The House Between Tides Page 23

  The factor’s son? She remembered the self-conscious youth, a mirror of the burly factor, and knew that it was not he to whom Blake referred. It must be the other one, who had stared out of the past with a defiant intensity. A socialist, was he? She’d seen the same expression on the face of his descendant when he had dismissed Muirlan House as a rich man’s conceit. A consistency of view captured in the DNA.

  Entirely hooked now, she picked up the next letter, dated August 1910, and found that the tone had changed. The romantic jubilation of the spring had vanished. It began with another reference to the selection of paintings, apparently for some large exhibition. By all means have them, as Sanders seems to think there’s a shortage of appropriate Art to offset Industry, so at least they’ll serve as wallpaper. I only wish I had something else to offer you. Strictly speaking, “Muirlan Strand” belongs to Beatrice, but I daresay she will loan it for the exhibition. I’d cheerfully sell it, but that, apparently, is out of the question. I’ve promised the other to my sister as a wedding present, since she reckons I’m becoming a good investment, but she’ll loan it too if it is selected, and if Reed will let you have “The Rock Pool,” then all well and good. Though I feel they belong to a different era, the work of another man—

  Anyway, I’m considering returning to Edinburgh earlier than originally planned. I don’t flatter myself that my stepmother requires my presence, but Beatrice might enjoy the bustle of my sister’s wedding preparation. She’s been restless since Emily and Kit left. Feeling the isolation, I imagine. Perhaps we will consider Venice another year. I suppose it was asking too much that she would feel the same as I do about the island, and I always was a selfish creature. She says the house is cold and dark, so I’m considering building a conservatory where she can sit on poor days. She enjoys plants and flowers, so I think it would help her.

  And there it was, in black and white: a conservatory. Hetty sat back. A chill ran through her, and she felt an absurd desire to put aside the remaining letters, to stop things where there was still evidence of affection, of concern, of kindness. She read it again. Beatrice was restless, he said, so were the cracks already beginning to show? Whatever else, this was crucial information, the date of the letter confirming the evidence of the early photographs quite precisely. Ruairidh ought to be told, but as she turned to the phone, it rang.

  “Morning. Ruairidh said you were at home and that he told you about the roof.” James Cameron. Direct and to the point.

  “Yes.”

  “The damage is round at the back, above the old scullery. A chimney stack fell, crashed through the roof, and made a proper mess, slates all over.” He paused. “Have you got your second opinion lined up to come?”

  “The agents are dealing with it.” That wasn’t quite true. Giles had got her to agree to phone Emma and arrange it, but she hadn’t yet done so.

  “Well, give ’em a prod. The place is dangerous, and it’s up to you to make it safe. I’ve put stakes around the fall area and taped it off, but if anyone gets injured, even trespassers, you’ll have all sorts of hassle you could do without.”

  She felt her stomach turn over. “Perhaps the schoolchildren—”

  “We moved them into one of the barns at the farmhouse. Seemed a good idea anyway.” There was another pause. “Ruairidh said you had some letters?”

  “Yes, I was going to ring you.”

  “Where did they spring from?”

  She told him about the auction, about meeting Jasper Banks, and how the letters had subsequently arrived. “And those sketches of yours must be worth a fortune—”

  “They’re not for sale.”

  “—but Matt says you shouldn’t take any more out of the book because of the signatures.”

  “Does he.” His tone dismissed Matt’s opinion, and he scoffed at the sums she told him were paid for the paintings. “Silly money. Tell me about the letters.”

  “I’m still working through them, but in August 1910 Blake was thinking of building a conservatory for Beatrice.”

  “Was he now?” That had taken his interest.

  “And there were obviously problems between them, not spelt out, but there—although he still seemed fond of her, concerned to make her happy.”

  “Perhaps he still was—in August 1910.”

  “He said she was restless, implied she was lonely.” James was silent. “There was a painting of her at the auction. It was very strange, disconnected and rather sad, although somehow very tender too.” Giles had believed her mad when she’d tried to explain why she’d bought it, but she had a feeling that James Cameron might understand.

  “Did the same chap buy it?”

  “No. I did.”

  “Good God! How much did you part with?”

  “I couldn’t just leave her there.”

  He snorted. “That much, eh? This business is going to your head, woman. Get a grip on yourself.” She smiled, finding his bluntness strangely reassuring. “And, by the way, the girl in The Rock Pool is Màili Forbes. Aonghas said I ought to know that, but if I did, I’d forgotten. She was Aonghas’s grandmother.”

  “Oh.”

  “And she’s up there in the burial ground with a stillborn child, so the bones aren’t hers.”

  “Were she and Blake lovers?” she asked, without thinking.

  He laughed. “Aonghas didn’t say.”

  “No, of course— But you can see it in the sketches, and in the painting too. He was in love with her.”

  She could almost hear the shrug. “Painters often had favourite models.”

  “It’s more than that.” The touch of brush and pencil was so sure, subtle enough to be a caress.

  “Maybe.” There was silence, and then they both spoke at once. “You first,” he said.

  “I was wondering about the land question—”

  “So was I.”

  “Emma Dawson’s looking into it again, but she hasn’t got back to me yet.” He grunted. “Have you . . . has Aonghas found anything, any papers?”

  “Aonghas remembers your great-grandmother giving his father the land and the house.” The bluntness had developed an edge. “He was there. He heard them discussing it.”

  “And the deeds?”

  “Must be somewhere.”

  She paused. “It needs resolving.”

  “It does.”

  A stand-off. James Cameron didn’t make things easy. “Look,” she said, “if Emily gave that land away, then I’ve no intention of trying to claim it back.”

  “Good. It’s Ruairidh’s livelihood, and others.”

  No pressure, then. His tone piqued her. “But I gather it’s only one of the problems I’ve inherited. Tell me about this tenant.”

  There was a longer pause. “He’s an old codger who grows potatoes over there.”

  Her bloke. “But there’s more to it than that, isn’t there?”

  “Is there?”

  “Something you aren’t telling me?”

  He laughed briefly. “He’s another part of the Blake legacy, but he’ll help you resolve the matter himself.”

  She heard a key in the front door. “Why can’t you—”

  Giles called a greeting from the door.

  “Sounds like you’ve got company. I’ll let you get on.” And he rang off.

  Chapter 29

  1910, Beatrice

  At Sanders’s leave-taking, his eyes had slid down to Beatrice’s waist, and he’d smiled in a manner which made her half-formed excuse for the previous day dry on her lips, and she held out a cold hand in farewell. Theo eyed her sourly, and the moment the trap reached the gatepost he went back into the house, instructing one of the girls to go and find Cameron and send him to the study.

  On hearing this, she retired to her bedroom, pleading a very real headache, refusing tea or a tonic, and stretched out on her bed, listening to the rising wind, staring up at the crack which had spread across the ceiling in the course of the summer, and anxiously reran the events of the previous da
y. It was as if the mist had swirled off the machair and into her head, dizzying her senses, and the weird cry of the diver echoed from another world. What exactly had she said to Cameron? And what an absurd situation to have got herself into, a conspiracy of silence about a wretched bird, a conspiracy, moreover, shadowed by an aura of betrayal. She rose, fretful, and went over to the turret window, drawing back as she saw Cameron walking up the drive, buffeted by the gales. When he glanced up at her window, she stepped back, out of view, but he knew she was there.

  Next day she met him crossing the hall on his way to the study, and he gave her a conspirator’s smile. “There’s two. I heard them calling to each other, quite clearly.”

  “What can we do?”

  “Not a thing.” He smiled briefly and knocked on the study door.

  But the following day, while Theo went with John Forbes to view the damage to the stable roof wrought by the wind, she found herself compelled to seek him out again. She could not help it. “Have you seen them?” she asked, hesitating at the study door.

  He lifted his head. “No. I heard them, though, out towards Oronsy Beagh, some distance away. But I’ll find them.” He paused, taking in her drawn appearance. “You’re pale, Mrs. Blake.”

  She came into the room. “A little tired, perhaps.”

  He continued to look at her, then went over to one of the bookcases, selected a large volume, and took it to the light of the window. “There’s our fellow,” he said, finding the page. “It says they choose freshwater lochs for their nests, preferring islands or promontory sites. The lochan on Oronsy Beagh is a bit small but might suit their purpose.” She joined him at the window, and he lowered the book to show her. As she bent over it, she sensed him grow still beside her, and the study’s silent witnesses went on guard. Then the front door banged and heavy steps crossed the hall to the study. They turned from the window to find John Forbes halted in the doorway, staring across at them.

  “Is Cameron still in there, John?” Theo’s voice came from behind him in the hall.

  Cameron replaced the book on the shelf and returned to his desk; Beatrice moved to the fireplace.

  “Aye,” replied the factor, stone hard. “But I’ll take him back with me, and we’ll start to put matters right.” He moved aside to let Theo pass.

  “If you must. Did you find the missing ledger, Cameron?” Theo barely acknowledged Beatrice’s presence, and she took the opportunity to withdraw, feeling John Forbes’s eyes following her retreat.

  For days after that Cameron did not reappear in the study, and Theo complained that he was never available to assist him. His father was keeping him busy on the estate, repairing storm damage, he said. Beatrice was torn between relief and a quite different emotion, stifled and kept indoors by the weather.

  Eventually, it began to clear and the sun filtered through the thin clouds. Beatrice escaped down to the foreshore, gulping at the fresh sweet air, seeking the clarity of mind she found more easily outdoors. Distress at Theo’s neglect she had grown used to, but she was now in the grip of a much more powerful emotion, carried forward and shaken by the strength of it.

  The sand steamed slightly as the re-emergent sun turned the shallow pools into ripples of quicksilver, and some sixth sense told her that Cameron was approaching. She looked up to see him rounding the cove, Bess trotting behind him. He seemed to break step when he saw her, then he came on, greeting her with a constrained smile. “The weather’s clearing, Mrs. Blake,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “It’s often fickle like this in the later summer.” He gazed across the sands and up at the sky, clicking his fingers at the dog.

  “Is it?”

  “Sun and storm.” They stood awkwardly, like players on a wide stage, uncertain of their next lines, then he turned to her. “Did Mr. Blake tell you—” he began, then broke off, his attention caught by something behind her, and she turned to see John Forbes and Donald emerging from the stables. The factor had stopped and lifted his head to watch them. “Excuse me, madam.” He nodded and left her, whistling sharply to Bess to follow.

  She mounted the front steps and placed her hat on the hall table, then went slowly into the drawing room. What else could she do? Theo lowered his book as she entered and gestured to the tea tray. “Been for a breath of air, my dear? I saw you down on the foreshore.”

  The fire had burned low and the room was dark, as it always was at this time of day when the sun swung behind the house, but she sensed he was making an effort and smiled. “Everything smelled so fresh after the storm.” She poured herself a cup of tea. “The air was very clear.”

  “If the weather settles, shall we give it a week or so before we return? Though you’ll want to be in Edinburgh in good time to prepare for Emily’s wedding, I’m sure. New gowns and the like.” He smiled wistfully across at her, an echo of his old countenance. “Will you be glad of a change, Beatrice?”

  She sipped at her tea. “I’d rather be here if the weather is good; the city can be so oppressive in August.”

  “We’ll see what it does.” He paused. “There are things I want to complete here, but I can finish the writing in Edinburgh.” He hesitated, then glanced across at her. “I’ve asked Cameron to return with us and lend me a hand over the winter,” he said, and she looked up in astonishment. “One last attempt to get him to see sense and stay. I’ve offered him a decent salary.” He reached for his cup and raised it to his lips, watching her. “What do you think?”

  She put her own cup down to stop her hand from shaking. What should she think? “But you get so annoyed with him, Theo.”

  “Oh, we rub along. He needs to widen his horizons. See sense. And when his mind’s on the job, he’s very useful. Would you mind if he came?”

  She turned away to refill her cup. “Of course not, if it’s what you want.”

  “John’s being difficult about it, but I think I can persuade him. He’ll still have Donald, after all.” And if he came, would she and Theo then be in competition for Cameron’s attentions? The absurdity, and the perils, of the situation expanded in her brain like giant bubbles and smothered rational thought. “Although Cameron’s behaving rather oddly,” Theo continued. “Keeps disappearing. Particularly since the guests left. God knows where he goes in this weather. His father doesn’t always know either.” He paused again and laughed self-consciously. “I begin to wonder if he’s courting.”

  Courting? One of the bubbles popped. Courting? She looked across at Theo, but he was staring into the fire. She swallowed hard, now entirely bewildered, and tried for a light tone. “Well, he’s a personable young man, though it’s hardly something you can ask him about.”

  Theo leant forward and filled his cup. “No. And I’m probably wrong. I can’t imagine who would take his interest among the local maidens. He should aim higher.” He stirred his tea thoughtfully. “And if John decides he needs him here, there’s not much I can do.”

  Beatrice played with the cuff of her sleeve, struggling for composure. “Well, if he is courting, he may not wish to go with us anyway,” she said. “And I’m sure there are all sorts of lovely local girls you know nothing about. I understand that Cameron’s mother was an island girl and very beautiful.”

  Theo replaced his cup with a clatter. “Servants’ gossip, Beatrice?” he remarked coldly, picking up a book. “I thought you had more dignity.”

  “It must be a woman,” Theo complained again the next day. “I can’t get a firm decision from him. He’s clearly distracted, in a daydream if I don’t keep on at him. God, what fools love can make of us.”

  Fools indeed, she thought, stung by his words. Last night Theo had come to her room, tapping softly on the door. When she opened it, he had stood there, as he had once before, and looked at her. “May I come in?” And she had stepped aside, saying nothing. He had blown out the lamp almost at once, and in the darkness she had allowed him to undress her, his touch uncertain, and he had kissed her, tentatively at first, and then with a
growing desperation, turning her to the bed, as if determined to persuade them both that all was well between them.

  But it was not enough! Words had become impossible, so her fears remained unexpressed, and her suspicions could never be voiced. But she needed words; she needed an explanation and to understand what had happened since they came there. Why things had gone so wrong. And she had lain awake beside him, dry-eyed, until almost dawn, then slept deeply, and woke to find him gone.

  She stayed abed until mid-morning, staring up at the ceiling, her thoughts wildly adrift. For if Cameron came to Edinburgh . . . What then? She rose at last and went to the little turret from where she could see Theo and the factor heading down the drive together, and dressed quickly. Perhaps Cameron was alone in the study again, and she could speak to him, ask him what he intended to do. She went rapidly down the stairs, hearing him sliding the cabinet drawers in and out, then hesitated outside the door, digging her nails into her palms, struggling to find the words to express what she needed to say.

  Cameron looked up as she entered, then straightened, his eyes guarded. “Theo’s been noticing your absences,” she said in a rush. “Says no one can find you.”

  He gave a slight smile and shrugged. “No matter. I can’t find a nest. And I haven’t heard them again, so I think they’ve gone.”

  “Have they?” She came slowly into the room, stopping to examine a small dunlin on a shelf. “Prudent, perhaps.” Her finger smoothed the dry, faded feathers, her hand barely trembling. “I understand Theo has asked you to come to Edinburgh?”