The House Between Tides (52 page)

She became aware that the others had fallen silent. This was her moment. But then she saw a look pass between Giles and Andrew,
and Andrew leant across and poured wine into her glass. “I believe Giles has told you about the other interest there has been?”

“The banker, my love,” said Giles. “Apparently he's keen—”

“There's a terrific deal to be struck, you know—”

“No. Look—”

But still they didn't listen. “We'll help steer you through it, of course, we'll still be on board.” And through his genial smile she realised that Dalbeattie and Dawson were already nurturing this potential new client.

Giles looked nervously at her. “I'm not sure Hetty has quite decided—”

“Oh, I have. I won't sell. In fact—”

“Bravo!” Emma raised her glass, swinging back in line. “I'm so pleased, it's a brave decision. There's a lot of hard work ahead but—”

“Are you sure?” Giles interrupted. “It's a
lot
of money. We haven't really talked it—”

“I'm sure. You see—”

“Just one big celebrity wedding and we'll be on the map.” Emma was smiling and beaming at her, certain of her interest now, her complicity. “Sorting out the ownership question will take a little time, and might be awkward, but—”

“It won't be.” Her tone finally got through. “That land is theirs. Emily Blake gave it to them. I'll not take it back.”

The expressions on their faces were almost comical. Giles spoke first. “But we've never even
seen
this famous letter, and they said it expressed
intention.
The old girl changed her mind!”

Hetty shook her head, sure of herself now. “She didn't. I know she didn't. She gave the factor's house and the land to the Forbeses, and then she closed up Muirlan House, turned her back on it, and walked away.”

They looked at her in astonishment, and Giles laughed awkwardly. “What's this, darling? Second sight?”

“No. But I'm certain nevertheless.”

And suddenly she had to get out of there, while her resolve held firm. There was, after all, no point in staying. She pushed back her chair, scraping it on the floor, and the other diners fell silent, hopeful of a drama.

Giles leant forward urgently, his hand on her arm. “But, darling, surely you must see—”

“No. I do see, but differently to you. Though I didn't at first—I don't really expect you to understand, but I'm pulling out. Saving Muirlan House would be too costly—and I don't mean the money. It belongs to the past and should stay there. It's the island that matters, you see. And where we were heading, there'd be no return. We need places like that, we really do, but they're fragile and vulnerable, and we were all set to destroy something irreplaceable. And that mustn't happen.” She stood up and addressed Emma and Andrew. “So I'm sorry, but this stops here. No legal action, no bankers, no finance packages, no franchises. I shouldn't have let it go so far, and I've wasted your time. I'm sorry . . . No, Giles. Stay where you are. Let me go.”

Somehow she managed to escape from the dining room, leaving behind a ripple of conjecture from the other diners. The waiter bringing their starters stopped to stare as she walked swiftly out of the room and into the bar. But as the door closed behind her, her legs felt suddenly weak.

Where on earth did she go now?

The locals around the bar had dispersed to their houses, leaving only two figures, James Cameron and the bartender, in conversation across the bar. She paused in the middle of the room and then walked towards him. He turned and straightened as she approached.

“Tell Ruairidh Forbes it's alright. About the house and the land.” She heard her voice becoming unsteady. “It was Emily's gift.”
James looked back at her, his expression unreadable. “So you can do what you want with it, what you'd planned.” She was flooded suddenly by an all too familiar sense of loss. “And Muirlan House must go. I see that now.” He took a step forward, but she had had enough of all of them. “No—” She turned and left the bar quickly, crossing the reception area, through the outer door, and into the darkening evening.

2010, Hetty

There was only one road around the main island, so it wasn't difficult to find the spot where the track led down to the strand. Even in the fading light, Hetty recognised it, and she turned down it, still driven by that surge of energy that had propelled her through the door and out into the car park, and by a compelling need to go once more to the island, and to Muirlan House.

She cringed as the car rocked over the stony ruts and down onto the wet sand, hearing a sickening scrape as she dragged the underside over the uneven surface. The car was not designed for this! There was another bad moment as she lurched through the deep channel and it almost stalled, but she managed to keep going and then sped across the strand. God, what a night! She had to lean forward with the windscreen wipers on full and noted fleetingly how the dark clouds had lowered the sky. The tide still looked well out, but how long could she spend on the island? Fifteen minutes? Not long, but it would be enough. Then she wouldn't come back again, not while the house still stood. But she had to come back this last time, alone, as she had first seen it just a few short weeks before. Once she had given the word, its fate was sealed—and it would be gone.

It took longer than she remembered to drive across, and she felt the car being buffeted by the rising gale. The wind was being funnelled through a gap between land and island, blown in from the ocean. What was it that Ruairidh had said about westerlies?
But fifteen minutes would be enough, and then she would return to the hotel and face the music. She almost panicked at the midway point when low cloud masked both shorelines and she was left without landmarks, but she pressed on, teeth gritted. Then she saw the chimneys of the house in front of her. She headed straight for them and was soon pulling up the foreshore and onto the old drive, and the light from the headlights bounced off the high walls. Leaving the car where Ruairidh had left the Saab that first day, she got out and ran, head bent against the driving wind, tripping over the uneven surface awash with mud, and regretted her thin clothing. The walls of the house were streaked with wide damp patches from fallen gutters, and the gaunt ribs of roof timbers moved in the wind. Intruders had torn away the front window boarding again and got in through the porch, where the makeshift door swung loose on its hinges, flying open and banging shut as the gusts caught it.

She reached the porch's shelter breathless and soaked. Above her was the room with the little turret, where that intimate scene had been played out, that brief moment of laughter. And as she stood there, the rhythm of the swinging door became hypnotic. It flung back two or three times, then banged, flung open again, and banged shut. She found herself timing it, repeating the rhythm and, as it flung wide, she grabbed the handle and held, and next moment she was in the hall, dripping rainwater onto the dung-cushioned floor. Ten minutes.

Darkness and deep shadows hid the dereliction, and in the fading half-light she saw the century-old images of the past clearly before her. In the drawing room, a pale light filtered through the liberated windows, and she went to stand where she had seen Beatrice and looked out on an unchanged scene, watching the storm clouds blackening the strand. Beatrice—she felt conscious of her presence, and of her absence, as one might feel in an ancient tomb,
sensing an emptiness, filled only by sorrow and loss. If the bones were hers, would she rest more easily having been recognised and reclaimed?
There's damp in the drawing room,
Blake had written in 1942,
so I closed it up. I never use it now.
Her throat tightened and she withdrew, pausing at the door of Blake's study.
It's easier to heat the study, and everything I want is there.
Then her feet took her to the morning room, where Aonghas could only remember lumber being stored, next to a conservatory that had never been finished. Numbly, she went back into the hall.

Was that it? Could she go now? She hesitated, then looked up, feeling a sudden compulsion to follow the rest of Theo Blake's photographic route through the remnants of his house. It would be her last chance. If she went as far as the half-landing, she might be able to see inside the room she had hoped to make her own, where she had witnessed that sweet moment through Blake's camera lens. If she kept close to the wall where the staircase was firmly attached, she would be safe, and a glimpse would be enough. Five minutes more?

A rumble of thunder seemed to sound a warning as she stepped onto the lower treads. They were splintered in some parts but firm beneath her feet, and she reached the small half-landing safely, pausing to look through the round window. For a moment the broken roof-light was clear of storm clouds and lit the stairs with an unnatural light, while the scene through the round window was dark and threatening. It was the negative image of the photograph Theo Blake had taken there, and for a moment she felt his unsettled spirit around her. Gulls, like lost souls, swept past the jagged hole in the roof.

Mustn't linger. Three more steps above the half-landing looked sound, and she went cautiously upward until her eyes became level with the landing. She stood on tiptoe, and from there she could just see through the doorway and into the room with the small turret.

It was a wreck. Of course it was. The roof was gone, and the floor was littered with broken beams and fallen slates. But what on earth had she expected? And then as surely as she had needed to come, she needed to leave. The house would go, and this room would go, but the photograph would survive, and that moment would outlive the house and endure. Then another thunder clap sounded overhead and rain began to fall steadily. She stepped backwards, catching her leg on a jagged splinter of wood, and she bent to look, feeling the wetness of blood on her skin.

“
For Christ's sake
, woman!” a furious voice roared from below. “Are you
mad
?” Only now, she realised that the rhythm of the banging door had been interrupted, and she peered down to see James Cameron looking up at her from the bottom of the stairwell, his face pale in the half-light. The last rumble of thunder must have masked the arrival of the Land Rover, which she now saw had drawn up outside. “Come down, for God's sake. It's not to die for.”

As soon as her foot touched the last stair, he grabbed her arm, propelling her swiftly across the hall, out of the door, and onto the drive before opening the door of the Land Rover and pushing her in, glancing over his shoulder as he did. It was only then that she realised how much the wind had strengthened; the banging of the front door was now echoed by a loud knocking and creaking as loose roof timbers struggled to withstand the gusts.

He drove away fast, bumping over deeply carved channels running with rainwater, and stopped where she had left her hire car. “Look at you. Soaked to the skin and bloody.
Jesus!
” He leant forward and rested his arms on top of the steering wheel. “And what now, Hetty? Back over the strand, is it?”

“Yes.”

She dug into her pocket and pulled out the car keys, but he reached across and took them. “No.”

She stared at him. “Why not? What are you doing?”

He let out the hand brake and they rolled back down to the main track, pausing where it forked. “I was ten, maybe fifteen minutes behind you, but that last channel was above the axles when I crossed.” He took the track which led away from the foreshore towards the farmhouse. “We're stuck here until the wee hours, maybe longer given the storm,” he said as he swung the Land Rover into the courtyard. “Sit tight.” He ran across, hunched over the padlock on the farmhouse door, and then pushed it open and beckoned. She left the Land Rover and he swept her in, half closed the door, and took an oilskin from a peg behind it. “There'll be slates flying about soon. I need to move your car.” And he was gone again.