The House Between Tides (23 page)

1910, Beatrice

“Thank God that's over,” said Theo, throwing himself into an armchair with a groan. The guests and their conveyances were now mere specks on the far side of the strand, disappearing fast. “I hope Charles manages to fleece the pair of them—then I'll feel it was worth the effort.” He rose to fetch himself a drink. “I'd no idea they had such ghastly wives. I apologise for inflicting them on you, my dear. I'd have cheerfully drowned all three of them.”

They were sitting in the morning room, as the piano tuner had arrived during the chaos of departure and was now hard at work in the drawing room. “Better strangled at birth,” murmured Beatrice, recalled from a daydream which had been distracting her from her letter.

“What? Oh, I see. Yes, much better.”

“But they'll have a lovely journey home pitying us for our remoteness,” she said, pulling herself together, “and our primitive plumbing.”

“Won't they just!” He took a long drink and put his head back. “Thank God for a bit of peace before the next visitors. Is that Emily you're writing to? Don't encourage them to stay too long, will you.”

“We've got almost two weeks before they come,” she said, and he smiled briefly, picking up a newspaper left by one of the guests, one she knew he had already read. “Perhaps you can show me more of the island before then. I never got out to the seals, if you remember.”

“Yes, we must do that,” he said from behind the paper. But a moment later he tossed it aside and took his glass to the window and stood looking out, one hand thrust deep into his pocket. In the background, the piano tuner plunked away doggedly, coaxing the keys back to tunefulness. Would she be able to coax Theo back in the same way, she wondered, looking at his stiff back, or would these bewildering tensions bring further discord?

Theo swallowed the rest of his drink and set aside his glass. “The man makes an infernal noise,” he said. “I'll go over to the estate office, I think, until he's finished.” A moment later the front door banged behind him, and through the glass of the morning room window, she watched him go.

But that night he came to her. There was a tap on her door as she was undressing, and he stood there, hesitant, as if unsure of his welcome, then wordlessly he stepped forward and took her in his arms, moving her towards the bed, and it had been almost as before between them. It was too fragile a connection to burden with questions, so she had said nothing, banishing her confusion, trusting to the honesty of his attentions, and responded without constraint, as far as she was able. And he had slept all night beside her, his back warm against hers, and she felt the knot of hurt more profoundly even as it began to ease.

But he slipped away before she stirred next morning. She rose, pushing disappointment aside, noting instead how the sun shafted onto her dressing table, making arrow darts of light on the mirror as she willed herself back into optimism. The shadows under her eyes were less marked today, she decided, as she raised a hand to tie her hair in a simple knot. She looked about for her hat, thinking that perhaps they could spend the day together, as last night he had half promised that they would. Maybe they could go along the shore where the terns had lifted their blockade, or just walk together, as they used to when they first arrived. Or perhaps he would
sketch? But she wouldn't suggest it. Since the episode at the rock pool, he had never brought a sketch-book with him but preferred his field glasses or his camera.

As she went downstairs she could hear him in the study, opening and closing the drawers of his specimen cabinets. If the tides were right, perhaps there would be time to go out to the seals. She tossed her hat onto a chair in the hall and swept into the room. “Theo, do we have time to get as far—” But she stopped at the threshold.

Cameron. Not Theo.

He was bent over the cabinets but straightened as she appeared. “Good morning, madam. Mr. Blake has gone over to the estate office.”

“Will he be long?”

“There was a message from the manse. He spoke of riding over there, to talk to the minister.” She stared at him, optimism crumbling. “Shall I fetch him for you?” Cameron put aside the ledger, his eyes on her face.

“No, no.” She shook her head. “I only thought we might walk. No matter.” She turned to go but paused at the door, looking back over her shoulder. “How does the catalogue progress, Cameron?”

“It's going well, but it's a slow business,” he replied, “preparing each illustration.”

“What is it
you
are doing?”

He came out from behind the desk. “I'm sorting through the material old Mr. Blake collected years ago to see what we can use. Some of it's too far gone.” He pointed to the open drawers. “But I'm recording the rest while Mr. Blake writes and prepares the illustrations.”

She came slowly back into the room and began leafing through the paintings on Theo's desk. All neatly labelled and numbered, each specimen set against a miniature backdrop of landscape or
coast. A ringed plover at the edge of the rocky shore, a tern hovering above the sea's surface, a lapwing guarding a chick. Realistic and convincing. Exquisite. And yet . . . She lifted her head to look at the same ringed plover, frozen on the shelf, the tern beside it with raised wings, impaled on a pedestal, the faded lapwing and chick. The life in the paintings was illusory. Convincing . . . but counterfeit.

Cameron watched her as she turned the sheets of paper. “He's a very talented man,” he said after a moment.

“Yes.” She walked over to the cabinets and stood looking at the dried skins laid out in the open drawers, suppressing a shudder. “There must be every sort of bird on the island here.”

“Almost, but not quite.”

She looked back at him, pulling aside her skirts as she picked her way through the dusty bookcases and cabinets towards the window, drawn by the view. “What's missing?”

“The wanderers, the vagrants, the unusual—”

“Like a nesting diver?”

“Just so.” He gave her a wry smile but was not to be provoked into further indiscretion, and she turned back to the window.

“If it were up to me, the whole collection could go to Edinburgh to gather dust in some fusty museum, and our visitors could see the wild birds outdoors where they belong.” Her exasperation bubbled to the surface. “I'd like to clear them all away, give the house a thorough spring clean and . . . and paint every room yellow.” She looked out across the bay, swallowing hard and biting her lip, not caring what Cameron thought. But after a moment she cleared her throat. “Just ignore me, Cameron. I'll wait here awhile and see if my husband returns.”

She sensed him still contemplating her, then he returned to his desk and carried on writing in the ledgers in a silence broken only by the scratching of his pen. She glanced at him and then turned
back to the window. There was no real urgency to this book of Theo's, no compulsion. It was an excuse—this room had become his fortress, and he had enlisted these dried creatures as his bodyguards, charged with keeping her at arm's length. But what part did Cameron play?

She felt the tension stretch across her head again and raised a hand to rub her brow.

“Why yellow?”

Cameron's quiet voice interrupted her thoughts, and she looked swiftly across at him. He was still bent to his task, still writing. She turned back to the view and considered her answer. “Because it's joyful and bright . . . And it reflects the sunlight. The house is too dark and brooding. It needs light.”

Cameron's pen continued to scratch. “But you've made such a difference,” he said, still not lifting his head.

“To the house? No! I've hardly touched it.”

“Not to the structure, but to its . . . its aura. Mr. Blake was too much alone before.”

She studied the back of his head where his dark hair grew long over his collar and felt a sudden rush of relief. Had her suspicions simply misunderstood what was, despite the arguments, a real sympathy, a bond between the two men, forged only by long association? Cameron's words had been spoken with an almost filial understanding, but as she cast about for a reply, she heard footsteps crossing the hall and raised her head hopefully.

But it was Donald, and he paused at the door when he saw her. “Excuse me, madam, but my father has sent for Cameron, to help mend fences, while the weather holds.”

“Is Mr. Blake still at the estate office, Donald?” she asked him.

“He went to the stables.” And even as he spoke, she saw Theo, on horseback, crossing the foreshore down onto the sand. Cameron began packing away the skins, giving Beatrice a thoughtful look.

“You'll not get your walk, madam. Shall I ask Ephie to give you some company?”

She shook her head. “It is of no matter. Ephie has enough to do.” Mrs. Henderson then appeared to confirm what Donald had said, adding that Mr. Blake had told her not to delay lunch for him. Cameron gave Beatrice another searching look, made his excuses, and followed Donald.

When Beatrice returned from her solitary walk later that day, she went into the morning room and found primroses, marsh marigolds, and yellow bog iris buds trailed through with strands of bright yellow vetch arranged in a bowl on a window-sill. She paused, enchanted, touching the tip of the emerging iris buds with her fingers and turned to thank Mrs. Henderson as she came in bearing tea. But the housekeeper smiled and shook her head. “Cameron Forbes said you'd expressed a desire for the brightness of yellow and brought them in earlier. I told him wild flowers never do well indoors, but he said to put them in a bowl and see. And anyway, they'll make a lovely splash of colour while they last.”

2010, Hetty

Hetty drove back to the cottage through the labyrinth of peat cuttings and lochans, slowing at the high point to watch the ferry pull away from the harbour, heading for Skye. Soon she would be on board, on her way back to the real world, with a fistful of problems.