The House Between Tides (27 page)

And this land crusade of his was becoming tiresome. He simply refused to leave the matter alone! Like last week: “There's enough for three or four workable crofts beyond the lochan, sir. And you don't use that land for anything.”

They had been working together in the study, companionably, until that point. “Snipe and curlew nest over that way, as well as other species,” Theo said, and continued to paint in the detail of a shelduck's plumage. “Farming would reduce numbers.”

“
Shooting
reduces numbers.”

He had returned Cameron a dry look, and they had worked on in silence. Then Cameron had tried a different tack. “You could make it part of the tenancy agreement that crofters must protect the nests and nestlings,” he began. “You'd still get the rents, they'd get a livelihood, and the birds would thrive. It would be ideal.”

He turned to clean his brush. “You don't give up, do you?”

“How can I? These people are desperate.”

Theo had sat back and considered him, tapping the end of the paintbrush against his teeth, thinking what a fine-looking young man he was, his mother's grace transformed into a lithe strength, her dark colouring defining regular features. And Màili's eyes . . . He had bent again to his painting.

“Sir?” Cameron's voice had recalled him to the present. “All they want is a patch of land to plant—”

“Potatoes?” He had raised his eyebrows in mock interest. “Or turnips? Keep a cow, perhaps?” Couldn't he even
try
to understand?

“It's not too much to ask.”

“It's too
little
, Cameron. Far too little.” Cameron had continued to scowl at him. “Stop for a moment and look beyond your own indignation, and you might understand a little better.” He dipped his brush in the rinsing water. “There's not enough here now to sustain people. I'd be condemning them to poverty.”

“Their families were living well enough until your father cleared them off.”

“Were they?” He had kept a grip on his temper. “And what about the decades before then, after the kelp price collapsed? You don't think maybe myth has clouded the truth over the years?” Cameron had said nothing, containing a tight-lipped anger. “Besides, I refuse to live in perpetual guilt for what my father did. It made
sense
, Cameron, even if there were individual cases of hardship.”

“
Hardship!
If having your roof burned from over—”

“Face facts, man.” His patience had snapped, and he had taken up the brush again, adding dark umber tones to the colour of the sea. “By the time this house was built, a generation had already lived in poverty. Reducing numbers made sense. My father did them a favour.” Cameron began another angry retort, but Theo stuck the
brush back in the jar and raised a hand. “Enough. You do no good with your persistence.” They had faced each other across the desk. “Vilify me by all means, Cameron, but the tenants on this estate are treated well. Your father sees to that.” The words had choked him, and since that day they had hardly spoken.

He turned back to the group at the water's edge, where the boats had been made ready and Cameron had assumed command. A natural leader, with no outlet for his talents, thwarted by his circumstances. Theo wondered how much Kit's presence must irk him, reminding him of the very different courses their lives had taken since boyhood. And yet Cameron still rejected his offers of advancement! Frustration boiled in him again, and he shut his eyes, powerless to resolve the matter, defeated.

And when he opened them, the boats were pulling away. Perhaps he should have gone with them after all—Beatrice had tried to persuade him, but was that out of courtesy, or pity? Had she
really
wanted him? The sight of her, happy now, brought a guilty pain.

She looked so lovely! Windswept and carefree as she turned to laugh at Kit's antics, and yet he sensed a change in her. In Edinburgh she had had a serenity, a poise; her cool eyes had offered calm, a balm to his spirits, but those same eyes were restless now, evincing thoughts he could only imagine. Her hair, no longer swept back and elegant, had become bleached by the sun, and twisted tendrils escaped from under a carelessly tied hat. Her skin had a new glow, a luminance that would once have had him reaching for his palette but now, too late, caused only anxiety and regret.

He shifted his attention to the others, remembering their idyllic childhood world which he had glimpsed through his own obsession. They had been inseparable companions then, indifferent to him, a grown man, grim-faced, no doubt, as he wrestled with his demons. He remembered coming back, several years after leaving
the island, summoned home by his father's sudden illness. Riding across the strand, he had seen figures down by the foreshore. John Forbes, a young man then, was repairing one of the boats, assisted by two small boys who stopped their play to watch as Theo approached. He'd ridden on, steeling himself for the encounter he'd been dreading.

And the young factor had been faultlessly respectful as Theo dismounted and held out his hand, forcing a tight smile. “John. Are you well?”

“Very well, sir.” He had gripped Theo's hand briefly. “Mrs. Blake will be glad you're come.” Then they had stood awkwardly, Màili an invisible presence between them, and Theo had looked at the two small boys. She had borne John two sons and a daughter since he left, and the knowledge twisted his guts.

“Fine boys, John.”

“Aye, they are, sir. Though I can't lay claim to both.” He held out his other hand to the smaller of the two boys. “Greet your brother, Kit, he's come all the way from Glasgow to see your father,” he said, and the child had looked at Theo with a puzzled expression. He had been a baby when Theo had left.

“This one is mine.” John had put an arm around the other boy. “His brother is inside with his sister, and their mother.”

And next day he had seen her, surrounded by a gaggle of children, the older ones running, criss-crossing the sun-dappled sand, erratic as a flock of dunlin, splashing through shallow pools, and there was Màili herself, leading a smaller child by the hand. And he had watched her approach, leaden with resentment, compelled to watch her, compelled to drink in her appearance as a desperate mariner gulps seawater, knowing it will only intensify the thirst. The years had left her unchanged, her hair caught up in the familiar loose knot in the nape of her neck, and sunlight still caught glints in the brown. Her feet and ankles were bare below her dark
skirt, and she had radiated such idyllic contentment that it had been an affront. Their eyes had met and blood had pounded in his temples, and only then had he seen her thickened shape, camouflaged by the shawl which crossed over her stomach.

It had been the last time he had seen her—

Laughter from across the water broke through his thoughts, and he stood a moment, looking out across the same stretch of sand where he saw her shade still, then he turned to watch the two boats pulling away from him, and Beatrice waved, as if in farewell.

1910, Beatrice

Beatrice sat on the thwart and lifted her arms to pin back her cascading hair, watching Theo from under her elbow, and considered whether to ask Cameron to turn back and insist that he come. She really ought to. He looked such a lonely figure standing there on the shore, but he had resisted all her attempts at persuasion and now she was reluctant. Somehow he would cause a restraint on the party.

She waved, but perhaps he didn't see.

When she looked back again, he was walking towards the house, and his departure seemed to trigger a release. Oars were shipped in both boats and sails raised. Beatrice watched as Cameron set about tightening and loosening the rigging, moving with agility, whistling tunelessly, then laughing over his shoulder, pouring scorn on Kit's attempts to bring the other boat up to wind. Donald called something back in their own tongue and Cameron laughed again. He was dressed like any of the island men, wearing his dark woollens and loose trousers with the same careless disregard as he had worn Theo's cast-off suit, at ease with himself. He offered Rupert the helm, and Beatrice trailed her hand over the side, watching Theo disappear into the house. Cameron, now satisfied with the sail, sat on the gunwale opposite her while Emily moved to the bow and sat like a figurehead, shaking her hair loose and lifting her face to the sun.

And Beatrice forgot about Theo.

Being at sea in a small boat was a new experience, and at first she found the broken motion unsettling. She gripped the side of the boat to steady herself and watched tresses of dark weed flowing out from submerged reefs, wafted by the current, disappearing as the water deepened and grew darker.

“Come on, my love. Take the helm,” Rupert called to Emily. “Show your brother how it's done.”

“But I can't.” She turned to him, smiling her elfin smile.

“Give it a shot. You won't do worse.”

Cameron moved forward and Emily made her way to the stern where, with Rupert's guiding hand on hers, she managed to hold a steady course. They left the shelter of the headland, where the pull of tide and current competed with the wind, and then a rogue wave lifted the bow and Emily gave a little shriek. “Take it, Cameron! Before I sink us all.”

He took the tiller with a laugh, glanced astern, and then changed course. “We'll get just beyond that far point and then drift back with the tide. Try our luck.” The wind tightened the sails as the boat settled onto the new course, water bubbling under the bow, but it was smoother now, and Beatrice loosened her grip on the side.

“What about Beatrice, Cameron?” Emily called over her shoulder. “She ought to have a chance to steer. Bea, you really
must.
”

“Will you try your hand, madam?” There was a glint of challenge in his eyes, so she laughed and edged back to sit beside him in the stern. He clasped his hand over hers as Rupert had done with Emily, demonstrating the boat's responses, then sat back to watch her.

He had set her a course on a silver path laid down by the sun, heading for islands on the far horizon, but the trick that sunlight plays over water seemed to bring the islands close, almost reachable. She fixed her eyes on them, still feeling the imprint of his
dry palm on the back of her hand, her senses strangely alive as the water creamed beneath the hull, slapping against the bow as it rode the larger waves. She was filled with a heady joy and felt herself relax, becoming one with the vessel, in tune with its motion and rhythm, acutely conscious of Cameron close by, his eye flicking between the sails, the horizon, and the helm.

Rupert had moved forward with Emily, and they were engrossed with each other in the bow, pointing out seabirds which flew splay-legged low across the waves, wings beating fast. A fulmar accompanied the boat, riding the wind, dipping its straight wing tips down to the waves before wheeling and rising high above the mast, revelling in the mastery of its skill. Beatrice's eyes followed it, forgetful of her course, until she felt Cameron's hand on hers as he reached over to correct the helm. “You're straying, madam.” He smiled, and the boat's progress stalled a moment in a trough between two waves. And, for a moment, her eyes held his.