The House Between Tides (10 page)

“Courting, not fighting,” he had replied.

They had watched as the birds plummeted, apparently out of control, until the last moment, when they had recovered and climbed again, only to repeat the performance.

Then she had given him her slant-eyed smile. “And I thought courtship was a gentle business.”

But he had not heeded her words. And later that day he had sketched her lying on the sand below the dunes, her arm outstretched and her hair entwined with the tangle, becoming part of it. She had laughed at his sudden intensity, but the composition had excited him: dark curls merging with trails of seaweed, bare legs the colour of shell sand, and he had begged her to let him paint her, in that same pose, unclothed: “A true selkie. Please, Màili.” But she had shot to her feet, dark eyes enormous and cheeks crimson, ready to flee.

Theo opened his eyes and stared, unfocussed, over the surface of the sea. Only once did he allow his gaze to stray to the headland, where hidden amongst the rocks and grassy tussocks was the rock pool, with its cushions of pink thrift rooted in the cracks and crevices. It was after
that
day that things had changed. After that day she had gone seeking her pelt, and then slipped away—

He took a deep breath and, after a moment, pulled his field glasses from their worn leather case and began raking the shoreline for birds, dragging his mind back from the past, and began mentally ticking off the species as he saw them. At least some things in this charmed place remained constant— He followed the flight of a pair of shelduck which had risen near the rocks, and then paused
to fix upon two dark shapes beyond. He sat forward and watched them intently for a while until he was certain, then he lowered the glasses, smiling with a deep satisfaction. Divers. Immature males, overwintering, no doubt. They would leave soon. Or did they, like him, intend to stay, look for sweet-tempered mates, and settle? It was too much to hope for.

He looked about him once more. Surely he could come back here now and paint again,
really
paint, not just go through the motions in some Parisian atelier or picturesque French village. This was where he belonged, where he had first found that compelling absorption, that sense of purpose, the intense, slow burn of passion.

And he would bring Beatrice here.

Soon. Very soon—

He smiled again at the thought of Beatrice. Lovely Beatrice, with her calm manner and her poise. She seemed delighted by all he had shown her, and she seemed to
understand
, as he thought she might when he had first seen her at the gallery staring with such intensity at his painting. “A mirage,” she had said, seeing it for what it was. He'd been chasing mirages across the world for far too long! That painting had been a wrenching farewell to his old love, conceived in grief, but Beatrice, of course, could not have known that.

He released another deep breath. It had taken a long time to work up the courage to come back to the island for anything more than was necessary to keep the estate in order. Pitiful! Such wretched cowardice. But now Beatrice offered him a new beginning. New hope. They would spend every spring and summer here and leave with the corncrakes in the autumn.

He lifted his face to the sun, closed his eyes, and let the light flood around him, seeking strength from its energy. There must be no more fruitless grieving. He would be resolute and put it all behind him, for Beatrice was here with him, his shield and his talisman, untouched by the past.

A past that could be put aside at last.

But for Cameron—

The thought brought him back to earth and he opened his eyes, a frown creasing his forehead. How the
devil
was he to cope with Cameron being here? When he had appeared so suddenly that first day, without warning, Theo had felt the impact like a blow, and could only stand, winded and off-balance, and watch him approach. That familiar, confident stride—and when he had raised his eyes and smiled, extending his hand, it had been Màili who had looked out at him.

He got to his feet and went to stand again at the edge of the dune, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, and stared down at the beach below him. Those eyes had always been a conduit back to Màili, a thin and precious thread. And once, years ago, he had stood here with Cameron, a boy who barely reached his shoulder and who had pulled urgently at his sleeve. “Look, sir! Sea eagles.” And together they had watched them, perhaps the same pair, for they were long-lived creatures. And as the lad lifted excited eyes to Theo, he had looked down at him and been swamped by a powerful emotion, the strength of which had never left him.

Having him close had been like having Màili, again—

He turned away from the sea and bent to pick up his field glasses, shaking his head to rid himself of impossible longings. And it was time to be heading back; the sun was up.

The lad had altered, he thought, as he walked along the ridge of the dunes. Or was he just two years older? He looked well, though, very well, and Theo wanted desperately to talk to him, hear of his travels, his impressions, get to
know
him again, but he sensed in Cameron a new reserve and a greater assurance. Almost challenging—though that was nothing new! And he smiled, remembering Cameron as a boy with his precocious self-confidence. But what had drawn him back here? Canada must surely have
offered opportunities for a young man like him. John Forbes had been ill last winter. Was it that which had brought him back? Or was it the pull of the island itself? God knows it gave a powerful tug!

There was an irony, though, that their returns had coincided so closely, as if the same force had simultaneously reeled them both back in.

But would he stay?

If he did, they could work together again. Donald was old enough to help his father now, freeing Cameron to assist Theo. He was intelligent and had good prospects here, he must be made to understand this, and Theo could advance his interests in many ways. He plunged down the landward side of the dunes, his feet sinking deep in the sand, watching as the sun reached the top of Bheinn Mhor and the sweet tang of the damp grass rose to assail him. He would speak to him, and to John, and if he could persuade Cameron to stay, he would have all he could hope for. And in this mature contentment he would rediscover the island. Reclaim it for himself, on his own terms. Timeless and unchanging.

And he would
paint
again.

1910, Beatrice

“Yes, I think that is all, Mrs. Henderson. Thank you.”

The housekeeper gave a smile and a nod, and then withdrew, closing the door of the morning room behind her, and Beatrice smiled. It was something of a charade, this morning ritual when Mrs. Henderson came to her for instructions, knowing better than she did what needed doing. She always brought a list of suggested meals for the day, and occasionally would offer Beatrice a choice while managing to convey a sense of what she felt would be more appropriate, and Beatrice appreciated her tact. In Mrs. Henderson she recognised an ally. Gradually, and tentatively at first on both parts, they had begun to discuss how they might tackle the house, bring it more up to date and make it more comfortable. They had got as far as making lists for each room of which furniture required a thorough clean, which perhaps could be refashioned or reupholstered, and which ought to be removed altogether, and discovered that they were largely in agreement.

“I was just a housemaid when the first Mrs. Blake was here, and everything was still quite new then, and these heavy furnishings were more in fashion. Most had been sent up from Paisley,” she told Beatrice. “But I was working on the mainland when the dear lady died, poor thing, and the second Mrs. Blake was never really happy here.”

“Theo—Mr. Blake said she found it . . . remote.”

“Aye, she did, so she never cared enough for the place to keep it up. And by then old Mr. Blake was quite set in his ways and didn't like changes.” Beatrice hoped his son was not going to prove to be the same. “And Mr. Theo, of course, hasn't spent much time here in recent years.”

Beatrice wanted to ask why that was, but this was a subject to be approached obliquely. “And yet he clearly loves the place! His paintings show that.”

“Oh yes! I remember him as a lad, always with his sketch-book. His mama would take him out and they would sketch and paint together, it was lovely to see! But when I came back, everything had changed. She had died, Mr. Blake remarried, the old factor was sick and John Forbes was trying to do his job, a man's job, it was, though he was hardly more than a lad then. He and Mr. Theo had been firm friends from childhood, you know, and old Mr. Blake saw to it that they had lessons together. They were always off somewhere, with Màili Cameron, the schoolmaster's little girl, chasing after.” She smiled a moment at the memory. “Happy days, those. But in the time I was away, everything had changed, and Mr. Theo was so quiet, still grieving for his mother.”

There was much more that Beatrice wanted to know, but Mrs. Henderson had stopped at that point and asked what Beatrice wanted done with linen. “Some of it is so thin, madam, you'll have your feet through. If you and Mr. Blake have guests to stay, I'll be hard-pressed to make the beds.” They had agreed to order more linen and find time to sort through the old stuff, and then Mrs. Henderson had left her.

Beatrice went over to the window and saw the factor setting off down the track, and tried to imagine Theo and him as carefree boys together, escaping lessons. An old friendship must bring with it trust, and so Theo had felt able to leave the estate to his care over the years. And yet, while she had observed that John Forbes
was unfailingly respectful, he was never familiar, and his exchanges with Theo seemed limited to estate matters.

She went over to her bureau and sat, pulling out the letter to Emily which was still unfinished, and found herself hoping very much that she would come up and stay— Then she glanced again at the window and saw that the clouds had lifted and the weather looked set fine, too fine indeed to be indoors. Emily's letter would have to wait, she decided, and shut the lid of her bureau and went to find her hat.

Piece by piece, little by little, she was beginning to put together a picture of her husband's past, she thought as she pulled the front door closed behind her and went down towards the shore. From Theo himself she had learned only the basic facts of his existence; the rest was hidden behind an impenetrable reserve. Mrs. Henderson would perhaps tell her more as they got to know each other better, and Emily too might fill in the gaps, although Theo must have been a man already grown and gone before she really knew him.

And Beatrice felt she barely knew him herself—

He had seemed quite formidable at first, she thought, as she walked down to the foreshore, rather aloof and often ironic, and she had felt shy with him. But she had also been drawn, intrigued by an enigmatic quality, sensing a depth and a restrained passion. She remembered the buzz of astonishment when their engagement was announced a few weeks after they had met at the exhibition. Envious friends had congratulated her on his wealth and sighed over his handsome face, while spiteful ones had commiserated with her for marrying someone almost twenty years her senior. “But you can always take a lover in a year or two,” one bold young matron had told her, and Beatrice had pulled away, resenting such cynicism. Besides, Theo did not seem old to her. Only his eyes, perhaps, remote sometimes, staring off into some distant, private world.

When the exhibition of his work had finished, she had asked
him if she could keep the painting over which they had met, not sell it—and an unexplained shadow had darkened his face. But later he agreed and had written a dedication to her on the back, and it hung now in the drawing room in Muirlan House. She often stood in front of it seeing how, through observation and consummate skill, he had captured the island's unique quality. His works spoke of space, of light and of limitless horizons, a restless landscape—and they resonated with her present mood. She stopped a moment, elated as the wind flattened her skirts against her legs and loosened the ribbons of her hat, and she felt like a newborn creature, discovering stiff, untried limbs. And here, amidst the backdrop and the inspiration of so many of his paintings, she could appreciate more fully the complexity of his work.