The House Between Tides (57 page)

“And now he is sick in mind and body too, hunted and haunted. You must square things with him as best you can. He was ever a difficult man, but I sometimes I feel that I have robbed him of Màili, who he once loved, of his son, and even of his grandson, and I had the burying of his wife. And I pity him, Cameron, but I cannot change these things now. All my life I have wrestled with my conscience, but I had given Màili my word.”

She read his touching final words and looked across to James, still staring out of the window. Ruairidh took the letters, replaced them in their envelopes, and sat back, watching his cousin. “Alright, Jamie?”

James nodded. “Just give me a minute. He squeezed Hetty's shoulder as he went past her, out into the courtyard, and as the door closed behind him, Ruairidh smiled reassuringly at her.

“He'll be fine, it's a lot to take in. But it explains the DNA tangle.” Briefly, he told her what the report had said. “The results showed a connection between the bones and all three of us, but for different reasons. Some links were common to both you and James, going back to Theo Blake's father, while others were common to James and me, from Màili Cameron. But the hair in the locket only related to James—it must be Beatrice's, you see.”

“She'd given him her locket?”

“Aye.”

She stared at him, following the threads in her mind, and they sat in silence, listening to the muffled sounds of the wind still gusting through the courtyard, then Ruairidh turned to look at the
painting again. “There's a sadness to it,” he said, and bent closer to read the date. “The year Màili Forbes died, 1897.” He paused. “Perhaps it is a sort of farewell.”

“And yet he gave it to his wife—”

Ruairidh shook his head and went over to the window. “I'll go and see if he's alright.” He took a step towards the door, then stopped. “No, you go.”

James was standing on the ridge between the two houses, looking across at the remains of Muirlan House, his jacket blown open by the wind, his hair across his face. Ruairidh's dog had followed her from the kitchen and went up to him now, snuffling at his boots. Hetty saw him look down briefly, then drop his hand to fondle her ears.

At last he turned and saw her waiting at the bottom of the ridge, uncertain, and he came down to her, drawing her close and holding her. They went back into the kitchen, where he pulled out a chair and sat, looking across at Ruairidh, his face vulnerable, as she had once seen it before. “The one person who comes out of all this well is old John Forbes, gathering up the fallout from Theo Blake's passions—first Màili and Cameron, and then Beatrice and Johnnie.” He gave his cousin a twisted smile. “And his descendants have kept up the tradition through the generations.” He reached for the whisky bottle and slopped some into his mug. “You've done rather better than me in your choice of forebears.” He took a drink and turned sharply to Hetty, his eyes glinting. “And this makes us cousins of a sort, though not close, thank God. And our bloodline, by contrast, is one of seducers, adulterers, murderers, and fraudsters.”

His face was strained, and she reached out, laying her hand on his sleeve. “But it's that of lovers too.” He returned her a look, which brought back the warmth of the night.

Ruairidh looked from one to the other. “Why fraudsters?” he asked, to fill the silence.

“Those letters from Canada. Cold-blooded forgeries.”

“I suppose they were. But by then Blake had to see it through. He must have known the noose was hanging over him.”

James took another drink, more slowly this time. “And yet I imagine he suffered more living on.”

“The day Blake drowned—” Ruairidh began, then stopped, glancing towards Hetty.

“I told her.”

Ruairidh nodded approval. “Aonghas had just come back on leave. Remember? Bringing news—”

James caught his thought. “—that Johnnie was dead. Yes! And by then John Forbes would have told Blake about Cameron, and he would have known that Johnnie was
his
grandson and his last link with Cameron and with Màili.”

“And with Beatrice.”

“Christ, the poor bastard,” said James. “The tidal race across the strand must have been a release from hell.”

Between Beatrice's unmarked grave and the grave of Theodore Blake, there had been a space in the family burial ground, and it was there that they buried Cameron, with his father on one side and Beatrice on the other. Beyond Beatrice lay Màili Cameron Forbes.

“What a mess they made of it all,” James said, standing back to look at the graves. “A right old tangle.” He and Ruairidh had made a coffin from timbers salvaged from Muirlan House, and the minister had carried out a short ceremony when the bones were buried, together with the lock of hair and the decaying feather—James had placed the empty locket around Hetty's neck. The two men had carried the coffin between them. It weighed little, and James had insisted that the burial be done as soon as the bones were released, to draw a line under the tragedy. Then, he said, building works could start on the factor's house and they would be free to plan for the future.

There was a slight haze and barely the whisper of a breeze as Hetty and James crossed back over Muirlan Strand to James's cottage that evening. The low sun shafted briefly through the clouds, flooding the drained sand with light, turning the pools left by the retreating tide to quicksilver, and their two figures, walking close, hand in hand, became silhouettes etched sharply against the sand.

Thanks are due to many people for their support in writing this book. The writer Kathy Page sent invaluable and heartening comments on early drafts from the Pacific west coast of Canada, and author Pamela Hartshorne has been unfailingly supportive and generous with her time as the story developed. Rosemary Ward at The Gaelic Books Council kindly provided the Gaelic phrases and encouragement. I am hugely indebted to my wonderful agent, Jenny Brown (Jenny Brown Associates), and to Fiona Brownlee (Brownlee Donald Associates) for all their invaluable guidance and hard work, and I am also very grateful to Adrian Searle and all at Freight Books for their belief in the book from the outset. The great team at Atria/Simon & Schuster, under the leadership of their editor, Jhanteigh Kupihea, helped to develop the book, and I am very appreciative of their commitment to it.

The House Between Tides
is a work of fiction, inspired by the beauty, and the history, of the Western Isles. Part of my family's lineage reaches back to Skye and perhaps that, and annual holidays first as a child and then with my own children, helped formed a lasting bond with that very special part of the world. I owe my love of wild places to my father and my love of books to my mother, for which I will always be grateful.

The book is dedicated to Richard, my rock, and to A and G, and to memories of glorious times in the Hebrides.

SUSIE MCDONALD AT BRICK LANE STUDIO

Sarah Maine was born in England but grew up partly in Canada before returning to the United Kingdom, where she now lives.
The House Between Tides
is her first novel.

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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2014 by Sarah Maine

Originally published as
Bhalla Strand
in 2014 in Great Britain by Freight Books

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