The House Between Tides Page 24

  “Yes.”

  “But he thinks you won’t come”—she straightened and finished on a gasping laugh—“because you’re courting.”

  “Courting!” He stared at her, then turned abruptly away and went over to the window from where Theo and John Forbes could be seen talking to two men she recognised as tenants, gesturing at the wall. She studied his back as he stood there watching them, then he came and sat on the edge of the desk. “Perceptive of him, don’t you think?” he said, looking directly at her now. “Only slightly wide of the mark.” The room was still and silent, and the sentinels grew watchful again, while the hammering in Beatrice’s chest became a physical force. “Hardly courtship—but I’ll not come to Edinburgh. I’ll stay here and help my father over the winter, then leave. Before you return.” His eyes held hers, knowing that she understood. “My father might have misjudged what he saw the other day, but not by very much. In Edinburgh, it would happen.”

  “Cameron—” She reached out a hand to him, but he shook his head, almost angrily.

  “No. Say nothing. Though God knows—” He broke off as they heard the front door open, voices and footsteps crossing the hall. He straightened and stood, his face dark and strained as Theo entered, followed by John Forbes, who stood stock-still and stared.

  “So, my dear,” said Theo, oblivious to the ricocheting of tensions. “They’ll start early next year, so you can have the fun of planning your conservatory over the winter.” He turned to Cameron, eyeing him coldly. “And I gather you’ll not be joining us in Edinburgh.”

  “I’m grateful to you for the offer, sir.”

  Theo considered him for a few moments, a muscle twitching in his cheek. “No matter.” And as he turned away, Beatrice saw the pain behind his eyes.

  Life became intolerable after that. Theo set a date for their departure, and Beatrice packed and repacked, discussed camphor and dust sheets with Mrs. Henderson, cut back brambles in the garden, and nurtured her rose. Anything to keep herself occupied.

  The brief spell of late summer sunshine was gone, the skies were pewter grey, and the gales had started again, hostile and vindictive, whipping the shallow waters of the bay into angry wave-crests over which the gulls dipped and rose, their cries blown back by the gusts. There was little incentive to go out, but Beatrice was desperate to escape from the house and from her sense of impending loss, so she grabbed a shawl and went out onto the drive, battling the wind, determined to get at least as far as the ruined chapel, seeking the solace she had often found there. But the elements were relentless and she soon turned back, rain stinging her face.

  As she approached the farm buildings, she heard raised voices coming from the old McLeod croft house where Theo’s specimen were cleaned and prepared, and drew closer to stand beside the tiny window. It was Theo’s voice she could hear, sharp with anger, and then Cameron’s responding in kind, combative and impassioned.

  “Cameron. You’ve said enough.” It was John Forbes. Thank goodness he was there.

  But Cameron’s voice came again, shaking with fury. “It’s just another bloody trophy.” The divers, she thought, he’s found them! The factor spoke sharply again, but Cameron ignored him. “How could you? When there are so few.”

  “Rubbish. In Scandinavia they are—”

  “But not here, where they belong. Maybe you have forgotten standing on the Bràigh years ago, watching them, but I haven’t.”

  The gulls fell silent as she strained to hear Theo’s clipped response. “I have not forgotten, Cameron. But it’s of no concern of yours except to do as I ask.”

  “What? Skin the wretched creature so that you can preserve it? What mad logic is that?”

  “Be very careful—”

  “Can you never see the harm you do? You disregard your tenants, you neglect your—”

  “Bi sàmhach!” the factor thundered, and Beatrice put a hand to the wall to steady herself, her legs suddenly weak.

  “It’s a wicked waste. A crime.” Cameron’s anger had carried him beyond restraint, but his next words stunned her. “Maybe I’ll bring a prosecution against you, Mr. Blake. I could, you know. For this.”

  There was silence in the old croft house. Then Theo’s awed tones: “Do you threaten me, Cameron?” Beatrice closed her eyes.

  “Tha sin gu leòr!” the factor commanded.

  “Too late, John.” Beatrice felt sick, she knew that tone.

  So did the factor, and he now took control. “Enough. Cameron, go.” Beatrice shrank against the wall as she heard Theo protest, but John Forbes responded with authority. “Tempers must cool, sir. Go, I said.”

  Cameron flung out of the hut, not seeing Beatrice pressed against the wall, and she watched him charge up the slope, his jacket thrown over his shoulder, careless of the biting wind, his fury still upon him. Through the window she heard John Forbes’s deliberately measured tones. “I will deal with the bird, sir, and have it ready for you to take when you go. There will be no more talk of prosecutions, and Cameron will apologise.” The silence deepened as she awaited Theo’s response.

  “I don’t give a damn for an apology.” A longer silence. “I won’t have it. He leaves the estate, John. This can’t go on.”

  Beatrice stopped breathing. Theo sounded so strange. There was another silence, then John Forbes spoke again. “Whatever the rights and wrongs of the business, he should not have spoken as he did.” He paused, and it seemed for once that even the factor was at the limits of his abilities. “But I ask you to wait, sir, and consider.”

  “After all these years of—”

  “Let me keep him here this winter,” the factor cut him off. “You needn’t see him again, and he’ll be gone when you return.”

  The wind that was blowing across the pasture seemed to hold back, as if awaiting Theo’s verdict. “Perhaps I owe you that much.” He spoke in a strange, tight voice, then his tone hardened. “But that’s it. I’ve done with him. No more.” His voiced faded as he moved away from the window. “Come to the house later. Both of you.” And she drew back as he left, striding towards the house, his gait echoing that of Cameron’s a few moments earlier, and then she heard John Forbes’s boots on the cobbles heading for the stables.

  Cautiously, she edged around to the door of the building and stooped to enter. On the table before her lay not the black-and-white diver as she had expected, but a great eagle, its mottled wings folded against its body, yellow talons curled above a fan of white tail feathers. Its eyes, closed as if in contempt, gave it a haughty, patrician air. A small bloodied disturbance just below the hooked beak was all there was to show where Theo’s expert shot had found its mark. As she looked down at it, all the heartache of the summer rose like a sob in her, and she felt a sharp stab of fear, a deep foreboding. Of consequences unforeseen.

  “Iolairesuilnagreinel.” A low voice spoke from the doorway, and she turned to see John Forbes standing in the entrance, a small saw and a knife in his hands. “The eagle with the sunlit eye,” he said quietly and stepped forward. “You heard the row. You were outside.” Statements, not questions, and she nodded. “Harsh words, on both sides.” Deep, sad eyes looked at her from under his bushy eyebrows, and she found she could not meet them. “But there must be no more damage.” His meaning was very clear, and she felt a sudden compulsion to confide in him.

  “Mr. Forbes, whatever you think—” But he cut her off as sharply as he had done with Theo.

  “Leave it. This runs deep.” He shook his head at her and held up the saw. “What I’m about to do will not be pretty so I suggest you leave me, Mrs. Blake.” She moved towards the door, wondering where Cameron would have gone. “Go back to the house, Mrs. Blake,” he said, as if reading her thoughts, and the command in his eyes was unmistakable.

  Theo did not appear in the drawing room for afternoon tea. News of the row had spread through the house, and wary servants went silently about their tasks, avoiding her eye. Just before dinner, Theo came and joined her, taking up a journal to
forestall her questions, and they sat in a tense silence until Mrs. Henderson tapped quietly on the door and announced that John Forbes and Cameron were in the kitchen. Theo shut the journal and got to his feet. “Ask John to step into the study, if you will. Cameron can wait in the morning room until I send for him.” He excused himself to Beatrice and withdrew, leaving the drawing room door ajar.

  Without stopping to think, she slipped out of the room, hesitated a moment, and then went across the hall to the morning room. Cameron was standing with his back to her looking out of the window, but he spun round as she spoke his name.

  “He can’t send you away like this—”

  He stepped towards her. “Beatrice! Go back. You mustn’t get involved.”

  “It’s your home. Let me speak to him.”

  “God, no!”

  “Then make it right, somehow. A dead bird isn’t worth—”

  “Was it only that, do you think?” he said with a bleak smile. “But, go, Beatrice—” She made no move, she couldn’t. “You must—” Then he stepped forward abruptly and took her face in his hands. “No?” He bent swiftly and kissed her, and as he pulled away she glimpsed his old unruly smile. “Then at least I’ve that much of you if he sends me away.” His smile vanished as they heard John Forbes call him to the study, and he brushed her cheek with his fingers, then went across the hall.

  She stood where he had left her, barely breathing, his touch still on her. If he sends me away— And go he would, for she had seen Theo’s face.

  A breaking point had been reached, and boundaries crossed.

  She lifted her fingers to touch her lips.

  —And so where did that leave them, the three of them, the loving and the unloved?

  Beyond the boundaries.

  She came to her senses then and slipped back across to the drawing room just as she heard the study door open. Theo joined her almost immediately and headed straight to the side table, oblivious to her standing beside the window, and took up the decanter, spilling whisky on the polished surface.

  He said nothing.

  “Theo. Tell me what’s happening.”

  His eyes slid towards her, then he looked down into his glass and took a long drink. He went over to the fireplace, where he stood, staring into the fire. “Cameron Forbes is on notice to leave the estate,” he said at last. She gripped the back of the chaise longue and waited for more. “He would leave today were it not for the respect I have for . . . for John. But for that, he would be gone already.” He stopped again, and through her own blinding mist, she glimpsed his pain again. “All summer he’s been trying my patience, deliberately defying me.” He spoke almost as if to himself, then his eyes refocussed on Beatrice, and he scowled. “Pushing at the limits of my tolerance. But today he went too far and threatened me with prosecution for shooting a blasted sea eagle.” He took another long drink, shaking his head like a wounded animal, and Beatrice watched him with a thudding heart.

  “I’m sure he wouldn’t have done so.”

  “So sure?” She flinched as Theo looked up and searched her face. “Well, he can go to the law or to the devil himself. I’ve done with him.” He stared out across the strand, to the place where she knew she could not reach him, and as he dropped his head, she saw the depths of hurt and rejection beneath his anger, and even as she wondered at it, she felt pity for him.

  But his devils lay too deep for her.

  As he stood looking down into the empty fireplace, lost in those dark reaches, she turned back to the window. Only a few short months ago, the soft clouds had seemed to draw her towards the island. But clouds cast shadows, she had learned that much— And as she watched, a gull flew slowly along the ridge in front of her, carrying the last of the sun’s rays on its wings before it turned away from the house, dropped down to the darkening foreshore, and disappeared against the empty stretches of the strand.

  Chapter 30

  2010, Hetty

  The entrance to Matt’s gallery was brightly lit, and there was a red carpet laid at the threshold. Matt himself was hovering by the door, and he came forward with a smile when he saw her. “Aha! The VIP. I was told to wait there and not budge ’til you came. No Giles?”

  “He’s at a client’s drinks party, but he’ll try and come on later.” Actually, Giles had offered to cancel and come with her, but she had said no, and this was the compromise they had reached.

  “Not to worry, it’s you Jasper wants. And he’s got a surprise for you.”

  Matt had prospered since he had made the acquaintance of Jasper Banks, and when the eccentric patron had selected the gallery Matt worked for as the venue for a new exhibition, Matt’s prestige, and salary, had shot up. His boss, the gallery owner, was now weak with gratitude and still reeling from the budget Banks had given her for the opening. Hetty saw her now in the corner, together with Jasper Banks and a clutch of smartly dressed guests.

  “Come on,” said Matt. “I was told to take you straight over.”

  Blake’s letters, Matt had explained when he’d brought round the invitation a week ago, were not the only things that had been found during the sorting out of Farquarson’s estate. They had uncovered a treasure trove of paintings: two lost Guthries; an unknown Nairn, painted at Brodick; and Hornel sketches which had long been thought destroyed. “As you can imagine, it’s giving Scottish art dealers a seismic attack of the vapours,” he had said, “but Jasper’s managed to persuade the family to exhibit them before they go on the market. Here first, then Edinburgh. He says you have to come to the opening and won’t take no for an answer.”

  As Matt brought her over, Jasper Banks ruthlessly abandoned his companions. “Haven’t you got a drink?” he asked, and sent Matt scuttling away. He was dressed in trendy art-school black, which probably cost a fortune, and somehow managed to look like a student, although he must be fifty. This, of course, was the intention, and she smiled at him as Matt returned with two drinks on a tray.

  “Has Matt spilled the beans?” he asked, his eyes whipping from one to the other.

  “Not a word,” Matt assured him.

  “Good man. So! Come on, then, and be amazed.” He put a hand under her elbow and led her to the far end of the gallery, where a dozen or so paintings had been hung slightly apart from the others, separated by well-positioned screens and sophisticated lighting. She recognised the two paintings he had bought at the auction. “What do you think?”

  “They look good.” She smiled. Was this the surprise?

  “Now look at the others.” He was as smug as a Cheshire cat.

  She turned to look more closely at the other paintings, strange abstract works. Then she saw one of a fallen cross. “No. Surely . . . ?” Wordlessly, he pointed to the signature in the lower corner, shaky but unmistakable. She put her glass down and left him then, going slowly from one to the other, in disbelief. And as she did, she began to recognise the underlying scenes or themes—the house itself, the ruined chapel, seabirds in flight, shore waders with their long legs reflected in a tide pool. And yet, had it not been for the unmistakable signature in the corner of each, she would never have believed they were Blake’s. Nothing could be further removed from his earlier works, from the romantic realism of The Rock Pool, or her own Torrann Bay. Some of the paintings were clearly related to the heavy disturbed images Banks had bought at the auction, but others were quite different. Free-flowing, fractured, or abstract in composition, more like the one he had begun of Beatrice that she had been unable to leave behind. In one, a vortex of ice-white swirls pulled the eye into its core, where the tone rapidly darkened into clouds corkscrewing around the centre where, in the still heart of the painting, there was a tiny image of the two houses. An ethereal sheen lit the factor’s house, while Muirlan House loomed behind it, overbearing and dark.

  Jasper Banks leant against the wall and watched her. “From Farquarson’s attic,” he said. “In a portfolio, marked Muirlan House auction—”

  “Oh!”

  “—
where they’ve been for decades. Not many are dated, but most seem to be late thirties or forties, just before he died. One or two are earlier. The old inventories suggest Farquarson sent someone to the house auction with instructions to buy anything he could. Sentimental reasons, probably, as he was old himself by then and died soon after. The ones I bought the other day set me on their trail—and so I went a-sleuthing.”

  “It’s incredible.”

  “Yep. Look at this one.” He pulled her over to the painting of the shore waders. “When you think of the precise, almost photographic paintings in the bird catalogue, and then look at this, pared down to basics . . .” The birds had been reduced to a pair of legs, doubled in length by their reflection with only a hint of body and beak, and yet this conveyed all that was needed. “Or this . . .” A pair of seabirds in flight had become mere wisps, Blake’s brush-strokes unerringly depicting wings which flew off into their own dimension, into a grey-white oblivion. Jasper’s eyes were alive with excitement. “These two are the earliest of them and show that he was developing a style which was so advanced, so innovative . . .” She bent closer to read the date: 1911. “It’s as if his talent had lain dormant and then went off in an entirely new direction, out on a limb, a complete break with what he’d done before. A conscious break.”

  He signalled for his glass to be replenished and gestured to hers. “Top up? I always thought there was an unfulfilled genius to the man, and these paintings prove it. There’s only one other work I know of where this new style is hinted at—its conception, if you like. And it’s much, much earlier. I’d hoped it might have been amongst them, but it wasn’t.” He narrowed his eyes as he contemplated her over his glass. “And that’s where you come in.”

  “Me?”

  He reached behind one of the screens and drew out a folder from which he took a worn, dog-eared catalogue. Exhibits in the Palace of Art. Scottish Exhibition of National History, Art and Industry. Kelvingrove Park. 3 May–4 November 1911.