The House Between Tides (44 page)

“Last night as I lay in bed—” She broke off, daunted by his expression, then dropped the charade. “Cameron, these few days are all we have before Theo returns. Can we not allow ourselves that much?” He stared at her, and his eyes grew a shade darker, but he stayed silent. “Cameron?”

“You'd tear up the rule book, would you?”

“Yes.”

“And let the devil take the consequences?” She made no response. “Have you actually
considered
the consequences?”

“Of course.”

He looked at her, unbelieving. “And you think you're prepared to take that risk?” She watched his face harden. “And I'm to be as reckless with
other
people's lives, am I?” He took up the halter and flung himself across the pony's back, looking down at her. “If you stay out in this sun, you'll grow faint again. Turn back and go home.” And he rode off rapidly, leaving her alone on the track.

Beatrice picked at her meal that evening, eating little, gently scolded by Mrs. Henderson for overdoing things. Later she sat on the window seat in the drawing room and watched the light fade across the bay. It felt as if the ebbing tide was draining the last bit of spirit from her, for if Cameron too rejected her—what was there left? Then she heard a crunch on the gravel and looked up to see him approaching from round the side of the house, his face intent and unsmiling. He thrust a paper through the open window at her and was gone as swiftly as he had appeared.

A single sheet. The scrawled words jumped before her eyes.
So be it. Don't go to church tomorrow. Give Mrs. H leave to visit her daughter after the service. Wear old clothes and be at the old chapel when everyone has left. I'll bring the boat. Don't be seen. But think what you're about. There'll be no time later for regrets.

She stood up, fearful suddenly, and looked across the bay to where the last of the sun's rays lit the peaks of Bheinn Mhor, setting it alight like the flames of a fire that was yet to burn there. A moment's chill premonition quivered through her, and she clasped her arms across her chest, then turned, crushing the page in her hand, and threw it on the fire. A brief spurt of coloured flame consumed the words, and as she closed the door behind her, the paper, scorched by the heat, fell as ash into the hearth.

1911, Beatrice

It was easy to tell Mrs. Henderson that she would not go across to the church the next day, harder to persuade her not to remain as well. “Stay with your daughter for the day, Mrs. Henderson. She needs you, so near her time. I'm not unwell. I just crave a little quiet. Really, I insist.”

She consented to breakfast on a tray in her room, and from her window she could see Cameron helping Mrs. Henderson and Ephie into the larger of the two boats. Then he and Donald rowed them across the tide-filled bay towards the main island. When they were safely away, she rose and dressed, her hands trembling as she did. Quite how Cameron intended to make the rendezvous she had no idea, but she followed his instructions, encountering no one as she walked to the old chapel and sat, crouched in her usual place, screened from the land, biting her lip, unbelieving of what she was about. Off-shore, the seals played in the sea, and the dark one lifted its head, as if in greeting, then dived sideways and was gone.

Fifteen minutes later, when Cameron had not appeared, her courage began to fail and she scanned the bay one last time. She should go back—this was folly!
Madness.
Then she saw him, in the smaller boat, pulling hard towards her, and a moment later the bow scraped on the rocks.

“You came,” he said as he moved forward. “I didn't think you would, in the end.” He glanced at her as he helped her aboard. “Stay
low. Sit on the bottom boards and keep your head well down.” And he pushed off again, rowing strongly away from the shore. “Alright?” he panted, smiling down at her. “Only for a little while. Just until we get round the headland.”

From the bottom of the boat she watched him, turning his head, scanning the shoreline as he strained at the oars. His feet were bare, and he had changed from his Sunday clothes into an old woollen jersey and loose dark trousers, rolled to just below the knees—and she thought of that other time, when the boat had stalled between two waves. They made swift progress with the tide, and he soon told her it was safe to sit up. She rose, stretching cramped muscles, and looked around, trying to get her bearings, and discovered that they had swung around the northern tip of the island. But even at this distance she could see the chimneys of Muirlan House rising above a fold in the land.

“Should be alright now. Most people will be at the kirk, but it would be thought odd enough that I'm out here on a Sunday, without seeing two figures in the boat.” He had left his family with the excuse of feeling unwell, he told her, and then hidden his Sunday clothes in the rocks. The boat he had concealed earlier. He began shipping the oars, glancing over his shoulder as he prepared the sail. “Take the helm?” He smiled at her, and she did her best, watching him intent upon his task until he was satisfied that the tan sail was filling. Then he stepped over the oars and came to sit beside her. He took the helm and lay his arm along the gunwale behind her, and pulled her shoulders back to rest against his chest, kissing her temple. “I wanted to kiss you that other time,” he said, glancing up at the sail, tightening the sheet, “but resisted. And besides, we had the sharp-eyed major in the bow.”

“Rupert?” She turned to him. “What do you mean?”

“He's no one's fool, isn't Emily's man.” She dropped her head as anxiety clutched at her. He reached out and turned her chin to
face him. “I told you you were reckless, Beatrice, and it's not too late to turn back.”

But just then they left the shelter of the land and the wind caught the sail, blowing her hair across her face. The boat plunged and bucked in the broken water, and she tasted the salty spray on her lips. “You also said there would be no time for regrets.” He watched her for a moment longer, then laughed, kissing her swiftly before shifting his position and turning the boat towards the rocky shore.

They did not speak again. His attention became focussed on keeping his course through the contrary waves, and occasionally glancing back over his shoulder. But they were on the wild, uninhabited side of the island, and they saw no one, and she glimpsed a fringe of white sand in the distance. “Torrann Bay,” he said, following her gaze, then went forward to take down the sail and retrieve the oars.

A few moments later, the bow scraped softly on the sandy beach, and he helped her step ashore, then led her across the turf to a patch of slightly higher ground. From there she could see a long finger of water, once an inlet from the sea cut off centuries ago by a violent storm. Gradually it had become a freshwater lochan, fed by a spring, bordered on its margins by rushes and iris. A small promontory reached out into it, and at the end was an untidy pile of sticks and seaweed heaped together, apparently haphazardly. And sitting atop was a large black-and-white bird, its neck settled back, relaxed and unconcerned. Silently he passed her the field glasses.

“Oh!” Then, “She looks so large out of the water.”

“It could be him,” he replied. “One fishes and the other sits, then they swap.” A tremolo came from across the loch, and the nesting bird went on the alert, rising from the nest. Cameron bent close and spoke softly. “Watch as the other one comes ashore.” The two birds met briefly on the water and then the second bird
laboured in an ungainly manner up to the nest. “I think this is the female. But see how she drags a leg? I believe she's injured.” The bird settled herself onto the pile of twigs while the male bird dived. “It's perhaps why she stayed.”

“And he stayed with her.”

They looked at each other. “Aye.” Then he reached over and pulled her to her feet. The fishing bird surfaced close by and gave a shrill warning cry to its mate, who rose and staggered down to the water's edge, where it too dived.

“The eggs! They've abandoned them—”

“They'll be back.” He took her hand again, leading her away from the lochan, then he stopped. “Wait.” He disappeared around the boulder, reappearing a moment later crouched low along the promontory. She watched him reach into the nest and then retreat rapidly as the birds surfaced, only to dive again. “Two eggs, big speckled ones,” he said as he rejoined her and the birds came up again, some way distant, very low in the water and silent now. “Let's leave them to settle.”

Nearby, a grassy knoll was screened from the loch by reeds and iris, and he led her there, spreading out his jacket, and pulled her down beside him. He held out his hand, fist clenched, and then turned it, uncurling his fingers to reveal a soft black feather tipped with white. “A memento.” She took it, held it, and stroked it slowly along the line of her chin, her eyes on his, and then she pulled a gold chain and locket from the neck of her blouse. His hand closed over hers. “Let me.” And his fingers brushed her neck as he took it, still warm from her skin, opening it to reveal a small blank picture frame. “Empty?” he asked, his face close to hers.

“Empty.”

He nodded, then curled the feather into it, closed it, and touched it to his lips. “A keepsake,” he said, letting it fall back between her breasts, and she reached up to pull him down with her.
And all the while, above them, unseeing and uncaring, the gulls gave their wild cries, swooping and wheeling on the strengthening breeze.

That night Beatrice lay in her bed in Muirlan House, her hands locked behind her head, staring up at the ceiling, eyes wide, aghast at what had taken place, yet glad with every fibre of her being that it had. She could still feel his hands discovering her, the lovely warmth of him, his skin next to hers.

And somehow the rightness of it outweighing the wrong.

They had lain, spent and wordless, on the flattened grasses until at last he had raised himself up to look out over the reedy curtain to the water. “You see, all well again,” he said, and she had rolled over, brushing aside her cascading hair, lifting her head to see. One bird was on the nest, the other fishing calmly nearby, and she smiled, sinking back to gaze up at the sky while he lay beside her, his head propped on one elbow, watching her, stroking away an errant strand of hair from her lips. “And on the Sabbath too. Every rule broken, Beatrice.” A bleak expression had crossed his face, quickly gone, as he bent to kiss her.

Eventually they had drawn apart again, and a thin haze had begun to form over the sky, a prelude to the next change in the ever-changing weather. He looked up, sensing the wind shift, then turned back to her and began pulling together the lacy edges of her blouse, twisting the buttons, straightening her tumbled skirts. “We must go.” His face was sober for a moment, then he had reached out and plucked the head from a yellow iris and tucked it between the roundness of her breasts. “Yellow, madam. For joy.” And out on the headland, the divers exchanged low sounds of reassurance as they met at the edge of the loch, then the male disappeared beneath the surface and the female returned to her vigil.