The Horse Thief

by Téa Cooper

  ‘Not at the moment.’ India eyed Anya. ‘Mama might like one when she wakes, however before you take it up, Anya, perhaps you and Peggy could tell me what’s going on.’

  ‘Glad your mother’s home safe. It was a worrying time.’ Peggy bustled around the stove clanging and clattering as she filled the kettle then emptied the freshly brewed teapot.

  The sound of Anya’s indrawn breath skirted the table. ‘We were discussing Mr Jim’s horse. Your mother is very taken with him.’

  Violet shuffled, her mouth opening and closing like a gaping fish.

  ‘So it would seem.’

  ‘Oh, for goodness sake!’ Violet knocked her chair flying. ‘India needs to know the truth. Stop prevaricating and tell her what’s going on.’

  ‘Thank you, Violet. It’s about time I had a little support from you. Now, ladies?’

  Anya and Peggy exchanged embarrassed glances. Then Peggy sucked in a deep breath and said, ‘Anya thinks Jim is the spitting image of the old stud master, Mr Cobb. The one who let your mother ride out that night, the one your father sacked because he was responsible for her accident. There. That’s all there is to it.’

  It was enough. Now her mother’s words to Jim and the way he’d ignored them made sense. But how could he be the son of Thomas Cobb? His name was Mawgan. Jim Mawgan. He’d signed the letter that way, told her that when he arrived.

  Her heart plummeted somewhere down near her boots. What would Papa say if he found out? Their agreement would be out the window so fast and she’d be bundled back to Sydney to marry that buffoon, Cecil Bryce. Something she did not want to do. She couldn’t believe he wanted her to marry such a pompous idiot. Cecil didn’t make her breath quicken or her heart pound. Indeed, Cecil Bryce was the polar opposite of Jim.

  Something in Violet’s eyes told her she’d missed some finer details. ‘Right, Violet. I want to know exactly what you think the truth is.’

  ‘It’s not what I think the truth is. It’s simply the truth. Your stud master, the very attractive and oh-so-nice Jim Mawgan, isn’t who or what he says he is.’

  ‘You don’t know that for certain.’ Violet couldn’t be right. How could Jim be the son of Thomas Cobb, and if he was, why would he want to work on the property?

  ‘I suggest you ask him. I don’t know why he’s sneaked back in here under false pretences but you know as well as I do, the Cobb family are responsible for this whole horrid mess.’ She waved her hand around. ‘The entire family were told to go and never to set foot on the property again.’

  ‘Mama’s accident wasn’t Jim’s fault.’ Why was she defending him?

  ‘No, but it was his father’s fault. If he hadn’t saddled Goodfellow and allowed Mama to go riding that night she would never have fallen. Everyone knew perfectly well she wasn’t capable. It was too soon after the birth. She’d been confined to her bed for the best part of a year. She could hardly walk, never mind ride. Even I know that.’

  India collapsed into the chair, her head spinning. If it was true, Jim had answered the advertisement under a false name. He’d known all along about the place. My God! Her heart almost stopped beating. What could have happened when she’d left her mother alone with him? A flush of heat scored her body. And the way she’d fallen into his arms like a strumpet. Was that part of his plan, too?

  ‘I don’t understand how you can defend the man.’ Violet had read her thoughts.

  India groaned aloud and dropped her head into her hands. Anya patted her shoulder making unsuccessful soothing noises. ‘He does look very much like his father. He was a very attractive man as I remember, tall and virile with a wicked sense of humour. He always made your mother laugh. They were inseparable, working away together. And that horse of his might as well be Goodfellow reincarnated. That is what’s caused your mother’s behaviour.’

  India stared up into Anya’s eyes unable to frame an answer.

  ‘Papa’s going to be livid,’ Violet said, a delighted grin splitting her face. ‘You’ll be dragged back to Sydney with your tail between your legs. I told you. You’re wasting your time. The place is doomed—we’re all doomed if we stay here. Leave it to Papa to sort out. He’ll sell the property and you can go and marry Cecil.’

  India pushed up from the table. ‘We’ll see.’

  ‘Everyone will see.’ Violet hummed a few bars of Handel’s ‘Wedding Anthem’. ‘I can’t wait to get back to Sydney. I love a wedding.’ With a twirl she left the kitchen with Anya following hot on her heels.

  Peggy placed a mug of tea on the table in front of her and she wrapped her hands around it, trying to draw some comfort from the warmth.

  ‘I’m sorry, love. If I’d thought about the consequences I would have kept my mouth shut.’

  ‘It’s not your fault, Peggy. It’s mine. I should have checked into Jim’s background more thoroughly and not been swayed by his charm.’

  ‘And good looks.’

  ‘And good looks,’ India admitted with a rueful smile. ‘I suppose I shall have to tell him to leave the property. Violet’s right, Papa will be livid when he finds out. He holds the Cobb family responsible for shattering all his dreams—even Oliver’s death.’

  ‘Well, that’s a nonsense. It wasn’t Cobb’s fault Oliver died. Maybe for your mother’s accident … who’d let a sick woman only weeks out of childbirth ride a bloody great stallion like that?’

  The vision of her mother astride Jefferson flashed through India’s mind. These days there was nothing wrong with her physically; she rode as well as she always had. It was the broken skull and consequent brain pressure that had taken its toll. The best doctors in the colony had attended her and they all said the same. A coma as a result of head injury, nothing else could be done. And before Jim arrived her mother had been quite content to ride one of the mares. Why had she been drawn to Jefferson? Because he was the reincarnation of Goodfellow?

  Seventeen

  Jim pulled the currycomb through Jefferson’s coat making it gleam like burnished copper. He found solace in the motion and the company of the horse. Last night he’d tried to see India, to speak to her, but he’d had no luck. Peggy had met him at the kitchen door with a face as dark as thunder, handed him his dinner and sent him packing. For the first time since he’d arrived at Helligen they’d treated him as the hired help. He gave a rough snort and Jefferson responded in kind.

  He was the hired help. Just as his father before him. People of his background simply didn’t spend their time hobnobbing with the Kilhamptons of this world. They moved in circles he couldn’t even comprehend, dined with the rich and famous, the pillars of Sydney society. He’d got too close and now he was paying the price. Sent away before he could solve the mystery surrounding Goodfellow, or find the deed of sale.

  Jefferson’s ears pricked and he turned his head, his nostrils flaring. Jim followed his gaze, hoping it was India although the horse didn’t react to her in that way.

  ‘Good morning, Jim.’ Violet sashayed down the aisle towards the stall.

  Jefferson snorted and backed against the wall, the whites of his eyes shining.

  ‘Easy boy.’ He pushed past his horse and closed the stall gate before Violet got any closer. ‘She has the same effect on me, mate. I’ll get rid of her.’ He snapped the padlock on the stall, and pocketed the key, unsure whose safety he wanted to maintain. ‘Violet.’

  She raised her eyebrows at his deliberate lack of courtesy. He was over her pretensions and if he wasn’t going to be around any longer then why grovel? The Kilhamptons could take their social airs and graces and stick them where they belonged.

  ‘Jim, I wondered if we could have a word. There are a few matters which may be to your advantage.’

  Now she had his attention. His heart gave a leap. He wouldn’t put it past her to have examined every paper on the property. She had enough time on her hands.

  Silently Jim held open the door and extended his arm, indicating the seat outside against the wall.

  ‘Thank y
ou.’ The coquettish smile she threw at him made his blood run cold and when she reached for his arm her cloying scent wafted around him in a suffocating cloud. She sat then patted the bench next to her.

  He perched on the far end and stretched his legs out in front of him, trying to assume a relaxed pose. It was so far from the truth. He couldn’t trust the woman for a moment. Every move she made was for her own good. He examined the toecap of his boot, his nerve endings prickling as he waited for Violet to speak.

  She cleared her throat. ‘Jim. It’s not my place to tell you this but …’ Her eyelashes fluttered.

  ‘Get on with it.’ He clamped his teeth together counting the stitches on his boot.

  ‘I don’t believe India has been entirely honest with you.’

  He pushed upright and stared at her. India hadn’t been honest with him? Surely it was the other way around. Moistening his lips he continued to play Violet’s game, all the while imagining turning his back and walking away. ‘Really?’ he prompted.

  ‘Bear with me. I have to go back a bit. It’s important you have the whole story.’

  Every bone in his body screamed at him to leave. Get up and walk away. Talk about it with India, not her sister. If only he could let go of his desire to see Jefferson race, and the memory of his father’s words. Right the wrongs of the past before they shatter your dreams. Somewhere in the piles of ledgers and notebooks lay the answer to the mystery and Violet might know exactly where. ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘After my mother’s accident and Oliver’s death Papa was devastated. He blamed Thomas Cobb for all his misfortunes. He lost all interest in Helligen. The doctors told him nothing could be done for Mama other than giving her time and patience. He tried and it made no difference. It was as though overnight Mama ceased to exist. She was dead to him. At first we stayed here. It was like living in a graveyard. India and I had to tiptoe through the house, and even when Mama began to recover she shunned us. The doctors said her mind was stuck in that one week of her life. She didn’t speak or leave her room. Only Anya could offer her any solace. Her illness sucked the heart out of Papa. Finally when it became obvious she would never recover he arranged for some men from the village to oversee the place and Anya and Peggy stayed here with Mama. He took India and me to Sydney. We lived in Sydney and went to school. Then, when India finished she was presented to the governor and became the toast of the town.’

  He could imagine that, see India sweeping across a dance floor on the arms of her escort, jewels sparkling at her throat, her eyes flashing as she flirted behind a fluttering fan, bright with excitement. His gut twisted. ‘Then why did she come back?’

  ‘A very good question and one I have asked time and time again. Cecil Bryce proposed to India. He’s mad for her and he’s a wonderful catch. He and Papa have common business interests and he is prepared to help finance Helligen until it can be sold. India refused. She said it wasn’t fair to Mama. That this was her home and it belonged to our family. She and Papa had the biggest of arguments. She said he was perfectly happy to leave Mama here to run the property before her accident, so why couldn’t she do the job. They came to an arrangement. India has twelve months to resurrect Helligen. If she can do that then she and Mama can stay here. If not, the place will be sold.’

  Violet stood up and wandered down the aisle between the stalls, almost as though she was thinking, planning what to say next. Then she turned and marched back, standing in front of him with her hands on her hips.

  ‘I hate to see you wasting your time, Jim. The horses will be sold. If Mama’s health is improving she would be better in Sydney where she can receive the best medical treatment. India will end up marrying Cecil. She’s in love with him. It’s just her misbegotten belief Mama is happier here.’

  ‘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.’