The House Between Tides (4 page)

“
Fled
the island?”

“She did find it primitive.”

He had given her a thin smile, and doubt had flickered across his face, but she had tugged at his sleeve. “I'm entirely out of sympathy with Edinburgh, Theo. I want something quite, quite different.” Did he fear a repetition, she wondered, thinking that she too might turn and flee? She had met his stepmother and knew that Theo held her in contempt, but if it was his father's remarriage that had driven him away as a young man, what had prevented him from spending time there since his stepmother had left? She realised that he had a deep bond with this place, and it was the inspiration for so many of his early paintings, yet in recent years he'd told her that his visits had been infrequent and fleeting. And now, as they passed the midway point across the strand, she saw his face had taken on a strained look and his eyes were fixed on the house with the keen look of a hawk as it reckons its chances of success.

Puzzled slightly, she turned her own attention back to the house. It stood on a low ridge, its walls rising high above the landscape, out of all proportion with its surroundings. She could see a small roof turret at the front, crow-step gables, and long windows glinting in the sun. What on earth had inspired Theo's father—a textile manufacturer, not a belted knight—to build such
a house? Here, in this remote place . . . And whatever must the islanders make of it? She thought of the low rough-hewn dwellings they had passed, which she had assumed were barns or byres. When she had asked Theo where the people actually
lived
, his explanation had astonished her, and she had studied the next ones more closely, trying to imagine what life must be like for the gap-toothed women who gossiped under low eaves, swathed in shawls, or bent over tin tubs, some straightening to follow the trap with shaded eyes. Dirty children ran out into the track, leaving little ones watching from behind peat stacks; a few returned her wave. And she had thought of the trolley buses and motor cars on Edinburgh's streets as a small donkey, struggling under peat-laden baskets, was jerked aside to let them pass. Expressionless stares had followed them.

And now, as the trap left the strand, Muirlan House came sharply into focus. It appeared more forbidding as they drew close, but she declared stoutly that it combined all the charm of a Walter Scott novel with the romance of a desert island. “Will you feel the same in six months' time, I wonder?” Theo responded, and she was thrown against him as the trap pulled up the rocky foreshore.

Ahead of them the track forked, one branch leading off to the factor's house and farm buildings a little below the ridge, the other becoming a more conventional drive lined with bushes alive with the twitter of small birds. They passed between two stone pillars where a number of men in rough clothes stood beside the open gate. The tenants, she thought, scanning their bearded faces, and they looked back at her, pulling off their caps as Theo raised a hand in greeting. Then the men turned away to follow the laden farm cart round to the back of the house.

“John's rallied the forces to welcome you,” said Theo, nodding towards the front entrance, where several women were assembled, their skirts and white aprons blowing in the breeze. The trap came
to a halt beside them in the shadow of the entrance porch, and an imposing figure in dark tweeds detached himself and stepped forward, followed by a younger man, who took the reins from Theo. “Welcome home, Mr. Blake,” he said, and nodded respectfully at Beatrice. “Welcome, madam.”

“Good to see you, John.” Theo stepped down from the trap to shake his hand. “And
what
a welcome.” He acknowledged the waiting women as he walked round to Beatrice's side to assist her descent. “Beatrice, my dear, this is Mr. Forbes. John, my wife.”

The factor's smile lit brown eyes above a full beard with an unexpected warmth, and he held out his hand. “You're very welcome here, Mrs. Blake.” His voice was a low rumble and his handclasp firm. The youth, a slimmer version of the factor, was introduced as his son Donald, who murmured an inarticulate greeting as he clung doggedly to the reins. Then Theo went forward to greet a woman who had stepped forward, and Beatrice followed him, glancing anxiously up at the house. Was she to be mistress of such a place? Theo Blake, her mother had told her, would have expectations of her— But he seemed unaware of her apprehension, introducing her to Mrs. Henderson, the housekeeper, who seemed a pleasant woman, and nodded again to the other women who stood in line behind her. As he turned back to speak to the factor, Beatrice looked about her, taking in the terrace and a sunken rectangle where there had been some attempt at a garden. In one sheltered corner, a rustic seat, framed by trelliswork, was under construction. A garden, she thought, seemed a good idea.

She turned back as the housekeeper began herding the staff round to the rear of the house, and saw that another figure was approaching the house on the rough track which led to the farm buildings. It was a young man, walking quickly, a lean young man in dark trousers and a white, wide-sleeved shirt. He was hastily pulling on a jacket as he strode towards them, a brown pointer
bitch at his heels, and he pushed open the side gate, entering the curtilage of Muirlan House, and let it clang behind him.

The factor turned at the sound and frowned, censuring the latecomer. Theo also turned, and he broke off abruptly in midsentence to stare at the young man. Then he swung back to the factor in startled enquiry.

“Aye. Cameron's come back, sir. About a week ago.”

The young man gave a curt order and the dog dropped to the gravel, panting slightly, and Beatrice saw that he was quite openly, almost brazenly, inspecting her as he approached.

And Theo stood, very still, and watched him come.

The newcomer switched his attention to Theo, gave a slight bow, and held out his hand. “Welcome home, sir.”

Theo looked down at the hand, then took it. “Welcome home yourself, Cameron.” He spoke slowly, almost carefully. “I hadn't heard—” His eyes seemed to explore the young man's face before he turned to Beatrice. “This is Cameron, my dear. Mr. Forbes's elder son. Returned from Canada, it would appear.” The young man gave another small bow. “And this, Cameron, is my wife.”

2010, Hetty

Ruairidh Forbes offered Hetty a lift back to her cottage, hastily brushing sand from the seat of the Saab and tossing an oilskin into the back, while he apologised again that her first encounter with the island had been so unpromising. “A very poor welcome for you,” he repeated, glancing across at her from the driving seat.

“It's a shock.”

A shock. The word came nowhere close. She found she was gripping the door handle and so released it, flexing her fingers, and made an effort to smile. “And for you too, I imagine.”

“Aye. Incredible.”

From the car she watched James Cameron pushing the wheelbarrow back down the slope towards the other house and outbuildings. Were those shutters at the window? “Does someone still live there?” she asked.

Ruairidh followed her gaze. “Not now. The farmhouse belongs to my grandfather, together with the outbuildings. He was born in the house and he'd live there still if my grandmother hadn't put her foot down.” He laughed suddenly, and she decided that he was a nice man. As they drove across the strand, he told her more: the farmhouse had been the laird's house long before Muirlan House was built, and his family had served as estate factors for three generations until the big house was closed up. “I farm the land myself now, and use the outbuildings,” he said, “which is probably why I hold the keys for Muirlan House. Old habits die hard.”

By then they had reached the opposite shore and rejoined the road which skirted the bay, and he pulled up on the rough ground outside her cottage. “You've had a poor start, Miss Deveraux,” he said, “but will you come and eat with us tonight? You'd be very welcome.”

“I'd love to.” She smiled back at him. “If you'll call me Hetty.”

“Aye, Hetty, then I will.” He drove off with a wave, promising to come and collect her later that evening.

She watched him go, then sighed and put her shoulder to the cottage door. After a couple of good shoves, it opened, and she was greeted by the musty smell of damp and soot which seemed to characterise the place. It had advertised itself as having fine views across the strand, which was why she had chosen it, but it was decidedly bleak. The kitchen floor was sticky, the lino in the bathroom glacial, and nothing was quite clean. She forced the door shut again and then stood a moment, staring across the room at last year's faded calendar.
Highland Games. Antigonish, Nova Scotia.
Swirling kilts and skirling pipes. A fantasy Scotland.

She put the kettle on and half an hour later sat with her hands clasped around a mug of tea, her legs tucked beneath her, staring into the empty hearth and taking stock.
A very poor welcome
, Ruairidh Forbes had said, and the image of the cracked skull rose before her, the empty eye socket reproachful and forlorn. And so, in this place where she had sought refuge, she now confronted another violent death— And who, if anyone, had mourned that loss?

Suddenly it hit her again, that storm surge of grief, the yawning gap, a sense of being adrift that had stalked her ever since her parents' death. An accident, yes, but sudden and violent, and even now, three years later, the thought of it could still overpower her.

Loss, was what people called it.

Such a little word.

But with enough potency to blow a hole right through her as it
had done that day when she had answered an early morning phone call. A failed take-off, and then a crash, just beyond the runway. It had been weeks before the raw shock had begun to fade into grief, and even as grief numbed into acceptance, the void remained. Then her grandmother's death two months ago had finished the job which dementia had begun years earlier, and she had found herself quite alone.

Sometimes she felt that she'd been sleepwalking ever since.

She went over to the window and looked out across the strand. The sky was overcast and the scene before her colourless. Coming here, without Giles, was the first real initiative she had taken in three years. The planned restoration work would give her a focus, she had told herself; it would mark a new beginning. But now this! She watched two sheep pass in front of the window, then stop to crop the grass on the little headland.

The bones didn't actually
change
anything, of course, and were a matter for the police. Ruairidh Forbes seemed to think that the crime was an old one, but even so . . . And coming so soon after seeing the appalling state of the house, it felt as if her new start was over before it had begun.

She turned away from the window. Perhaps a fire would lift her spirits, if she could get the wretched thing to light. Last night the unfamiliar peat had defeated her. But it was worth another go, so she knelt at the hearth and began assembling paper and kindling, thinking that no one had explained to her how it was that James Cameron had been digging into the foundations in the first place. She'd have to ask. And she imagined the guffaws there'd be at the bar if he chose to describe the ludicrous picture of her climbing through the window, tearing her jeans as she was ordered out of her own property. It had evidently amused him at the time— Perhaps she'd ask Ruairidh Forbes instead. She'd warmed to him, a kindly man in this strange new world.

She watched the flicker of a flame come to life in the hearth, and remembered that surge of optimism she had felt the day before, when she had felt the
rightness
of coming here. For a while, as the hills of Skye faded over the churning wake of the ferry, she had been left in a sort of limbo where all around her the margins of sky, sea, and land had merged into a blue-grey wash, masked by clouds. But as they drew closer, the sun had backlit the clouds with a mother-of-pearl sheen and slowly burned through the veil, revealing the low contours of islands in a glorious welcome.