by Sarah Maine
Beatrice barely recognised the girls who worked at the back of the house and was only vaguely aware that there were more of them since the guests arrived, but she answered quickly. “Oh yes, she’s a very good girl.” Another smile spread across the woman’s wrinkled face when this was translated, but Beatrice’s eyes fell before Cameron’s sceptical look. She bit her lip and watched as he went over to the doorway, looking out at the sky.
“It’s clearing,” he said, turning back. “We should go before the next downpour.”
She rose, relieved to be going. The impoverished house and this new, hard-faced Cameron were both deeply unsettling. “I’ve no money to offer her—” she murmured, holding out her hand to the woman.
“Good thing. It would offend,” he said, and clasped the old lady’s hand with both of his, thanking her. “Dia leibh agus taing dhuibh.” They took their leave, and when Beatrice looked back the old woman still stood in the doorway, a pathetic figure in a shapeless black dress clasping a shawl around her thin frame, the ginger cat winding itself around her legs. The poorest of your tenants, Cameron had said, and she was living like an animal little more than a mile from her door.
They rejoined the main track, leaving the collection of houses behind them, and after a moment Beatrice broke the deepening silence. “Do all the tenants live in such conditions?”
“Three or four families struggle. Others do better.”
There was still rain in the biting wind. “How does she make a living?”
“She barely does.”
Beatrice began to resent this treatment. “Explain to me, if you please. I should like to understand.”
He flicked a glance at her. “What shall I tell you, madam? Mrs. McLeod’s life story or how such people put food on the table?” She pulled her jacket around her more closely. Muirlan House had disappeared into the mist and the rough track was now her only guide. “Makes little difference anyway, Euphemia McLeod’s story or a hundred others.” He kicked aside a loose stone and fell into step beside her, but his closeness was not companionable. “She’s poor because her man and her two other sons are dead. They’re dead because their fishing boat was lost in a storm. They had to fish because the croft was too small to support them, they’d have gone hungry otherwise.” Under this assault, Beatrice began to regret her persistence. Too late. “The family had better land once,” he continued, “but were evicted when the land was cleared to build Muirlan House. She’d just wed and had a bairn.” He stopped abruptly, then added, “Five houses were demolished then, but hers still stands. It’s where your husband skins his birds.”
Beatrice was mortified. They walked on in silence, but after a few paces, Cameron turned to her again. “You asked me once about Anndra MacPhail, madam, after the burial. Well, he was evicted at the same time, and while the McLeods went quietly, Anndra MacPhail didn’t. He was dragged from his house, fists flailing, curses flying, and it took four men to hold him down while they fired the roof. And his wife and children could only stand by and watch it burn.” Beatrice listened, appalled and exposed. “And when he threatened to burn the roof off Muirlan House in return, he was thrown in prison and only released when he’d undertaken never to set foot on the island again.” Three hooded crows rose suddenly in front of them, and Cameron’s eyes followed their flight before turning back to her. “So what you saw that day was Anndra MacPhail reclaiming six foot of island land for his own, forever.”
Clouds rolled across the island, low and heavy, and they tramped on in silence.
Beatrice was deeply shocked but felt she couldn’t leave matters there. “Things are different now, though, and the remaining tenants are treated well.” Although if this was so, how could there still be such poverty? Cameron said nothing, and his silence was a further rebuke. “I said my husband is a good landlord,” she repeated, demanding a response.
“He could do more, madam. If he chose to.”
They stopped walking, confronting each other, oblivious to the driving rain. “How?”
Cameron met her glare evenly, as if calculating how far he could go. “People need land, Mrs. Blake,” he replied, wiping the rain from his forehead. “It’s as simple as that. And those who were evicted are owed it. Their descendants want to return, they feel bound to the land. It’s all they have.” Now the fragments of heated conversation in the study, the tension at the kelp gathering began to make sense. Was it this which lay at the heart of the discord between Cameron and Theo? And only this? “A landless man like Duncan MacPhail wants to get his family out of the slums of Glasgow, to return here like his brother did, and have a croft of his own. Others too. But your husband won’t have it.” He shook his head vigorously and began walking again, forcing her to follow. “For him the island is just a backdrop for his paintings and a source of specimen for his catalogue. Nothing more. The rent’s of no consequence.” He looked back across the fields to more roofless houses by the shore. “But it could serve his needs and provide a livelihood for these families. Yet he chooses instead to entertain the likes of your present guests.” He did not trouble to conceal his contempt.
He had gone too far, much too far. She ought to rebuke him, adopt the haughty tone her mother used to address servants, and remind him of his position. And she should tell Theo— But the sour odour of Mrs. McLeod’s poverty clung to her.
Then understanding came and she stopped abruptly. “You took me there on purpose.”
Cameron stopped too, then shrugged and continued walking. “We needed shelter, madam.”
“We did,” she conceded, not moving and forcing him to halt. “But you chose the poorest house.”
“It was close by, madam.”
“There were others closer.” He said nothing. “You took me there to make a point, to shame me.” She felt angry but confused, uncertain where to direct her anger. “And you call me madam in that contemptuous tone to add a barb to that point.” He looked taken aback, arrested by her vehemence, then walked on, making no further reply, leaving her behind, and after a moment she followed him, humiliated and shaken. It felt as if Bess had suddenly turned on her, baring wolf’s teeth.
By the time they reached the house, the rain was falling steadily and she was still considering her response. She dared not admonish him, yet surely matters could not be left as they were. But he pre-empted her. “Excuse me, madam. I must find Donald and see about the boat,” he said and disappeared around the back of the house.
She crossed the hall and slowly mounted the curving stairs, thankful for Mrs. Henderson’s news that the ladies had taken to their rooms. And as she trailed her hand up the banister, she had an image of the smoke trickling through a hole in the thatched roof, the sooty rain which fell from thinning patches, and she stopped to look out of the round window back towards the croft houses. It was shaming, there could be no question. But what of Cameron’s recklessness? Had he assumed that she would not carry tales to Theo? Or did he consider himself immune to reprimand?
Chapter 18
1910, Beatrice
“Beatrice, darling, is it the damp which puts the piano out of tune? I could have played for us otherwise.” Each scale produced a new discordant note, and Gertrude Campbell winced theatrically as she played.
There was more out of tune here than the piano, Beatrice thought, as she returned a bright smile. “That would have been delightful. Theo has sent word to a piano tuner on Skye, and we expect him any day.”
“Good heavens! All that way . . .”
Ernest yawned and suggested cards, but no one responded. As their visit drew to a close, the guests were finding island entertainment thin, and Beatrice dug her nails into her palm, willing the woman to close the piano lid, wondering resentfully when Theo would reappear. He had withdrawn to the study, his temper decidedly frayed, abandoning the guests to her. She looked out of the window again and prayed the weather would clear.
After lunch it did, and Theo, with John Forbes and Cameron in attendance, took the gentlemen out
with their guns, while the ladies withdrew to their rooms, leaving Beatrice to spend a restless afternoon in the morning room, trying to reply to a letter from Emily. Do come! We’re by no means swamped with guests. Theo will be busy with his book again when they’re gone, and I long to see you. Last night she had watched the guests at dinner and seen them as Cameron might have done, overdressed and idle, and the rich food had soured as her thoughts returned to the toothless old woman offering her simple hospitality on a cracked plate. Following dinner, she had summoned Mrs. Henderson and asked her to send an appropriate gift by way of thanks. “And can we not find work for Marie, even when the guests have gone?”
“There’s always work, madam.”
“And if there are others who are in need, you must tell me,” she said, and the housekeeper had nodded in approval. She picked up her pen again. I confess our current guests are tiresome, and seem no more content to be here than we are to entertain them. And there’s so much I want to ask you . . . But what could she possibly ask of her husband’s sister? She sat looking out of the window, the pen idle in her hand, watching the gulls hanging in the air.
Later, the shooting party returned with their quarry, noisy and triumphant, and she went with the ladies out onto the drive to meet them. Cameron was just outside the front door when she stepped out, and he looked up quickly, but she ignored him and went to stand beside the others as they admired the hunters’ bag.
“Oh, those colours! Such iridescence.” Gertrude’s toe gestured to the blue-green neck of a fallen mallard laid out on the gravel. “But they seem to fade so once they’re on a hat.”
Beatrice felt her legs nudged aside as Bess asserted herself in between the ladies, sniffing at the dead birds. A low whistle brought her back to heel, and Beatrice realised that Cameron was standing just behind her.
“. . . try sulphur fumes to brighten them.”
“But the smell!”
“Mrs. Blake, I owe you an apology.” Cameron spoke quietly, and she half turned her head to hear him. “I shouldn’t have spoken as I did.”
“No.”
“. . . the silly girl ruined it. I said a light lather . . .”
“I wanted you to understand. It’s important that you do.” Cameron pulled Bess back as she strained forward again.
“Understand?” She took a step back, away from the others.
“The realities behind all this.”
No one appeared to be paying them any attention. “So you did intend to shame me?”
“Yes. It was unpardonable.” He gave her a twisted smile as he bent again to Bess and spoke more loudly. “It’s a cleg, I think, madam. That or a burr. She won’t leave it alone.”
Diana Baird had moved to stand beside Beatrice and pointed to a delicate bird with striking plumage that lay beside the mallard. “Now consider that for a dash of colour in a hatband, Beatrice. Rust and grey, just the thing for autumn. Who is this smart fellow, Cameron?”
“A phalarope, madam,” Cameron replied evenly, looking down at it. “But that’s the female, not the male. They were building a nest by the loch.” Beatrice remembered Theo’s pleasure when Cameron had told him about the nest, and looked up quickly. Cameron responded with a slight shrug.
“Gaudy colours for a female, surely?” remarked Ernest Baird, who had strolled over to join them. “For a female bird, that is, not a woman. Lord, no!” His wife gave him an admonishing rap on the arm, and Beatrice let her eyes follow a butterfly which landed on a patch of yellow vetch at the side of the drive.
“From what I hear from Mrs. Henderson, you’ve been very generous,” Cameron murmured, as the guests continued their raillery. “So now I’m the one shamed for venting my foul temper.”
The visitors broke into general laughter as Baird continued to tease his wife: “. . . a peacock not a peahen, my dear.”
“You had been provoked, I think.”
Theo was standing a little way apart, talking to Charles Farquarson and the factor, but he now raised his head and caught Beatrice’s eye, signalling a move indoors. Cameron caught the look and bent to gather up the afternoon’s spoils, adding quietly, “And for all that he could do more, Mr. Blake is a better landlord than many. I’m sorry for what I said.”
Then Theo called out and beckoned him over. “We must think of something to entertain our visitors tomorrow, Cameron, if the weather’s fine. Your father’s joining us for dinner, so come too and we can discuss ideas.” And he put out an arm towards Beatrice, ushering her indoors.
Theo
Theo surveyed the dinner table that evening with wry amusement. Halfway down the table, John Forbes sat quietly in his tweeds listening to the gentlemen’s accounts of the afternoon’s exploits, exaggerated for the ladies’ benefit, looking like a man who expected to enjoy his dinner rather more than his company. Theo offered him a silent apology, but he had to include John if he was to invite Cameron, and he had wanted Cameron here tonight.
It had been an appalling trip back in the boat the previous evening—heavy seas and a treacherous wind made worse by the heavy rain. But Cameron had command of the situation, hauling on the tiller, shouting instructions to his brother, tightening ropes and shortening sail, and the gentlemen had responded meekly to his authority. Theo suppressed a smile, thinking that perhaps only he and Donald would have recognised that a slightly different point of sailing would have spared the gentlemen the worst of the drenching spray. But he did not begrudge Cameron his cool revenge, and inviting him tonight would, perhaps, belatedly signal to the guests that Cameron’s status was not that of a lackey they could order about and insult.
He looked across at Cameron now, his dark head bent towards Baird, politely attentive to some interminable tale, occasionally interjecting a remark, his lean outdoor face contrasting sharply with that of his florid neighbour. Entirely at his ease, Theo mused, playing with the stem of his wine glass. He had sent across a set of evening clothes for him, old-fashioned but of good quality, from a time when his own girth was somewhat less, and Cameron wore them with a casual indifference, appearing as much the gentleman as the others, despite the worn cuffs.
Theo signalled to one of the girls to replenish a butter dish and continued to watch Cameron as the young man nodded and smiled, exhibiting faultless manners, apparently unaware that he was attracting concupiscent looks from the ladies across the table. But Theo knew only too well how much Cameron despised his company. He’d seen the sudden shuttering of his face when he’d invited him to join them, giving him little choice but to accept—he could hardly plead another engagement.
He turned at a tap on his arm from Diana Baird beside him and gave her a semblance of attention. Cameron might not thank him for the invitation but perhaps would see it as a continuing benign interest in his affairs and set it against the abrasion of their escalating disagreements.
Mrs. Baird required only a fraction of Theo’s attention, and he let his mind wander back over the afternoon. He had only agreed to take the men out shooting following Beatrice’s entreaties that he find something for them to do, as he disapproved of pointless carnage. With the exception of Farquarson, they were hopeless shots anyway, and Farquarson at least had the decency to take only the plentiful mallards. He mused grimly that he had been well-served when Baird had managed to hit the phalarope, a personal favourite, and the look of contempt Cameron had flung him as the bird was picked off the water had compounded his regret.
Diana Baird finally despaired of engaging his attention and raised her voice to address Cameron. “We were talking of sea bathing, Cameron. Do you swim in the sea here?”
“Rarely, madam. It’s not for the faint-hearted.”
Mrs. Campbell’s eyes dwelt languidly on him as she leant across the table. “If the weather is fine tomorrow, we could take a picnic to the sea, and you could swim then, perhaps,” she drawled. “Your brother too. I’d like to see you two braving those great waves.” Theo looked dryly across at Cameron. “Could it be arranged, Beatrice, do
you think?” Diana asked her. “The gentlemen have neglected us dreadfully.”
Damn the woman. He saw Beatrice look across at him, searching for a reason to refuse, but it was Cameron who calmly squashed the idea. “My thanks, madam, but I have no wish to swim tomorrow, and I believe my father has work for me to do.” John Forbes agreed that that was so, and the two ladies exchanged coquettish pouts.
The conversation moved on. “I understand now why you come up here, Blake,” said Charles Farquarson. “One forgets all about Asquith, the horseplay in Parliament, and the confounded Kaiser. Most enjoyable.”
Robert Campbell lifted his glass in agreement, adding grimly, “Aye, and next week I’ll be back confronting the rabble on the docks.” Theo saw John Forbes send a warning look to Cameron. “There’re paid agitators behind the unrest, you know, it’s all orchestrated, the whole accursed business.” Campbell grumbled on in the same vein for some time, the others nodding and agreeing while Cameron regarded him steadily. “And half the ministers of the cloth are socialists these days, preaching dissent.” He signalled for his glass to be refilled, leaning forward, getting into his stride. “You’ve the same problem up here, of course, with the land raiders. Pure provocation.” Theo saw Beatrice glance sharply towards Cameron, and his face darkened. Had Cameron been entertaining her with his radical views, enlisting her support? That he would not countenance. “If they preached the glories of Nova Scotia instead of stirring up trouble,” Campbell was continuing, “I’d give ’em one of my ships and pack ’em off. And I gather the Reverend Nichol will be gracing these parts again, advocating civil disobedience. Tell them to clear the cells in readiness, Blake.” Campbell looked around for approval, heavy-jawed and belligerent, and took another swig of wine. “Or get the gunboats back up here, that’d dampen enthusiasm for revolution.” And Theo watched helplessly as Cameron laid his knife and fork together on his half-empty plate and slowly pushed his glass away, his eyes never leaving Campbell’s face. Damn him. Damn the pair of them!
