The House Between Tides (43 page)

The breeze blew fitfully as Beatrice mounted the top of the dunes next day, and she looked down on the white sands stretched out before her. It was deserted but for seabirds balancing on the wind. The sun had woken her early, and she had seen it glinting on the waters of the bay and felt an echo of last year's joy. She had pulled out an old dress and grabbed a shawl, swallowed some breakfast to satisfy Mrs. Henderson, and set off. There was only one place she wanted to be today—Torrann Bay, with its limitless horizons and the pounding surf.

She stood now on top of the dunes, at the place where Theo told her he had set up his easel, on the one occasion they came here together. And he should be here now, she thought in despair, where the cries of the gulls were blown back from the waves, not miles away, displaying the place's likeness in a crowded exhibition hall.

How had they so comprehensively failed each other?

Dropping down to the beach, she disturbed the shore waders, which rose in a cloud as they had done a year ago, when she had come here with Cameron, when they had seen the divers off-shore, exploring the coastline seeking mates and congenial nesting places. Cameron Forbes had been entangled in that failure from the beginning, absorbing Theo's attention and taking it away from her—and then, as last summer progressed, he had begun absorbing her own. She stooped to take off her stockings and shoes, and walked along the edge of the tide, gasping as the icy water covered her feet, and let the wild sounds and the emptiness wash over her.

Eventually she tired and turned back, picking her way slowly up the beach across the high-water mark of seaweed and driftwood. From somewhere a rank odour assailed her, and she stopped, looking about for the source, to find it lay almost at her feet, and she recoiled, stepping quickly back. An empty eye socket stared back at her, lips fallen away from bared teeth, a face half covered by the dried-out tangle of seaweed. It was a seal, a young one, its glossy pelt matted with sand and reduced to the texture of old felt. The creature had been dead for some time, its ribs visible under decayed flesh. Boring insects had left tiny holes in the taut skin, and the eye had been picked clean. A doomed selkie, she thought, looking down at it, or a selkie's child stranded between two elements. Another child lost.

She walked rapidly away from the unsettling stench and climbed into the dunes to find a sheltered hollow, away from the wind. After a while she dozed, her legs tucked up under her, lulled by the breeze rattling softly through the marram grasses, the sand warm beneath her. But her half-dreaming mind took her back to the dark days in Edinburgh, to where she had forged a connection between Theo's shooting of the sea eagle and the disasters which had followed.
Doubtless that crime will go unpunished . . .
the man had predicted, but in her dream the words were spoken by Cameron . . .
even as it tips the balance towards disaster.
And disaster had struck, taking their child, their hope—and in her dreaming despair she reached out to Cameron for consolation. He gave an odd shout and came to her, drawing close, his breath warm on her face.

She woke abruptly, her mouth dry and her head throbbing, to look into the limpid eyes of Bess as she nuzzled close, blowing into her face, before barking again. Groggy and disorientated, she was trying to pull herself together when Cameron appeared on the top of the dunes, silhouetted against the sky, his jacket blown open by the breeze.

He stood there looking down at her. “I thought I might find you here,” he said at last, “when you weren't at the old chapel.”

She squinted up at him, still caught in her dreaming world, still reaching out to him. Wanting him. “You came looking for me?”

“Mrs. Henderson sent me to find you.” His tone was brusque. “She was anxious.”

“She had no need to be.”

“Mr. Blake had told her you'd be staying close to the house.”

She straightened her legs, stiff from her cramped position, and pushed her hair from her face. “House arrest, in fact,” she said, running her tongue over dried lips.

He came down a few steps from the top of the dunes, his face still in shadow. “This was a long way for you to walk, more than you should have attempted.” She looked up at him again, the wanting becoming a need, but he refused to meet her eyes. “Let me take you home. The trap's at the edge of the fields.”

She gazed out across the bay, saying nothing while he stood watching her. “Sit with me a moment?” she asked softly, feeling the need in her growing, but he did not move. “Please, Cameron.”

He came only a little closer and sat on one of the grassy hummocks, resting his elbows on bent knees, gazing out to sea. “Put your hat on, Mrs. Blake. Your face is fiery from the sun.” His tone held her at a distance.

She made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob as she reached for her hat. “Are you still looking after me, Cameron?” Her need became a pain, but he said nothing, and they sat in silence. “I was remembering the day you brought me here to see the divers,” she said at last. “I thought I'd never seen a place more beautiful.” Still he said nothing. “And now there's a seal pup down there, rotting away in the seaweed. Stinking of death—” Her voice shook, and the shoreline became blurred and indistinct.

“Let me take you home, Mrs. Blake.”

She wet her lips again, dragging her fingers through her hair. “And I was remembering the day at the seal island, when you damned us all to hell, pulled the edifice down around us.”

The wind blew his hair across his eyes. “I damned the edifice, not you,” he said. “It was you, I recall, who was for anarchy.”

“No. You damned
us.
Your sort, you called us. Self-indulgent despots. Living a fantasy.”

He made no reply, then stretched out his legs and reached a hand to fondle Bess's ears. “That whole day was a fantasy,” he said at last. “A silly pretence of equality.” Bess arched her neck, revelling in the attention. “And from that moment, I dropped my guard and let myself think you were someone I could be in love with.” Beatrice's heart lurched and she turned to him, to find his eyes focussed on the horizon. “But you aren't, are you, Beatrice? You're someone else's wife. The man who rules here, my one-time patron.” Patron? She watched him closely as he pulled at a handful of dune grasses, letting it score through his hand. “So all I can do is watch him finish what he began last summer. Destroying you.” He turned his palm over and examined the thin red cuts, the tiny beads of blood, before wiping them away on his knee, and looked directly at her at last. “And so you must take note of what your husband tells you. Pull yourself together, madam. Learn acceptance.” He hurled a stick out to sea, and Bess sat up, uncertain. The gesture was friendly but the tone was not. “It's not a bad situation, after all. You'll want for very little.”

She looked back at him. “And that must be enough?”

His eyes narrowed as he followed a string of gannets gliding down to the surface of the sea before disappearing against the waves. “Most people settle for much less.”

“But I want more.”

“I know.” The two words fell into the space between them and, like pebbles dropped into a rock pool, their ripples disturbed the surface of calm.

She watched the gannets rise up again amidst the spray blown back from the waves.
But I want more.
The silence lengthened until she spoke again, taking her courage in her hands. “Both Theo and I have, in our different ways, disappointed each other.” She became transfixed by the sharp angles of the sunlight where they struck the waves far out to sea. “I don't understand why.” She caught at her blowing hair, the uncertain breeze of the morning now a strengthening force. “Except—except that I believe it's you he wants, not me.”

Cameron looked up.

“Such a tangle.” She felt faint again, the thrumming in her head growing louder. “I had thought that this summer we might repair the damage. There was to be a child, and you . . .
you
would not be here. For either of us.” She paused again. “You see, he cannot love me because of you.”

He stared at her.

Clouds of dry sand spiralled along the beach towards them, and the grains stung her face, blinding her. “It's absurd, of course. We
both
want you, and while you reject him, he rejects me.”

He slid quickly down the side of the dune and was there, beside her, his hands on her shoulders. “You
can't
believe that.” And he took her head between his hands as he had done before. “You
can't—
”

“But it's true.”

“No!” He pressed her back against the grassy hummock, holding
her close, and she felt the strength of him. There was salt on his lips as his mouth sought hers, and her fingers found sand matted in the texture of his hair as she raised her hands to him.

Then Bess lifted her head, her ears flattened back by the wind, and gave a sharp bark. Cameron looked up. They heard a shout, and he rose, cautious now, and looked out towards the edge of the fields. “Donald,” he said, “probably sent on the same mission,” and he stood, raising a hand to signal. “He'll have seen the trap.”

By the time Donald reached them, Beatrice had put her hat back on, pulling it low across her eyes, and Cameron had moved away. “Mrs. Blake fell asleep and has a touch of the sun. Bess found her.” He spoke quickly, then turned back to her. “Are you alright to go now, madam?” She nodded dumbly, and he offered his hand, crushing her fingers briefly as he helped her to her feet, avoiding his brother's eyes. “Take Mrs. Blake home, Donald, but stop by the spring first; some water will help. Drink plenty, madam.” Then, to Donald, “I'll go back by the Bràigh and check on the calves.” He gave them a quick, distracted nod and made off down the dunes.

Beatrice slept better that night than she had since she lost the baby. She slept long and deep, and her dreams took her to sweet forbidden places where Cameron's arms still held her, his face close to hers. And as she woke and lay there, grasping at the fading dream, a new resolve grew within her.

Each day she had watched him set off early to tour the lambing fields, usually returning mid-morning astride a sturdy island pony, before heading off for other tasks. It was a pattern he seldom varied, and she rose, dressing quickly, planning to meet him on his return, and she left, reassuring Mrs. Henderson that she would not go far.

Yesterday's wind still blew in ragged bursts as she followed the winding field track. She gave up on her hat and let it fall on
her back, feeling the breeze through her hair and savouring the warmth of the sun on her neck. Halfway along the track she saw him, and this time he did not try to avoid her but came steadily on. “You don't learn, do you,” he called out as he approached. “You'll get freckles and sunburn. Put your hat on, Mrs. Blake.” He slid off the pony and walked over to her, his eyes sharply alive. “What brings you out this way?”

“I came to find you.” His look held hers. “I want you to take me to see the divers.”

His eyes narrowed and he looked away, back over the pasture, and was silent for a long time. “No.” The word held finality. He locked his fingers into the pony's coarse mane and stared across towards Oronsy Mhor. “It can't be done. The tide has to be right, and even then you have to wade across one bit.”

“I can wade.”

“It's too far.” He turned away, his face set and unyielding. “Mrs. Henderson would have them combing the island for you.” The pony lowered its head to crop at the grass, and he stared out across the fields, his hand on the animal's neck, not speaking.

“They might be nesting by now.”

“Oh, they're nesting alright. I went to see.” The pony raised its head, blowing softly at him.

“Then you
must
show me.”

“It can't be done, Mrs. Blake,” he repeated, turning back to her. The pony nuzzled his pocket hopefully. “Give over, damn you,” he said, pushing its head away.