The House Between Tides (34 page)

“And why was that?” she snapped, dashing an arm across her face, angry at her tears. “He broods, heavy-eyed and grim, Cameron. Tell me why that is?”

Cameron looked disconcerted. “He's been a changed man since you came, I told you before.”

“Changed?” She gave a short laugh. “Is he, Cameron? You know him better than anyone, I think.”

He sat looking at her for so long that she thought he would never reply, and she felt her colour rising, anxious now for what he might say. “I don't understand him, any more than you do,” he said eventually. “The contradictions in him, when he has so much.”

“But not, I think, what he wants.” It was as close as she dared to tread. Out on the loch, the diver gave another haunting cry, and Beatrice turned aside, closing her eyes to halt the tears. Cameron made no response, and when she turned back he was replacing the field glasses in their case, his head bent forward, his expression hidden, saying nothing. When he straightened, his face was rigid,
as it had been once before when he had kicked at the embers of their fire.

“So, Mrs. Blake. As conspirators, perhaps we'd better return to the house separately.”

She looked about her, biting her lip in consternation. “Except that I'm already lost—”

His laugh broke the tension. “So that was just bravado a moment ago, was it?” His eyes glinted at her as he reached down and pulled her to her feet, taking in her brown-stained stockings, her skirt streaked with dirt from a stumble, and shook his head. “What a mess you're in,
madam
”—he used the word with gentle deliberation—“and all on a dead otter's account. No coat or shawl”—he looked down at her feet—“and your shoes. Can you walk in them?”

“I'll have to.”

“How long have you been away?”

“Some hours, I think.”

He looked back across the way she had come and frowned. “Then they'll have started a search for you. Come on, I'll not leave you.” He took off his jacket, brushing aside her protests, insisting she put it on. It felt warm and comforting, and she clasped it to her, conscious of the pressure of his hands on her shoulders as he turned her to face him, his grip tightening. “I can't ask you to keep secrets from your husband, Mrs. Blake.”

She dropped her eyes to rest on the scarf knotted just below his Adam's apple. “But you don't ask it.” Neither spoke. Then his grip slackened and his arms fell to his sides. “And now, you must take me home.”

Gradually, familiar landmarks emerged from the mist and, as the world became recognisable again, she remembered her place in it and walked with her face averted, shaken by what had passed between them, by words spoken and those left unsaid. “Do you think he'll find out?” she asked abruptly.

“If he hears it, he'll not rest until he finds it.”

Guilt found its way to the surface. “If I believed he'd leave it in peace, then I
would
tell him, for it might bring him joy.”

Cameron made no reply, and they walked on in silence until the house suddenly loomed up ahead of them, solid and forbidding. And through the thinning mist they saw the figure of John Forbes striding purposefully down the ridge towards them.

Theo

Theo saw the gentlemen settled with brandy and cigars, and then excused himself, closing the door and crossing the hall to the stairs. Dinner had been delayed until Beatrice had been found, and then eaten without her, but he had been distracted during the meal, scarcely conscious of the ebb and flow of conversation. What a state she had been in! Hair wet and bedraggled, skirts streaked with mud, clasping Cameron's jacket round her like an overlarge skin. But it was her face, lifted to him with such defiance, which had unsettled him.

He mounted the stairs swiftly. Thank God Cameron had come across her. But what had possessed her to bolt like that? Sanders said she had shrieked at him and fled. “Didn't know she would be squeamish, old boy. Don't apologise, I must have upset her. Women can be skittish creatures, y' know, 'specially if they're . . . Well, hrrmph, but I'm a family man myself.” Theo crossed the landing and paused outside the door. Perhaps that explained her recent strangeness, but why had she said nothing? He knocked and went in, pausing just inside the door.

She was standing motionless at the turret window, staring out across the dark bay, her hair cascading down her back in crinkled curls. A Rossetti painting,
Fazio's Mistress
. A single oil lamp burned on the dressing table, raising a sheen on her hair. The sight of her arrested him, but she looked over her shoulder at him and regarded
him coolly, saying nothing. “Are you warm again?” he asked, disconcerted. “Did they bring you something on a tray?”

“I had tea and toast. I wasn't hungry.” Shadows shifted across the room as she moved from the window, and his eyes strayed to her midriff, but beneath her silk dressing gown she was as shapely as before, and when he lifted his eyes he saw that she was watching him. “Sanders told me that you took exception to him shooting an otter and fled.” He paused. “What really happened?”

“Just that.” She pulled the dressing gown closer and met his eye steadily. Flying insects caused the oil lamp to flicker. “He offered to have the corpse made into a collar for me.”

He looked at her in disbelief. “Is that all? Could you not have simply said something gracious?” He spoke sharply, and she raised a hand to the wall as if to steady herself. “You need never have worn the damned thing.” Still she said nothing, and he felt anger stir. “I would rather you had not offended him.”

She shrugged, walked over to her dressing table, and began pulling the remaining pins from her hair. “I told you before, Theo, I don't want to be left alone with that odious man. You take no notice.”

He went past her to stand by the window, staring out across the bay. This was a Beatrice he did not know, assured and defiant. Yet if she was pregnant— He half turned and saw she was watching him through the mirror, her eyes shadowed and confusing. “That's all very well, Beatrice, but he's our guest.”

“
Your
guest.”

He looked at her in astonishment. “Mine. Ours. It makes no difference. He's a guest in this house and can expect to be treated as such.”

“And how should your wife expect to be treated, Theo? Your guest behaves offensively and you do nothing.” Her reflection returned his look boldly. “He's quite repellent.”

He felt a prick of self-reproach.
Had
Sanders been offensive?
She'd said he was overfamiliar, but the remark seemed consistent with her tetchy humour since Kit and Emily had left, and he'd thought nothing of it. He'd been preoccupied. But her haughty stare reflected through the mirror now stirred him to anger. “You flatter yourself, Beatrice. He's a married man with grown children.” He decided to take the plunge. “In fact, he hinted that your odd behaviour might be because you were—”

“Because I was what?” She froze, hairbrush in hand.

“Oh, for God's sake, Beatrice.” Too late he saw his mistake, but she was nettling him. “With child, pregnant, breeding—whatever term you
don't
find repellent!”

She put down the brush. “So you discuss such matters with your cronies, do you?”

“Of course not!” His temper rose to match hers. “We were alone when he suggested it, and it seemed to offer
some
reason for your strange conduct these last days.”

“So you said I was?” Her reflection, framed by wild curls, was that of a fey stranger.

“It might excuse your abominable manners if you were.”

“Well, I'm not.” She picked up her brush again. “It would be little short of a miracle if I was. Shall I make an announcement at breakfast tomorrow to settle the matter?”

Static flew from the bristles as she brushed, and he stood staring at her, feeling his face suffuse with colour. “What the devil has come over you, Beatrice? You seem quite, quite . . . crazed!” She shook out her hair and continued brushing, her head averted, refusing to meet his eyes. The accusation of conjugal neglect was deserved, but it shook him that she had made it. He was at a loss and went slowly towards the door, then turned back, struggling to find words to explain, and saw her reflection staring back across the room at him, repeated infinitely in the angled side mirror, and he remembered an earlier time—as if in another life.

2010, Hetty

Hetty sat at the window of her flat watching for the postman, while her mind reran the telephone conversation she just had with Ruairidh. He had rung to tell her there had been another roof fall at the house, and she felt oppressed again by her responsibilities. “We'd terrible gales up here at the weekend. Westerlies.” She had been so engrossed with tracking down Emily and the other figures in the photograph that the question of the house itself had been sidelined, but Ruairidh's call had brought it back to centre stage. And then he had gone on to tell her about a dreadful road accident on the mainland—a coach full of German tourists had come off the road when the driver misjudged a narrow bend, and there had been a horrific fire. “The lab will be tied up with that for the next wee while, so they'll not be getting back to us about the bones anytime soon.”

“Of course.”

There was a slight pause. “Ùna said you were getting someone else to look at the house? Another survey?” Ruairidh tried hard to mask it, but she could hear the constraint in his voice.

“I think perhaps I should. Just to be sure.” She wanted to talk to him about the disputed ownership, but it was all so awkward, so she had let the conversation slide off the subject, and she told him instead about the extraordinary discovery of Blake's letters, promising to get back to him once she had seen them.

Knowledge of these letters' existence had come to her via
the tattooed Jasper Banks, who had recognised Matt at a gallery opening and asked if his friend was enjoying Blake's painting. Matt had lost no time in telling him about Hetty's connection to Blake, and two days later a packet of letters had been delivered to Matt's gallery with instructions to hand them on, if they were of interest, and Matt had phoned to say that they were on their way, registered post.