket, his sleeves neatly rolled above the elbow. He halted abruptly when he saw the women together.

  “Mr. MacPhail,” said Beatrice, and she heard Emily repeat the name in surprise. “Good morning.” The man’s eyes slid from one to the other. “I’m glad to hear your daughter is better.”

  “We’re very grateful, aren’t we, Donnchadh?” The woman looked beseechingly at her husband’s rigid face, and he gave a perfunctory nod.

  While they stood there, Emily examined the house, where an old sail had been spread across part of the rotted roof and bunches of heather plugged gaps in the stone walls, and her scrutiny became too much for the man. “I’d ask you in for a cup of tea, Miss Blake, then you could have a good look round.” He propped the spade against the wall. “But we weren’t expecting guests.” His wife gave Beatrice an agonised look, and Emily bristled. “And we’ve no tea.” He came closer and dumped the bucket down with such force that potatoes jumped from the top. “You can have these, but I suppose they’re your brother’s anyway.”

  “Donnchadh—” The woman had bent in a spasm of coughing, and Beatrice put her hand on her arm to calm her, bid a cool good day to her husband, and pulled Emily along with her.

  “What an appalling man!” Emily had begun, as she stumbled back up the path, the man watching them go with hard eyes. “Wait until we tell Theo.”

  “No. Don’t, Emily. Please. It’ll make more trouble for Eilidh. I don’t think they’re supposed to be there.”

  Theo was standing over her now, his face stern. “Mark my words, they’ll start to play you off against me, and then where will we be? I know you meant well, Beatrice, but you’re interfering in something you don’t understand.”

  There was much she didn’t understand, she thought, swallowing her indignation, but it didn’t include a needy child in a comfortless home. “Surely we can show generosity in this regard at least, even if we cannot in other matters.”

  His frown deepened. “Other matters? Has Cameron been lobbying you too?” She made no reply. “Causing trouble seems to have earned that family legendary status, and Duncan MacPhail is cast in the same mould as his grandfather.”

  “For which his child must suffer?”

  Theo glared at her. “I insist on being allowed to run the estate as I see fit.” His words were clipped and angry.

  “So what is my role here, Theo? Am I to make no contribution?”

  Exasperation replaced anger. “My dear girl! You’re my wife.”

  She bit back a sharp retort. How long was it since he had come to her bed, preferring to continue his late vigil, then sleeping in his dressing room?

  “You run the house,” he continued quickly, his eyes flickering away from her.

  “Mrs. Henderson runs the house.”

  He sat down heavily, and when she held his look, his eyes slid to one side, the veil descended, and once again he eluded her. “You’re my wife,” he repeated quietly, “and, God willing, in time you’ll be mother to our children. Then you’ll have little time or inclination to go running around the estate offering inappropriate charity.” He placed the bill on a side table and smiled thinly at her. “Oblige me, my dear, and leave well alone? I prefer instead to discuss Sanders’s visit at the end of the week. His patronage is important and his comfort is your concern, so I’m rather counting on you.”

  Theo

  He put aside the offending bill, watching moodily from the drawing room window as Beatrice flung out of the house and set off down the track, her hat in her hand, her shawl slipping from her shoulders. Perhaps he had spoken too harshly, but surely she must see that there had to be a consistent approach to dealing with the tenants. Especially the accursed MacPhails with their persistent demands and outraged attitude. Or had she, like Cameron, cast him as a villain?

  He dropped into a chair, scowling up at the painting which had brought him and Beatrice together. What on earth had possessed him to give it to her? Madness! A mirage . . . she had said, and on that one percipient phrase, he had constructed a future. He should sell the damn thing. And yet, painting it all those years ago had soothed the pain of loss. On the day he had received news of Màili’s death, he had stood at the window of his Glasgow studio, stunned and disbelieving, the letter from his father loose in his hands. A mass of starlings filled the air, sweeping back to their roosts, but he had seen instead a cloud of shore waders lifting off the sands. In a frenzy he had sought out his old sketch-books, turning their yellowing pages imbued with salt air, heavy with promise, and he had seen Màili again, silhouetted against the darkening sky, or lying with her hair entwined with sea-wrack, or seated beside the rock pool, smiling at him, a seal-wife. Unreachable, even then.

  A mirage—

  And he had been drawn back to the island then, seeking her spirit in the places they had once frequented, sitting for hours with his back resting against the wall near the rock pool, a place cushioned by grassy tussocks, hidden from sight, tormented by memories. And it was there that it came to him what he must do, as a tribute, privately, to numb the pain. It was all he had left to offer her.

  So he had risen early over successive mornings, set his easel on the lower foreshore, and begun painting, his hands guided by some force other than his brain, and gradually the painting had taken shape. He had felt oddly detached from the task—driven, not driving—and somehow two figures had emerged, crossing the strand in the early morning haze. Two figures, illusory, barely hinted at, disappearing into the soft grey mist. Two figures walking side by side and yet apart, drawn to each other by an unseen force but never quite meeting.

  He stood in front of that painting now and was transported back. It was the last good thing he had done, the last time he had painted from the heart. And you were wrong, Beatrice, my dear. It was painted not to prove that I was still alive but in acknowledgement that the soul of me had died.

  Chapter 27

  1910, Beatrice

  “Damn it, Blake, you didn’t tell me you’d caught a beauty. What the devil does she see in you?” The round
-faced, glistening man placed a lingering kiss upon Beatrice’s hand and his small eyes sparkled up at her. “We shall become great friends, my dear.”

  More guests, all sportsmen. They had arrived with their guns and their rods and their noisy male bravado, and Beatrice felt squeezed to the margins of her home. The round-faced Glaswegian, George Sanders, was Theo’s special guest and a patron of the forthcoming Glasgow exhibition, and he followed her with hot eyes, never missing an opportunity to touch or caress, leaning close to engage her in conversation, placing a hand on her arm or in her lap. But when she looked indignantly to Theo for support, he seemed quite unaware.

  Sanders’s bulk precluded him from many of the party’s expeditions and, despite pleading with Theo not to leave her alone with him, Beatrice frequently found herself in his company and had to devise ways of avoiding him. She would watch him from her turret window, tottering along the foreshore with his shotgun, and only then deem it safe to leave the sanctuary of her bedroom. But one day she misjudged matters and went out onto the front steps only to encounter Sanders crunching up the drive towards her, his gun in one hand, the other holding up, in the manner of a great hunter, the dripping carcass of an otter. “I bring an offering, Beatrice, my love!” he bellowed. “I shall have him turned into a smart little collar for you. Should you like that? I know just the man for the job.” She stared at the creature in horror, remembering the one she and Cameron had seen coming in on the tide that time, and felt suddenly sick. In a fury, she turned and went back inside, fleeing down the servants’ passage and out of the back entrance, past an astonished housemaid taking in washing, and into the pasture beyond, indifferent to a damp grey mist which was swirling around the low-lying land.