The House Between Tides by Sarah Maine

apologised. “I’m probably trespassing.”
    â€œYep,” he agreed, “so you’d better come in and account for yourself”—he gestured open-handed round the side of the house,and there was the Land Rover parked in the shadow of the far wall. How had she not seen it?—“and have a cup of tea.”
    She could hardly refuse. Was he the boat owner too? And the lobster pots? She followed him round the side of the house, wondering where on earth Emma had found him. Was he even qualified to have a view on restoring Muirlan House?
    She stopped at the door of the cottage and looked inside, and felt at once that her question had been answered. The interior was stunning—the ground floor had been knocked through and opened up, and a new wooden staircase now separated a cooking and eating area from what had been the small parlour. Original features, including the kitchen range and parlour fireplace, had been carefully restored, and the narrow wooden panelling on the walls was freshly painted and expertly lit. A clever blend of the old and new, practical and minimalist, yet striking, and what he had done had taken skill, and taste.
    He offered her tea. “Or coffee?”
    â€œTea, please,” she said, just as the phone rang.
    â€œHalf a mo, but I need to get this.” He gestured her into the living area and, juggling a diary and a pen, the phone clamped under his chin, he began to discuss ferries and delivery dates.
    She continued her assessment of the cottage, now intrigued by the man. The walls were covered with photographs, arranged at all heights, large frames and small, a mixture of nineteenth-century sepia prints and more recent modern landscapes, many monochrome and of very high quality. And she recognised views of the island, of the strand, and of Muirlan House itself, taken from where she had stood a moment earlier. “Your work?” she asked, when his call was finished, and he came across carrying two mugs, placing hers in the hearth where a peat fire smouldered in a bed of ash. “They’re very good.”
    â€œYou can’t go wrong up here. With this light.” She continuedto move round the room, studying the pictures. Landscapes and seascapes, sunsets and storm clouds, all cleverly captured and sympathetically framed.
    And then she came to two small pencil sketches tucked into an alcove. One depicted a young girl lying on her back in the sand, dark hair spread fan-like, mingling with the seaweed, one arm stretched voluptuously above her head, apparently asleep—but she wasn’t. A little smile played around her parted lips, and beneath half-closed lids one imagined her eyes were dancing. The pencil had stroked the swell of her breasts beneath a light blouse, and her skirts were rumpled, offering a shadowed glimpse of a dimpled knee. In the other, the same girl was standing on the edge of the dunes with her clothes framing her form as she leant into the force of the wind.
    â€œThese are brilliant . . . ”
    He came and stood behind her. “Aye. But the talent’s in your genes, not mine.” She looked round at him, then took his meaning and turned back, peering closer, searching in vain for a signature. “Others in the sketch-book were signed,” he added.
    â€œOthers?”
    He went over to a small desk in the corner and came back with a worn sketch-book, which he handed to her. Reverently she turned the pages, seeing half-finished sketches, studies, exercises in tone and shading and, on one page, several attempts to produce a flourishing signature: Theodore Blake , and on another, a date: 1889.
    â€œThey came out of this?” She looked up at James in astonishment, and he nodded. “But . . . but should you have taken them out? This must be worth a fortune.” He shrugged, his eyes unreadable. “Where did it come from?”
    â€œIt’d been kicking around the old farmhouse for