The Horse Thief (17 page)

‘And what do you want, Violet?'

She sat next to him and turned, her eyes cold and hard like amethyst chips. ‘I want my life. I want to go back to Sydney. That's nothing new. But in this instance I'm thinking of you, not myself.'

He doubted it. Nothing he had seen in Violet in his short time at Helligen made him believe she spoke the truth.

‘In fact, I'm thinking of everyone. Mama, Papa, India. And you, Jim. Even Peggy and Anya.'

‘And India is in love with this Cecil Bryce bloke. She doesn't want to be at Helligen?' He didn't believe it. India didn't belong in Sydney. She had dreams. She wanted to breed horses, buckskins, and racing champions.

‘Oh yes. She's in love with Cecil. Of course she is. He's charming. He takes her to the theatre, to the opera, buys her expensive gifts. He has the most beautiful house, in Potts Point. He's introduced us to his wonderful circle of friends.' She lowered her voice. ‘They are all men of standing, of distinction. Papa would never permit India to stay here or marry outside her class. We are a family of distinction and have standards.'

What rubbish! The picture Violet painted was as far from reality as his hopes of racing Jefferson. India loved her horses, and loved the life at Helligen. She'd never be happy in the city.

‘She does like the property,' Violet added, perhaps noting the look of scepticism on his face. ‘And when she marries Cecil, if Papa decides not to sell, it could become the perfect place for house parties and holidays. We've talked of building a tennis court. Mama could visit and maybe stay if the doctors thought her able. India would still be able to visit once in a while.'

Jim stood up and brushed his trousers. ‘You've given me a lot to think over. Thank you for being honest.' The lie slipped easily from his tongue. An art he'd developed, it appeared. More than anything he needed to talk to India.

Violet held out her hand, waiting for him to help her to her feet.

Gritting his teeth he offered his assistance.

‘Thank you, Jim. If there's anything more I can do please don't hesitate to ask. Trust me. I do have your best interests at heart.' She threw him a tight smile and left.

The last pile of ledgers landed with a thump on the timber floor. India sneezed as the dust flew into the air, bringing with it the scent of the crumpled past. She combed her fingers through her hair and pulled it back off her neck with an impatient shrug.

She would solve the mystery of Jim's association with Helligen no matter how long it took. And when she had proof she'd challenge him and see if he lied as easily then. She heaved the books onto the desk and opened the top one. Oliver was definitely born in April 1850—it was engraved on his tombstone under the fig trees and tombstones didn't lie. He was five weeks old when Mama had her accident. The answer must be here. Papa's journals were as comprehensive as his business records and ships' logs: purchases, sales, profits and losses. Everything recorded, even the weather.

The first two books offered little other than to confirm all she already knew. Daily life mapped out and marked as though it was yesterday.
Clear skies, wind from the northwest. Goodfellow released with four-year-olds. Cobb keen to try paddock mating. Fencing completed.

She flipped back a few pages, revisiting the past with terrifying clarity as it unfolded before her eyes.
Cobb boy fell from cottage roof. Doctor Pullem attended. Seventeen stitches.
An army of ants marched the length of her spine.
Cobb boy.
Her fingers itched. Down by the river. Tracing her finger over the raised scar tissue beneath Jim's thick hair.

Closing the book with a crash she fumbled for the next journal. A fine gold chain acted as a bookmark, weighted in place by a small golden cross that dangled below the pages.
Oliver's birth
. She began to read the words, her eyes filling with tears at the joy pouring from the page.
My darling Laila, a son at last, our future. The living, breathing manifestation of our eternal love.

The writing blurred and two large tears splashed onto the yellowed paper. Blotting them with her sleeve she watched the writing fade. Fade like Papa's dreams. How could the man who had written these words have deserted his sick wife and left her alone for all those years?

The book fell to her lap. What good did it do raking up the past? Perhaps she should simply go to Sydney, see him and admit to her foolishness. He would have to be pleased Mama was better. Maybe he'd come home.

Through the window the fig trees caught the evening breeze and the surface of the lagoon rippled. Two black swans glided to the centre. Their red beaks picked up the streaks of the sunset as they bobbed their heads in their own strange mating ritual, their long, slim necks forming the shape of a heart.

With her eyes still on the swans she turned the page then peered down. A splattered ink line scored the pages, the paper raised and torn from the pressure of the nib. The handwriting heavier, more determined, the single line formed a scar beneath the sentence on the otherwise empty page.

It is done. Goodfellow shot. Cobb's final act. May he rot in the hell into which he has placed me.

India gulped back her horror and ran her thumb over the writing. The bare bones of the story she'd heard before, but never with such vehemence, such raw pain and anger. The next page was blank, and the next.

‘India, there you are.'

She turned her head, her shoulders slumped, tired beyond belief. ‘Violet?'

‘You look busy.' Violet wrinkled her nose. ‘What are those dusty old tomes? They smell dreadful.' She reached out and India clapped the ledger shut, narrowly missing her sister's fingers.

‘Just the old record books. I'm trying to make up my mind what to do.' In that instant everything became clear. She would go to Sydney and ask her father for advice, and convince him to come home and see for himself how much better Mama seemed.

‘And?'

‘I'm going to go to Sydney and speak with Papa.' Her voice belonged to someone else.

The snap of Violet's hands made her jump and she blinked to clear the misty fog clouding her eyes. It was the only solution.

‘Wonderful. When are we leaving?'

‘Not we, just me.'

‘No. I'm coming too. Don't imagine that you're going to go swanning off to Sydney without me.'

‘I need you to stay here, with Mama.'

‘Mama has Anya, and Peggy, she doesn't need me.'

India ignored her sister's comment. If she rode to Morpeth alone it would be quicker. Violet would have baggage and demand the buggy, all manner of fripperies. Alone she could pick up the morning steamer and be in Sydney by noon.

‘What about Jim?'

‘What about Jim?' India countered.

‘Aren't you going to get rid of him now you know who he is?'

‘No. I'm not leaving you all here with only Fred.'

‘You were quite happy for us to be here with
only Fred
before Jim came.'

‘That's different. I was here.'

Violet made a sound that was somewhere between an expletive and a sneeze. ‘I'm not staying. I'm coming to Sydney.'

‘Please. Just for once do what I ask. I need you to stay here. With Jim here you'll be fine. I want to talk to Papa, and see what he suggests.'

‘I know exactly what he'll tell you—get that man's son off the place. He ought to leave the property. What will happen if he goes while you're away?'

‘Violet, calm down. If he leaves you'll manage. If there's a problem you can't cope with, you can call on Tom Bludge or any number of the men from the village. Peggy knows where to find them.'

Eighteen

Like cold porridge, the stew Peggy had sent over stuck to the roof of his mouth. Three times he'd attempted to speak to India and on each occasion Peggy had put him off. When he'd sneaked around the verandah like some prowling pickpocket she was deep in conversation with Violet in the library. What he wanted to say wasn't for her sister's ears.

He threw the remnants of his meal to the chickens and took the tray into the scullery. If India wanted him to leave then he would, but he wouldn't take Violet's words at face value. India might very well intend to marry the Sydney bloke, but he wanted to hear it from her own lips. There was also his need to explain why he'd come to Helligen in the first place. He owed her that.

By now she might be on her own and he could take his chances. If he walked away without Jefferson's papers then so be it, but the mystery surrounding Goodfellow still intrigued him. Both India and her mother would want to know the truth. Added to that, India deserved to know why he'd refused to let her use Jefferson over her mares—interbreeding at its worst.

Lost in his thoughts he found himself beneath the fig trees. The sun had set and in the pale twilight the rock the Kilhamptons believed marked Goodfellow's resting place glinted. He squatted and ran his hands over the granite boulder and studied the flat patch of undisturbed grass upon which it rested. The cold, hard surface told him nothing and he sat with his back against the stone, staring out over the lagoon.

The moon rose and the wind dropped so an eerie stillness settled over the house. What secrets it held!

‘He's not there.'

He jumped to his feet and spun around. Laila Kilhampton stood gazing down at the rock, the pale moonlight giving her skin an ethereal glow. He shivered, unsure if his mind was playing tricks on him. Her cool hand reached out to him, confirming her existence.

‘Mrs Kilhampton.'

‘Come sit with me. It is not a place to be alone.'

He followed her to the stone bench between the trees and sat down next to her.

‘He's not here and I can't find him. I've looked. I look every day.'

Jim's mind spun. What did you say to a woman who had not accepted the death of her child? If he mentioned the boy by name she may become agitated again. Right now she appeared calm and benign; he might be able to coax her back to her room.

‘I hoped you'd found him,' she said.

‘I'd found him?'

‘When you came here. I thought you'd brought him home.'

Jim cast his mind back to the day he'd arrived. She'd said nothing before to indicate she thought he'd found her child.

‘Your secret is safe with me, Thomas Cobb. It always has been. Remember, we had an understanding.' Her cool hand rested on his arm sending his mind spiralling out of control.

‘Alexander isn't aware. I understand. No-one, least of all you, could have put a gun to his head.' She twirled the chain she wore around her neck.

Put a gun to his head? She imagined his father had killed her child? No wonder they were bundled off the property so fast. Why in God's name had Kilhampton done nothing about it?

‘He's a magnificent animal.'

Jim dropped his head into his hands and let out a long shuddering breath. It wasn't her son she was talking about. It was Goodfellow. The implication took a moment to sink in. She'd mistaken Jefferson for Goodfellow. If he could convince her Goodfellow wasn't dead she'd understand that he sired Jefferson. The proof he needed. The papers. How to delve deeper without upsetting her? He took a gamble.

‘He is a magnificent animal,' he agreed, forcing a calm tone into his voice.

‘I'm so pleased you have brought him home, Thomas. Home where he belongs.'

‘I am not Thomas Cobb, Mrs Kilhampton. I am Jim, James Cobb, his son.' There, he'd said it. Holding his breath, he waited for her response.

She tipped her head to one side and raised a hand to his cheek. ‘Of course you are. Thomas would be much older now. We're all much older now.' Her hand fell back into her lap and she studied the granite boulder. ‘Then Goodfellow is much older. It wasn't Goodfellow I rode?'

He shook his head and smiled. She appeared to understand his words, but still the fear he might upset her held him back. ‘You rode Jefferson, my horse. Goodfellow is his sire.'

‘Oh!' Her hand covered her mouth. ‘I did it again. I took your horse. I should never have taken Goodfellow. Is your horse injured?'

‘No, Jefferson is fine. Remember, India and I found you and brought you home.'

She nodded, then a pensive look crossed her face. ‘I wish India was here, now. She would understand.'

‘Shall I fetch her?' He'd like to see her, too.

‘She's left.'

‘She's left?' Jim leapt to his feet, searching the darkened windows. No light shone from the library or from her bedroom. Mrs Kilhampton's startled cry made his mistake obvious. He'd moved too fast, upset her. A wave of panic surged through him. What if she ran away, or worse, took one of the horses again. He looked around. Where were Anya and Peggy? Did they know Mrs Kilhampton had left her room? Even Violet would be a help.

Her hands covered her face and her shoulders shook as he sank beside her once more. He wrapped an arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. The scent of dusty rose petals enveloped him, so unlike India. Where had she gone?