The House Between Tides (35 page)

She looked up then and saw the Royal Mail van turning the corner and went quickly to the door, signed for the package with a hasty scrawl, and returned to the sitting room, turning the package over in her hands.

She slit it open and spread the contents on the table. Letters, photocopies to be sure, but written in Blake's own elegantly sloping hand, addressed to a Charles Farquarson, who Matt had said had been a notable patron of the arts in Edwardian Edinburgh. There were twelve of them, and she arranged them carefully in date order.

Her mouth was dry as she took up the first, July 1909, and began to read, but it was disappointing, dealing only with mundane matters relating to the shipping of paintings from France in advance of Blake's return. The second one had been written from Charlotte Street, Edinburgh, and was dated March 1910, and it set her pulse racing.

My dear fellow, what a characteristically generous gesture! I know Beatrice has written, but allow me to add my thanks to hers. It is a beautiful piece, which we shall always treasure. I'm sorry you missed the wedding, but you must make up for it by visiting us this summer, I absolutely insist. You see, I've persuaded Beatrice to leave Venice and Rome for another time and go to the island.
She sat back, overwhelmed by the sudden direct connection with the man.
I'm pinning my hope on her falling under the spell of its spring loveliness, so that we can return each year. And I shall paint again, my friend. From the heart! I
can abandon the counterfeit passion for foreign lands and return to sacred soil. The old compulsion is thrumming deep within me already. See what acquiring a charming wife has done for me! Yours, Blake.
Hetty breathed deep with satisfaction. There it was, in just a few lines—his love of the island, his passion for his work, and for Beatrice. She reread and smiled at the final line:
acquiring
a wife? He wouldn't get away with that now.

She took up the next letter. It was dated June 1910 and dealt briskly with an imminent visit.
A larger party will not discommode us. You are all welcome, I assure you. I'll do what I can to persuade Baird and Campbell to open their coffers, though I don't know them well. You ask about my work, but I confess I've little to show you. By all means put some of the old ones forward for selection, but there is younger talent about, and things have moved on. I've been spending what free time I have on illustrations for the catalogue. The factor's son assists me intermittently, when he isn't preaching socialism to me. (Galling when you consider I supported the blighter's education!) Oh, for the idealism of youth . . . He seems to think we can roll back time and make the world a better place. But I stand my ground. It's all I can do. Beatrice is looking forward to your visit, as is your friend, Blake.

The factor's son? She remembered the self-conscious youth, a mirror of the burly factor, and knew that it was not he to whom Blake referred. It must be the other one, who had stared out of the past with a defiant intensity. A socialist, was he? She'd seen the same expression on the face of his descendant when he had dismissed Muirlan House as
a rich man's conceit.
A consistency of view captured in the DNA.

Entirely hooked now, she picked up the next letter, dated August 1910, and found that the tone had changed. The romantic jubilation of the spring had vanished. It began with another reference to the selection of paintings, apparently for some large exhibition.
By all means have them, as Sanders seems to think there's a
shortage of appropriate Art to offset Industry, so at least they'll serve as wallpaper. I only wish I had something else to offer you. Strictly speaking, “Muirlan Strand” belongs to Beatrice, but I daresay she will loan it for the exhibition. I'd cheerfully sell it, but that, apparently, is out of the question. I've promised the other to my sister as a wedding present, since she reckons I'm becoming a good investment, but she'll loan it too if it is selected, and if Reed will let you have “The Rock Pool,” then all well and good. Though I feel they belong to a different era, the work of another man—

Anyway, I'm considering returning to Edinburgh earlier than originally planned. I don't flatter myself that my stepmother requires my presence, but Beatrice might enjoy the bustle of my sister's wedding preparation. She's been restless since Emily and Kit left. Feeling the isolation, I imagine. Perhaps we will consider Venice another year. I suppose it was asking too much that she would feel the same as I do about the island, and I always was a selfish creature. She says the house is cold and dark, so I'm considering building a conservatory where she can sit on poor days. She enjoys plants and flowers, so I think it would help her.

And there it was, in black and white: a conservatory. Hetty sat back. A chill ran through her, and she felt an absurd desire to put aside the remaining letters, to stop things where there was still evidence of affection, of concern, of kindness. She read it again. Beatrice was restless, he said, so were the cracks already beginning to show? Whatever else, this was crucial information, the date of the letter confirming the evidence of the early photographs quite precisely. Ruairidh ought to be told, but as she turned to the phone, it rang.

“Morning. Ruairidh said you were at home and that he told you about the roof.” James Cameron. Direct and to the point.

“Yes.”

“The damage is round at the back, above the old scullery. A chimney stack fell, crashed through the roof, and made a proper
mess, slates all over.” He paused. “Have you got your second opinion lined up to come?”

“The agents are dealing with it.” That wasn't quite true. Giles had got her to agree to phone Emma and arrange it, but she hadn't yet done so.

“Well, give 'em a prod. The place is dangerous, and it's up to you to make it safe. I've put stakes around the fall area and taped it off, but if anyone gets injured, even trespassers, you'll have all sorts of hassle you could do without.”

She felt her stomach turn over. “Perhaps the schoolchildren—”

“We moved them into one of the barns at the farmhouse. Seemed a good idea anyway.” There was another pause. “Ruairidh said you had some letters?”

“Yes, I was going to ring you.”

“Where did they spring from?”

She told him about the auction, about meeting Jasper Banks, and how the letters had subsequently arrived. “And those sketches of yours must be worth a fortune—”

“They're not for sale.”

“—but Matt says you shouldn't take any more out of the book because of the signatures.”

“Does he.” His tone dismissed Matt's opinion, and he scoffed at the sums she told him were paid for the paintings. “Silly money. Tell me about the letters.”

“I'm still working through them, but in August 1910 Blake was thinking of building a conservatory for Beatrice.”

“Was he now?” That
had
taken his interest.

“And there were obviously problems between them, not spelt out, but there—although he still seemed fond of her, concerned to make her happy.”

“Perhaps he still was—in August 1910.”

“He said she was restless, implied she was lonely.” James was
silent. “There was a painting of her at the auction. It was very strange, disconnected and rather sad, although somehow very tender too.” Giles had believed her mad when she'd tried to explain why she'd bought it, but she had a feeling that James Cameron might understand.

“Did the same chap buy it?”

“No. I did.”

“Good God! How much did you part with?”

“I couldn't just leave her there.”

He snorted. “That much, eh? This business is going to your head, woman. Get a grip on yourself.” She smiled, finding his bluntness strangely reassuring. “And, by the way, the girl in
The Rock Pool
is Màili Forbes. Aonghas said I ought to know that, but if I did, I'd forgotten. She was Aonghas's grandmother.”

“Oh.”

“And she's up there in the burial ground with a stillborn child, so the bones aren't hers.”

“Were she and Blake lovers?” she asked, without thinking.

He laughed. “Aonghas didn't say.”

“No, of course— But you can see it in the sketches, and in the painting too. He was in love with her.”

She could almost hear the shrug. “Painters often had favourite models.”

“It's more than that.” The touch of brush and pencil was so sure, subtle enough to be a caress.

“Maybe.” There was silence, and then they both spoke at once. “You first,” he said.

“I was wondering about the land question—”

“So was I.”

“Emma Dawson's looking into it again, but she hasn't got back to me yet.” He grunted. “Have you . . . has Aonghas found anything, any papers?”

“Aonghas remembers your great-grandmother giving his father the land and the house.” The bluntness had developed an edge. “He was there. He heard them discussing it.”

“And the deeds?”

“Must be somewhere.”

She paused. “It needs resolving.”

“It does.”

A stand-off. James Cameron didn't make things easy. “Look,” she said, “if Emily gave that land away, then I've no intention of trying to claim it back.”

“Good. It's Ruairidh's livelihood, and others.”

No pressure, then. His tone piqued her. “But I gather it's only one of the problems I've inherited. Tell me about this tenant.”

There was a longer pause. “He's an old codger who grows potatoes over there.”

Her bloke. “But there's more to it than that, isn't there?”

“Is there?”

“Something you aren't telling me?”

He laughed briefly. “He's another part of the Blake legacy, but he'll help you resolve the matter himself.”

She heard a key in the front door. “Why can't you—”

Giles called a greeting from the door.

“Sounds like you've got company. I'll let you get on.” And he rang off.

1910, Beatrice

At Sanders's leave-taking, his eyes had slid down to Beatrice's waist, and he'd smiled in a manner which made her half-formed excuse for the previous day dry on her lips, and she held out a cold hand in farewell. Theo eyed her sourly, and the moment the trap reached the gatepost he went back into the house, instructing one of the girls to go and find Cameron and send him to the study.

On hearing this, she retired to her bedroom, pleading a very real headache, refusing tea or a tonic, and stretched out on her bed, listening to the rising wind, staring up at the crack which had spread across the ceiling in the course of the summer, and anxiously reran the events of the previous day. It was as if the mist had swirled off the machair and into her head, dizzying her senses, and the weird cry of the diver echoed from another world. What exactly had she said to Cameron? And what an absurd situation to have got herself into, a conspiracy of silence about a wretched bird, a conspiracy, moreover, shadowed by an aura of betrayal. She rose, fretful, and went over to the turret window, drawing back as she saw Cameron walking up the drive, buffeted by the gales. When he glanced up at her window, she stepped back, out of view, but he knew she was there.

Next day she met him crossing the hall on his way to the study, and he gave her a conspirator's smile. “There's two. I heard them calling to each other, quite clearly.”

“What can we do?”

“Not a thing.” He smiled briefly and knocked on the study door.

But the following day, while Theo went with John Forbes to view the damage to the stable roof wrought by the wind, she found herself compelled to seek him out again. She could not help it. “Have you seen them?” she asked, hesitating at the study door.

He lifted his head. “No. I heard them, though, out towards Oronsy Beagh, some distance away. But I'll find them.” He paused, taking in her drawn appearance. “You're pale, Mrs. Blake.”