The House Between Tides Read Online Free PDF Page A

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.”

Chapter 4
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.
    â€œIt’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.”
    â€œAye. 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.”
    â€œI’d love to.” She smiled back at him. “If you’ll call me Hetty.”
    â€œAye, 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