The Horse Thief (32 page)

Anya lifted a tin mug to his lips and tipped it. Water trickled down his chin. Listening was more important. Water could come later. He pushed her hand away.

‘Thomas was a scapegoat. You held him responsible for all our misfortunes. It's always easier to blame someone else.'

‘Was Oliver my son?' A ponderous, expectant silence hung like a cloud.

Mrs Kilhampton pulled back her hair from her face, her gesture so like India it made Jim's heart cramp. ‘Oliver is dead.'

Kilhampton dragged himself to his feet, arms hanging loosely by his side. ‘Was Oliver my son?'

Jim's breath snagged as Mrs Kilhampton stepped towards her husband. His stance was the same as it had been before he delivered the blow that felled him. Would he hit his wife? He pushed back against the wall and tried to lever himself to his feet.

Anya's hand rested on his shoulder and nudged him back down. ‘Ssh. Do not interfere. It is long overdue. They must sort this thing alone.'

‘He'll hurt her.'

Mrs Kilhampton would tuck quite neatly under her husband's arm yet she faced him, legs astride, her head tilted in defiance as she glared up at him.

‘She is strong.'

‘She's an invalid.'

‘She has a broken heart, not a broken body. This is the final act of a long tragedy.'

‘Do you still doubt me?' Mrs Kilhampton's hands came once more to her hips.

In the face of her bravery he felt weak. He had pandered to Kilhampton and his histrionics, brought the beating upon himself. Anya was right. Mrs Kilhampton was strong, like her daughter.

Jim tensed as Kilhampton took a step closer to his wife. All sound faded, breaths held as though everyone—Anya, the horses and most of all, Mrs Kilhampton—waited for the answer.

‘I don't doubt you. But why? Why throw away all we had?'

‘That I didn't do alone. We did it together.' She took a step forward and rested her tiny hands on her husband's chest. ‘As we have always done everything.'

Anya sucked in a breath and a tentative smile lifted the corners of her lips.

‘Oliver was your son. No-one else, ever. That night, Thomas told me I couldn't ride, that you said I was to stay away from the stables. I waited, waited until he'd gone into his cottage then I slipped out and took Goodfellow. I wanted to ride. To feel the wind in my hair. For months and months I'd been imprisoned in the house. Kept in that dark stuffy room by you and the doctors.'

‘You were not imprisoned, never imprisoned. I wanted what was best for you. I couldn't lose you.' Kilhampton's arms wrapped around his wife and he pulled her against his broad chest.

Anya's hand slipped under Jim's arm. ‘Come. It is time to leave.' She eased him to his feet.

The lump in Jim's throat outweighed any ache in his body. ‘I must leave.'

‘You will go nowhere tonight other than your bed in the cottage.'

‘Jefferson. He is … I must …' He swayed. Blood pounded in his head, drumming out all sound. There was a sharp snap as his head met the wall and the ground spiralled up to meet him.

Thirty-One

‘I must say that was the most delightful piece of roast beef I have tasted in a long time. My compliments to your cook, Mrs Kilhampton. I wonder if you realise just how lucky you are. My mother has the most terrible trouble with domestics. She finds it almost impossible to retain staff longer than a matter of weeks. But then again, that is Sydney where I suppose the demand is a little greater.'

Cecil droned on and on. Mama gave a polite nod and tweaked her lips offering a shadow of a smile, her eyes fixed somewhere beyond the tall windows. She was listening, of that India was certain. The expression on her face wasn't the vacant look of the past; she wasn't hiding behind any veil of misery, but there was a large possibility she wished she were elsewhere. Who wouldn't?

Violet wouldn't. She lapped up what she no doubt viewed as a refined and sophisticated atmosphere permeating the dining room. She patted her pink lips with her napkin and placed it onto the table, then turned to Cecil. ‘You deserve the very best we can offer. Nothing can repay you for your kindness and the lavish attention you have showered upon us. And you were so brave, rescuing India from that nasty, nasty gaol.'

‘Please my dear, it was nothing.' His back straightened. ‘I'm only sorry your father hasn't been able to join us.' With a perplexed frown he stared at the empty chair at the head of the table and curled his lip, as if unable to believe Papa had the audacity to miss such an important occasion. ‘I do hope he is not indisposed.'

Mama lifted her head then, and her eyes flashed with something that looked remarkably like a warning. Her attention hadn't been elsewhere; she just hadn't deigned to respond to Cecil's blathering. Whatever had happened between Mama and Papa? Had Mama spoken to him about the visit to the gaol? Was Papa so angry that he wasn't even prepared to sit down at the table with them?

‘My husband has important business to attend to. He … I might see what has delayed him, if you will excuse me. Peggy will be along in a moment with the dessert. Please continue without me. India, ensure our guest has everything he needs.'

Cecil rose as Mama left the table. She swept out of the room without a backward glance in a rustle of lavender silk. The transformation was remarkable. With her hair coiled into an elaborate chignon and pearls dangling from her ears she would grace the smartest salons in Paris. In a matter of days she had shed her melancholia like a caterpillar's cocoon and become a creature of beauty and elegance. Faint stirrings surfaced of a long forgotten figure, buried in the mists of childhood. Long before Violet was born. Violet! Whatever must she think? A mother she had never known.

The door clicked shut and India glanced down the table. Violet wasn't the slightest bit interested in Mama. She and Cecil were deep in conversation. From the fluttering eyelashes and ripe pouts Cecil was no doubt piling on the compliments, and Violet lapped them up like a thirsty kitten. She was so much more suited to the role of wife.

Maybe it would be better to simply tell Cecil she wouldn't marry him. Didn't he deserve to hear it from her mouth? It wasn't as though they were actually betrothed, it was more of an understanding. He'd given her no token of his esteem; there had been no announcement, no promises. They hadn't discussed wedding plans. It was all just presumed. Oh, how she would love to scream!

A series of rattles and squeaks heralded the arrival of Peggy and her trolley. If only she could leave the table, follow Mama and discover what had happened. It was an agony. Within a moment the table was cleared and a large summer pudding took centre stage.

‘You'll be serving this, I take it. Or would you like me to do the honours?'

‘I can manage, thank you, Peggy. Did Mama say how long she would be?'

Peggy frowned and shook her head, then shot a surreptitious look at Violet and Cecil. Whatever was her problem? A silver dish overflowing with whipped cream appeared on the table then Peggy bustled out.

‘Violet, would you like some pudding?' Serving spoon poised India waited, and waited, until Violet turned her pink flushed cheeks.

‘Oh! I don't think so.' She gave her waistline a delicate pat, drawing Cecil's gaze. Once she'd achieved her aim she smiled. ‘On second thoughts, why not? Peggy makes the most divine desserts, Cecil. I have no willpower. I can't resist.'

‘It would seem the household is full of divine delights.' He ran his eyes over Violet then dragged his attention back, sending a shiver of disgust skittering across India's skin.

She had to tell him. ‘We have Peggy to thank for that.' The ridiculous conversation was enough to drive a sane person round the bend. Couldn't Violet manage to come up with anything of significance? She'd been fortunate to have an education and besides, under those china doll ringlets was a mind as lethal as a hunting trap. ‘The delights have more to do with Peggy's garden than anything else.' She sounded like a disgruntled harpy. If only she'd followed Mama from the room.

‘The woman is a treasure. I have no idea how she manages the workload.'

India had no idea how Peggy managed everything she did, either. She had a finger in every pie and if the look on her face before she left was anything to go by, something more than summer pudding was cooking. Where was Papa? And why had Mama left in such a hurry?

‘Cecil?' She gestured with the serving spoon. She should have allowed Peggy to serve the pudding. The berries oozed across the plate like drops of jewelled blood and onto the pristine white tablecloth.

‘Thank you. Berries. Delicious. My mother would give her right arm for a cook like Peggy.'

Neither the prospect of a recap of Mrs Bryce's domestic problems nor the picture of her minus an arm appealed. Although anyone's desire to escape from Mrs Bryce's Potts Point household was quite within her comprehension. She hated the stuffy formality of the place. A shiver trickled its way across her shoulders as she passed the plate to Cecil. He ladled a generous portion of cream on top and licked his lips before shovelling a sufficiently large spoonful into his mouth to make his cheeks balloon.

The serving spoon slipped from her fingers and clanged as she attempted to replace it on the plate. She took a sip of water to settle her stomach.

Violet looked up with a frown. ‘Are you all right, India? You look a little pasty.'

Ignoring Violet's comment India took a deep breath. ‘Cecil?'

He raised his head and gave a grunt. A blob of berry-stained cream sneaked out of the corner of his mouth. His Adam's apple bobbed beneath the wrinkled skin of his neck. He swallowed and licked his lips.

‘I have to speak with you.'

‘The time is ripe.' He wiped his mouth on his napkin and placed it on the table, then sat back with his hands laced over his ample stomach. ‘Yes, my dear.'

This was worse than talking to Papa. India patted her cheeks, her cool fingertips easing the heat in her face. She had to do it. She sucked in another breath. ‘Cecil, I can't marry you.' She'd done it. It wasn't terribly difficult. The words had been stuck in her head for so long she must have been practising in her sleep. She lifted her head. Violet's mouth gaped open, and then a slow smile tilted the corners of her lips and she looked at Cecil.

A sound, a cross between a harrumph and a sigh slipped between Cecil's lips and he shook himself, ever so slightly. ‘My dear, I am of course mortified, however …' His words trailed off and he shot a surreptitious glance at Violet.

‘Did you actually have an arrangement, or was it simply presumed?' Violet drew the word out and finished with a small click. She stared at Cecil, nowhere else.
The cat!

‘Presumed. I think that might be the word,' Cecil said, a flush tinging his bulbous nose, or was it a berry stain? ‘While I find you the most desirable of creatures, India, and I can understand why any man would simply be head over heels in love with you, I have to admit my affections lie elsewhere.' He grasped Violet's hand, which was waiting in just the right place.

Laugh or cry? She'd been rejected, supplanted, pushed aside by her little sister.
What a relief!
She rested her elbows on the table and dropped her head into her hands, masking the smile creeping across her face.

‘India, I'm sorry if we have upset you.'

India peered through her fingers.

Violet sat with her head tipped to one side and she glowed, positively glowed.

India let out a small sigh and her shoulders slumped.

‘Are you sure you're all right?'

Thank you, Violet! Thank you.
‘Actually I'm feeling a little unwell. Possibly all the sun today.' Her hands muffled her words.

‘Oh dear, I warned you riding was not a good idea. The sun can be quite overpowering at any time of the year.' Cecil's chair scraped against the timber floorboards.

Oh God!
He was going to come and comfort her. Taking the lifeline Violet had thrown before it was snatched away, India pushed her chair back from the table. ‘If you'll excuse me, I will arrange for Peggy to see to your needs and retire.'

‘I shall be more than happy to keep Miss Violet company.' Cecil hovered, caught somewhere between sitting and standing, rather like a chicken trying to lay an egg. ‘Can I escort you?'

‘No, I'm perfectly fine, thank you. Please enjoy yourselves.' Drawing on Mama's example she swept from the room masking her huge sigh of relief. Determined not to give the game away and run or crow with delight, India counted her measured paces until she passed through the back door and out under the covered walkway leading to the kitchen. She'd done it! It was so easy. All that time, Violet had planted the idea of marriage in everyone's head and it had grown, blossomed, flourished like the weeds around the water troughs.

‘Peggy! Peggy! You'll never guess what has just happ …'

A team of possums might have ransacked the kitchen. Dirty saucepans and serving plates covered the table. Dishcloths and napkins lay strewn across the floor. The kettle shrieked on the range top and Peggy was nowhere to be seen.

‘Peggy!' India stood in the middle of the room resisting the temptation to stamp her feet and cry even louder. Jilly appeared carrying a large enamel bowl, threw her a brief nod and filled it from the steaming kettle. ‘Jilly, what's going on? Where's Peggy?' A cauldron of curiosity bubbled inside her. Something was up.

‘I'm right here. Stop fussing.' Strips of torn sheeting hung from Peggy's plump arms and her hands clasped several bottles and a large jar of comfrey salve.

‘Peggy?'

‘What! Can't you see I'm busy? What are you doing here?'

‘I came to ask you to take coffee to Violet and Cecil in the sitting room and to tell you—'

‘Doesn't it look as though I have enough to do instead of pandering to those two peacocks?'