The Horse Thief (23 page)

‘India?'

She kept her eyes averted. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. ‘I have nothing to say to you. Leave the property.' Papa was right; she should never have allowed him to remain at Helligen. Never advertised for a stud master.
What a fool.
She turned her back on him and walked away, across the courtyard, her boots scuffing in the dust, her breath growing short. She kept her head up and her shoulders back— Miss Wetherington would have been proud of her—and she didn't stop. Didn't look behind her, didn't even take the one last glance to imprint on her mind the man who had played her for a fool.

It wasn't until she reached the welcome protection of the walkway that she broke into a run. Her cheeks bright with shame, her body hotter than in any moment of the passionate embrace she'd shared with Jim. With a muffled scream she clutched the smooth cedar banister and mounted the curved staircase, stamping on every tread until she reached the top.

The door to Mama's room stood open. How she longed to throw herself into Mama's arms, seek the comfort she hadn't known since she was a small child. To sob and sob until she had no more tears. But it was a luxury she had never been permitted, not since her mother's accident, not since the Cobbs had ruined her life, ruined her family's life. Everything Papa had said was true. No member of the Cobb family belonged here. She'd been blinded by her loneliness and entrapped by a fraud and liar.

Throwing open the door to her bedroom she staggered over the threshold and collapsed onto the bed, shading her eyes from the brightness pinpointing her foolishness. Curled tightly into a ball she hugged her knees to her chest and buried her face into the pillow, away from prying eyes and the awful realisation she'd been duped. The tears fell. Tears of remorse, despair, embarrassment and, worst of all, shame.

Twenty-Four

Jim gripped the roughened rail. Only the tiniest shiver in her shoulders indicated she was doing anything other than crossing the courtyard. When she'd greeted him he'd seen the joy shining in her eyes. He hadn't imagined it. What he didn't understand was the transformation in her face when she saw Goodfellow. And then the shutters had come down. Closing him out.

Nothing had gone the way he intended. He bunched his fist and slammed it into the timber. He didn't understand. Mrs Kilhampton had been overjoyed to see Goodfellow. Whereas India and her father had responded as though he'd committed some dreadful crime.

‘You all right there?' Fred's head appeared around the stable doors. ‘What d'you want me to do with the horses? Back in the stable?'

Back in the stable? How the hell did he know? Given the opportunity he'd wind the clock back and try it all again. ‘You clear up.' His father wanted him to set the record straight; all he'd succeeded in doing was stirring up the past and opening old wounds. All because of some misbegotten desire to race Jefferson and stand him at stud.

When he'd walked back through the gates with Goodfellow he truly believed he was putting the past behind him and moving on. The look on Mrs Kilhampton's face when she'd seen Goodfellow made it all worthwhile and now in one fell swoop his good intentions lay trampled in the dirt.

‘Leave them in the barn, Fred. There won't be any more rides today.'

‘As you wish. I'd be expecting a summons from the master if I were you. Cor, he looked as though he'd seen a bloody ghost.'

Mr Kilhampton had. The enormity of the chaos he'd evoked settled across his shoulders, weighing him down.

As he crossed the courtyard a curtain twitched in the window above. Mrs Kilhampton watching? What was India doing? The possibility of simply walking out the gate and leaving became more and more enticing by the moment.

Within the barn the cool half-light soothed him as he settled the horses and checked the locks on the stalls, then instead of hanging the bridles on the gates he looped them over his shoulder. The last thing anyone needed right now was Mrs Kilhampton taking either Jefferson or Goodfellow on one of her surreptitious rides.

He lifted the heavy latch and closed the barn doors and made his way back to the cottage. A cottage he wouldn't be occupying for much longer. It was time to move on. Time to accept he had failed.

The old ledger from his father's office still sat on the table between the two chairs. He dusted it off and took one final look at the spidery hand before snapping it shut. It had proved nothing. There was no record of any sale because his father had stolen Goodfellow. Taken him in the dead of night like a common thief.

Making a final round of the cottage he threw his clothes into his saddlebags then went through the stables to the old office. He had no need of a light; the pathway had once again become as familiar to him as his own hand. He pushed the door open and made his way through the discarded odds and ends to the desk and deposited the book in the drawer, pushing it firmly closed.

Tomorrow, once he'd explained everything to Kilhampton, he would head off. Goodfellow was home—granting his father's last wish. The only thing he'd managed to achieve. He'd like to ask Kilhampton to acknowledge Jefferson as Goodfellow's progeny, but under the circumstances he didn't think he'd get a favourable reaction.

‘Mr Jim, sir.'

‘Jim, Fred. Jim.'

The boy jumped from one foot to the other, his face as red as a beetroot.

‘What is it?'

‘You're wanted in the library.'

Jim raised his eyebrows in question.

‘No idea, Peggy sent me across to get you.'

He straightened his shirt and wiped his boots down the back of his trousers to brush off the worst of the dirt. His mind was made up. He'd level with Kilhampton. Tell him the story right from the beginning. Once the initial shock was over the man would have to be pleased his horse wasn't buried under that bloody great lump of granite, and he would understand that his father had taken the animal because he believed it was for the best. Then they'd take it from there.

The back door of the house was open and he walked through into the hallway. The dining room stood empty and a puddle of light spilt from under the library door. He glanced up the stairs. No sign of India, or Violet. The house was as quiet as the mausoleum Violet believed it to be.

Ignoring the knot in his stomach he approached the closed door and rapped loudly.

‘Enter.'

The door squeaked as he pushed it open. Goodfellow glared down at him from the portrait on the chimneybreast. Kilhampton sat, his hands folded across his stomach, legs stretched out in front of him in the leather chair Jim had occupied a few weeks before. A single lamp illuminated the room, shining on the stack of studbooks and ledgers piled on one side of the massive cedar desk. A wave of shame swept through him. Private papers he'd rifled through without any thought other than his overriding determination to prove Jefferson's lineage.

‘Good evening, sir.' The
sir
caught in his craw. His use of the word served only to emphasise where the power rested in the relationship.

‘Sit.' As a greeting it didn't bode well. Kilhampton nodded to the chair across the desk from him.

‘Thank you.' As Jim sat he searched the man's face for some indication of the way the conversation might progress. As much as India and her mother shared their looks there was nothing in Kilhampton's face that indicated his relationship to India. The man's eyes were the deepest blue, cold like the ocean's depths, and his skin as weathered as old leather. That was the only thing that signified the difference in their age. Even sitting behind the desk power radiated from the man's body. In his shirtsleeves his heavily muscled wrists and corded hands paid testimony to an active life. This was not a man who spent his days taking life easy. This was a man in his prime, a powerful man, equally at home in a Sydney drawing room as a dockside tavern.

The uncomfortable silence stretched and Jim shifted in his chair under Kilhampton's cold blue scrutiny.

When he could stand it no longer he leant forwards. ‘I would like to explain about my return to Helligen.'

Kilhampton didn't move a muscle. ‘Go ahead,' he said.

The man wasn't giving him an inch. Why hadn't he thought this conversation through? From the moment he set eyes on Kilhampton in the courtyard and watched his reaction to Goodfellow he knew this confrontation would come. He swallowed and the sound echoed in his ears.

‘I saw the advertisement in
The Maitland Mercury
and thought if I returned and spoke with you we could sort out the papers for my horse, Jefferson.'

Kilhampton's eyebrows raised then his eyes narrowed.

‘I want to race Jefferson, stand him at stud.'

‘I'm not interested in your horse. I'm interested in mine.'

Jim let out a long slow breath. Now he'd broken the stalemate perhaps a rational discussion could proceed. ‘Goodfellow?'

‘Goodfellow.' Kilhampton's eyes flickered to the painting and then shot back to glare into his face.

‘I am not Jim Mawgan.' It was as though he had a handful of straw and each slippery piece refused to sit in line with the others, slipping from his grasp each time he tried to realign them. ‘I came here—'

‘Under false pretences.'

‘Yes, but—'

‘Under an assumed name, with an ulterior motive.'

‘My father … Thomas Cobb.' It was as though his father's name removed the last remaining vestige of control Kilhampton had exerted to this moment. He slammed his hands down on the desk and stood, towering over Jim. ‘You and your father are fucking horse thieves and I'll see you both hang for it.'

An icy calm settled on Jim as he contemplated Kilhampton and his admiration for his father increased. He had stood against him. Defied him. He may have lost the battle in his own eyes, but Jim had every intention of fighting it to the end. His father might not have been proud of what he did yet he had, against the odds, done what he believed was right. In the same way he'd returned Goodfellow because he believed it was the honourable thing to do. ‘You may see me hang for my father's actions, Kilhampton, but he is beyond even your reach. He's dead.' Jim leant back and folded his arms. Probably not the wisest track to take, but he no longer felt like an emasculated schoolboy.

Kilhampton sank into his chair, and pushed it back from the desk. A sliver of light fell across the darkened room from the lamp, illuminating a pair of black leather boots and dark trousers. There was someone else in the room. He shuffled higher in the chair and flicked a look back at Kilhampton who slumped with his eyes downcast and his head resting in his scarred hands.

Straightening his back Jim squinted into the corner where a wingback chair was flanked by heavy drapes. The man's face was in shadow and he sat as still as one of the portraits on the wall.

Kilhampton lifted his head and Jim turned his attention back to him.

‘I instructed your father to shoot Goodfellow and bury him.'

Jim nodded.

‘What happened?'

‘To be honest—'

‘That might make a change.'

‘I don't know. My memory is hazy. My mother, my brother and I left Helligen.'
Were chased off the property in the middle of the night, thrown out of our home, sent packing.
‘We camped in the bush for several days and finally my father arrived and said he'd found another job and we would be living at Munmurra. When we arrived Goodfellow was there. His leg was broken and my father believed he could mend it.'

‘Your father is a horse thief. And you're guilty by association, benefitting from stolen goods. Next you'll be telling me you own the horse.'

‘I was under the impression my father owned the horse. He said you'd given Goodfellow to him in lieu of wages.'

‘A liar, like his son. And a horse thief into the bargain. If your father is dead who owns the horse now?'

‘I do.' As the words slipped from his mouth his mistake registered. The man in the shadows stood as if on cue.

Kilhampton followed suit. ‘Constable, arrest this man. He's a self-confessed horse thief.'

Twenty-Five

India sat up and pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders. Through her frosty bedroom window the cold grey light hovered on the horizon. Out beyond the paddocks the tussock grasses would be pearled with ice and the water birds would be stirring. That she'd slept for so long beggared belief.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed and examined her pale feet. At some stage last night she must have removed her boots and her riding habit because she wore only her chemise. No wonder she was cold. She walked to the window and rubbed the heel of her hand across the chilly glass and peered down into the courtyard. Today she'd have to face Papa and give a detailed account of her foolishness, then tell Jim to leave.

What a mess she'd made. To be so gullible. If only—there could be no if-onlys. She would never be able to believe anything Jim might tell her, never be able to look at him without remembering the way she'd thrown herself at him. A poor, lonely girl falling at the feet of the first man who'd paid her more than a passing glance. No. That wasn't true. Cecil, plenty of men in Sydney had paid attention to her. None had made her blood sing or her heart pound like Jim.

Somewhere downstairs a door banged and the first sounds of morning broke the night's silence. She pulled on yesterday's clothes and dragged on her riding boots then tiptoed into the passageway, down the stairs and out to the kitchen. Searching for tea and the home truths Peggy would deliver.

‘It was a right proper shindig, Peggy.' Fred's outraged tone filtered down the walkway. ‘They took him in a cart. Wouldn't let him take that horse of his. Not either of them. Made him climb up in the back of the cart. All trussed up like a chicken, he was. Cuffed and chained.'

She pushed the door open. ‘Peggy?'