The House Between Tides (46 page)

Beatrice stood at the door of the cottage next day, watching the gulls blown on the wind, waiting for him, the morning already shattered. The weather was changing, and far out at sea a dark smudge spread along the horizon, widening and darkening as it approached land, blowing a chilling wind before it. She had been unable to stay in the house once she had read the letter, but waiting here was worse, bringing forward the moment when she must tell him, and she almost willed him to stay away. Then she saw him, striding out, his head swivelling from side to side, half raising a hand in greeting as he approached.

He stopped when he saw her face. “What is it?”

“He's on his way back. A letter came.”

And her trials that morning were far from over, for later, as she walked back along the shore, the emotion of the past hour still churning within her, she saw the gaunt figure of John Forbes sitting on the stone bench in front of the old farmhouse.

He looked down at her like an Old Testament prophet and raised a hand, and she was compelled to go to him. “Mr. Forbes, how good to see you out-of-doors!” she said. His beard had grown long and grey, and his clothes hung from his diminished frame, but he was still a formidable figure, and she approached him with apprehension.

“Will ye sit with me a moment, Mrs. Blake?” he said, calling to Ephie to bring a chair, rearranging his splinted leg on an old fish
box and moving his crutch aside to make room. She could hardly refuse, so she smiled her acceptance and fell back on social convention.

“You've had a terrible time of it this winter, Mr. Forbes, and we're all so thankful you're now out of danger.”

A slight nod acknowledged her words, but his eyes searched her face, essaying her defences. “I need to get my strength back. And you've had troubles of your own, Mrs. Blake,” he added, his expression softening. “For which I'm deeply sorry. For you both.” He paused, searching again, more guarded. “But you're looking well now.”

She smiled in return, and a silence fell between them. “I'm sure my husband has told you how grateful we are to—” she began.

“When does your husband return, Mrs. Blake?” And she knew then why he had summoned her.

“I've had a letter just today telling me he'll be back in two days, as long as he can make the crossing.”

“Good.” He breathed his satisfaction and looked away at last.

“He says that the opening went well.” And she described what Theo had told her, but the factor's face conveyed his opinion that these were not good reasons for abandoning an ailing wife. Then his attention was caught by something over her shoulder, and she turned to see that Cameron was on the path, having swung round the back of the house to approach from the opposite direction.

He called out as he approached, “Are you downstairs, then! However did you manage?” He turned and made a small bow to Beatrice. “Good morning, Mrs. Blake.”

“I can't stay laid up forever.” The factor's eyes now explored Cameron's face, flickering briefly between him and Beatrice, his forehead furrowed. “What news then, son?” And Cameron described the calving which was taking place in the fields beyond the ridge where he had been earlier that morning, and his father
nodded. “Mrs. Blake tells me that her husband will be returning in a day or two.”

“Is that so, madam?” Cameron looked calmly at Beatrice, then back to his father. “He'll be glad to find you up and about.”

The factor returned him a long and hard look. “It's time now that I was.”

Theo had ordered fires to be lit as soon as he returned, and when Beatrice entered the stifling drawing room, she went to open a window. “No, don't. There's a chill, you must feel it.” She sat down, pushing her chair back from the fire, smiling tightly, and asked him to tell her about the exhibition. “Were your paintings much admired?”

“As one might admire a fossil, I suppose—” He broke off, contemplating her in a puzzled way. “You look well, Beatrice, remarkably well. Perhaps you were right to stay.” Guilt swamped her as she agreed she was much better, then she knew a flutter of alarm. If he came to her bedroom later, she could hardly deny him.

His description of the lavish opening had provided them with conversation over dinner. “You would have enjoyed it,” he said, as he picked at his food, pushing his plate away, refilling his glass with claret. And now, back in the drawing room, he seemed agitated, rising to poke at the fire, adding more peat.

“Are you feeling unwell, Theo?”

“Of course not. What makes you ask?”

He did not come to her room that night, nor any night that followed, but kept to his study, working late, and she was puzzled. Once such neglect would have wounded her, but now she felt only relief, and this relief muted her senses. It was only gradually over the next few days that she noticed a difference in him and realised that he was drinking heavily. She found empty whisky glasses in
the study and in his dressing room, and the levels in the decanter dropped alarmingly, to be quickly refilled. He looked unwell, prone to flushing and sudden sweats, and she found a sleeping potion on his shaving table.

Conscience pricked her, and she grew fearful. It seemed his eyes followed her whenever they were in a room together, sliding away in their customary manner when they met hers. Had they been discovered? The thought terrified her. Or had he somehow heard a rumour? Impossible, surely— Yet he watched her with a strange expression and his face seemed heavier, pouched under the eyes, his expression unfocussed and distant, but her solicitous enquiries were brushed impatiently aside, and she watched with alarm as his drinking increased.

Cameron now came in for censure. “What about the sheep? Those tupps and hoggs should have gone by now, surely. Why the delay?” she overheard him in the hall.

“The ship had to put into port for repairs, sir, so the sale has been postponed. It'll be a day or two, but they'll send word.”

“I see nothing gathered ready in the fank. They're still out in the fields!”

“They'll be ready, sir. I promise you.”

“And I understand the rye was only planted last week. What the devil's been going on?”

Cameron fielded the barrage as best he could, tight-lipped, his own temper held in check, and life became insupportable. Opportunities to meet became far fewer as the factor resumed control from the estate office, bringing Cameron's stewardship of the estate abruptly to an end. And Theo's strange anger simmered, molten, just below the surface, his eyes bloodshot, the pupils pinprick bright, his hand trembling as he filled his whisky glass. And still his brooding eyes watched her, considering her, looking away when she returned his gaze. She grew restless and fretful, alternating between
frustration and fear, rebellion and remorse. Guilt made her wretched, and the separation from Cameron was unbearable.

In snatched conversation, she learned that Theo had threatened Duncan MacPhail's family with immediate eviction when he had discovered the man had driven in stakes marking out a croft. He had told Cameron to pull them up and then burn the roof off the house, goading him that he would do it himself when he refused. It took the factor's warning to stop him—such action would light the touchpaper of dissent in the region, he said, playing straight into the hands of the most radical land agitators. Duncan MacPhail, after all, would have nothing to lose in widely publicising his treatment. Backing down did nothing to improve Theo's temper.

The factor pushed himself to recover, as if sensing a renewed crisis, using Donald as a go-between from the estate office to Muirlan House, sending Cameron far out onto the estate to work. And Beatrice could only watch him come and go, not daring even to signal to him.

The balmy weather had vanished completely, as if the fickle elements, having indulged her for so long, now abandoned her, and she was confined to the house overshadowed by Theo's moods. She had a fire lit daily in the morning room and spent her days there, writing letters or attempting to read.

Or watching from the window for a glimpse of Cameron.

It was two evenings later when she went to bid Theo good night that she found him slumped over his desk in the study, his head on a pile of drawings, an inkwell overturned, a dark stain spreading. Drunk or sedated—or both? She set the ink bottle aright, moving aside some of his paintings laid out on the desk, studying them as she did. They made no sense to her, strange whirling patterns, wisps which were birds' wings, shore waders reduced to exaggerated stilt-like legs joined to their own reflections. Quite unlike his previous work.

Gently she lifted his hand away from the spill, and he stirred. “Theo,” she said softly, leaning close to mop his fingers with her handkerchief, but he yanked his hand away and flung out his arm.

His elbow caught her hard just below her eye. She cried out, stumbling backwards, slipping on the ink, and fell, catching one of the domed displays, and lay there, stunned, amongst the shattered glass beside a tiny skylark, its beak open in mimicry of her shock. Theo staggered to his feet and looked down at her and spoke her name. Then he reached out to her, his hand trembling, and she watched with alarm as his eyes rolled back in his head, and he too fell, his face amongst the broken glass, the weight of him across her.

The noise brought one of the girls rushing to the door, and she gawped in horror and then vanished, to reappear a moment later with Mrs. Henderson. “Oh,
madam
,” she cried.

The women hurried to help Beatrice as she struggled to extricate herself. She rose, panting and shocked, conscious of the girl's eyes on her swelling face. “He fell. He didn't— Mr. Blake's unwell.” She was shaking, mortified, and looked down at Theo lying with his head hard up against the fireplace, the ink dripping black onto the cuff of his shirt. “
Help
him. Fetch someone—”

Half an hour later she followed dumbly behind Cameron and Donald, Theo's feet dragging on the stair carpet as they half carried him up the stairs, his arms slung across their shoulders, his chin sunk on his chest. Mrs. Henderson had gone on ahead to turn back the covers of the spare room bed, where they laid him down and Donald began removing his shoes.

Cameron turned abruptly to where Beatrice stood, uncertain, at the door. “Are you alright, Mrs. Blake?” He took a step towards her, but Mrs. Henderson put a hand on his arm.

“Look to the master, Cameron. I'll take care of Mrs. Blake.”

“He woke suddenly,” insisted Beatrice, as the housekeeper steered her towards her bedroom, sending a girl for warm water. “Flung his arm out. He didn't mean—he's unwell.”

“I know, madam, I know,” she soothed. “But you must take care.” Her hands were gentle and her eyes bright with understanding. “Rest now, madam, I'll bring some tea.” She left Beatrice sitting at her dressing table, the ink-stained handkerchief balled in her fist, staring at her reflection, and she raised a hand to her bruised face. It
had
been an accident.

She heard movement in the adjacent dressing room, drawers opening and closing, footsteps retreating, then the connecting door opened a crack.

“What happened?” Cameron hissed savagely.

“He's been taking an opiate of some sort, I found a bottle.” She paused. “Is he alright?”

“He'll do.”

“He didn't mean to—”

“No?”

“No! Is he asleep?”

His face had an odd expression, and he looked aside. “He roused briefly, but he's asleep now.” They heard Mrs. Henderson tapping on the bedroom door, and Cameron drew back. “Lock your door tonight, Beatrice.”

“A fever, Mrs. Blake. A bad one, but it will pass. Something he picked up in Glasgow, I expect.” Dr. Johnson had come early, alarmed by what he heard. “No reason for concern.” He patted her hand as his eyes strayed over her bruised cheek. “I'll come again tomorrow.” Theo had refused to be examined, the doctor told her, beyond permitting confirmation that he had a fever and agreeing that his eyes were bloodshot and his face cut about with small scratches, red and blotchy. “I've given him a mild sedation. Not like the other bottle. I'll take that away. Perhaps he will explain—?” Beatrice nodded quickly. “Water down the whisky, my dear”—he pulled a wry face, tugging at the strap of his bag—“and persuade him to be
moderate.
”