The Horse Thief (35 page)

‘The letter also says I will offer surety.'

‘And I'm free to leave, with Jefferson?' He needed to get this sorted, and soon. He wasn't going to walk into one of Kilhampton's traps again. He cast a look through the open door half expecting to see the pair of black boots, like last time, waiting to cart him off to Maitland Gaol.

‘Except for the money you owe me and the fact I cannot offer surety if you're no longer on the premises.'

‘Money?' To hell with the surety. Why did he owe money? Had Kilhampton stood bail for him? No. The charges were dropped.

‘Yes. You owe me for the service Goodfellow provided that produced Jefferson, your horse. I will not sign a stud certificate unless you pay. You need it, if you still harbour a desire to race him or breed from him.'

With those words Kilhampton resurrected his dream of racing Jefferson and doused them as reality set in. ‘I have very little in the way of assets.' How much would Kilhampton demand? How could he hope to find the money? Who had put him up to it? There could only be one person, only one person he'd confided in—and it wasn't India.

‘Then I suppose you will simply have to work it out.'

‘Work it out?' That wouldn't be so bad. ‘Pay you in portions, you mean?' He could return to Munmurra or, better still, another stud. Find a job. If he worked long and hard it was feasible. Jefferson wouldn't race this year but maybe the next, maybe before he was too old. Archer was six when he won the Cup for the second time. Did he trust Kilhampton to honour his commitment?

He had no other option. ‘I'll pay you your money. You've got me over a barrel.' He couldn't throw the opportunity, however tenuous, away.

‘And where do you think you might gain employment?'

‘I'm not sure. I'll find something.'

‘Let me know if I can be of assistance.'

Offer him a reference? No chance of that. Jim narrowed his eyes and frowned, the split skin on his forehead stinging with the movement.

‘I shall speak with my new manager.'

New manager? A stud master? The job he'd once coveted. Before his foolish quest unearthed a past that reached down over the years and turned his life upside down, dictating his every move.

It pleased him no end to hear Kilhampton groan as he struggled to his feet. Maybe one of his punches had landed square. Shame he'd allowed his conscience to get the better of him.

Swallowing what little pride he had left Jim took the hand Kilhampton stuck out. ‘I will pay for the service. And I will enter Jefferson in the Melbourne Cup. Maybe not this year, but soon.'

‘Not you as well. What is this passion for the Melbourne Cup? India is besotted by it. Don't we have something in New South Wales that's just as good?'

‘Sadly, no. The race is gaining in popularity—there's talk of making Cup Day a public holiday. One day that race will stop the entire country, not just Melbourne.' The enthusiasm lifted his voice and his spirits. There was hope, a future. He would put the past behind him.

‘We'll see, we'll see.' And with that Kilhampton left.

Jim sat up and pushed back the quilt. It was time to cut his losses.

Thirty-Three

Concentrating hard India forced one foot in front of the other. Her hand rested on the dado rail along the wall and, as if blind, she used it to guide her through the house. The staircase loomed above her, an insurmountable barrier. She had to find Papa and discover why he and Jim had fought.

A draught from the front door fanned her face, and the first feeble rays of morning light shone pink against the pale walls. She moved closer and peered out at the sunrise. A new day, a new beginning, and she remained trapped in the past. Living a life dictated by events long gone. She rested her head against the cool panes of glass framing the door and inhaled the crisp air. She'd had such plans, so many hopes and dreams. Did she have the energy to fight for them any longer?

She needed to be outside, to walk with the horses, and let Helligen speak to her. For so long her guilt had driven her, given her purpose, and now there was no sense of relief, only a hollow emptiness.

She took the path to Oliver's grave. It began with him; maybe he could provide the solace she needed, show her the way. The sun breached the distant hills, dispersing the soft pink chill of the dawn.

It came as no surprise to find Mama sitting between the fig trees. She lifted her head and patted the seat beside her. ‘I like to watch the sunrise here. It's full of promise, a new day. How are you, my darling?'

A sigh bigger than India believed possible slipped from between her lips and her shoulders drooped. She moved closer and rested her back against the timber bench, clutching her shawl against the shivers of tiredness. ‘It's been a long night.'

‘It has. Anya tells me Jim will recover.'

‘Yes, he's awake now. I left him with Peggy. She's more concerned by the fact he hasn't eaten for a couple of days than his bruises. What about Papa?'

‘I've seen him in a worse state. He'll survive.' Mama sounded severe, as though Papa deserved his injuries.

‘Worse state?'

‘He promised me when we left Sydney he would put his dockside manners behind him, as befitted a man of his new standing. It seems his old habits still loiter below the surface. Jim's appearance and Goodfellow's return have resurrected old emotions, and with them his tendency to resort to fisticuffs.'

None of this sounded as dire as she expected. Where were the charges of assault, the threats? ‘I don't really know what happened between them. Jim is unwilling to discuss it. Only saying he must leave as soon as possible. Has Papa dropped the charges of theft, and what will happen about the fact Jim escaped from the gaol?'

‘I do know the charges have been dropped and your father has spoken in his favour and offered surety. I feel certain that the governor at Maitland Gaol will accept a small financial contribution to spread oil on any troubled waters and the matter of escape will be overlooked. Talk to your Papa later, after Peggy has dosed him with raw eggs and whatever other foul concoction she has up her sleeve to cure a surfeit of rum.'

‘Rum!'

Mama nodded. ‘A sailor's succour.' She rolled her eyes skywards painting a picture India could hardly imagine.

There were so many things she knew nothing of, so much she wanted to know. The good things and the bad, not masked by the shroud of darkness that had descended with Mama's accident and Oliver's death. ‘Did you love Papa when you married him?' Whatever made her ask that?

‘There has been no other man for me, from the time we were children. He has always taken care of me, and he has loved me with a passion that he sometimes cannot control.' A smile slid across Mama's face, lighting her eyes.

‘Then how, why did he leave you here, alone after …'

‘That was of my making. I sent him away. I'd failed him. After Oliver—'

‘I didn't mean to hurt him,' India interrupted. ‘I'm so sorry.' A large tear dropped onto the back of her hand. ‘None of this is Jim's fault, or his father's. None. It's mine. If I hadn't killed Oliver none of this would have happened. I destroyed this family. From the beginning it was all my fault.' Try as she might to explain, her words opened the floodgates and tears dripped from her eyes. They fell, great dark patches against the beautiful blue watered silk of her dress. Peggy would be furious.

Mama's cold fingers dug into the bones of her shoulders, hurting as she twisted her. ‘Look at me, India Kilhampton.'

She lifted her eyes, her vision blurred by her tears.

‘You did not hurt Oliver. You did nothing to him. It was a sad and horrible time, but none of it was of your making—or for that matter Thomas Cobb's.'

If only it were true.

‘Maybe if I hadn't tucked Oliver in so tight, if I'd picked him up. Maybe if I had—'

‘India, you were six years old. It was no-one's fault Oliver died. It was sad, heartbreaking and your father and I failed to deal with that heartbreak. It was not of your making. Is this where your notion of restoring Helligen comes from?'

She nodded her head, her secret revealed. ‘I just want everything to be as it was, before, before …' More tears splashed down. She scuffed them away, irritated by her weakness.

‘It's time for you to stop trying to be all things to everyone. Let the world spin. Sometimes we're thrown more than we can manage, and no single person can make amends. It's time you took a leaf out of your sister's book.'

Violet? Whatever would she want to do that for? ‘It is?' She sniffed, looking up.

‘Yes. It's time you were selfish and considered your own happiness.'

Her own happiness wasn't something she dwelt on very much, except she was positive it didn't lie with Cecil and a Sydney marriage. She belonged here.

‘Firstly, we'll dispense with the idiotic notion that you should marry Cecil Bryce. I have no idea where or how the matter ever became a topic of conversation. I suspect it was dreamt up by Violet. And your father, in the manner of men, made no objection.'

She sniffed again. ‘I already have.' In her concern for Jim she had all but forgotten her words to Cecil at the dinner table, and the look on Violet's face. ‘He said he was mortified.'

‘Oh dear!' Mama sighed.

‘But his affections lay elsewhere.'

‘Really. I wonder where.'

India had no doubt where. Violet had done an admirable job in the last few days and had cemented herself in Cecil's affections. It appeared he no longer caused her to shudder, more shiver with delight.

‘My poor darling. We need to find you someone who shares your interests, cares about the things you care about. Loves Helligen.' The corner of Mama's mouth twitched almost as though she was teasing. Perhaps it was her imagination? Her heart kicked up a beat or two and she pushed her shawl from her shoulders.

‘Do you think it would be difficult to find someone who'd fit that description?' Mama asked.

No, it wouldn't be difficult—she'd done that already. Keeping him was a different matter.

‘Jim, perhaps?'

By now her heart hammered so hard the blue silk of her dress rose and fell with each breath. Had she been so blatant? ‘How did you know?'

‘A mother's intuition, I suspect. An instinct I've buried for a long time. Shall we go and find some breakfast and send Peggy into the lion's den? She can tell us when she thinks it's safe to talk to your father.'

‘I'd like that. Jim says he must leave because he has caused enough trouble. I don't want him to go.'

‘I know, my darling. He won't leave, not without Jefferson and not before he has spoken to your father. Take yourself inside and I'll go and see how the land lies.'

‘I think I'd rather stay out here for a while. I like the peace and quiet.'

‘Everything will turn out for the best, I promise.' Mama's lips grazed her cheek. It seemed like the most natural thing in the world and the greatest reward. With a gentle smile she walked down the path back to the house, back to her lover and her husband.

How India wished she could set the clock back, back to a time before the accident, before … just before. And then she paused. If circumstances had been different would she have come to know Jim? Or would he have been relegated to the stable, like Fred, an indispensable but invisible stablehand?

A flight of ibis took to the wing, their shrieks breaking the silence as they soared into the sky. Their white plumage iridescent against the sky formed a perfect v-shaped skein. Everything she held dear was disappearing, like the birds, beyond her reach. She wanted to pull it back, keep it close. She didn't want to leave Helligen, ever. And she wanted Jim to stay. She longed to see him somewhere away from the constant comings and goings of the household, away from prying eyes. She longed for the silence of the river, for that snatched afternoon they'd shared, somewhere to talk without the risk of being overheard. Heaven forbid—she longed for him to hold her again.

No matter what Jim had or hadn't done the thought of never seeing him again, not knowing whether he was alive or dead, how he was feeling, whether he truly cared about her the way she … ‘I think I'm in love with him,' she murmured.

‘Look who I found.' Mama's voice held more than a hint of excitement and India turned to see her parents walking arms linked and with broad smiles, as though they had come to some agreement, or worse, hatched some plan.

‘Good morning, India.' With the exception of a slightly swollen eye and lips fuller than usual, Papa looked much as he always did but for a twinkle in his eye that she hadn't seen for a long time. ‘I was wondering if you could spare me a moment. I thought we might have a little chat in the library.'

She cast a second look at him. Papa's immaculate appearance put her to shame. Her dress was covered in blotches and splatters, some of which had to be Jim's blood. Although tempted to decline and plead the need for sleep, or at least a change of clothes, she stood. Jim was more important. If he must leave it had to be with Jefferson, as a free man, with nothing hanging over his head. She owed him that.

‘Come along, India. It's still cold out here. You'll catch a chill.' The undertone in Mama's voice brooked no argument and like a recalcitrant child she tagged behind her parents as they strolled together into the house.

Papa settled Mama into the wingback chair by the window and indicated to the small footstool India had favoured as a child. She shook her head. ‘I'll sit here.' She perched on the arm of one of the chairs by the fireplace. She didn't want to be cast in the role of child. Those days were over.

She couldn't resist a quick glance up at Goodfellow. He peered down from his portrait with his know-it-all expression. Someone had unscrewed the small silver plate below the painting. The record of death of an animal who was very much alive and munching hay in the barn remedied with a flick of the wrist. If only all the other repercussions could be so easily rectified. She pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders and laced her fingers in her lap.