The Horse Thief

by Téa Cooper

  Anya did her best to keep the rooms clean while Mama insisted everything should remain untouched. She sat statue-like in the bath chair, her profile gaunt and her body frail beneath the white gown and shawl. Staring out of the window she swung the old metal cradle and fingered the mourning locket she wore on a chain around her neck.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mama.’ India walked over to the bath chair and dropped a light kiss on her smooth, pale cheek.

  Mama’s eyes flickered although her attention remained fixed beyond the window. India could clearly remember the last time she’d held her mother’s attention. The occasion of her fifth birthday. The cook, the old stud master’s wife, had baked a cake for her birthday, full of blueberries from the garden. No-one had ever had their own cake before, made especially for them. It had made her feel so special, so loved. Mama looked straight into her eyes across the table, then stood and brought the knife tied with a ribbon to her. They’d allowed her to cut it, and everyone had clapped.

  ‘Mama, we’ve had a very successful day. The new man has arrived and we’ve spent hours working around the stables. We’ve even given the inside walls a lime wash. They’re sparkling like new.’ The false joviality she forced into her voice snatched at her throat, competing with the memories.

  She understood Papa’s despair. In one fell swoop everything he’d cherished and worked for had vanished. Misery had gouged the heart out of the homestead and the property, sucking every ounce of life from him until he became as much a shadow as her mother.

  It wasn’t until she returned from school in Sydney that the enormity of Papa’s despair had become apparent, her home reduced to such a shell of despondency. It made her heart bleed. Encouraging Papa to return to the city and his shipping business, she pledged to return Helligen to the home it had once been. Besides, she had a responsibility to Mama. One day she would regain her senses and return to the vibrant woman of India’s childhood.

  Receiving no answer India turned, as always, to Anya, the one person who understood. ‘Have you everything you need? Is there anything I can do?’

  Anya’s hand grazed her shoulder and she shook her head. ‘It has been a pleasant day. We have talked of past times and remembered old friends.’

  India listened to the words, knowing them by heart. Tears stung her eyes; there were so many conversations she wished she could have with Mama, so much she’d missed. Thank goodness Anya had the patience to deal with Mama’s delusions. Day after day they sat staring out of the window recreating the events that had changed everyone’s lives forever.

  ‘I saw Goodfellow.’

  India jumped at the unexpected words. Anya’s hand tightened on her shoulder before reaching out to smooth her mother’s greying hair. ‘There, there, Miss Laila. Hush now. Don’t concern yourself.’

  For a reason India didn’t understand she stilled Anya’s hand. ‘Did you, Mama?’ Her voice snagged; she didn’t want to upset her mother but all the same she couldn’t let the first inkling of communication between them pass. The granite slab marking Goodfellow’s grave stood alongside Oliver’s beneath the fig trees. Mama often sat on the stone bench there, staring into the distance.

  ‘A man was riding him near the lagoon.’ Mama ran her finger and thumb over the chain around her neck, the constant reminder of all she’d lost.

  India met Anya’s dark gaze. ‘Were you out riding?’

  Her mother nodded. Her neck was so thin India feared she might damage herself with the movement.

  ‘Don’t go alone. It’s dangerous, you might fall again.’ As the words left her lips India realised her mistake.

  Mama’s frail body crumpled, her hands cradling her head, and her loud heart-rending sob filled the room.

  Anya’s eyes blazed, the she-cat protecting her ward. ‘See what you have done? Go, Miss India. Go now.’

  Slamming her hands against her ears to block the sound of her mother’s keening, India backed to the door. Goosebumps flecked her skin and threw her back to the past. To the time when these same cries rent the night and she burrowed under a pillow, unable to assuage her conscience and her heartache. Fumbling, she found the door handle and turned it. As she left the room Anya held the small glass of laudanum to her mother’s lips. The drug offered its release almost before she closed the door.

  After a bath and a change of clothes, India made her way into the dining room hoping Violet’s company might erase the sound of Mama’s cries still ringing in her ears. Violet stood at the tall sash window, arms clasped around her waist, staring out into the fading light.

  ‘Hello. Have you had a good day?’

  ‘Not particularly.’ Violet grunted and turned. ‘As I’ve told you I find it insufferably boring here.’ She rolled her eyes. When she was happy they were the colour of the tiny violets that grew between the sandstone pavers in the walled garden. Tonight they resembled the purple Paterson’s Curse that overtook the paddocks in autumn. ‘What have you been doing? I haven’t seen you since yesterday.’

  ‘Well, I have excellent news.’ India forced a cheerful tone into her voice. Since her visit to her mother she’d been trying to devise ways of keeping her in the house. The thought she might have another riding accident made India’s stomach turn. Anya did her very best to keep her safe, but the belief someone had stolen her child while she lay insensible was her sole reality. Her twilight sojourns had become difficult to monitor. In the time it took Anya to rush downstairs to the kitchen her mother could be out of the house and astride a horse. Her ability to ride without a saddle made it easy for her to slip away. Perhaps Jim’s presence would curtail her jaunts.

  ‘I have employed a new overseer.’

  Now she had Violet’s attention.

  ‘Oh! Is that who I saw you talking to? He looks charming—in a pastoral sort of way, of course.’

  ‘I didn’t employ him for his looks.’ However, she didn’t find them offensive; his wide grin and straight white teeth were charming. And he appeared very capable and assured. Her mind flashed to the way he’d swept her down from the fence and the lovely scent of saddle-soap and leather. ‘You know how much I want to restore Helligen’s reputation as a stud. Jim is the first step along that road.’

  ‘Oh! Jim.’ Violet batted her eyelashes then cocked an eyebrow.

  ‘Don’t be so ridiculous. Of course it’s Jim. We’re employing him. What do you expect me to call him? Mr Mawgan?’

  ‘It would seem a little more appropriate. Have you forgotten all the manners we learned at Miss Wetherington’s?’

  For a moment India wondered if she had. The man had walked onto the property last night and already it was as if he belonged. ‘No, I haven’t forgotten my manners. He is simply the perfect candidate for the job and I was lucky enough to find him with the first advertisement.’

  ‘I can’t understand why you feel the need to employ the man in the first place. What’s the use? We don’t need to be here. We’d be far better off in Sydney. If you’d take Cecil Bryce’s offer more seriously you wouldn’t have to spend your time getting your hands dirty.’

  The same old refrain. Violet’s ability to turn every subject back to Sydney was a source of constant amazement. Did she think of nothing else?

  Violet’s pert nose wrinkled. ‘Running the property is man’s work. By all means employ someone, but for goodness sake let’s get back to Sydney and leave it all in Cecil’s capable hands. He’d be more than happy to take over control.’

  ‘It’s out of the question. Helligen needs people living here, and so for that matter does Mama.’

  ‘Mama?’ Violet managed to invest the word with a disdainful sneer, as always.

  ‘Yes, your mother. Did you see her today?’

  ‘No.’ Violet pouted as she inspected her fingernails. ‘Quite frankly, I don’t understand why you even bother. She hasn’t been a mother to either of us since the accident and she’s not interested in anything except Oliver. Why she can’t get it through her shattered head the boy is dead is beyond
my comprehension. It’s been years.’

  India sank down onto the chair and rested her elbows on the dining room table. The same old arguments every day, the same tirade. The accident had taken a toll on Mama but her physical injuries weren’t the main cause. It was her mental state. Trapped in the past by a melancholy so strong that some days she could barely lift her head from the pillow.

  India took a sip of water. And she was to blame. Although she didn’t share Violet’s views on Mama she could understand them. Violet had little memory of happier days when Helligen sparkled with life and promise. Before the accident Mama and Papa were the vibrant centre of their universe. ‘It would be nice if you could spare a few moments of your day to spend with Mama. Anya would really appreciate it, too.’

  ‘Oh, so now it’s Anya.’ Violet gave a dramatic sigh. ‘It seems everyone comes first, before me. There’s Mama, there’s Papa, there’s you, there’s Anya and even Oliver. He reaches out from the grave to taunt us all. It’s like a living hell.’ She stamped her foot and folded her arms, an ugly scowl marring her china doll perfection. ‘It’s time to put the past behind us.’

  ‘Come and sit down, Violet. Let’s have a nice dinner for a change. Peggy will be along soon.’ Receiving no response India searched for something neutral to disperse her sister’s miasma. ‘We have your favourite for pudding. Jam roll.’

  ‘For goodness sake, India. Please stop trying. I’m not a child anymore.’

  Resisting the temptation to tell her sister to stop behaving like one, India offered a conciliatory smile. ‘No-one thinks you’re a child. You are a very attractive, well-educated young woman …’

  ‘Who wants a husband? I even come last in those stakes. At least someone has proposed to you. I can’t understand why you don’t accept Cecil. He adores you and he’s as rich as Croesus.’

  India gave a small shudder. ‘Cecil Bryce is not a solution to our problems and he hasn’t proposed to me.’

  ‘But he’s a solution to my problems.’

  Not understanding her sister’s comment she raised an eyebrow. Surely Violet didn’t want to marry Cecil. He was a good twenty years older than she was. He spent half his time in Sydney presiding over the shipping empire he and Papa had created. The rest of it attending every function his mother believed would improve his chances of becoming a politician. Added to that, the man was distinctly unattractive with his receding hairline and arrogant sense of self-importance. ‘How is Cecil the answer to your problems?’

  Violet flounced out of the chair. ‘Sometimes, India, I think you have something missing up here.’ She tapped her head with her forefinger. ‘If you marry Cecil you will have a Sydney house. I will be able to live there. We will have a position in society. I won’t be stuck in this godforsaken mausoleum and, in case you have forgotten, I am your younger sister, so I will then be able to find a husband. If I marry before you, you’ll look like an old maid, someone left on the shelf.’ She thrust out her chest and thumped her hands onto her hips. ‘I have your best interests at heart.’ With that Violet spun on her heel and swept out of the room in a flurry of frills and flounces, almost sending Peggy and her trolley flying.

  ‘Dinner’s ready.’ Peggy eyed Violet as she sashayed up the stairs.

  ‘I don’t want anything. I might as well starve myself to death. There’s no other way out of this preposterous situation.’

  A door slammed.

  ‘Everything progressing as normal, I see.’ Peggy removed the serving dishes from the trolley and plonked them on the table.

  India indulged in a loud sigh. ‘It would appear so. It would appear so.’

  Seven

  Jim cast a surreptitious glance around the courtyard then slipped through the newly repaired door and into the stable block. Jefferson whickered a welcome as he offered the horse a carrot filched from Peggy’s vegetable garden. ‘That’s bribery. Now keep quiet. I’ve got business to attend to.’

  The path of moonlight slanting across the hard-packed dirt floor led the way to the back room. As he slid back the bolt the grating of the rusted metal put his teeth on edge. With a wrench he pulled the office door open and peered inside. In India’s presence he’d only scanned the room, not wanting to appear overinterested in the haphazard contents. Now every nerve ending tingled in anticipation. He’d waited an eternity for this opportunity.

  It was as black as pitch. His fingers closed around the small stub of candle he’d purloined from the cottage. With the other hand he rummaged in his back pocket for his battered box of Lucifers. As he struck the match the acrid phosphorous fumes mingled with the dust and mould in the air. Once the candle was alight he snuffed the match out with his damp fingers. One errant spark and the whole room would go up in a moment.

  He cupped his hand around the flame. The yellow glow emphasised the thick layer of dust coating every surface. The cloying, musty smell of the air caught in his throat. Debris littered the floor—baskets, crates and boxes, piles of old curtains and cushions. In the flickering shadows a large cupboard tucked into the back corner became visible. One door hung slightly open. He picked his way through the piles of discarded household goods until he reached the back of the room.

  The door squeaked as he pulled it open. He reached inside searching for books, papers, anything resembling records. A rat stunned by the unexpected intrusion scurried across his hand. The piles of old cushions made a perfect nesting spot but hid nothing of any use to him. He hadn’t enough time to explore every nook and cranny. He swung the door closed. Holding the candle high he eased his way past the rows of shelving containing all manner of items bundled in disarray.

  He pulled the lid from a brown box and peered inside. A collection of framed daguerreotypes. Family portraits. India dropping a half curtsy and grinning while a pouting young child looked on, her younger sister, perhaps. A woman sat side-saddle on a buckskin horse dressed in a fashionable riding habit. She peered haughtily into the distance while Kilhampton stood in front of the house, arms folded, master of all he surveyed. Jim slammed the lid back down on the box. None of this was any use to him.

  He hadn’t time to waste on the Kilhamptons’ family affairs. He shifted the candle and resolved to continue his search. The stale smell made his flesh creep. A burial ground, a tomb for decades of discarded lives.

  With the palm of his hand placed flat against the sandstock wall he steadied the candle and shone it down the wall. Twisted barley sugar legs poked out from the wall blocking his path. He ran his fingers around the intricate twirls. The smooth timber sparked a vision of boots, of sitting on the floor below the desk—his father’s boots, his father’s desk.

  His heart rate kicked up a notch or two and his body hummed with excitement. Lifting the candle higher he stepped back, crashing against a wicker basket and sending it toppling to the floor. A collection of rusted tins clattered and tumbled to the ground.

  The candle shook between his fingers as he stood stock-still, holding his breath and waiting. Jefferson snuffled and snorted in his stall and a mopoke owl hooted somewhere in the distance. He licked his fingers, snuffed out the candle and waited while his eyes adjusted to the darkness.

  The scarred desktop scored his palms as he traced the worn timber searching for a drawer. When his fingers closed on the metal handle he tugged. It squeaked and groaned as he wrestled it free, then he reached inside. Nothing.

  The second drawer slid open without complaint and his fingers closed on a book.

  He smoothed the worn leather cover, swallowed the lump lodged in his throat, then tucked the book inside his shirt. Pocketing the extinguished candle he edged his way through the debris of the past to the door and outside.

  A solitary light burned brightly in an upstairs window of the house. He slipped into the shadows of the storehouse as the curtain twitched, and accomplished his trip back to the cottage in no time.

  Once inside he lit the lamp then sank into the old armchair in front of the empty grate. His eyes fluttered closed an
d his hand rested on the book still tucked beneath his shirt. As he waited for his breathing to settle he eased it from his shirt and laid it on his lap, running his thumbs across the red pockmarked leather.

  Had he really found what he was searching for? The prospect of holding the stud records proving Jefferson’s bloodlines stunned him. He’d anticipated spending weeks, if not months, building up enough credibility to allow him access to this book.

  His hands shook as he opened the cover and angled the book to the light. Neatly pencilled cursive script filled the pages. He smoothed a dog-eared corner and ran his forefinger down the columns. Every sale, every purchase, every mating. The faded dates continued until 1847. He turned the final page. There was no more.

  He yanked the lamp closer and flicked back through the book, even held it by the spine and shook it. The entries began in 1840 and ended in 1847. They hadn’t left the property until he was ten, in 1850. Of that he was certain. There were no entries from September 1847 and three blank pages at the end of the book. Why? What could it mean?

  It was all a fruitless waste of time. He was a fool to imagine it would be so easy. He dropped the book back onto the small table beside the chair and began pacing the floor. There had to be a second book. What had India said? When his father left Kilhampton took over the management of the property. He’d moved the records to the library, inside the house. He had to get in there, but how?

  India woke with the sun and sprang out of bed. Today they would bring the brood mares in from the back paddocks. Housed in the stables below the hayloft they would be on hand and ready. Helligen’s two remaining stallions could be stabled with Jefferson, next to the mating yards, and they would assess the young colts.

  Nothing would tarnish her excitement. Not Violet’s continual complaints, Mama’s increasingly strange behaviour or the prospect of the mountain of paperwork covering Papa’s desk in the library.