by Sarah Maine
“We’ll know soon enough,” he replied, and they studied the photograph a moment, then he moved on, scrolling through similar shots before stopping again at one of a group of three men and two women, all well-dressed and stylish, posed outside the front entrance. The Blake family, Muirlan House 1910. This was a better image of Theo Blake, and Hetty leant forward. The painter had a lean face, handsome, if somewhat austere, with slightly hooded, intense eyes, and he exuded self-confident authority. His wife stood beside him and, as in the other photograph, she had a delicate quality about her, somehow belied by her enigmatic smile.
James pointed to the other figures. “Kit and Emily Blake, Blake’s younger half-brother and sister.” He glanced at her. “She’s your—what is it—great-grandmother?” He zoomed in on her face and leant forward. “Hmm. Same smile.”
“As whose?”
“Yours.” That was unexpected, but he gave her no time to respond. “And judging by the proprietary stance of the man beside her, that’s her first husband. Armstrong was her second, according to Aonghas.” A tall, distinguished-looking man stood beside Emily Blake, while a younger, slighter man languished against the wheel of the pony trap.
“What happened to him?”
“Don’t know.”
Emily. Hetty studied her great-grandmother, and greeted her silently. After all, it was Emily who had brought her here, pulling gently on that thread woven through the generations, and validating her right to be here. The photograph showed a trim young lady of about her own age dressed in a fashionable travelling coat and a matching long, narrow skirt. She was leaning slightly against the tall man, smiling directly at the camera, and Hetty found herself smiling back, touched and encouraged, as if the smile had been meant especially for her. Same smile. “How strange it is.”
James glanced at her, saying nothing, but after a moment he moved on through the next few frames, stopping at an image of three men taken on the track just in front of the stone gateposts. One had a sporting gun, and another, now identifiable as John Forbes, carried a number of wildfowl. The factor and his sons, the caption read, and James pointed to the bigger and broader of the young men. “That’s Donald Forbes, old Aonghas’s father.” He looked as if he was in his late teens or early twenties, and stared stolidly at the camera in a slightly self-conscious way. “And that’s his older brother, Cameron.” This young man was as tall as his father and brother, but of a leaner build, and he stood, his feet slightly apart, with his head thrown back. An arresting figure. His hands were thrust deep into his pockets with his long jacket swept behind him, his gun resting on the crook of one arm, his stance somehow challenging. “My own forebear.” As he zoomed in closer, the image became a little grainy, but she could see that Cameron Forbes had very dark hair and strong regular features, but it was his eyes which held attention. They stared steadily at the photographer with no hint of the self-consciousness of his brother.
“He’s a fine-looking man,” said Hetty, and she glanced at James. Self-assurance seemed to have been passed down the generations. Same eyes. But she wouldn’t flatter him by saying so.
He drew her attention to the next image, which showed the angle where the conservatory was to be built. “This is the one I came to see. There’s no sign of any building there, and if you look at this”—he pointed to a rake and wheelbarrow in a far corner of the garden—“and then go back to that”—the rake and wheelbarrow were in the same spot in the picture of the assembled family—“they must have been taken at the same time, and the date given is 1910.” He zoomed in on the ground surface. “See how uneven it is? Rocks poking through? That’s why they had to import sand to level it and get rid of the biggest of the boulders. It must have been a hell of a job digging them out and left them some pretty big holes to fill. And that one there”—he indicated a long rock, frost-cracked into several pieces—“is the very one. I’ll swear to it.” Hetty sat back, and the photograph brought into focus the grim reality of what had been discovered.
James glanced at her. “Had enough?” She nodded and he shut down the computer. “Cup of tea?” She nodded again, and they left, thanking the two women at the desk. Conversation broke off as they passed and then resumed in low, excited tones as James ushered her through the door, smiling slightly. “They’ve twigged who you are. The Blake heiress.” He looked her up and down, taking in her jeans and loose sweater. “But they expected something rather flashier.” He grinned at her, then gestured to a free table by the window and went up to the counter. She took a seat and watched him as he leant against the wall, chatting easily with the girls behind the counter and making them laugh. James Cameron was clearly well-liked here, but he was sending her mixed messages.
A local newssheet lay on the table and she picked it up, idly skimming the headline. Something about a fishing competition. Then, Reserve gathers forces to oppose hotel scheme. No! She rapidly surveyed the other customers, but no one was watching her, so she read on furtively. Attempts to get protected status for large parts of the west . . .
“Well, hello again!” She gave a start as a figure paused at her table, and she turned over the newssheet. “Been chasing any more ducklings?” It was the elderly North American from the causeway, and she relaxed.
“No, I—”
Then James was there with a laden tray, and the man looked up. “James! Great. I need to see you.”
But James had stopped in surprise. “You two know each other?”
The older man nodded his head. “We met over an act of mercy.” Then he seemed to catch the expression in James’s eye and glanced back at her, his eyes suddenly shrewd. But he smiled genially, nodding at the tray. “Mona’s shortcakes are a real treat. Enjoy,” he said and turned back to James. “If you’re home this evening, I’ll call by.” He gave a polite nod to Hetty and left.
“So you got wet”—James slid the tray onto the table as she watched the older man leave—“this morning.”
Irritation returned. “And you sat and watched me so you could say you’d told me so.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Actually, I was making sure you got back alright. That didn’t occur to you, I suppose?” In fact it hadn’t. “Those breeks have had a hammering, haven’t they, what with one thing or another.” He laughed as she covered the roughly sewn tear in her jeans with her hand. “Have you always been this stubborn?”
He was very direct. “I like to make my own decisions.”
“Even if you’re flying in the face of sound advice?” he asked, biting into a biscuit.
Stubborn? Was she? She reached for her tea, refusing to be drawn, and decided to match his directness. “So what brought you here? Looking at the photos.”
“I hoped you’d come along, and I’m bound to have an interest, aren’t I? Having unearthed the poor devil.” He dunked his biscuit in his tea. “Besides, I wanted to check my theory about that frost-fractured rock.” Pushing back his chair, he crossed his legs and chewed thoughtfully. “And if, as they show, that conservatory was built after 1910, and the Blakes left together in 1911, we narrow the time frame down to a few months.” He began running his finger around the rim of his cup, staring at the table. “And there were other things going on around that time—” He stopped, and then continued. “Remember the photograph of Cameron Forbes? Well, the story is that Theo Blake threw him off the island in 1911, and he left for Canada.” He picked up the teapot and refilled both their cups. “Never came back, as far as we know.”
“Do you know why?”
“No . . .”
His denial lacked conviction. “Are you thinking it might be him? That he never went?”
“Oh, he went alright. He sent back letters.”
“So?”
“After two letters, a year apart, nothing more was heard. He disappeared.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes. “Perhaps he came over with the Canadian forces and died in the trenches. An unknown soldier.”
“But why not keep in touch with his fa
mily? Tell them what he was doing?”
“A family quarrel?”
He shrugged. “Maybe.” Then he leant forward again, his elbows on the table, his eyes on hers. “Apart from those two letters there’s nothing except”—he hesitated—“except he left a child, a boy. My grandfather.” His eyes held hers. “John Forbes brought him to the island a few years later, from God knows where.” A noisy group of walkers entered the café and settled at the tables around them, shattering the moment. “No one knows the whole story, but I’d like very much to know why he quarrelled with Blake.” He lifted his cup and looked at her over the rim. “Finding a body under the floor-boards cranks things up a notch or two, wouldn’t you say?” Then he glanced at his watch, swallowing the last of his tea, and his expression changed. “So you’re pressing on with the hotel scheme, are you?”
She made a play of getting her purse out, scrabbling in her bag on the floor. “It’s very early days, and I think there’s more behind your opinion than the state of the house.” She gestured to the newssheet. “And apparently other—” She broke off as he reached across the table and gripped her wrist. Astonished, she protested, pulling away, but he held on, his eyes sharp and direct.
“Whatever you imagine I feel personally about this scheme, it doesn’t affect my professional judgement. Restoring Muirlan House would cost you a fortune, far more than you can begin to imagine.”
“Let go,” she hissed. They were attracting attention.
“You’ll get more than wet feet, I can promise you. It’ll ruin you.” He released her as abruptly and stood up, waving aside the money she had got out. “You discuss it with your agents, Miss Deveraux, but take care, and don’t let them sink you. They might find you the capital you need, but big money brings big problems.” He dug his hand into his pocket and laid the keys to Muirlan House on top of the newssheet in front of her. “Stay in control.” And with a curt nod, he walked away.
Chapter 17
1910, Beatrice
“That’s a fine bitch, that pointer of yours.” Robert Campbell, the hard-faced shipowner from Leith, had been watching Bess as she tracked an appealing scent. “Will you sell her? I’ll give you a fair price.” Beatrice heard Cameron quietly refuse, and the man gave him a truculent look. “Blake said you wouldn’t, but why do you need a first-rate gun dog? A collie would be more useful, surely. Like your father’s.”
Theo’s guests had been with them for three days now, and an expedition to a seal colony on an off-shore island had been planned for their entertainment. Cameron was striving to assemble the party, watched by an increasingly impatient Theo.
“Mrs. Blake, you may wish to think again.” Indifferent to Campbell’s scowl, Cameron had crossed the drive and spoke to her in low tones. “We are running late, and given the tides, we’ll have to move fast. You may find it tiring—”
“You mean I won’t be able to keep up?” She had hardly seen Cameron these last few days while she wrestled with her suspicions. Even Bess, she had learned recently, had been a gift from Theo.
“—And I’m not sure about the weather, there’s rain on the wind.”
“Thank you, Cameron, but I need a day in the fresh air.” She had been watching the antics of one of the ladies, who was further delaying the party, and was desperate to escape. Cameron followed her gaze, met her eyes briefly, and nodded.
It had been clear from the outset that the guests would challenge her talents as chatelaine, and the whole household had found common cause in dealing with their demands. After displaying astonishment at the outlandish position of the house, the ladies had confided to her that they had had enough of trailing after husbands and longed only to stay at the house and rest. Pottering down to the foreshore was as much as they could manage before returning fatigued to demand tea or hot water for baths, taxing even Mrs. Henderson’s equanimity. Theo had been away with the gentlemen each day, leaving Beatrice to bear the company of their wives, and she could take no more. To her relief, they had rejected the idea of joining today’s party but expressed themselves content to be left to their own devices if Beatrice wished to go.
“Hey, Forbes!” Cameron turned, blank-faced, to Ernest Baird, who had appeared on the doorstep, a pear-shaped figure in sporting tweeds. “What became of m’ stick?”
“Think about it, lad.” Campbell tapped a finger on Cameron’s chest as he passed. “She’s wasted up here.”
“You’ll have to find it,” persisted Baird. “I’ll get nowhere without it. Quick now, man! Mustn’t hold things up.” His tone was peremptory, and Beatrice saw the muscles in Theo’s face tighten as Cameron disappeared back into the house.
Eventually they were ready, and Theo led them off at a cracking pace, Cameron striding out beside him, the others falling in behind. The earlier brightness had already faded, and the air had turned heavy and humid. Baird, red-faced and panting, threw Beatrice a grateful look as she slowed her pace to walk beside him, but after a couple of miles he sank down on a collapsed wall, mopping his brow, and clutched her arm. “It’s no good, m’ dear, I need a rest. Ten minutes surely ain’t going to make a difference.” She called out to Theo, and the others came back, glad of an excuse to stop. “I need to catch m’ wind, Blake.”
Ominous signs appeared again on Theo’s face, but Beatrice saw Cameron draw him aside. He listened, scowling, glancing up at the sky and then over towards her; eventually he nodded and clasped a hand to Cameron’s shoulder. Turning back to the guests, he announced that Cameron would return to the house, and that he and Donald would collect the party later by boat. “That way we’re not at the mercy of the tides and can slow the pace.”
“Thank God! We’re not all as fit as you, Blake,” Baird cheered, and there were grunts of agreement. “And, Forbes, get that little sister of yours to give you a couple of hip flasks to bring back with you.” He dropped his voice to a stage whisper. “Or she can bring them herself if she likes, even if it means a bit of a squeeze in the boat.” He opened and closed his palm suggestively, nudging his neighbour.
Beatrice looked anxiously at Cameron, but Theo had moved between them. “I think you’d better return with Cameron, my dear. The weather may play us false, and I think you’ll struggle.” His tone gave little room for dissent, but she was content to go, finding the gentlemen as trying as their wives.
There was a dangerous brightness in Cameron’s eye as they passed Baird, still mopping his brow, and began to retrace their steps. “Will it take long to row back there, Cameron?” she ventured, glancing at his stony profile. “It’s quite a distance.”
“We frequently row further.”
They walked in a constrained silence for another quarter mile before she tried again. “It’s getting blacker by the minute.”
“Aye, the gentlemen will get a wetting.”
She turned aside to hide a smile at his tone, and they walked on, some few yards apart. The party had had the wind at their backs on the way out, but now the two of them confronted its growing force head-on, and it was not long before Beatrice felt the sting of rain on her face. Cameron halted and looked up at the sky. “We’d better find shelter,” he said.
There was a small group of houses just ahead of them, and he led her towards one that was set back from the track. Black hens scattered as they crossed the cobbles, and Cameron called out a greeting. Almost immediately, a small, wrinkled woman emerged from the house to stare at Beatrice as she murmured anxiously, twisting her hands in a dirty apron. Cameron laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder and ushered Beatrice inside just as the first blast of slanting rain reached them.
The doorway was so low that she had to stoop to enter, and as she straightened she found herself entering an unfamiliar world—a world of earthy smells where acrid smoke hung like a low mist, and she stifled the urge to cough. The woman touched her arm, gesturing shyly to a low wooden chair beside the central hearth. “An gabh sibh strùpag a’ bhean-uasail?” Beatrice looked at Cameron.
“Mrs. McLeod i
s offering you refreshment.” He sat down on a rough bench against the wall and added quietly, “Milk, perhaps. Tea’s expensive.”
“Milk would be lovely.” Cameron translated, and Beatrice was rewarded by a gap-toothed smile as the woman shuffled away.
Gradually her eyes adjusted to the gloom, and she saw that a shabby box bed with limp curtains occupied much of the space in the room, with a wooden chest at its foot. A dirty rag rug was pressed into the floor’s uneven contours beside the bed, and a small dresser on rotting legs leant at an angle against the wall. There was not a shred of comfort: the fire, set about with cobbles, smouldered in a circle of white ash, and above it hung an iron pot, steam from its contents mingling with the peat smoke. But the smell of cooking was overlain by a musty dampness and a strong animal aroma, which caught at her nostrils. How could the poor woman live like this? The dwelling was little more than a barn, the only daylight coming from the doorway and a small window set into the thickness of the bare wall. Underneath the window was an old spinning wheel beside a broken creel of wool where a ginger cat lay suckling a ginger kitten. The black hens had retreated indoors and now pecked at the threshold. She looked beyond, but there was only darkness.
“That’s where the cow spends the winter.” Cameron sat with his head thrown back against the bare stone wall, watching her from under half-closed lids. “Mrs. McLeod is the poorest of your tenants, and the cow’s her livelihood.” There was an edge to his voice, but before Beatrice could respond the old lady returned, panting quietly, carrying a cup of milk and a plate bearing a flat scone, which she offered to Beatrice. “Take it or you’ll give offence,” said Cameron quietly, as she hesitated.
She ate in silence, uncomfortable under the scrutiny of the old woman, smiling tightly at her, and was relieved when Cameron leant forward, his forearms on his knees, and addressed her. “An cuala sibh bho Samaidh bho chionn ghoirid?” The woman’s eyes sparkled and she rose to retrieve a well-thumbed photograph from amongst the chipped crockery. “Tha e a’ coimhead math.” He smiled, taking it before passing it on to Beatrice. “This is her son. He went out to Cape Breton Island last year to find work in the coal mines. He sends money home.” Beatrice took it, unsure how to respond, and smiled at the woman. She beamed back and addressed a question to Beatrice. “She asks if her granddaughter is giving satisfaction.” Cameron gave a dry look to her blank expression. “Marie. She’s working in your kitchens while you have guests.”
