by Sarah Maine
Beatrice flushed. “It’s little enough that I do.”
“. . . and I have reason to believe she’s a suffragist too.” His expression was unfathomable.
“Oh, splendid, Beatrice!” Emily clapped her hands and Rupert groaned. “When you come to Edinburgh, we’ll go and join the marches. What fun!”
“Wife-beating remains fashionable in military circles, my love,” her future husband remarked, lowering his head to light another cigarette, then winding an arm about her as she leant back against him, smiling and unrepentant.
“Be warned. The Kaiser will give you less trouble than Emily, old man.” Kit got to his feet, brushing the sand from his clothes. “But you’ve only yourself to blame, of course, encouraging her wanton ways.” He grinned at his sister’s outraged face. “I’m off to join Donald,” he announced and sauntered up the beach, hands thrust into his pockets, whistling, while Rupert chuckled softly and Emily went pink with indignation.
“He’s drunk too much, as usual,” she said, appealing to Beatrice, who simply smiled in return, remembering the stealthy opening and closing of doors she had heard in the night, and soft footfalls across the landing.
“The perfect chaperone, is young Kit.” Rupert stood up, stretched, and then pulled Emily to her feet. “Come on, up with you. Do you mind if we leave you awhile, Beatrice, to soothe the outraged feelings?” He nodded to Cameron, and they set off up the beach, leaving Cameron and Beatrice alone.
The fire crackled, a spark shot out, and there was silence between them. Beatrice dug her toes into the sand, feeling exposed without the others, unsettled as when the boat had stalled between two waves, and occupied herself by making a circle of shells. A thin blue smoke rose from the embers and the shoreline shimmered.
The silence stretched out, and she covertly studied Cameron’s profile. He lay on his side, his head propped with his elbow, staring into the fire, tossing pebbles towards it and sending up little puffs of ash. His face was grave, pensive, as if still considering the debate. Small waves, ripples from turbulence far out at sea, broke on the shingle, and he lifted his head to watch them, a lock of dark hair falling over his brow. How little she really knew of what went on in his head. And yet— He turned to look at her, and she felt the need to break the silence.
“They’re well suited, I believe.”
“They are.”
“Emily will shake him up.”
“She’ll do him good.”
“And he’ll keep her enthusiasms in check.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and looked out to sea.
“He’ll try, anyway.” A pebble hit the fire. He sat up, cross-legged, and another silence fell.
“You were very outspoken,” said Beatrice after a moment.
“Did I cause offence?”
“You outraged the major.”
Another pebble bounced off a smouldering plank. “I don’t mind that, but I wouldn’t want to offend you again. I get carried away.”
“I know.” She looked at him, and after a moment he smiled, his old uncomplicated smile, and she began to feel comfortable again. “Besides, how could I take offence, when there’s truth in what you say?”
He stared into the fire. “As Beatrice, here and now, you can say that. Tonight, back at the house, Mrs. Blake has a different role to play.”
Her hand paused over her neat pattern of shells. A role? Cameron was too perceptive. Did he see that that was what it had become? Mistress of Muirlan House, contented wife. It was a role she played unsteadily in the face of Theo’s indifference. But indifference borne of what? She avoided Cameron’s eyes, swallowing hard, and swept her hand across her circle of shells, then began creating other, random patterns in the sand, her cheek resting on her knees. After a moment she leant back, supporting herself on straightened arms, feeling a languor creeping over her, and looked down the beach. “Perhaps,” she said, “I like being Beatrice better.”
He said nothing, and then: “Mrs. Blake is easy to deal with. But Beatrice? I think she’d be a different matter.” To deal with? What did he mean by that? But his head was turned away from her, and she was still considering her response when Rupert and Emily reappeared over the rocks.
Emily flung herself down next to Beatrice, pressing her shoulder companionably against her. “If it wasn’t so dreadfully cold I’d join Kit and Donald. I’d like to swim straight out into the sun as far as I could see. There’s something about the air up here, don’t you think? Gives you new energy and . . . fizz.” Beatrice laughed, relieved that they had returned.
“Try it in November.” Cameron sat up and began gathering further pebbles towards him, making a cache of them.
“Oh, I know. I haven’t forgotten. You will mock”—she frowned severely at Rupert—“but there is something magical up here. Don’t you think, Beatrice?”
Beatrice looked out over the sparkling water to where sky fused with ocean. “It’s the big skies and wide horizons.”
“And the sea—” Emily searched for her wine glass and found it empty. Rupert leant across her to refill it.
Cameron sat cross-legged, listening to them, unsmiling, still tossing his pebbles.
“Although it can feel quite intimidating,” continued Beatrice, trying to ignore him. “Like this morning in the boat, we were just a tiny speck at the mercy of the elements.” She wrapped her arms around her bent knees, pinning her light cotton skirt in place, and rocked gently, looking out at a seal playing in the waves just off-shore. “But there’s a sort of restlessness everywhere, and always the wind, shaking the grasses, birds endlessly circling. It’s never still! It gets inside you.” She felt Cameron’s eyes on her as he paused in his pebble throwing.
Rupert flicked a glance between them.
“It’s like being a castaway in one of Stevenson’s novels,” said Emily, and Cameron snorted, resuming his game. “It’s true, Cameron! Life is so much simpler here, there are no codes or conventions to offend. We’re governed only by the tides and the sun.” She shook out her hair in a gesture of abandon. “And if we want food, we just catch it and cook it on a driftwood fire, like Ben Gunn.”
Rupert laughed. “Washed down with a jolly fine hock that floated in on the tide.”
“I knew you’d mock, but you understand, don’t you, Beatrice?”
Beatrice smiled back, loving Emily for her folly. “Yes. I think I do.” But was it that which had brought Theo back here? No codes or conventions to offend. She watched the lacy edges of the waves as they crept up the beach, getting ever closer to the barrier of dead seaweed and broken shells which measured the high-water mark. The seal had vanished.
Emily was continuing with enthusiasm. “All that time we spend worrying about politics, wars, gossip, scandal, clothes, hats—”
Rupert strolled down to the rock pool where the beer and wine were keeping cool. “All that time.”
She called after him. “I really would like to spend the summers up here, Rupert. I think it would be very . . . very revitalising.” They heard him laugh as he bent to the pool, and then he returned, tossing a bottle of beer to Cameron and filling the glasses with wine.
He handed one to Beatrice. “And the reality, Beatrice? Do you find it revitalising?” He gave a slanting look at Cameron, who returned it levelly.
Beatrice sipped slowly. “Revitalising . . . is that the word?” For Theo, a place to shed pretence, perhaps. But for herself? Liberating, yes, but now, without structure, a bewildering vortex, spinning her certainties into disarray. She saw that Rupert was watching her, awaiting her answer. “Perhaps so. But whatever else, for today at least, Emily’s right—rules and conventions are irrelevant.” She took another sip and placed her glass carefully on a flat rock beside her. “Best ignored.”
“There, you see, Rupert. What do you say now, Cameron?”
Cameron had stretched out on his back, his hands locked behind his head, and was staring up at the clouds. He had rolled up his sleeves and trouser legs, exposing lean forearm
s and calves covered with dark hair. “Absolute rubbish. Both of you. Heads in the clouds—or in the sand. I’m not sure which.” He rolled over suddenly and jabbed a finger at Emily. “No rules, eh, Miss Emily Blake? Ask the islanders about that, if you will, and you’ll hear another story. Your sort just see estates like this as playgrounds for sport and idling, where you can behave as you like, ignoring how others live to support you.”
Beatrice looked back at him in dismay. Your sort. A personal swipe. And there was real anger behind the words. She sensed Rupert’s eyes on her again, incredulous this time. But how could she challenge Cameron? A reprimand might well be in order, but it was unthinkable; she willed him desperately to go no further.
Emily rallied. “Honestly, Cameron, you’re as bad as Rupert. Spoiling—”
“Spoiling the fun, am I?” He lay back on the sand again, his eyes following the glide of a fulmar. “This game of equality you wanted to play? Play-acting costs nothing, I suppose, but one day it’ll stop being a game. Not today, though, not yet.” He had closed his eyes again. “Today’s a midsummer mirage which will vanish at nightfall, won’t it, Mrs. Blake.” He rolled his head to look at Beatrice.
“Good God, the man’s an anarchist,” Rupert drawled, and Cameron gave a tight laugh, his hand patting the sand beside him until he found his beer bottle, and then drained it.
Emily frowned. “You’ve turned very savage, Cameron.” Then her expression became thoughtful. “Though I do understand something of what you say.” She began gathering Beatrice’s discarded shells, rearranging them in patterns. “Seeing Muirlan House again after all these years, it struck me as rather out of place, as if it got blown here by mistake from some leafy estate in the Borders. You know, elegant shooting parties, kedgeree, and tea on the lawn.” She put her head to one side, addressing Rupert. “Am I making sense?”
“Not a lot,” he admitted, “but you’ve finished off the wine.”
Cameron sat up abruptly and looked down the beach at the tide. “And we should pack up.”
“Come on, then, Girl Friday, let’s go and find the swimmers.” Rupert dusted the sand off himself and set off with Emily along the beach. Cameron began collecting the scattered remains of the picnic while Beatrice sat with her chin resting on her drawn-up knees, staring out to sea. Blown here by mistake. It was suddenly hard to breathe. Was that what had happened to her? And was the mistake hers or Theo’s? The day had been spoiled, and she felt an ache deep inside as she watched the seal dive, imagining its sleek body twisting below the surface in unfettered freedom, and tears scalded just behind her eyes.
“That time I did offend.” Cameron was watching her face as he packed the basket with empty bottles.
“Perhaps you intended to.” She looked away, blaming him for the spoilation.
“No.” He closed the lid. “My apologies, Mrs. Blake.”
“Mrs. Blake? Not Beatrice?”
He kicked at the fire, scattering the charred wood, and the white ash glowed briefly red. “Mrs. Blake,” he said firmly. “Beatrice is too . . . too dangerous.”
She turned back, shading her eyes with a hand. “Dangerous?”
He continued to kick sand over the smouldering embers, saying nothing. Then: “Beatrice claimed that rules were irrelevant. Just imagine where that sort of thinking would lead.” He stooped to pick up her forgotten glass, glancing up at her as he did. “You’re the anarchist, madam, not me.”
The sea had crept higher, and in just a little while the tide would turn, carrying this extraordinary day with it. She raised her hands to twist her hair back into some sort of order. “You should not have spoken as you did in front of the major,” she said sharply, pulling herself together. “He wondered why I let you continue in that manner.” Cameron raised an eyebrow. “You took advantage of an old friendship with Kit and Emily, and you wouldn’t have dared to say those things if Mr. Blake had been here.”
“He knows my views.”
Of course he did, only too well. “But he wouldn’t expect you to express them quite so freely in front of his guests.” She heard her own primness with disgust, and frowned at him. “And you didn’t attempt for a moment to understand what I was trying to say. Just dismissed it, as you did us all, with contempt. Your sort. Spoiled. Self-indulgent.” She stared out to sea, to where the seal now hung in the water, looking back at her. “But by coming here I was able to leave the stifling life I had in Edinburgh, to step outside it, like shedding an old skin which had grown too tight. While you”—she looked across at him, cool yet angry—“you see things only in terms of class, or politics, and then pour your scorn over us.” Dried sea-wrack at the edge of the fire crackled as a charred plank split and fell in two, filling the silence.
“I’m rebuked, madam.”
“And you call me madam in that sneering manner as you did once before.”
“So what should I call you?” He looked back at her, half mocking, half serious.
Something twisted inside her at his expression, and she felt suddenly reckless. “Beatrice. You allowed that the fantasy could last until nightfall.” She looked up at him, then quickly dropped her chin at his expression and began tracing the faded pattern of daisies on the knee of her skirt. Dangerous.
Donald and Kit appeared over the rocks, running to warm up, with Rupert and Emily not far behind, and Cameron called them over to help him with the boats. “Sharpish, if you will. The tide’s already turned.” He looked back at her once more and seemed about to speak, but kicked the fire again instead and strode down towards the boats.
And as he reached the edge of the beach, the seal reared back in the water, startled, and slid silently beneath the waves.
Chapter 24
1910, Beatrice
Two days later, Beatrice came downstairs for breakfast to hear a shout of laughter from Rupert in the dining room. “Straight over the side,” Kit was saying as she crossed the hall. “Head-first into six foot of icy black water. Shark bait.” She hated to think of them leaving, but in just two days they would be gone. “Then they half killed me getting me back on board. I’ll show you the bruises if you like.” The house would feel so empty, filled only by Theo’s silences, left prey to a creeping belief that something was fundamentally wrong.
“Utter madness,” Rupert was remarking as she entered the dining room, “and nothing to show for it.”
“Except pneumonia and chilblains.” Emily smiled as Beatrice pulled out a chair beside her. “Have you heard about this silly caper, Bea? Night fishing with Donald and Cameron.” Beatrice shook her head and half listened as Kit repeated his story. And prey now to another sort of danger; these past few nights she had slept badly.
“I’d have thought Cameron Forbes had more sense,” said Rupert, pushing the marmalade towards Beatrice.
“Cameron?” Kit scoffed. “Reckless to a fault.”
Was he? Beatrice had not seen him since the picnic. Theo had not recalled him to the study, so he had not come to the house, but she found she was looking out for him. Yet surely the danger he spoke of was just a frisson, a temptation to be resisted, spawned by a sunlit day, a fine wine, and a shimmering heat haze rising from the sand—and a look that had been held between them.
“Got to make the most of the last few days,” said Kit, attacking a pair of kippers with gusto. Various schemes were suggested until Emily proposed that they invite the whole Forbes family for a meal before their visit came to an end, and she shot off to put the plan to Theo before Beatrice could express her half-formed reservations. She returned triumphant.
“He said no at first but finally agreed as long as it was a midday meal. So I’ll fix it with Mrs. Henderson for Sunday, the day before we go? That’s alright, isn’t it, Bea?”
Despite Theo’s instructions that the meal be informal, Emily had taken matters into her own hands and insisted that the table be set as if for a party. “It’s hideous, I know, but we always used it,” she said, tweaking the yellow iris she had placed in an old-
fashioned silver epergne. “Goodness only knows when we will all be together again, so the occasion must be marked.”
Beatrice wondered anxiously what Rupert had told Theo of the day on the seal island as she checked the table settings. Cameron had overstepped the mark with careless bravado, and if Theo learned even half of it— She paused and straightened a serviette, acknowledging that another boundary had been approached that day, approached but retreated from, not crossed.
Theo ushered the guests into the dining room, and Cameron greeted her quietly before turning to study the elaborate arrangements. She saw him exchange a grimace with Kit and regretted again that Theo had given in to Emily’s entreaties. The sentiment was compounded as she watched Theo’s eyes following Cameron as he took his seat at the far side of the table; she felt her face flush and a prickle of heat in her armpits, and sent one of the girls to open a window.
The younger Blakes’ store of reminiscences, however, provided easy conversation. “Your thrashings were always worse than my father’s,” Kit remarked, glancing affectionately at the benign face of the factor. “And I’d have put up with a daily dose if it meant I could have stayed here. I loathed Edinburgh, school was purgatory, and I spent hours planning how I would run off and come back.” He grinned at Ephie. “It was the lure of your mother’s kitchen, you know. Food and warmth, the essentials of life. And she always made us welcome.”
At the end of the table, Theo signalled for more wine, cutting across Emily’s next remark. He had been silent during these reminiscences but now turned to Rupert. “I read the army could be put on standby. Will that affect your plans, Major?”
“I very much hope not.”
“Oh, Rupert, no! Not a war. Not now!”
“If there’s a strike, my love. The troops will have to make sure the country can keep functioning.”
