The House Between Tides Read online

  “I can’t stay laid up forever.” The factor’s eyes now explored Cameron’s face, flickering briefly between him and Beatrice, his forehead furrowed. “What news then, son?” And Cameron described the calving which was taking place in the fields beyond the ridge where he had been earlier that morning, and his father nodded. “Mrs. Blake tells me that her husband will be returning in a day or two.”

  “Is that so, madam?” Cameron looked calmly at Beatrice, then back to his father. “He’ll be glad to find you up and about.”

  The factor returned him a long and hard look. “It’s time now that I was.”

  Theo had ordered fires to be lit as soon as he returned, and when Beatrice entered the stifling drawing room, she went to open a window. “No, don’t. There’s a chill, you must feel it.” She sat down, pushing her chair back from the fire, smiling tightly, and asked him to tell her about the exhibition. “Were your paintings much admired?”

  “As one might admire a fossil, I suppose—” He broke off, contemplating her in a puzzled way. “You look well, Beatrice, remarkably well. Perhaps you were right to stay.” Guilt swamped her as she agreed she was much better, then she knew a flutter of alarm. If he came to her bedroom later, she could hardly deny him.

  His description of the lavish opening had provided them with conversation over dinner. “You would have enjoyed it,” he said, as he picked at his food, pushing his plate away, refilling his glass with claret. And now, back in the drawing room, he seemed agitated, rising to poke at the fire, adding more peat.

  “Are you feeling unwell, Theo?”

  “Of course not. What makes you ask?”

  He did not come to her room that night, nor any night that followed, but kept to his study, working late, and she was puzzled. Once such neglect would have wounded her, but now she felt only relief, and this relief muted her senses. It was only gradually over the next few days that she noticed a difference in him and realised that he was drinking heavily. She found empty whisky glasses in the study and in his dressing room, and the levels in the decanter dropped alarmingly, to be quickly refilled. He looked unwell, prone to flushing and sudden sweats, and she found a sleeping potion on his shaving table.

  Conscience pricked her, and she grew fearful. It seemed his eyes followed her whenever they were in a room together, sliding away in their customary manner when they met hers. Had they been discovered? The thought terrified her. Or had he somehow heard a rumour? Impossible, surely— Yet he watched her with a strange expression and his face seemed heavier, pouched under the eyes, his expression unfocussed and distant, but her solicitous enquiries were brushed impatiently aside, and she watched with alarm as his drinking increased.

  Cameron now came in for censure. “What about the sheep? Those tupps and hoggs should have gone by now, surely. Why the delay?” she overheard him in the hall.

  “The ship had to put into port for repairs, sir, so the sale has been postponed. It’ll be a day or two, but they’ll send word.”

  “I see nothing gathered ready in the fank. They’re still out in the fields!”

  “They’ll be ready, sir. I promise you.”

  “And I understand the rye was only planted last week. What the devil’s been going on?”

  Cameron fielded the barrage as best he could, tight-lipped, his own temper held in check, and life became insupportable. Opportunities to meet became far fewer as the factor resumed control from the estate office, bringing Cameron’s stewardship of the estate abruptly to an end. And Theo’s strange anger simmered, molten, just below the surface, his eyes bloodshot, the pupils pinprick bright, his hand trembling as he filled his whisky glass. And still his brooding eyes watched her, considering her, looking away when she returned his gaze. She grew restless and fretful, alternating between frustration and fear, rebellion and remorse. Guilt made her wretched, and the separation from Cameron was unbearable.

  In snatched conversation, she learned that Theo had threatened Duncan MacPhail’s family with immediate eviction when he had discovered the man had driven in stakes marking out a croft. He had told Cameron to pull them up and then burn the roof off the house, goading him that he would do it himself when he refused. It took the factor’s warning to stop him—such action would light the touchpaper of dissent in the region, he said, playing straight into the hands of the most radical land agitators. Duncan MacPhail, after all, would have nothing to lose in widely publicising his treatment. Backing down did nothing to improve Theo’s temper.

  The factor pushed himself to recover, as if sensing a renewed crisis, using Donald as a go-between from the estate office to Muirlan House, sending Cameron far out onto the estate to work. And Beatrice could only watch him come and go, not daring even to signal to him.

  The balmy weather had vanished completely, as if the fickle elements, having indulged her for so long, now abandoned her, and she was confined to the house overshadowed by Theo’s moods. She had a fire lit daily in the morning room and spent her days there, writing letters or attempting to read.

  Or watching from the window for a glimpse of Cameron.

  It was two evenings later when she went to bid Theo good night that she found him slumped over his desk in the study, his head on a pile of drawings, an inkwell overturned, a dark stain spreading. Drunk or sedated—or both? She set the ink bottle aright, moving aside some of his paintings laid out on the desk, studying them as she did. They made no sense to her, strange whirling patterns, wisps which were birds’ wings, shore waders reduced to exaggerated stilt-like legs joined to their own reflections. Quite unlike his previous work.

  Gently she lifted his hand away from the spill, and he stirred. “Theo,” she said softly, leaning close to mop his fingers with her handkerchief, but he yanked his hand away and flung out his arm.

  His elbow caught her hard just below her eye. She cried out, stumbling backwards, slipping on the ink, and fell, catching one of the domed displays, and lay there, stunned, amongst the shattered glass beside a tiny skylark, its beak open in mimicry of her shock. Theo staggered to his feet and looked down at her and spoke her name. Then he reached out to her, his hand trembling, and she watched with alarm as his eyes rolled back in his head, and he too fell, his face amongst the broken glass, the weight of him across her.

  The noise brought one of the girls rushing to the door, and she gawped in horror and then vanished, to reappear a moment later with Mrs. Henderson. “Oh, madam,” she cried.

  The women hurried to help Beatrice as she struggled to extricate herself. She rose, panting and shocked, conscious of the girl’s eyes on her swelling face. “He fell. He didn’t— Mr. Blake’s unwell.” She was shaking, mortified, and looked down at Theo lying with his head hard up against the fireplace, the ink dripping black onto the cuff of his shirt. “Help him. Fetch someone—”

  Half an hour later she followed dumbly behind Cameron and Donald, Theo’s feet dragging on the stair carpet as they half carried him up the stairs, his arms slung across their shoulders, his chin sunk on his chest. Mrs. Henderson had gone on ahead to turn back the covers of the spare room bed, where they laid him down and Donald began removing his shoes.

  Cameron turned abruptly to where Beatrice stood, uncertain, at the door. “Are you alright, Mrs. Blake?” He took a step towards her, but Mrs. Henderson put a hand on his arm.

  “Look to the master, Cameron. I’ll take care of Mrs. Blake.”

  “He woke suddenly,” insisted Beatrice, as the housekeeper steered her towards her bedroom, sending a girl for warm water. “Flung his arm out. He didn’t mean—he’s unwell.”

  “I know, madam, I know,” she soothed. “But you must take care.” Her hands were gentle and her eyes bright with understanding. “Rest now, madam, I’ll bring some tea.” She left Beatrice sitting at her dressing table, the ink-stained handkerchief balled in her fist, staring at her reflection, and she raised a hand to her bruised face. It had been an accident.

  She heard movement in the adjacent dressing room, drawers
opening and closing, footsteps retreating, then the connecting door opened a crack.

  “What happened?” Cameron hissed savagely.

  “He’s been taking an opiate of some sort, I found a bottle.” She paused. “Is he alright?”

  “He’ll do.”

  “He didn’t mean to—”

  “No?”

  “No! Is he asleep?”

  His face had an odd expression, and he looked aside. “He roused briefly, but he’s asleep now.” They heard Mrs. Henderson tapping on the bedroom door, and Cameron drew back. “Lock your door tonight, Beatrice.”

  “A fever, Mrs. Blake. A bad one, but it will pass. Something he picked up in Glasgow, I expect.” Dr. Johnson had come early, alarmed by what he heard. “No reason for concern.” He patted her hand as his eyes strayed over her bruised cheek. “I’ll come again tomorrow.” Theo had refused to be examined, the doctor told her, beyond permitting confirmation that he had a fever and agreeing that his eyes were bloodshot and his face cut about with small scratches, red and blotchy. “I’ve given him a mild sedation. Not like the other bottle. I’ll take that away. Perhaps he will explain—?” Beatrice nodded quickly. “Water down the whisky, my dear”—he pulled a wry face, tugging at the strap of his bag—“and persuade him to be moderate.”

  Did Dr. Johnson think him merely drunk? How shaming! But she was certain it was more. She went back to find Theo sleeping, the curtains half drawn, and sat quietly in the corner of the room watching him. He looked peaceful now, but how much he had changed! These were not the urbane features of the man she had watched across the room in Edinburgh, watched and felt drawn to. The skin around his eyes was puffy, the lines exaggerated by the redness of his face.

  Guilt flooded her again. Had he guessed? Was that why the whisky decanter was no sooner full than empty again? But surely Theo was not the sort of man to tolerate infidelity in silence. She turned her face to the window, pressing the back of her hand to her mouth. But what if he suspected, and had no proof? She shut her eyes and leant her head against the wall. And if he was ill, seriously ill, she couldn’t leave him. Cameron had become ever more persistent in his demands that she must go with him, but leaving Theo ill and alone was much more reprehensible than leaving Theo angry, and so she was caught, snared by her own treachery.

  Gradually, she sensed that he was watching her, but when she turned to him, his eyelids fluttered shut. She spoke his name, softly, and again, a little louder. “Theo?” No response. But he was too still, too tense. Feigning sleep. And then he stirred and turned his back to her. She stayed a few minutes longer, then left.

  Theo

  Beatrice. When he was sure she had gone, he turned onto his back and opened his eyes. He moved his head slightly, looking around at the unfamiliar room. Why was he here? Slowly the confused memory took shape—the sound of breaking glass and Beatrice’s shocked face looking up at him from the floor. Had he done that? He raised a hand to his brow and awoke little pinpricks of pain, and he lay still as his brain began to piece it together. An ugly scene.

  And yet he had dreamed of Màili. So clearly, as if she were there. He had opened his eyes to find her dark ones looking down at him, her cool fingers on his face, and had felt a profound but fleeting joy. And he had spoken to her, an endearment: God bless. But she had gone, and then there was Cameron. Or was it Cameron all along? Not Màili.

  And then it had been Beatrice. He’d watched her through slit eyes as she sat there beside the window, her hand pressed to her mouth and speculated, in a detached way, what she might be thinking. But he could no longer guess— She was different, changed in some incomprehensible way, slipping away from him. He was losing her, as he had lost Màili— And again it was his own fault; he was driving her away. He had left her pale and thin, nervous and fretful, but returned to find her restored, shining with health and beauty, and with an enigmatic glow. Dear God, how he had wanted to go to her that first evening, a supplicant, begging forgiveness. And he could have gone to her, but for— He screwed his eyes shut and clenched his teeth, wincing with pain from his scarred face.

  If only she had come with him to Glasgow, the whole wretched business would never have happened. Shame welled up in him again, and he groaned as his mind replayed the wild excesses of that night. Sanders and his cronies drinking madly, not permitting him to be moderate, that vile show, and then the overblown women. Good God, how did he let it happen? And next day, the humiliation, and the appalled, fragmented recollection.

  In Glasgow, he had managed to put the episode behind him, kept busy by the events of the opening, but towards the end of the visit there had been cause for concern. He had slipped away and found a discreet doctor who had done little to allay his fears. “Early days, my dear sir, early days. It will probably clear up in no time.” The doctor had handed him a bottle. “This might be beneficial and will help you sleep. Married man, sir? You must stay away from your wife, you know. Until you’re sure.”

  And now Beatrice’s eyes sent him the same clear message. Stay away, stay away . . .

  Chapter 40

  1911, Beatrice

  “Make an excuse, any excuse, and meet me. In an hour.” Cameron spoke in a low voice from the door of the morning room the next day, fetching rent books from the study as an excuse to come across.

  He was waiting at the threshold of the croft house, tense and furious, when she arrived. “So this is the man I must leave you with?” he demanded, pulling her in. “Now he offers you violence!” He gripped her shoulders, deaf to her protests. “Leave it now, and listen. Yesterday, before all this happened, he and my father discussed my leaving.” She tried to pull away to look at him, but he held her tight. “Listen. They’ve agreed on the day after the celebration for the King’s coronation, midsummer day. I’ve no reason to stay, and my father smells trouble.”

  “He can’t know!”

  “He suspects. He’s said nothing, but he wants me away.” Beatrice’s face crumpled as he released her, but he shook his head, and his grip tightened on her shoulders. “Listen.” And he outlined a plan. He would work the summer on the docks in Halifax or Montreal, hard work but good money, then return in the autumn, not to the island but to Glasgow, in secret, and send word to her in Edinburgh. He paused, drawing in breath. “And if you come to me there, we will head out back to Canada on the first ship next spring.”

  Behind him a spider dropped down from the old rafters, spinning a long thread behind it as it fell. He caressed her bruised cheek with his thumb. “The decision is yours, ghraidh mo chridhe. It won’t be easy living, but no one will find us there.” He moved back, fracturing the silken thread as he pulled her down beside him.

  Later that day she tried hard to listen as Theo discussed the arrangements for the midsummer celebrations, but her mind was in tatters, unable to focus. He had insisted on getting up and seemed much recovered, back in control, the fever almost gone, his eyes less manic but his temper only slightly less volatile. “More tea, Mr. Forbes?” she asked, inadvertently cutting across him.

  “Beatrice, I—” Theo frowned at her. “Perhaps I will leave the matter to you, Mrs. Henderson, after all.”

  The factor and the housekeeper both refused more tea, and Beatrice tried again to pay attention. There had long been plans for a party to celebrate both midsummer and the coronation, which would involve a gathering across the strand on the main island, and a huge bonfire would be lit on the top of Bheinn Mhor, a beacon for the surrounding islands. And they would have music, fiddlers and accordions, dancing and pipes. The estate would provide food and drink.

  And by the end of it, Cameron would be gone—

  Theo became exasperated. “I want you to make sure there is ample food, Beatrice,” he said, after the others had left the morning room and it was clear that she had paid scant attention. “Mrs. Henderson has done all the planning so far, so it’s now your turn to take a little responsibility. I’ll have enough to do overseeing the rest, as well as the workmen.”
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br />   Theo’s fever might have left him, and he was drinking less, but over the next days he was restless, pushing everyone hard, abruptly giving and withdrawing instructions, calmed only by the steady hand of John Forbes and the tolerance of Mrs. Henderson, who adeptly covered Beatrice’s frequent oversights. Work on the extension to the morning room had hardly started but was now accelerated. Theo wanted it completed, finished before the summer was gone, and he drove the men hard. Beatrice stood and watched as the men wrestled with a large frost-damaged boulder, leaving one end embedded deep in the foundations, filling the remaining hollow with quantities of bone-white sand to level the uneven ground.

  Chapter 41

  Midsummer Day 1911, Beatrice

  In the end, it was Beatrice herself who betrayed them.

  There had been activity since daybreak. Provisions had been ferried across by boat while the bay was full, and by cart as soon as the water was below the axles. The morning was fine and Beatrice had wandered down to the foreshore, desperate to get away from the house, watching the comings and goings and hoping for a glimpse of Cameron. But she knew there was little chance, as he had been sent across early to oversee the arrangements on Bheinn Mhor. From there he would leave directly once the celebrations were over, catching a lift across to the mainland with one of the returning fishermen.

  They had contrived one last meeting at the croft house. “I went to see the divers again,” he had told her as he lay beside her, his face next to hers. “I thought perhaps the eggs would have hatched, but they hadn’t. It seemed important to know.” He gave her a twisted smile, his eyes gleaming as he bent to kiss the locket where it lay on her breast.

  She watched as one of the larger carts set out across the strand, carrying the carcasses of two calves which had been slaughtered for the feast, their feet already bound around poles, ready for roasting. John Forbes had positioned himself in one of the basket chairs on the drive, with his crutches beside him, calmly overseeing the frenzy and either confirming or modifying Theo’s orders. The men had been taken away from the building work to help, stacking trestle tables and benches from the schoolhouse in readiness for transport. Boys were used as runners, conveying messages, and in the midst of the chaos Beatrice saw Theo lean down to listen to one lad, gripping his shoulder as the boy nodded vigorously. And as she walked back up the track, she saw him striding towards the stables, the boy at his heels, but had thought nothing of it. It was only when Mrs. Henderson met her at the front door and delivered the message that Beatrice should wait for Mr. Blake there, and that they would go across together, did she wonder where he might have gone.