The Horse Thief
Page 25
‘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.
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‘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?
His mother’s room. Wrapped in her quilt. A dream. A bad dream. Sleep tight, Jimmy boy. It will be better in the morning. Morning. No. He had to leave. Jefferson. He groaned, his head pounded. The scent of wildflowers again.
‘You were knocked insensible.’ She threaded her hair through her fingers, pulling it back from her face. Staring at him with eyes that saw right to his core.
Insensible? Knocked? Who? How? He could fight. Fight with the best of them. Why hadn’t he defended himself?
‘Papa …’
Papa? Kilhampton. Bloody hell! He slumped back.
‘Lie still. You’ll do more harm than good.’
Images, flashing too fast. Kilhampton. Your father stole my wife … and now my daughter. India? Why wouldn’t his lips form the word? Say her name.
‘Let me raise your head.’ Her soft hand slipped behind his neck. Impossibly difficult. His eyes closed. Cool water dripped down his throat. He swallowed, swallowed more. His breath caught. The cough raced through his chest, and dreading the pain he forced it down. He pushed her away.
‘Gently.’
His breath exploded. The agony blossomed and burst. India standing by the bed. Frowning. Don’t frown. Smile, India. He wanted her to smile. To remember her smiling when he left.
The ache settled and he took a tentative breath.
‘What happened?’ he repeated. ‘Tell me.’
‘You and Papa fought. Papa …’
Oh God! What had he done? ‘Did I hurt him?’
A gentle smile. ‘No more than he hurt you. I don’t think you even knocked him down.’
He struggled up the bed, pushed down the quilt. ‘I have to leave. Where’s Jefferson?’
‘You can’t go anywhere, not like this, besides—’ she ran her cool hand over his bare chest, ‘—you have no shirt on.’
He looked down at his chest. His shirt? Where had it gone? He needed his clothes. They’d be coming soon, looking for him. Not here. He couldn’t bring them here. ‘My clothes, they’re still here. I have to leave.’
‘No, Jim, you don’t have to leave.’
‘But, the gaol. I’m wanted. Just get my clothes, a shirt and Jefferson. I saddled Jefferson.’
Her hand was heavier now, forcing him back down against the bed. The muscles in her arm tightened, filling the blue puff of her sleeve. Her skin was so smooth. He raised his hand and let it fall. Not for him.
‘Fred has taken care of Jefferson. Papa dropped the charges.’
Over the wall. Because the opportunity presented itself. Because the prospect of incarceration was more than he could bear. Because whoever said honesty was the best policy was wrong, so very wrong. None of it mattered. Helligen was not for him. And neither was this glorious vision hovering over him, her hand warm against his bare flesh.
‘I can’t stay, India. They’ll come for me. You, your family will be drawn into the mess. I can’t do it. I, my father, we’ve caused enough grief. I must leave.’
‘You’re not going anywhere. Not now. Not until you have healed. Only the family know you’re here. No-one will say anything.’ Her eyes darkened. ‘Leave when you’re healed.’
‘Your father …’
‘Papa dropped the charges of theft.’
‘And now assault?’
She shrugged her shoulders. As if it didn’t matter, as if it was nothing that he’d taken to Alexander Kilhampton with his fists.
‘I’ll speak to Papa and we’ll sort it all out.’
The last time she said that he’d ended up behind bars.
‘It will be different this time.’ She’d read his mind. ‘It’s almost morning.’
‘I’ll leave today.’
Her eyes dimmed, and she turned. The outside door opened. ‘He’s awake.’ The tone in her voice was as distant as the space she’d put between them.
‘He could do with something in his stomach, then.’
Peggy. Only the family. How big was the Kilhampton family? Who did it include? Its control spread far and wide. The Hunter, Newcastle, Sydney …
‘I see you’re with us now. Gave us a bit of a fright, you did. You and the master should know better. Bickering like a pair of street urchins.’
Bickering? He shook his head. Nothing made sense. It was more than bickering. ‘What time is it?’
‘It’s morning, still dark. Some of us lesser mortals are familiar with the dawn.’
The gurgling in his gut rumbled upwards.
‘When did you last eat?’ Peggy appraised him like a joint of meat ready to prod, to test his quality.
He shrugged. ‘Can’t remember.’
‘You stay there. I’ll be right back. Fine nursemaid you make, miss, allowing your patient to starve.’
India hovered in the doorway while Peggy trundled to and fro collecting the bowls, bottles and bandages. ‘You stay here. Keep an eye on him.’
‘I need to go and see Papa.’
‘You won’t be seeing him for a while. He’s sleeping it off. And it’s not just the punches. According to your mother he drank enough to fell an ox.’ Peggy snorted. ‘Looks like he did.’ The door slammed behind her, leaving him alone once more with India.
‘India? Help me. To remember everything.’
She pulled the timber chair next to the bed, her movements slow. She must be so tired, bone-weary. He should let her sleep, but he had to know. ‘I went to the barn to get Jefferson. Your father was there. He fell. I went to help him up. Did I hit him?’
‘I don’t know, Jim. I haven’t spoken to him. Mama found you both, in the barn. Do you remember that?’ A frown creased her forehead. ‘Why did Papa hit you?’
The fog in his mind swirled and cleared. The vision of Mrs Kilhampton with hands on her hips defying her husband flashed before him. Kilhampton believed his father had stolen more than his horse. Did India need to know that her father believed Thomas Cobb had stolen his wife? Was he going to lie to her again?
She saved him from finding an answer. ‘Peggy will be back in a moment. I’ll return later. I have things I must do.’
What things? Talk to her father. He struggled to sit.
‘Lie down, and rest.’ She left in a swirl of blue, as unreachable as a midsummer sky.
Rest. How could he rest? Colours, words, snippets of thoughts all blurred in his mind in a never-ending stream. Mrs Kilhampton and his father, Goodfellow, the gaol, India, the river, the touch of her skin and lies, lies and more lies …
He gave up on sleep and pushed the quilt back. The candle hissed and spluttered in a pool of its own wax. Through the open door he picked out the shape of the easy chair by the fire, imagined his father sitting, recording the day’s events. He felt his mother’s touch, heard his brother’s laugh. This was the home of his childhood, where it all began and where it would end. The end of his dreams. Jefferson would never race. Never stand at stud.
The candlelight faded, replaced by the pale morning sun slanting across the bed. It was time to leave.
‘I’ve brought you something to eat and a visitor.’ Peggy elbowed the door open and entered the room, bringing with her the smell of chicken broth.
His mouth watered, then dried.
Kilhampton stood behind her. One arm nonchalantly raised against the doorjamb, as though he hadn’t a care in the world. ‘We have unfinished business,’ he said.
Jim’s stomach turned. He wanted no more of Kilhampton and his unfinished business. It was over.
He searched Kilhampton’s face for evidence of last night’s debacle. Puffed skin tinged with blue matched his icy eyes and the corner of his lip showed a slight split. There was no doubt he was the victor. He clenched his fist. Why hadn’t he retaliated? Because of some misbegotten belief that he might hurt the man? What a joke!
‘Here.’ Peggy pressed a spoon into his hand, forcing his fingers to relax. ‘Small sips, slowly.’ She gave Kilhampton a withering glance. ‘And don’t you disturb his eating. You’ve done enough damage.’ With a look to quell the devil she left.
‘May I come in?’
Jim nodded. He could hardly refuse. He lay in a bed on the man’s property, an accused horse thief, and an escaped prisoner. What exactly did India mean when she said her father had dropped the charges?
‘Eat. While you eat I’d like to talk.’
Jim blew on the broth, examining it, trying to convince his stomach it would enjoy it once he got it down his throat, once Kilhampton said what he had to say.
The chair grated across the floorboards as Kilhampton pulled it closer to the bed, then he sat astride it, bringing with him the smell of soap and a new day. ‘Can you manage?’
Even if Kilhampton was the last man on earth and he was dying of starvation he wouldn’t accept his help. He grunted and swallowed the first spoonful of broth, his throat tight and his stomach rebelling. He held it down.
‘When Laila and I bought Helligen your parents were already here. So were you, if I remember rightly.’
Jim nodded. He had few recollections of Kilhampton other than a big man who carried his daughter on his shoulders. More memories of India in fact, but then children always attracted children and the rules and regulations of society didn’t impinge on their lives. It was only later when class and rubbish like that labelled you a have or a have-not that it mattered.
‘Your father knew it all. Every bit of the property, how it worked, who to call on. I bought the place lock, stock and barrel. I wanted it all for Laila, and India and the sons that would follow. Helligen would be the making of our family. Laila and I started with nothing, two kids shipped out paying for their parents’ sins.’