The Horse Thief (33 page)

‘How can I help?' Her news would have to wait.

‘By getting out from under my feet.'

‘Peggy! I need to know what's going on. Tell me.'

‘Here, take this, and make yourself useful.' Peggy snatched the bowl of steaming water from Jilly and thrust it into her arms.

The heated enamel scalded her fingers and she dropped it onto the table.

‘Use these to hold it.' Peggy handed over the strips of sheeting. ‘Now take the whole damned lot over to Anya in the cottage.'

The cottage. What was Anya doing in the cottage? ‘Why?'

‘Just for once in your sweet life do what you're told. I'm too busy to argue.'

India wrapped the strips of sheeting around her hands and picked up the bowl again.

‘And don't forget these.' Peggy held out a bottle of laudanum and a large jar of her comfrey ointment.

‘What's that for?'

Peggy wedged the bottle and jar under her elbows. ‘Now get a move on and don't spill anything on that dress. I'll never get the stains out of that watered silk.'

India shouldered her way out of the door and stood for a moment, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. Someone was hurt. Papa? No. He'd be in his room upstairs if he were injured, unless …
Who would be in the
… Her heart skipped, not one beat, about six. Disregarding Peggy's instructions about slopped water India ran across the courtyard to the cottage.

There was no sign of any activity outside the cottage, nevertheless, as she drew closer the merest strip of light spilt from under the door, a faint yellow tinge seeping out, leading her on. To knock or not? She couldn't. Her hands were full. It had to be Jim. She batted the thought away.
Don't jump to conclusions. It will only come to crying. Damn Peggy and her platitudes.

It must be Jim. Who else would be there? She lifted her foot and slammed it against the door. Pain ricocheted up her shin. Stupid, stupid evening slippers. Oh for riding boots. All these frills and fripperies didn't belong at Helligen. If it was Jim and he was in some way injured he might not be able to get to the door.

She placed the bowl down on the seat then wriggled and squirmed until she managed to get the bottle of laudanum and the comfrey ointment out from under her arms unbroken. As she unpeeled the sheeting from her hands the door opened.

‘Anya!'

‘Ssh! Have you got everything?'

She closed her mouth and nodded.

‘Quick. Come inside.'

Anya picked up the bowl without a second thought for the heat while India collected the sheeting and bottles and followed her inside.

The dark chill was oppressive. No fire burnt in the grate and the only sign of movement was the flickering candlelight dancing on the walls in the first room. She followed Anya through the door, her heartbeat hammering in her head.

A body lay sprawled across the bed, wrapped in a faded patchwork quilt, the face in shadow. ‘Anya?'

‘Ssh. He is out cold. It is better he stays that way. First we will clean up the mess.'

‘Mess?' Her voice was no more than a feeble squeak.

‘Yes. The mess men make when they brawl.'

‘Men. Brawl. Which men? Who? What happened?' It had to be the men Jim had escaped with. They must have decided he was a liability and set upon him in the bush. How had he got here?

‘Your father looks just as bad.'

‘Papa?' Papa had gone to Jim's rescue, and was injured as well. ‘Where is he?'

‘Your mother is dealing with him, in the house. At least she was until she had to attend Violet's dinner party.'

That's why Mama appeared so far away. ‘Is Papa all right?'

‘He is a sight better off than this one. It is time a man of his age learned to control his temper. And stayed away from the bottle.'

Nothing made any sense. ‘Anya?'

‘Help me.'

Any doubt that Jim lay beneath the stained quilt vanished as Anya lifted the corner. Thick congealed blood smothered his face, his eyes were swollen shut, blue and bruised, his eyelashes spiky, glued together. His lips split, distended, spread across his poor face. A groan sounded in the small room. He hadn't moved. Had it come from her mouth?

‘India!'

That voice. The voice of her childhood. She snapped back to the present. ‘Yes,' she gasped.

‘Breathe. I need your help.'

She sucked in a gasp of the cold air. ‘What shall I do?' How had it come to this? What had she done?

‘Wring out the cloths in the water before it gets cold.'

Anya tucked the quilt around Jim's lower body. ‘We must keep him warm. The shock will harm him more than his injuries.'

She passed a warm, damp cloth across his prostrate body. Anya placed her hand on his forehead, her long fingers dark against the awful whiteness of his skin. With infinite care she pressed the cloth against the congealed blood around his eyes.

‘Wring out another one and lay it across his forehead.'

Her hand shook as she brushed back the dark wing of hair from his forehead and lowered the cloth, easing it across his stretched, swollen skin. ‘Whatever happened to him?'

‘Your father. Flexing his dockside muscles.'

‘Papa?'
Papa wouldn't do a thing like this. Call the constabulary, have Jim arrested, see him carted off to gaol. But this?
‘Papa wouldn't do this.'

‘Believe it.'

India took the bloodstained rag from Anya and dropped it into the bowl, then passed another. She laid it against his cheek, and then a second and a third until his face was wrapped like an Egyptian mummy. ‘Will he survive?' She squeezed her eyes closed.

‘I have seen more terrible wounds,' Anya said.

Bile rose and filled her mouth. She had too. Mama with her head bandaged, lying prone in the bed, the dark stain of blood oozing through the bandage. The shadowed lamp. The brooding stillness. Oliver's incessant wail reaching an ear-splitting crescendo. She'd pushed his tiny arms beneath the blanket then pulled it up, tucked it tight around his thrashing body. Too tight. And left him, alone, all alone. The guilt slammed down on her. Too tight. He hadn't drawn another breath.

She flashed her eyes open. Anya peered across Jim at her, frowning. She was angry. She knew. Anya knew her secret. She'd known all along.

‘India. More cloths.'

More cloths.
The water swirled. Pink, like the first rays of sunrise staining the dawn sky. She wrung out the rag and passed it to Anya, swapping it for the next batch.

‘Will he die, like Oliver?' She clapped her hand across her mouth to block the smell of Jim's blood invading her nostrils. ‘Loosen the quilt. It's too tight.' Her fingers snatched at the faded material of the quilt, ripping it from the wadding as she tried to pull it free of Jim's body. He needed air. He wasn't breathing. She rested a hand on his chest. No movement. She wrenched the quilt back and stared down at his body.
No movement. Dead. Dead like Oliver.
What had she done?

Slap! Her head snapped back. Her cheek stung and her eyes watered.

‘India!'

She blinked against the tears. Anya replaced the quilt, tucking it in again, tucking it tightly. Jim shuddered and his chest heaved. He uttered a long, low groan and his head rocked from one side of the pillow to the other.

Anya lifted her hand and rested it on the pulse point on his neck, his skin doughy beneath her fingers. ‘He is not dead. Be calm.'

Tears splashed against her hand. Not sobs, just tears.

‘Let them fall. It is time.' Anya dabbed at Jim's face. The blue stain of bruises. The reddened mark of knuckles. Papa's knuckles.

She let out a long shuddering gasp and snatched some air.

‘Better.' Anya wiped the last remaining traces of dirt from Jim's swollen eyes. ‘He will not die. Sore, very sore. Sleep and patience will heal him.'

‘I didn't mean to, Anya. It was his crying, the noise. He wouldn't stop. And Mama. I thought he would disturb her. I thought she would die. And then … and then—'

‘Hush. You did not kill your brother. When you left he slept, the beautiful baby. Too beautiful for this world. Sometimes that happens with babies. The angels come and take them.'

All this time she'd thought she …
He was sleeping … The angels took him
. ‘I didn't kill him?'

‘Listen to me. You did not kill Oliver. He died sleeping.'

‘But I wrapped his blankets too tight.'

‘No, you did not.'

‘But Mama, she knows I killed him.'

‘Your mother has never believed that, India. Never even thought it. You must ask her yourself. Do you understand?'

India sank onto the edge of the bed. Anya lifted her palm from Jim's forehead and rested it in her lap, then she turned back to her cloths.

She hadn't killed Oliver. She wasn't responsible for Mama's misery, Mama's sickness. Her shoulders slumped, relieved of the weight she had carried for so long. ‘I have always thought I killed Oliver. That I caused Mama's sickness. Papa's misery. Made him leave us.'

‘And that is why you tried so hard for Helligen, to repay your debt?'

Anya knew. Anya understood. Why had she never thought to talk to her before? The one person who had always been there. ‘Anya, were you there when I was born?'

‘I have been with you since the very beginning. I took you from your mother's womb. You are named for my country.'

Jim stirred and Anya's response was cut short. India wanted more but she'd have to wait. His eyelids flickered and he groaned. It started as a rumble and built, lifting his chest when he drew in breath. His hands flailed and she held him still, covering his swollen knuckles with her hand. He must have defended himself, hit something, someone. ‘How bad is Papa?'

‘Not so bad. Your mother and Peggy can manage.'

How had Mama sat through dinner all that time knowing … ‘Anya, when did this happen?'

‘We found them brawling in the barn. Both of them exhausted. Both of them black and blue. He did not win.' She tossed her head in Jim's direction.

‘I should see Mama, make sure Papa is all right. Shall I get more water? Anything?'

‘There is nothing more to do. He doesn't need Peggy's laudanum. You stay here. I shall go and see how the other brawling boy fares.'

Anya pulled a candle from her pocket and lit it from the spluttering mess on the side table. ‘There are more candles in the front room. And blankets, too. It will be a long night.'

She collected the bloody cloths and dirty water then faded into the shadows.

India stood and smoothed the bedclothes, tucking them around Jim. All that time, almost all of her life she had believed she'd killed her brother, and Anya said she hadn't. Would it have made any difference? Would she have returned to Helligen if it hadn't been for the sense of obligation, the debt she owed? Of course she would. Helligen meant the world to her. It was in her blood, it was so much a part of her.

At last Jim rested. He was the one good thing to come from the whole sorry affair. Without her guilt Jim would not have walked onto Helligen, not answered her advertisement. She would never have known him, or unearthed the family secrets that bound them. She had a lot to thank him for. When he woke she would do just that.

Thirty-Two

He didn't move one inch. He couldn't. Not a muscle. Any stirring, even a shallow breath, sent pain lancing through him. A cool draft drifted across his face, stinging. His eyes refused to open.

A sliver of flickering light played across his vision, tinged pink by the skin of his eyelids. Why couldn't he open his eyes? Something cold against his face. Dampness. A trickle of water touched his lips and he tried to grasp it with his tongue. Thick, four times its normal size, it filled his mouth like a mound of stale bread. Another drop, then another.
Cool. So cool. More.
He opened his mouth wider and a finger traced his lip, trapping an escaping drop.

Concentrate. Jefferson
. He'd saddled him.
The barn. Kilhampton.
He had to leave.
Get up.
He flinched, pain flashed through him. His head throbbed to the beat of thundering hooves.

A gentle weight pinned him down.

‘Stay still. I'm here.'

India?
He was hallucinating.
God!
He hurt. He blinked against the growing light and levered his gritty eyelids apart only to be rewarded by another stab of pain piercing his skull. The scent of spring flowers. The trail of hair across his shoulder. Warmth. Her face swam into focus.

So close that if he tipped his head he could touch her, touch her cheek. He closed his eyes and opened them again. She was still there. Eyes as dark as last night's storm clouds. Sparkling jewels in her ears, the pale skin of her throat, the swell of her breasts above the sapphire blue of her dress, so bright it stung his eyes. Presented to the governor. She swept across the floor, her skirt fanning out around her, a swirl of colour. Her head held high. Clasped in the embrace of …
No!
He blinked again.
Don't dwell on it. It is past. Beyond your reach. She belongs to another. Cecil. Kilhampton & bloody Bryce.

‘Jim.' The damp cloth touched his swollen eyes.

He pushed her hand away, leant on one elbow and levered himself upright.

‘Jim, lie still. You're hurt.' She pushed him back, her voice the softest whisper.

Hurt. Quite right.
Every bone in his body ached. As though an unseen hand had ripped him apart then rearranged the pieces. Some fool who couldn't tell up from down or left from right. He dragged in another breath. Deeper. Testing the pain. A familiar pain.
A broken rib.
Had Jefferson thrown him?

‘What happened?' His words slurred, dribbled through fat lips refusing to do his bidding. Refusing to form the words. He was tired, so damn tired. Where was he?