The House Between Tides (38 page)

Jasper Banks leant against the wall and watched her. “From Farquarson's attic,” he said. “In a portfolio, marked
Muirlan House auction—
”

“Oh!”

“—where they've been for decades. Not many are dated, but most seem to be late thirties or forties, just before he died. One or two are earlier. The old inventories suggest Farquarson sent someone to the house auction with instructions to buy anything he could. Sentimental reasons, probably, as he was old himself by then and died soon after. The ones I bought the other day set me on their trail—and so I went a-sleuthing.”

“It's incredible.”

“Yep. Look at this one.” He pulled her over to the painting of the shore waders. “When you think of the precise, almost photographic paintings in the bird catalogue, and then look at this, pared down to basics . . .” The birds had been reduced to a pair of legs, doubled in length by their reflection with only a hint of body and beak, and yet this conveyed all that was needed. “Or this . . .” A pair of seabirds in flight had become mere wisps, Blake's brush-strokes unerringly depicting wings which flew off into their own dimension, into a grey-white oblivion. Jasper's eyes were alive with excitement. “These two are the earliest of them and show that he was developing a style which was so advanced, so innovative . . .” She
bent closer to read the date: 1911. “It's as if his talent had lain dormant and then went off in an entirely new direction, out on a limb, a complete break with what he'd done before. A
conscious
break.”

He signalled for his glass to be replenished and gestured to hers. “Top up? I always thought there was an unfulfilled genius to the man, and these paintings prove it. There's only one other work I know of where this new style is hinted at—its conception, if you like. And it's much, much earlier. I'd hoped it might have been amongst them, but it wasn't.” He narrowed his eyes as he contemplated her over his glass. “And that's where you come in.”

“Me?”

He reached behind one of the screens and drew out a folder from which he took a worn, dog-eared catalogue.
Exhibits in the Palace of Art
.
Scottish Exhibition of National History, Art and Industry. Kelvingrove Park. 3 May–4 November 1911.

“Check out numbers 370 to 372.”

She took it, and it fell open at a marked page. Each entry had a small photographic reproduction beside it. Number 370 was, inevitably,
The Rock Pool. Loaned by A. Reed
, and it was with a stab of delight that she recognised her own painting, number 371,
Torrann Bay. Loaned by Major and Mrs. Rupert Ballantyre.
Only for a brief time had Emily been Mrs. Rupert Ballantyre, but Banks was pointing to the next entry, number 372:
Muirlan Strand. Private collection.

It was a poor reproduction but good enough to show that the missing painting depicted a view across the strand, of low sun shafting through a veil of mist, and two faint figures walking close, but separately, across the sand. “He refers to the painting in one of his letters as belonging to his wife, you might have noticed, and I think it's this one, and it's the most important thing he ever did. And to me, ‘private collection' means family.”

She wrenched her eyes away from the catalogue and shook her head. “I'm sorry. I've never seen it before.”

“Any ideas?” James flittered into her head. She would have to ask him. “It's important,” Jasper continued, “
because
it's so early. The date's too small to read but that's an eighteen not a nineteen. He was trying something new way back then, but he gives up, goes abroad, and then chugs on with his bird catalogue instead, denying his talent. Then maybe ten, fifteen years later, around 1911, he releases it in his last great burst of creativity, experimenting with light and abstract concepts, and the result is brilliant! But it takes him nowhere, and then there's a gap of what, two
decades
? And when he starts up again, in the twenties or thirties, his work is hard-edged and heavy, and by the forties he's lost it, gone certifiably weird, deconstructing everything around him into jagged fragments. But back in 1911, he was trying to put something together. He was inspired! But it was short-lived. Something happened, and whatever it was, it was catastrophic and it stopped him in his tracks.”

1911, Beatrice

Steam blew back down the station platform, enveloping Beatrice as she stood in her dark travelling clothes, waiting where Theo had left her. He had gone to find the guard, and now she saw him coming back towards her. “It's this one, my dear,” he said, taking her arm. “The mistake's on the ticket.” He hustled her into their compartment, tipping the porter as he closed the door behind them and the whistle blew. “Alright?” he asked.

She nodded like a fairground automaton as the train pulled out of the station, then leant her head against the window, overcome with weariness again, watching as the grey city receded. “Sure?” he asked a moment later. She gave him a tight smile, and he lifted his newspaper and was soon absorbed. As grey gave way to green, the train took up a regular rhythm, and she looked dully across at him, wondering if the chasm between them was now quite unbridgeable. For what if she answered him truthfully? That she felt entirely broken, not just in body, but also in spirit. What then?

When they had returned to the city six months ago, wedding preparations had been in full swing. She had tried to rouse herself to share in Emily's excitement but had struggled under an overwhelming melancholy.

Theo's antipathy towards his stepmother was palpable, and old Mrs. Blake treated Beatrice with a gracious condescension. “Beatrice looks pale, Theodore. Why did you submit the poor girl to that outlandish place?” she said one night over dinner at her house.
“She tells me she's never been to Rome, or even Paris. Surely you won't go back up there next year? There's no company for her, other than the natives.”

“Savages,” agreed Kit, grinning across the table at her.

“Really, I—”

“Poor child. It's too cruel of you, Theo.”

He had remained coldly silent, and as they returned to Charlotte Street through the dark city, she had watched the wind spinning withered leaves on wet pavements, heartsick and silent, remembering how Cameron had described the swirling colours of the northern lights over the sea in winter.

As a rule, she had tried not to think of Cameron, keeping herself occupied by day, but waking or dreaming, he invaded her nights, giving rise to feelings of such
hopelessness.
And when the day came for Emily and Rupert to exchange their vows, she stood beside Theo in a packed St. Giles, feeling oddly detached from the celebrations, dizzy, and prey to a persistent headache.

The next morning she had rushed to the wash-basin and retched, shaking uncontrollably, and then the dizziness had a reason, the volatility and the lethargy an explanation. Despondency was replaced by astonishment, for Theo's appearances in her bedroom had remained infrequent and his lovemaking perfunctory, but somehow from this distant coupling a child had been conceived.

Theo too had seemed taken aback but expressed himself delighted. Emily, returning a few days later from a honeymoon cut short by national concerns, went into raptures when she was told. “So I've become a wife and an auntie all at the same time. So
very
grown-up.”

Theo had overheard and stopped in the doorway, giving her a wry smile. “Grown-up? You'll always be a hoyden, Emily, while Beatrice will become a serene and lovely Madonna.” And she had
dropped her eyes at his expression, flooded suddenly with hope, ashamed then of her wayward dreaming, and after that she had tried to focus on the baby. Theo's baby. Their salvation. And inch by inch in the passing weeks she had felt the breach between them begin to close.

And then they received Cameron's letter. It had arrived in February, following a spell of bitterly cold weather, and Beatrice had come downstairs, trailing her loose gown behind her and giving a great yawn; city life and her pregnancy seemed to drain her of energy. She had entered the morning room to find Theo standing quite still beside the table, a letter in his hand.

He had looked up as she entered. “From Cameron Forbes,” he said, handing it to her, and he had gone to stand by the window, his hands clasped behind his back.

The letter told of an accident. The factor had fallen, breaking a leg, while working alone at the far side of the island and had not been found until morning. He had survived only by some miracle, but now pneumonia had him in its deadly grip. She skimmed rapidly through the pages, Cameron's closely-written words jumping before her eyes. Surely nothing could threaten the life of that formidable island man!
Dr. Johnson remains deeply concerned. We can only pray that the crisis comes soon and that he survives it.
Cameron went on to describe the steps he had taken regarding the estate, finishing on a constrained note.
You will, of course, have expected me to be preparing for my departure, but I beg you to permit me to delay until my father is out of danger, as I cannot leave my family so hard-pressed. Be assured, sir, that Donald and I will do everything necessary until I hear from you.
She had lowered the letter and looked across to where Theo still stood at the window, his back to her, his reactions hidden, and wondered what it had cost Cameron to beg.

The train jolted suddenly on an uneven stretch of track, bringing her back to the present, and Theo looked up. “Comfortable,
my dear?” He searched her face for a moment, then returned to his paper. If she told him how she felt, the profound emptiness, the despair which had replaced the hope, would he then confront the matter, talk about their loss, or would he slide away from her again? And even as she watched him, he lifted his head and looked out of the carriage window, his eyes distant, fixed on a dark place in the shadows of his own mind, oblivious to her needs. Huddled in her own grief, she no longer even tried to guess where that place might be.

A day later, after a rough sea crossing, she sat beside him in the trap as they started out across Muirlan Strand, as they had done a year ago almost to the day. But spring had not yet awoken the colours from the landscape, and shifting showers drenched the sky, while out at sea dark-fringed curtains of grey showed where heavier rain had yet to make landfall. She pulled her cape close against the cutting edge of the wind and wondered if there could be a greater contrast. Last year she had looked across at the island with eager anticipation, and Theo had smiled at her as he sprang onto the trap and taken her hand.

But even as she watched, a strong rainbow, like a flash of hope, arched briefly across the strand, vivid against the darkening clouds. And she remembered her last sight of Cameron all those months ago, as he walked away from Muirlan House across the sand, Bess at his heels. The dull ache of it had stayed with her all the way to Edinburgh.