The House Between Tides (19 page)

She regretted her refusal of his offer almost as soon as she left the shelter of the courtyard, for the wind across the strand was biting, studded with rain. Damn the man, with his silences and evasions, she thought as he passed her on the track a moment later with a toot on the horn. He confused her.

The tracks of his Land Rover had disappeared under shallow water by the time she was halfway across, and she realised that he was right—the tide did come in quickly! By the time she reached the last channel, it was deep and filling fast, so there was nothing for it but to roll up her jeans and get wet. She waded across, emerging wet above the knees and her feet numbed by the icy cold. As she sat on a rock, drying them as best she could on her socks, she heard a familiar engine roar and looked up to see the Land Rover move off from where it was parked fifty yards down the road. She watched it drive away, and annoyance reignited. So he'd sat there and watched her, the wretched man! And he now had another story to entertain the bar with, about the stupid English woman who was, quite literally, out of her depth.

She got back to the cottage to find that the storage heaters had cooperated this time, and the place was warm, so she heated some soup and drank it from a mug, looking out at driving rain which slanted past the window. There was no sign of it slackening, so this afternoon seemed as good a time as any to go and see the photographs that James had described.

Half an hour later she drove past bedraggled sheep which stood chewing beside the road or huddled in groups under the protection of low walls. She retraced her route from the day she had arrived, climbing to the high point and then dropping down on the eastern
side of the island. A mile or so from the small town, she recognised the single-lane causeway she had crossed over a tongue of water, and slowed as she approached it—and then, with a jolt, slammed on the brakes.

There was a man standing in the middle of it madly waving his arms at her, and she skidded to a halt, straining to see through the wet windscreen. Behind her another car stopped, and the driver got out and joined the arm-waving man, both of them running erratically as if herding invisible sheep. What on earth?— Then she saw. A family of shelduck were scattered across the causeway, hemmed in by walls which cut them off from the sea, the two parent birds and seven or eight half-grown ducklings, panicked and running in all directions. It was an absurd scene, and she smiled, watching as the birds led the two men in a merry dance before they got the ducks all heading in the same direction, towards safety. Then, at the last moment, one duckling doubled back towards her, and there was nothing for it but to leap from the car and do her bit. She headed off the maverick and sent it back again as breathless, but laughing, the first man came towards her.

“Thanks! Neat job.” He was an elderly man with a craggy face and grey hair, and he was panting, the accent somewhere mid Atlantic. “That one was the wild child.” Then he threw back his head and gave a tremendous laugh. “But where else on earth would a bunch of ducks bring all the traffic to a halt?” His laughter was infectious, and then she saw that two more cars had pulled up behind her. “Better move on, I guess, but thanks again,” he said, and in her rear-view mirror she saw him continuing slowly on foot.

The museum, when she found it, was housed in an old manse, to which had been added an extension for the archives and a café. Two women sat behind a desk in the hall, deep in low conversation, but they broke off as she approached, nodding enthusiastically when she explained what she wanted. Yes, they had photographs of
Muirlan House, in digital form, and they could be viewed anytime, although just now one screen was broken and the other one was in use. The woman gestured to the room on the right where an A4 sheet of paper was stuck over a screen. And at the other sat James Cameron, regarding her thoughtfully.

Hetty nodded briefly and turned to leave, but he rose and came towards her, cutting off her retreat. “I wondered if you'd come.”

“It was raining, so—”

“That's what I thought.” He pulled over a second chair. “Have a seat.” She wasn't pleased to be so predictable, but she could hardly refuse, so she sat down beside him and smiled her thanks to the woman who hovered a moment and then withdrew to whisper to her colleague. James flicked back to the title page, making no further comment, and began to scroll through the images.

She'd always loved old photographs, those little imprints of the past, and was soon drawn in. And she forgot James beside her as a century dissolved before her eyes and the stark ruin of Muirlan House became whole again, peopled and furnished in muted half-tones: a lost world. Rugs appeared on polished floors, a carpet covered the stairs, held in place by brass stair rods, and a great stag's head peered down from the landing. A housemaid stood stiffly in the morning room, a woman's hat lay cast aside on a hall table, a fishing rod slipped sideways on the porch, and a bowl of wild flowers drooped on a window-sill. The emotive trivia of life—how strange it was! And how impossible that the simple passage of time had blown it all away.

“Bit of a house of horror if you don't like stuffed birds.” James's words broke the spell.

He was right. There were birds everywhere, on shelves and bookcases, under glass domes and on plinths, reminiscent of old museum displays. “Some of them are through there.” He gestured behind her to the museum. “Bought at the auction and later donated.
Probably the last Hebridean sea eagle amongst them, a bit bedraggled now, poor beast.” Then the photograph he had told her about appeared on the screen, the dining table draped with white linen, a fluted silver centrepiece, fine crystal and silver, and the windows thrown open to an unchanged view. That at least was constant, but everything else had gone, and she felt again a deep sense of regret.

She must have sighed aloud. “It's no good, you know,” he murmured beside her. “It can't be done, not without millions,” and he scrolled on, stopping at a photograph of a shooting party posed at the front entrance. Two of the men had struck jaunty poses with feet on the lower step and guns over their shoulders. “That's Theo Blake there.” He pointed to a tall, rather imperious figure on the top step looking over the heads of his guests with a self-confident, patrician air. The image was small and the figure distant, but it was enough to see a well-made man, with a large, flat pancake-like hat, in the style of the times, covering most of his features. “And that big fella there is John Forbes, the old factor.” He was a broad-shouldered man who stood to one side, and she could see the resemblance to Ruairidh in his build, although his face was obscured by a full beard and moustache. An island patriarch, Ruairidh had said, and she thought of the ring-headed cross in the graveyard.

Then came the photograph of a young woman wearing a pale silk blouse with a wide lace-edged collar and loose sleeves. She was seated on the window seat in the drawing room looking out of the open window, her face in profile, her chin resting on her hand, a picture of gentle femininity. Around her neck were two long strands of beads, unevenly spaced, and her fair hair had been swept back, held in place by combs from which a few wisps had escaped. Pearl drops hung from her ears, and her lips were slightly parted.
Mrs. Theo Blake at Muirlan House c. 1910
read the caption
.

“Beatrice!” said Hetty. “She's lovely.” And then the terrible
thought—the pale bones, the sandy grave, and a locket shining amongst the rubble. “Do you think it
is
her?”

“We'll know soon enough,” he replied, and they studied the photograph a moment, then he moved on, scrolling through similar shots before stopping again at one of a group of three men and two women, all well-dressed and stylish, posed outside the front entrance.
The Blake family, Muirlan House 1910.
This was a better image of Theo Blake, and Hetty leant forward. The painter had a lean face, handsome, if somewhat austere, with slightly hooded, intense eyes, and he exuded self-confident authority. His wife stood beside him and, as in the other photograph, she had a delicate quality about her, somehow belied by her enigmatic smile.

James pointed to the other figures. “Kit and Emily Blake, Blake's younger half-brother and sister.” He glanced at her. “She's your—what is it—
great
-grandmother?” He zoomed in on her face and leant forward. “Hmm. Same smile.”

“As whose?”

“Yours.” That was unexpected, but he gave her no time to respond. “And judging by the proprietary stance of the man beside her, that's her first husband. Armstrong was her second, according to Aonghas.” A tall, distinguished-looking man stood beside Emily Blake, while a younger, slighter man languished against the wheel of the pony trap.

“What happened to him?”

“Don't know.”

Emily. Hetty studied her great-grandmother, and greeted her silently. After all, it was Emily who had brought her here, pulling gently on that thread woven through the generations, and validating her right to be here. The photograph showed a trim young lady of about her own age dressed in a fashionable travelling coat and a matching long, narrow skirt. She was leaning slightly against the tall man, smiling directly at the camera, and Hetty found herself
smiling back, touched and encouraged, as if the smile had been meant especially for her.
Same smile.
“How strange it is.”

James glanced at her, saying nothing, but after a moment he moved on through the next few frames, stopping at an image of three men taken on the track just in front of the stone gateposts. One had a sporting gun, and another, now identifiable as John Forbes, carried a number of wildfowl.
The factor and his sons
, the caption read, and James pointed to the bigger and broader of the young men. “That's Donald Forbes, old Aonghas's father.” He looked as if he was in his late teens or early twenties, and stared stolidly at the camera in a slightly self-conscious way. “And that's his older brother, Cameron.” This young man was as tall as his father and brother, but of a leaner build, and he stood, his feet slightly apart, with his head thrown back. An arresting figure. His hands were thrust deep into his pockets with his long jacket swept behind him, his gun resting on the crook of one arm, his stance somehow challenging. “My own forebear.” As he zoomed in closer, the image became a little grainy, but she could see that Cameron Forbes had very dark hair and strong regular features, but it was his eyes which held attention. They stared steadily at the photographer with no hint of the self-consciousness of his brother.

“He's a fine-looking man,” said Hetty, and she glanced at James. Self-assurance seemed to have been passed down the generations.
Same eyes.
But she wouldn't flatter him by saying so.

He drew her attention to the next image, which showed the angle where the conservatory was to be built. “This is the one I came to see. There's no sign of any building there, and if you look at this”—he pointed to a rake and wheelbarrow in a far corner of the garden—“and then go back to that”—the rake and wheelbarrow were in the same spot in the picture of the assembled family—“they must have been taken at the same time, and the date given is 1910.” He zoomed in on the ground surface. “See how uneven
it is? Rocks poking through? That's why they had to import sand to level it and get rid of the biggest of the boulders. It must have been a hell of a job digging them out and left them some pretty big holes to fill. And that one there”—he indicated a long rock, frost-cracked into several pieces—“is the very one. I'll swear to it.” Hetty sat back, and the photograph brought into focus the grim reality of what had been discovered.

James glanced at her. “Had enough?” She nodded and he shut down the computer. “Cup of tea?” She nodded again, and they left, thanking the two women at the desk. Conversation broke off as they passed and then resumed in low, excited tones as James ushered her through the door, smiling slightly. “They've twigged who you are. The Blake heiress.” He looked her up and down, taking in her jeans and loose sweater. “But they expected something rather flashier.” He grinned at her, then gestured to a free table by the window and went up to the counter. She took a seat and watched him as he leant against the wall, chatting easily with the girls behind the counter and making them laugh. James Cameron was clearly well-liked here, but he was sending her mixed messages.

A local newssheet lay on the table and she picked it up, idly skimming the headline. Something about a fishing competition. Then,
Reserve gathers forces to oppose hotel scheme.
No! She rapidly surveyed the other customers, but no one was watching her, so she read on furtively.
Attempts to get protected status for large parts of the west . . .

“Well, hello again!” She gave a start as a figure paused at her table, and she turned over the newssheet. “Been chasing any more ducklings?” It was the elderly North American from the causeway, and she relaxed.

“No, I—”

Then James was there with a laden tray, and the man looked up. “James! Great. I need to see you.”

But James had stopped in surprise. “You two know each other?”

The older man nodded his head. “We met over an act of mercy.” Then he seemed to catch the expression in James's eye and glanced back at her, his eyes suddenly shrewd. But he smiled genially, nodding at the tray. “Mona's shortcakes are a real treat. Enjoy,” he said and turned back to James. “If you're home this evening, I'll call by.” He gave a polite nod to Hetty and left.

“So you got wet”—James slid the tray onto the table as she watched the older man leave—“this morning.”

Irritation returned. “And you sat and watched me so you could say you'd told me so.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Actually, I was making sure you got back alright. That didn't occur to you, I suppose?” In fact it hadn't. “Those breeks have had a hammering, haven't they, what with one thing or another.” He laughed as she covered the roughly sewn tear in her jeans with her hand. “Have you always been this stubborn?”