The House Between Tides Page 25

  “Check out numbers 370 to 372.”

  She took it, and it fell open at a marked page. Each entry had a small photographic reproduction beside it. Number 370 was, inevitably, The Rock Pool. Loaned by A. Reed, and it was with a stab of delight that she recognised her own painting, number 371, Torrann Bay. Loaned by Major and Mrs. Rupert Ballantyre. Only for a brief time had Emily been Mrs. Rupert Ballantyre, but Banks was pointing to the next entry, number 372: Muirlan Strand. Private collection.

  It was a poor reproduction but good enough to show that the missing painting depicted a view across the strand, of low sun shafting through a veil of mist, and two faint figures walking close, but separately, across the sand. “He refers to the painting in one of his letters as belonging to his wife, you might have noticed, and I think it’s this one, and it’s the most important thing he ever did. And to me, ‘private collection’ means family.”

  She wrenched her eyes away from the catalogue and shook her head. “I’m sorry. I’ve never seen it before.”

  “Any ideas?” James flittered into her head. She would have to ask him. “It’s important,” Jasper continued, “because it’s so early. The date’s too small to read but that’s an eighteen not a nineteen. He was trying something new way back then, but he gives up, goes abroad, and then chugs on with his bird catalogue instead, denying his talent. Then maybe ten, fifteen years later, around 1911, he releases it in his last great burst of creativity, experimenting with light and abstract concepts, and the result is brilliant! But it takes him nowhere, and then there’s a gap of what, two decades? And when he starts up again, in the twenties or thirties, his work is hard-edged and heavy, and by the forties he’s lost it, gone certifiably weird, deconstructing everything around him into jagged fragments. But back in 1911, he was trying to put something together. He was inspired! But it was short-lived. Something happened, and whatever it was, it was catastrophic and it stopped him in his tracks.”

  Chapter 31

  1911, Beatrice

  Steam blew back down the station platform, enveloping Beatrice as she stood in her dark travelling clothes, waiting where Theo had left her. He had gone to find the guard, and now she saw him coming back towards her. “It’s this one, my dear,” he said, taking her arm. “The mistake’s on the ticket.” He hustled her into their compartment, tipping the porter as he closed the door behind them and the whistle blew. “Alright?” he asked.

  She nodded like a fairground automaton as the train pulled out of the station, then leant her head against the window, overcome with weariness again, watching as the grey city receded. “Sure?” he asked a moment later. She gave him a tight smile, and he lifted his newspaper and was soon absorbed. As grey gave way to green, the train took up a regular rhythm, and she looked dully across at him, wondering if the chasm between them was now quite unbridgeable. For what if she answered him truthfully? That she felt entirely broken, not just in body, but also in spirit. What then?

  When they had returned to the city six months ago, wedding preparations had been in full swing. She had tried to rouse herself to share in Emily’s excitement but had struggled under an overwhelming melancholy.

  Theo’s antipathy towards his stepmother was palpable, and old Mrs. Blake treated Beatrice with a gracious condescension. “Beatrice looks pale, Theodore. Why did you submit the poor girl to that outlandish place?” she said one night over dinner at her house. “She tells me she’s never been to Rome, or even Paris. Surely you won’t go back up there next year? There’s no company for her, other than the natives.”

  “Savages,” agreed Kit, grinning across the table at her.

  “Really, I—”

  “Poor child. It’s too cruel of you, Theo.”

  He had remained coldly silent, and as they returned to Charlotte Street through the dark city, she had watched the wind spinning withered leaves on wet pavements, heartsick and silent, remembering how Cameron had described the swirling colours of the northern lights over the sea in winter.

  As a rule, she had tried not to think of Cameron, keeping herself occupied by day, but waking or dreaming, he invaded her nights, giving rise to feelings of such hopelessness. And when the day came for Emily and Rupert to exchange their vows, she stood beside Theo in a packed St. Giles, feeling oddly detached from the celebrations, dizzy, and prey to a persistent headache.

  The next morning she had rushed to the wash-basin and retched, shaking uncontrollably, and then the dizziness had a reason, the volatility and the lethargy an explanation. Despondency was replaced by astonishment, for Theo’s appearances in her bedroom had remained infrequent and his lovemaking perfunctory, but somehow from this distant coupling a child had been conceived.

  Theo too had seemed taken aback but expressed himself delighted. Emily, returning a few days later from a honeymoon cut short by national concerns, went into raptures when she was told. “So I’ve become a wife and an auntie all at the same time. So very grown-up.”

  Theo had overheard and stopped in the doorway, giving her a wry smile. “Grown-up? You’ll always be a hoyden, Emily, while Beatrice will become a serene and lovely Madonna.” And she had dropped her eyes at his expression, flooded suddenly with hope, ashamed then of her wayward dreaming, and after that she had tried to focus on the baby. Theo’s baby. Their salvation. And inch by inch in the passing weeks she had felt the breach between them begin to close.

  And then they received Cameron’s letter. It had arrived in February, following a spell of bitterly cold weather, and Beatrice had come downstairs, trailing her loose gown behind her and giving a great yawn; city life and her pregnancy seemed to drain her of energy. She had entered the morning room to find Theo standing quite still beside the table, a letter in his hand.

  He had looked up as she entered. “From Cameron Forbes,” he said, handing it to her, and he had gone to stand by the window, his hands clasped behind his back.

  The letter told of an accident. The factor had fallen, breaking a leg, while working alone at the far side of the island and had not been found until morning. He had survived only by some miracle, but now pneumonia had him in its deadly grip. She skimmed rapidly through the pages, Cameron’s closely-written words jumping before her eyes. Surely nothing could threaten the life of that formidable island man! Dr. Johnson remains deeply concerned. We can only pray that the crisis comes soon and that he survives it. Cameron went on to describe the steps he had taken regarding the estate, finishing on a constrained note. You will, of course, have expected me to be preparing for my departure, but I beg you to permit me to delay until my father is out of danger, as I cannot leave my family so hard-pressed. Be assured, sir, that Donald and I will do everything necessary until I hear from you. She had lowered the letter and looked across to where Theo still stood at the window, his back to her, his reactions hidden, and wondered what it had cost Cameron to beg.

  The train jolted suddenly on an uneven stretch of track, bringing her back to the present, and Theo looked up. “Comfortable, my dear?” He searched her face for a moment, then returned to his paper. If she told him how she felt, the profound emptiness, the despair which had replaced the hope, would he then confront the matter, talk about their loss, or would he slide away from her again? And even as she watched him, he lifted his head and looked out of the carriage window, his eyes distant, fixed on a dark place in the shadows of his own mind, oblivious to her needs. Huddled in her own grief, she no longer even tried to guess where that place might be.

  A day later, after a rough sea crossing, she sat beside him in the trap as they started out across Muirlan Strand, as they had done a year ago almost to the day. But spring had not yet awoken the colours from the landscape, and shifting showers drenched the sky, while out at sea dark-fringed curtains of grey showed where heavier rain had yet to make landfall. She pulled her cape close against the cutting edge of the wind and wondered if there could be a greater contrast. Last year she had looked across at the island with eager anticipation, and Theo had smiled a
t her as he sprang onto the trap and taken her hand.

  But even as she watched, a strong rainbow, like a flash of hope, arched briefly across the strand, vivid against the darkening clouds. And she remembered her last sight of Cameron all those months ago, as he walked away from Muirlan House across the sand, Bess at his heels. The dull ache of it had stayed with her all the way to Edinburgh.

  There were figures on the drive as they approached, and she steeled herself for the encounter. But as they drew close, she saw it was only Donald and Mrs. Henderson who waited outside the front door, while two of the tenants stood at the gate to assist with the luggage.

  “Welcome home, sir.” Donald stepped forward to take the reins. He seemed to have grown in stature and presence. “We wondered if the weather would have held up the crossing.” Then Cameron appeared on the top of the steps, and she felt something twist inside her.

  “We were not much delayed,” Theo replied. He had seen him too. “How’s your father, Donald?”

  “Improving, sir, but weak. The fever comes and goes.”

  Behind them, Cameron descended the steps, signalling to the men to begin unloading the trunks, and Beatrice gripped the sides of the trap watching his approach. But his attention was fixed on Theo. “Welcome home, sir.” He spoke in even tones, holding out his hand.

  Theo hesitated for a moment, then grasped it, searching his face, agreeing to the truce. “You and Donald have done well, keeping my house in order,” he said. “I’m grateful.” Cameron gave a slight bow and, half turning, gave a quiet, impersonal greeting to Beatrice and offered a hand to help her down, and they all stood a moment in uneasy silence. Then Theo gestured to a ladder leaning against the front of the house. “Trouble?”

  “Fallen slates, sir. After the last storm.” Beatrice had seen a man on the roof above her bedroom as the trap pulled up the drive, but he must have slid down the other side, out of view. “The roof’s fixed, but we still need to repair the damage indoors.” He looked leaner and older. Sterner. And there was a careworn look to his countenance, lines on either side of his mouth that she did not remember, a groove between his brows.

  Theo nodded again, and as they moved towards the front door, Cameron stood aside for Beatrice to pass, his eyes resting briefly on hers, but there was no message there, no comfort. Just a distant, shuttered look, like the one Theo gave her when he wanted to keep her at bay.

  Chapter 32

  1911, Theo

  Two days later, Theo sat at his desk, sharpening his pencils with a pocket knife. It had been easier to forgive Cameron than he had imagined, and the lad had risen to the occasion commendably, as if born to it. The blade slipped, nicking his finger, and he swore softly.

  When Cameron had taken him to see John Forbes the first day back, Theo had been shocked by the factor’s appearance. He seemed to have aged by a decade, his beard grown long and grey, and he had struggled to sit up when he saw who it was, but Theo laid a hand on his shoulder. “No, John, rest easy,” and between them he and Cameron had eased the sick man back down onto the bleached pillows.

  “You’ll stay for a while?” he had asked as Cameron led him back down the farmhouse stairs.

  “Of course.”

  It had been a painful, distressing visit, the room too weighted by the past. Cameron would have been born in that bed, his siblings conceived there. And Màili—she must have died there. He stared out of the window, where a gull hung, motionless, over the drive. And what if John were to die? Ashamed, he pushed the thought aside and picked up the account books, studying them intently as Cameron appeared at the door in answer to his summons.

  “Come in and sit down. I won’t keep you long.” Cameron pulled out a chair opposite him and sat, saying nothing. Treading carefully, thought Theo, as he tapped one entry in the account books and frowned. “Putting a roof back on an outbuilding doesn’t constitute an improvement, you know. I’d as well penalise him for allowing the dilapidation than give him compensation.” A quick glance at the estate books last night had shown that little had gone amiss since John’s accident, but it did no harm to re-establish authority.

  “He’s not asking for compensation, sir,” Cameron replied with studied calm. “Just for lenience regarding the arrears.”

  “Get something from him on account, and the arrears are to be reduced by quarter day.” Theo strove to keep his tone light, giving ground occasionally, remaining firm in other cases, and Cameron responded carefully, “Yes, I hear you.” Theo cut short his explanation a moment later, “But the matter cannot rest there. You must tell him so.” And they went on to discuss expenditure and predicted stock prices, slipping into the old understanding, the old camaraderie, and Theo felt the same pull, that strong familiar bond.

  Then he picked up the rent books again and began running his finger down the columns, stopping halfway down the page. “I see Aonghas MacPhail is falling into arrears.”

  “He’s a little behind, sir. No worse than—”

  “Why would that be?” Theo interrupted. “Is his brother’s family still living off him?” Would Cameron explain what he had seen when he had ridden out earlier? he wondered—the washing spread on the rocks, blue smoke rising from the roof, a potato crop pushing through.

  He watched Cameron hesitate. “They’re still here, sir.”

  “Still sharing Aonghas’s house?”

  Another hesitation. “No, sir.”

  “No.” Theo let the silence deepen. “I wondered if you’d see fit to tell me.” Cameron said nothing but looked vexed. “I gave permission last year for the old ruin to be roofed for use as a byre. But either you or your father seems to have given Duncan MacPhail permission to move his family in.” He paused, one eyebrow raised. “And I imagine that was you?”

  Cameron’s face took on a more mutinous look. “I intended to discuss—”

  “There’s nothing to discuss. My position hasn’t changed.”

  “It was a hard winter, sir. One of the children grew sick again. It seemed better that they were not so crowded.” Theo heard him struggle to maintain an even tone. “Duncan’s been very useful around the estate. It was him on the roof when you arrived, fixing the slates.”

  “Was it, by God!” Duncan MacPhail repairing the roof his grandfather had threatened to raze. Had the irony not struck him?

  “He’d pay you rent for the house.”

  “And so legitimise his claim? No, Cameron.”

  There was a longer silence. “Are you saying he must quit the house?” Cameron asked quietly. “His wife is ill, sir. She too . . . She lost a baby last winter.”

  So Cameron knew, did he? It had been given out that Beatrice had been unwell, thus delaying their return, but these things always got out. Theo pushed back his chair and went over to the window, seeing Beatrice asleep in one of the basket chairs, wrapped in a shawl like a spent child. Remorse still tormented him, but he found himself unable to reach out to her, knowing that she held him in part responsible. Perhaps he was, but a fury had gripped him that evening, as it had the day that Cameron had threatened him, and that moment’s blindness had cost them dear.

  He came back to the present, aware that Cameron was expecting a response. He had no stomach to continue fighting with him, but he would not have his hand forced. “Tell Duncan he has the summer to find another place for his family, and some other means to support them. He can stay for the summer, until quarter day.”

  At dinner that evening, he referred to the incident and Cameron’s handling of it. “A newly thatched roof and a patch of potatoes. All with Cameron Forbes’s blessing! After what happened last year, you’d think he’d exercise a little judgement.”

  “Had we intended to plant potatoes there ourselves?” Beatrice asked, reaching for the butter.

  Theo looked up sharply. “You know damned well it’s the principle of the matter. I’d sooner help MacPhail take himself off to Canada, where he could make something of himself.”

  “And yet last year you argued the
opposite, in your bid to persuade Cameron to stay.”

  Theo sat back and stared at her but recovered quickly. “Cameron Forbes is not without prospects here. I saw to that when he was younger. And the offer I made him is still open, if he wants to change his mind.”

  Beatrice’s eyes fell to her plate, and she said no more.

  Chapter 33

  1911, Beatrice

  Beatrice went early to bed and lay there looking up at an ugly damp stain where rain had seeped through broken slates to find the crack in the ceiling. Already she felt the strain of the same shifting tensions which had blighted last summer— And how different this homecoming should have been! They would have brought their child back with them, a tiny emissary who might have brokered peace, and Cameron would have been long gone.

  And they could have begun to rebuild.

  But on a single, fatal decision to accompany Theo that night, she had hung all their futures. She had gone along only to please him, regretting it as soon as they entered the packed assembly rooms where Edinburgh’s patrons and leaders had gathered for the annual Society dinner. There was a dreadful crush of people, all greeting each other, taking note of who had come and who had stayed away, and it had been unbearably hot.

  Charles Farquarson had soon spotted them and guided them to his table with such exaggerated consideration that she wondered if perhaps Theo had dropped a hint of her condition. She had endured the meal with teeth gritted, playing with the rich, unwanted food, uncomfortable in her constricting clothes, responding with effort to the conversation around her.

  Lectures followed dinner, and the last speaker’s voice would be etched forever in her brain. “Ladies and Gentlemen, you have your heads in the sand,” he had begun. “Why debate nomenclature when every year more species disappear from our shores . . .” She had allowed her attention to wander, aching to be gone. “. . . relentlessly poisoned, shot, or their nests destroyed by keepers at the command of landlords concerned only with their game birds and their sport.” Around her she sensed rustling and discordant murmurings and began to pay attention. A red-haired young man was addressing them in the manner of a firebrand minister ranting over his errant flock. “Even among our own members this slaughter continues, adding to collections which grace—or rather shame—their country houses.” Mutterings grew louder, and she saw that Theo was eyeing him sourly. “The osprey is now extinct here, and will soon be followed by the white-tailed sea eagle, whose survival hangs in the balance.” Beatrice’s head had begun to pound as the charged scene in the old croft house returned to her. “Consider them doomed, gentlemen! Gone within the decade.” And she heard John Forbes’s deep, sad voice, and saw again the majestic corpse laid before her. The eagle with the sunlit eye— The next words were lost to her in a haze of despair, and she had felt again Cameron Forbes’s swift kiss, the pressure of his hands on her shoulders. “. . . lawless arrogance, even in the western islands, their last refuge.” The speaker paused and looked over his audience. “Only today I heard that one of the last, a male in the prime of its life, has just left the hands of an Edinburgh taxidermist.” Theo stiffened as the speaker’s gaze flickered towards them. “But doubtless that crime too will go unpunished even as it tips the balance towards disaster.” And then faintness threatened to overcome her.