The House Between Tides Read online

  Too weary to be much concerned, she had nodded and gone upstairs to escape the bustle of the frenzied household. The trap would be sent to take them across that evening, and until then there was nothing to occupy her. From her window, she watched small groups setting off across the strand, women with creels on their backs, holding small children by the hand while older children, giddy with excitement, ran beside them. The day dragged on, hot now, and sultry, and slowly the island emptied of its inhabitants. She turned away from the window and stretched out on her bed, her head aching wretchedly. But for seeing Cameron one last time, she would have cried off. There would be little joy in seeing him—to be close but not able to approach him, to see him but not to touch him. She turned over and buried her face in her pillow.

  Gradually, the house grew silent. And as the sun began to sink, Beatrice rose and trailed downstairs to where Mrs. Henderson hovered anxiously, giving last-minute instructions to the departing girls.

  She glanced up with relief as Beatrice descended. “I’ve put a cold meal in the dining room, madam, so you and the master can have something when he gets back. But I’ll stay, if you like.”

  Beatrice gently pushed her to the door. “Go with the others, Mrs. Henderson. Calum will bring us once Mr. Blake is ready.”

  Still, the housekeeper hesitated, her face anxious. “Why not come with us now, madam? Mr. Blake will understand.” Beatrice was tempted. Cameron would be there, but defying Theo’s explicit instructions was too great a risk. She shook her head and watched as Mrs. Henderson took her place on the last cart, looking back at her mistress until the cart dropped down to the foreshore.

  It was impossible to settle.

  She stood at the drawing room window, twisting her handkerchief. Where could Theo have gone? Across the strand, perhaps. But why? Guilt gave wings to her imagination, and she grew fearful as the light faded and the room grew cold. And still she waited.

  When at last Theo returned, he came from the side of the house and she did not hear him until he was at the front door, shouting to someone, his voice exultant. “Off you go now, and enjoy yourself! I won’t forget what I said. No, no, it’ll keep until tomorrow. Off with you.” She leant forward and caught sight of Tam, Calum’s brother, running down the drive towards the foreshore. Had Theo simply been out shooting? He often took Tam with him when he did. But today of all days! She waited and listened, and heard him cross the hall to the study.

  Ten minutes passed, and then fifteen, and Theo did not come to find her. Unable to wait any longer, she went into the hall. She could see him through the study door, still in his outdoor clothes, with his back towards her and attending to something on his desk. He turned as she approached, and in so doing he revealed what his body had hidden.

  “No!”

  He looked up in astonishment.

  It was the smaller of the two divers, its head lolling grotesquely over the edge of the desk, its large feet splayed apart. A basket lined with fleece lay beside it. “And the eggs!” Tears filled her eyes. “Oh, Theo, what have you done?” He stared back at her, his hand poised over the dead bird. And then, sickeningly, she realised what her words had revealed.

  And there was no way to unsay them.

  The silence lasted for an eternity, then Theo straightened. “You knew,” he said slowly. “You knew about them.” They stood looking across at each other, motionless as waxworks, then Theo opened the drawer to put away the measuring rule. Closed it and turned back. “All the way out on Oronsy Mhor—and yet you knew.” He sank down into the chair behind the desk, his eyes never leaving her face. Seconds ticked by. “How could that be, my dear?”

  Alarm rang through her like static, but it was too late. She dug her nails into her palms as Theo continued looking at her, a strange expression on his face, his eyes stripping through her defences. Words would not come. Beads of sweat appeared on his brow, and his face drained to an ashy grey. Then from below a bank of dark cloud, the low sun briefly illuminated his easel with its brushes and paints, and he looked away. “Cameron found them, eh?” She said nothing, numbed by her fear. “And how long have you known, Beatrice?” He turned back to her, fixing his eyes on her face as she struggled to find words which would not condemn her, but like a rabbit caught in the poacher’s lantern, her senses were stunned. “Decided not to tell me, did you?” He paused. “A little secret between the two of you, eh?”

  Her heart began to pound. She had to make an effort, but her mouth was guilt dry. “He told me—” she began, and faltered. “I told him not to. I was afraid that—that you would do this.” She gestured despairingly towards the carcass and the eggs, but he was no longer interested in them. He sat back with his elbows crooked against his chest, his fingertips lightly bouncing off each other as he watched her, and the silence stretched out between them. She tried again. “It seemed such a shame—”

  “Shame?” He sat forward abruptly, and the blood rushed to his face. “You talk of shame, Beatrice?”

  Her pulse leapt, and she knew then that her own face betrayed her. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Oh, I think you do.” He sat back again, still watching her, and she felt a wild impulse to flee. Desperately, she thought he must not be allowed to accuse her, but it was too late. “In fact,” he continued slowly, “I’m certain of it.” He leant forward, his eyes not releasing hers. “Because it explains so much.”

  She was defenceless.

  He rose to his feet, and she stepped back instinctively. His hand trembled as he gripped the side of the desk, white-knuckled, his mouth working, but before either of them could speak, there was a knock at the door of the study. He swung round like an island bull sensing a challenger, but it was Calum McNeil who stood there, oblivious to the dark vibrations in the room.

  “The trap’s at the door, sir.”

  Theo looked blankly at him. Everything outside the moment had been forgotten. Then he looked down, distracted, and paused a moment before sitting again. “Thank you, Calum, but plans have changed. Saddle the mare for me again, then come back and collect Mrs. Blake. She’ll go across with you now and I’ll follow.”

  The man left.

  Beatrice turned desperately to Theo. “Theo, I don’t want—”

  “You’ll do as I say, Beatrice, and make no complaint.” His face was expressionless, closed to reason, and his calmness terrified her. “We’re expected at the celebrations, and we will be there.” He stood up again, clutching the side of the desk. “I need . . . to consider.” Even through her fear she was struck by how ill he looked. It was imperative that she try to reason with him now while she had the chance.

  “Theo, you must hear—”

  But he pulled himself upright, his face ash-grey. “Fetch whatever you need and be ready for Calum when he returns.”

  “Theo, listen to me.”

  A dangerous glint appeared in his eye.

  “I beg you to—”

  “Damn you, Beatrice.” The words exploded from him. “Go.” He wiped the spittle from his mouth with his sleeve and turned back to the window, shaking, and she knew then that she must get to the bonfire. Find Cameron, and warn him, before Theo got there. But what then? She ran upstairs, rifling through her clothes to find her shawl, desperate and trembling. Out of the window she saw Calum returning, while beyond the shore the last stragglers were strung out across the strand, some on foot, others on the small island horses. There would be safety there, amongst them. For her? For Cameron?

  She started as she heard Theo call her name from the hall and left the bedroom, descending to the half-landing, pressing her hand to her pounding heart, knowing that Theo was watching her from the study door. “Take Mrs. Blake up to the old shieling, Calum. You’ll find Mrs. Henderson there, with the others. I’ll not keep you long.” And he went back into the study.

  A large crowd had gathered on the hillside, and excitement buzzed through them at this rare treat. Beatrice struggled to appear as if she shared in their enjoyment. It wa
s the hardest thing she had ever done— Tenants she knew greeted her respectfully, introducing her to others she did not, giving her their thanks and good wishes. She smiled woodenly while scanning the crowds for a glimpse of Cameron. Families had been arriving all day from off-shore islands and had come together with the crofters from Muirlan Island and now sat crammed onto benches at makeshift tables laden with food and drink, circled by excited children. The roof of the old shieling had been covered with torn and faded sails, which would provide some shelter should the weather turn bad, for the cloud bank was still gathering on the distant horizon. She scanned the hillside again. Where was he?

  “It’s almost sunset, madam.” She turned to find Donald gesturing towards the bonfire. Fiddle music was growing ever more intense as competing musicians showed off their skills, drowned occasionally by the drone of pipes. Everyone was waiting for the moment when the fire would be lit. She felt curious eyes turning to her, and Donald still stood there awaiting an answer. She looked out through fading light and shadow across the strand but saw no sign of a rider.

  “I think you should light it,” she said quickly. “Mr. Blake wouldn’t want you to wait.” And delay would only draw further attention to his absence. Donald passed the word back, and the waiting men wasted no more time. Excitement reached a crescendo and then burst into a great cheer at the mighty paraffin-induced roar, and flames leapt high to greet the darkening sky. The musicians threw themselves into their task, dancing began, and the fire made wild silhouettes of the leaping revellers. Lucifer’s henchmen at the gateway to hell. Cameron’s teasing words came back to her. Where was he?

  With attention now diverted elsewhere, she was able to keep to the margins of the firelight, searching ever more desperately. Bess appeared from somewhere, a co-conspirator with her tail wagging, and Beatrice’s heart leapt. “Where is he, Bess?” she whispered, bending to fondle the dog’s ears, but saw the question reflected back in her puzzled eyes. Nearby, another fire had been lit to roast the two calves, and the smell of cooking meat sickened her as she scanned the gathering again. There was John Forbes, seated against the old shieling, his crutches beside him, in conversation with an endless stream of well-wishers who had not seen him since the winter. Several times she looked over, to find him watching her. And there was Donald. And Ephie. And Mrs. Henderson, organising the distribution of food. She heard one man asking Donald where his brother was, but Donald had simply shrugged. Her eyes raked the shadows again, but she dared not ask, and fielded deferential enquiries about Theo’s whereabouts, smiling brightly, repeating the same story, that he was slightly delayed but would be joining them soon. Soon, but not, Dear God, not before she found Cameron. Dizzy now with apprehension, she took another turn around the bonfire, her cheeks burning from the heat. She felt faint and stepped back exhausted out of the ring of light away from the watching eyes, to hide there.

  But even as she turned away, she sensed a movement beside her. A hand grasped her elbow, and a firm grip drew her back away from the arc of firelight into the darkness.

  Chapter 42

  2010, Hetty

  A man stepped out from the shadows and she froze. “Here. Give me something. Relax, I shan’t mug you. Your groceries or something.”

  Hetty had staggered up the short path to her flat, juggling briefcase, groceries, and a take-away, cursing the persistent bass from the flat above. Not another party. And as she struggled to get at her keys, the plastic bag had split, and a tin rolled down the path.

  As the man bent to retrieve it, the accent clicked into place. “You!” She gaped in astonishment. “What—why are you here?”

  “You wanted to talk to me.”

  “I did. I do.”

  “Then open the door and ask me in.” He took the shopping bag from her, and she fumbled with her keys again. She managed to unlock the door and they jostled a moment in the tiny hallway as she took back the shopping.

  She gestured him to the sitting room, avoiding his eyes. “Go through,” she said, but he paused at the door and looked across the room at Blake’s paintings on her wall. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

  The kitchen offered refuge, a moment to recover and steady her pulse. She began unpacking the groceries. He was here, in person! But why now, so suddenly, after the long silence? Should she phone Giles and ask him to come over? No!— She was struggling to remember exactly what she’d said in her last text when he appeared, filling the kitchen doorway, saying nothing but leaning on the door-frame, arms folded in a now familiar pose.

  “Have you been in London long?” she asked, busying herself getting mugs out. Should she offer him tea?

  “I just arrived.”

  What had she said in that text? She dived down to the fridge to hide her flaming cheeks; she’d forgotten how tall he was. “Would you like a drink or something?”

  “I don’t want a drink. I want to talk to you.”

  She risked another glance. He looked tired and drawn, and he also looked very angry. “I’ve been trying to talk to you for almost two weeks,” she said, closing the fridge door firmly. “But you ignored all my phone messages and emails. I’d got tickets to fly up on Friday, you know, to come and find you.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Did you imagine I was hiding?”

  “What was I supposed to think?”

  “I only read your emails and texts yesterday. At the hotel. In Mombasa.”

  “Mombasa?” She put a hand to her head.

  “I flew back this afternoon. Thought I’d break my journey to come and salvage my reputation.” He gestured at her take-away. “Do you intend to eat that muck, or can we go somewhere for a decent meal—and talk. Where’s nearest?”

  She noticed for the first time that he was tanned. Not the wind tanning gained on northern shores but a deep, dark tan from hot sun. Africa? It made his eyes seem even darker, and his crumpled linen jacket and lightweight trousers were hardly English weather clothes, not given this year’s June. A restaurant offered the safety of a public place. “There’s an Italian round the corner.”

  “That’ll do.”

  They left the curry congealing in the kitchen and went back down the path. He glanced up at the open window of the flat above, where the volume of noise had increased. “How do you bear it?” His foot caught an empty beer can and it clattered across the road.

  The restaurant was reassuringly clichéd with red gingham tablecloths, a candle in a Chianti bottle, and faded prints of Roman landmarks. He led her to a quiet corner at the back and ordered a bottle of wine. The waiter left them studying menus. James said nothing more until they had ordered their meal and the bottle had arrived; he waved aside an offer to taste it and filled their glasses. Then he raised his own and took a drink, looking at her in that direct way she remembered.

  His eyes were still hard and angry. “I haven’t got the full list of my offences as spelt out in your emails and texts, but the bottom line, as they say, is that I’m a charlatan, a cheat, and basically a shit.”

  She reddened and put her napkin back on the table, preparing to leave. “If you’re going to be offensive—”

  He sat forward and gripped her wrist. “I’ve had twenty-four hours to feel angry about this, and besides, you’re the one who’s been offensive.” He released her, sitting back, and gestured to her glass. “So have a drink and make a start.”

  Slowly she replaced the napkin. Where should she start? There’d been no time to prepare. “You’ve got some scheme of your own, at the farmhouse, and you want to sabotage my project. The agents found out.” The last words were ill-judged.

  He leant forward again, his elbows on the table, his eyes like jet. “Found out, did they? How very clever.” She took up her glass and wondered again if she should text Giles.

  “They heard about your application to restore Muirlan House—”

  “I told you myself.”

  “But now they said you’re planning to make the old farmhouse into a hotel.”

  “T
hey’re wrong.”

  “It’s no good, you know,” she said, her voice sharpening with remembered anger. “They know about the other man, the property developer, Haggerty, was it?” He looked up, astonishment written on his face. “And now you’re working with some woman, with Canadian money behind you.” He sat back and stared at her, his jaw set hard and his lips a thin line of anger. He needed a shave and the overall impression was unnerving. She maintained eye contact for as long as she could, then reached again for her glass. Thank God they were in a public place.

  “Who’s feeding you this crap?”

  “You’ve been applying for grants, talking to the planning office—”

  “It’s the divine Emma, isn’t it?”

  “You’ve done everything you can to discourage me. Throwing up obstacles. The condition of the house, local opposition, the bird reserve, contested land—”

  “I stand by every word.”

  “Giles said—”

  “Oh yes. I want to hear what Giles said.”

  He was looking dangerous again. Perhaps best not to tell him what Giles had called him, but she couldn’t resist playing her trump card. “Amongst other things, he said there’s no record of any gift of the factor’s house from Emily Blake to the Forbes family. Legally that house and all the land belong to the estate. To me.”