The House Between Tides (33 page)

Theo

He put aside the offending bill, watching moodily from the drawing room window as Beatrice flung out of the house and set off down the track, her hat in her hand, her shawl slipping from her shoulders. Perhaps he had spoken too harshly, but surely she must see that there had to be a
consistent
approach to dealing with the tenants. Especially the accursed MacPhails with their persistent demands and outraged attitude. Or had she, like Cameron, cast him as a villain?

He dropped into a chair, scowling up at the painting which had brought him and Beatrice together. What on earth had possessed him to give it to her? Madness!
A mirage . . .
she had said, and on that one percipient phrase, he had constructed a future. He should
sell the damn thing. And yet, painting it all those years ago had soothed the pain of loss. On the day he had received news of Màili's death, he had stood at the window of his Glasgow studio, stunned and disbelieving, the letter from his father loose in his hands. A mass of starlings filled the air, sweeping back to their roosts, but he had seen instead a cloud of shore waders lifting off the sands. In a frenzy he had sought out his old sketch-books, turning their yellowing pages imbued with salt air, heavy with promise, and he had seen Màili again, silhouetted against the darkening sky, or lying with her hair entwined with sea-wrack, or seated beside the rock pool, smiling at him, a seal-wife. Unreachable, even then.

A mirage—

And he had been drawn back to the island then, seeking her spirit in the places they had once frequented, sitting for hours with his back resting against the wall near the rock pool, a place cushioned by grassy tussocks, hidden from sight, tormented by memories. And it was there that it came to him what he must do, as a tribute, privately, to numb the pain. It was all he had left to offer her.

So he had risen early over successive mornings, set his easel on the lower foreshore, and begun painting, his hands guided by some force other than his brain, and gradually the painting had taken shape. He had felt oddly detached from the task—driven, not driving—and somehow two figures had emerged, crossing the strand in the early morning haze. Two figures, illusory, barely hinted at, disappearing into the soft grey mist. Two figures walking side by side and yet apart, drawn to each other by an unseen force but never quite meeting.

He stood in front of that painting now and was transported back. It was the last good thing he had done, the last time he had painted from the heart. And you were wrong, Beatrice, my dear. It was painted not to prove that I was still alive but in acknowledgement that the soul of me had died.

1910, Beatrice

“Damn it, Blake, you didn't tell me you'd caught a beauty. What the devil does she see in you?” The round-faced, glistening man placed a lingering kiss upon Beatrice's hand and his small eyes sparkled up at her. “We shall become great friends, my dear.”

More guests, all sportsmen. They had arrived with their guns and their rods and their noisy male bravado, and Beatrice felt squeezed to the margins of her home. The round-faced Glaswegian, George Sanders, was Theo's special guest and a patron of the forthcoming Glasgow exhibition, and he followed her with hot eyes, never missing an opportunity to touch or caress, leaning close to engage her in conversation, placing a hand on her arm or in her lap. But when she looked indignantly to Theo for support, he seemed quite unaware.

Sanders's bulk precluded him from many of the party's expeditions and, despite pleading with Theo not to leave her alone with him, Beatrice frequently found herself in his company and had to devise ways of avoiding him. She would watch him from her turret window, tottering along the foreshore with his shotgun, and only then deem it safe to leave the sanctuary of her bedroom. But one day she misjudged matters and went out onto the front steps only to encounter Sanders crunching up the drive towards her, his gun in one hand, the other holding up, in the manner of a great hunter, the dripping carcass of an otter. “I bring an offering, Beatrice, my love!” he bellowed. “I shall have him turned into a smart
little collar for you. Should you like that? I know just the man for the job.” She stared at the creature in horror, remembering the one she and Cameron had seen coming in on the tide that time, and felt suddenly sick. In a fury, she turned and went back inside, fleeing down the servants' passage and out of the back entrance, past an astonished housemaid taking in washing, and into the pasture beyond, indifferent to a damp grey mist which was swirling around the low-lying land.

Her anger fuelled her over some distance, and she was oblivious to where her feet took her until she stopped and looked around in consternation at the thickening mist, regretting the shawl left behind, and felt a sudden fear. The house had vanished, even the chimneys were no longer visible, and low cloud had flattened the landscape, rendering it unfamiliar and strange. By now her flimsy shoes were in tatters, and her next step brought peaty water welling up around her ankles. Which way took her back?

And then, from nowhere, came a wild, wailing cry, echoing strangely through the still air, amplified by the mist.
Dear God!
She froze and looked round, pulse racing, seeking a refuge, and saw a rocky knoll ahead of her beside a small narrow inlet from the sea. Stepping swiftly, searching out the firmer ground, she set off towards it, and had crossed only half the distance when she looked up again.

A grey shape rose from near the water's edge and she stifled a cry, turning back to flee.

“Mrs. Blake?” she heard herself addressed in astonished tones. “What on earth—!” She stared into the mist and saw it was Cameron. He came quickly to her, looking over the undulating land she had just crossed. “Are you alone?”

Her breath came out in a gasp, and relief made her sharp. “I'm not a child! I can go out alone and come to no harm. You simply startled me.”

“Never mind.” He continued to scan the landscape behind her, his manner distracted, his tone urgent. “Are Mr. Blake and his guests behind you? I thought they'd gone over towards the west, looking for snipe.”

“They did,” she answered slowly, struck now by his odd manner. “Why? Are you up to no good?” The strange cry came again, and her eyes flew to his face. “
What is it?
”

He looked back at her and gave her a half smile. “Just a bird, madam,” he said, “a bird who'd do well to keep quiet,” and it was only then that he seemed to take in her dishevelled appearance, and he frowned again. “But whatever brings you all the way out here?”

“I had to get away.”

He searched her face, saying nothing. Then: “Perhaps so. But this presents me with a problem.” He glanced over his shoulder at the inlet, then turned back, his eyes narrowing. “You once told me you could keep your tongue between your teeth, Mrs. Blake. I wonder if you will.” And without further explanation, he took her arm and helped her over the wet rocks to the loch side, gesturing to her to crouch low behind them, and handed her his field glasses. Ragged veils of mist drifted over the surface, grey and ethereal. “Just keep watching fifty yards or so out towards that little island.” He spoke softly, pointing to where the mist had thinned. “There! Just came up.” She trained the glasses on the neck and body of a large black-and-white bird.

“Oh!” she whispered. “You beauty.” The bird turned its head towards her, then dived.

“And he's been calling as if to a mate.”

She had not been alone with Cameron since the day of the picnic and was suddenly very aware of him beside her, his dark woollen jacket dewed by the mist, a grey scarf knotted at his throat, his hair flattened by the damp air.

The bird resurfaced, and he touched her arm, gesturing her to raise the glasses again.

“When did you find it?” she asked.

“I heard its call when I was out with Kit one day, and went looking.”

She lowered them again to stare at him. “All that time ago? Since Kit and Emily were here?” He looked steadily back at her, saying nothing. “Will you tell my husband?” she asked, after a moment.

“No.” He took the glasses from her. “Will you?”

“No.”

His expression did not change. “He would want to know, of course. And his guests would be interested too.”

“Would they?” she asked in a bitter tone, and told him about the otter.

He listened gravely. Then the diver surfaced again and let out a series of low, plaintive calls. “This must not make trouble between you,” he said.

Trouble? She lifted her chin. “And by which of us would he feel most betrayed, Cameron, for keeping the news from him?”

Cameron hesitated, frowning slightly. “He's used to me arguing with him about the collection,” he said, “but from you—”

“He is owed compliance?” She brushed the heather twigs from her skirts, picking fragments off her sleeve, glancing sharply at him. “In this, as in all matters.”

“Mrs. Blake—”

“Beatrice
.
Today I'm not disposed to play the role. But why do
you
care about this bird, Cameron? Or do you simply delight in thwarting my husband?”

He leant back against the rock and folded his arms, looking at her, and took time to consider his response. “I want it to have a chance,” he said at last.

“But they are plentiful in Canada, you said so yourself. Why not let him have it?”

“Because it's chosen to come here, all those miles,” he said softly, and she looked at the bird again, at its glossy black-and-white plumage and sharp, intelligent head. “But it is different for you, Mrs. Blake.”

“Beatrice.”

He gave a wry smile. “Beatrice the anarchist. I had forgotten.”

“And anarchists behave badly to bring attention to themselves, do they not? So if Theo learns that I knew of the diver and is angry, what then—” It would make a change from silence and indifference. Tears scalded her eyes and she turned away.

Cameron was silent, still leaning against the rock, and looking at her. “You know,” he began, then faltered. “You must understand. Mr. Blake lived alone for a long time—”