The House Between Tides (41 page)

He looked at her in astonishment. “For goodness' sake, Beatrice, just because you were upset over some damned otter.”

“Can't you just tell him that I'm unwell? It needn't stop
you
going.”

“And I'm to say I left you here alone? Unwell?” He scowled at her and then rose and went to the fireplace, staring for a while into the empty hearth before turning back to her. “Life goes on, Beatrice,” he said at last.

Would they now speak of it? Was this their chance, and would he respond if she reached out to him? “It does, Theo, but perhaps we need—”

“This'll take you out of yourself.”

“We need time together, quietly, to come to terms with—” She broke off, discouraged by his expression. “I prefer to be here.”

“And play the invalid?”

“
Play!
” she gasped
.
He might as well have struck her
.

He dropped into the chair and tried a more conciliatory tone. “You were well enough to make the journey up here, my dear, and since then you've had nothing to do. You look so much better.”

“Because I'm
here.
Where I can please myself.”

“And now I'm asking you to please me,” he said. And then added, “Is that unreasonable, do you think? On this occasion?”

“Theo, you make no effort to understand.”

He gave her a long, hooded look, and his tone hardened. “The child was mine too, or have you forgotten that?” Then he threw
back his head against the chair and closed his eyes. “Learn
acceptance
, Beatrice,” he said heavily. “
Try
a little. You've done nothing since we got back but begin again your fey wandering. It's unhealthy, brooding like this.”

“Can you not see—?”

But he shook his head, refusing to listen. “It's self-indulgent, Beatrice.”

“To want a little peace?”

He made a dismissive sound and got to his feet. “You need to be amongst people, Beatrice. And so do I. There's no stimulation here, no discourse, and this mawkish clinging to what is lost is no good, you know, no good at all. Believe me.”

“Theo—”

“I begin to think we should leave altogether once John is up and about. So we
will
go to Glasgow, my dear, because a change will do us both good. I will write tonight and accept.” He left the room abruptly. A few moments later she heard the front door bang, and from the window she watched him walking rapidly down to the foreshore, his painting bag over his shoulder, and she knew he would now be gone for hours.

She sat back, defeated by the row, and stretched out the toe of her shoe to cover the place where a rogue spark had landed on the hearth rug, leaving a blackened hole. So that was it, was it? She must bend to his will. In Glasgow she would be on show, touring the exhibition halls on his arm, the envy of other women whose husbands were less lauded, less rich. And she would nod and smile, suffering Sanders's advances, playing the role in a world from which last year Theo too had sought escape. He had come to the island to rediscover inspiration, but it was she who had fallen under its spell.

And now he spoke of leaving.

She heard a sound and looked up to see Cameron standing just
inside the doorway. He was looking across the room at her, his face rigid. “You heard us?” He must have been working in the study and they had forgotten. “You should not have done.” The expression in his eyes alarmed her, and he took a step forward, but she turned her head. “Cameron, it's no concern of yours. Go. Please, just go.” And when she looked back, he was gone.

Next day, just before lunch, she passed the study door and saw that Theo was on the library ladder, replacing a book. “I understand you've enlisted the support of Dr. Johnson,” his voice followed her.

She halted and then took a step back. She had spent the morning stretched out on her bed, watching the weak sun making patterns on her crumpled bedclothes, and had been on the point of getting up when one of the girls had come to tell her that Dr. Johnson was below, asking to see her.

Theo looked across at her, awaiting a response. “I only told him what I told you,” she replied. “That I wish to stay here and get well.”

She had found herself confiding her misgivings to Dr. Johnson, an elderly, kindly man, and he had listened sympathetically, then agreed that rest and calm were what was needed. “I will talk to your husband,” he had said, snapping the buckle of his bag into place. “Cameron Forbes said you were looking poorly when I visited his father just now. I'm glad he mentioned it.”

“You seem to have convinced him of your frailty.” Theo's expression was chilling as he descended the ladder. “But then, he hasn't seen you traipsing all over the island.”

She clasped her wrist behind her back and lifted her chin. “He said fresh air and exercise will do me good. I will get neither in Glasgow.”

Theo made a derisive sound and went over to his desk, where he took up another letter and handed it to her. “You need not have troubled yourself. This arrived this morning.” She skimmed the pages quickly. It too was from George Sanders, and he now wrote
of unrest in Glasgow following the dismissal of striking workers.
By all means come, my dear fellow, but I thought I should warn you. They are advising people to keep off the streets and there's a feeling that anything might happen. What is the country coming to!
“But for this letter, I would insist that you join me.” Theo's face remained forbidding. “As it is, you shall remain here and have your rest and your quiet. Dr. Johnson will visit you regularly, so stay close to the house. And when I get back, we will close up the house again and spend the rest of the summer in Europe.”

2010, Hetty

Hetty sat on the floor of her sitting room with Blake's letters spread about her and nursed a cup of coffee. So that was it. She had read and reread them, and there wasn't another drop to be squeezed from them. But what had she really learned? She picked up the handful of early ones, written in the critical years of 1910 and 1911, and thumbed through them. Some useful insights gained but few concrete facts, and there had followed a long gap of almost two decades before the next ones. And there had been no further mention of Beatrice.

Jasper Banks had come round earlier that afternoon, keen to see her painting of Torrann Bay, and had stood in front of it for a long time. “So much talent in one so young, and he'd the world at his feet then, you know.” He went over to the picture of the deconstructed Beatrice, then turned back, looking speculatively at her, and said, “There was a desperate look in your eye that day at the auction, which is why I let that one go. I recognise obsession when I see it. Now, about these bones—”

Matt, it transpired, had told him the essentials. And she found herself explaining not only the bones but also the conflict over the land, her dilemma regarding the hotel, and her concerns about the island itself. “I was looking to start afresh, you see, to build on my family's connection with the island, but I've been told the house is past saving and that the hotel scheme would not be welcome, even
if I could get the money together. The last thing I want is to get into conflict with the people there.”

“And be cast as a despoiler!” He smiled, then shook his head. “You know, I've never been up there, and I can't think why not. But your project sounds interesting, and I'd like to hear more.” Then his phone had gone off and he'd glanced at it. “Must go. But let's talk again.” She'd felt a flicker of apprehension as he left, thinking that another heavyweight putting his oar in was the last thing she needed. “And keep asking about that other painting, won't you? We've got to track it down.”

So she had felt honour bound to send an email to Ruairidh asking if he knew anything about it, and took the opportunity to fill him in with what she had gleaned from the letters. It also gave her an excuse to tell him that a second survey of the house had now been commissioned, and after a moment's hesitation she copied the email to James. It was cowardly not to phone, of course, but the situation was so awkward.

She took her empty cup through to the kitchen. Head versus heart. Was it actually as simple as that? But for the dispute over land ownership, surely some compromise could be reached. A more modest project, perhaps, which balanced everyone's needs and allowed her to realise something of her own dream. Maybe it
would
be worth talking further to Jasper Banks.

She made another cup of coffee and took it back to the sitting room, and checked her emails. No reply from Ruairidh, who was probably at work, but as she sat there, James's response crashed into her in-box.
I don't know about a lost painting, but I do know about the survey. I almost threw them off the island yesterday, very indignant they were. I don't know what you expect them to tell you that's different—you have the facts already. Trust me on this. You have the choice of pulling the place down or shackling yourself to the Dalbeattie and Dawson bandwagon and accepting the consequences. Do you really
want that great morgue of a place hanging around your neck? I could build you a fabulous cottage on the site. Go the other route and you'll be in for a whole heap of trouble. I needn't elaborate, you're an intelligent woman, just trust your instincts, but don't take too long about it.

That's all I'm going to say. Must go. But it's make-your-mind-up time, and I haven't quite given up on you yet.

Given up on her! Indignantly, she clicked the reply button, then hesitated, her fingers poised over the keyboard. Emails could be dangerous, dashed off in haste and then regretted. She took a breath before typing, more calmly.
It's good of you to keep an eye on the place, but you must see that I have to wait for their report before I can decide. This is a big decision, and I've got to get it right.
She reread it and, satisfied that it struck the right tone, pressed send. The response was swift.

You will.

Indignation evaporated, and she indulged a moment in the thought of having a cottage there, with that incomparable view across the strand. A place of refuge, with none of the hassle.

The thought sustained her through the day and grew on her as she clung to the overhead strap in the underground, and as she stopped to pick up some groceries from the corner shop and walked home. There would be time there for all those things, she promised herself—walks, reading, photography, time to think, and she could still work from home.

But she couldn't see Giles there.

As she unpacked her bag, she heard his key in the front door and looked up in enquiry. Had he said he was coming round? She must have forgotten.

“I was in the area,” he explained, and put a bottle of wine on the counter. “Thought I'd drop by.”

Something in his tone rang false. “Great. Are we celebrating?”

“In a manner of speaking.” He pulled the cork. “Let it breathe for a bit.”

She waited for more. “Are you staying to eat?”

Then the phone rang, and it was Emma Dawson. “We wanted you to know immediately,” she said, “but your Mr. Cameron is trouble.” Hetty sat down. “We don't know
exactly
what he's planning—” Hetty listened with a growing disbelief. In telling her story, Emma managed to combine professional concern with good old-fashioned spite, and when she had finished, Hetty put the phone down and sat staring at the table. Giles was watching her from the kitchen door, and she now knew why he had come round, clutching the bottle of wine: he'd already been told. She kept her eyes fixed on the table, because lifting them would mean encountering his inevitable smugness. “I can help you with the figures, darling, but I'm not a property guru,” he had told her when he had first pressed her to engage Dalbeattie and Dawson. “So take them on. Property development is a shark-infested business.”