The Horse Thief

by Téa Cooper

  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?’

  ‘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.’