The Horse Thief

by Téa Cooper

  ‘Your mother and I have discussed the situation and with her advice I have decided you should see out your plan and remain at Helligen. I have decided on the new manager.’

  Her stomach dropped. How could he deliver such good news and such bad in one breath? She didn’t want a new manager. She wanted to be the manager.

  ‘I intend to play a more active role.’ Papa stretched out his legs and interlocked his fingers across his chest. ‘It’s all very well breeding a herd of horses, but what are we going to do with them? No business flourishes unless it has aims and aspirations. I shall discuss it with the new manager. We will aim to enter a horse or two in some of these races that are gaining popularity.’

  What was he suggesting? Adopting the very ideas she’d put forward. ‘Who do you have in mind for the position?’ Tom Bludge? Surely not. Someone in Sydney, perhaps. Papa had come to a solution far too quickly. ‘I am quite capable of doing the job myself.’ She lifted her chin. ‘I have … I can … and …’ Oh, how could Papa spring this on her after a sleepless night? She had no hope of arguing her case effectively, or Jim’s for that matter.

  ‘I have a candidate in mind and an interview to conduct.’

  It would be Tom Bludge. What hope would she have working with him? To his mind both women and children should be seen and not heard. It would be impossible.

  ‘Now I take it you would like to apply for the position? None of this one-year rubbish. I’m talking about a commitment.’

  Her head snapped up, all thoughts of Tom Bludge vanishing in an instant. Apply for the position? She could … she hadn’t ever imagined he’d suggest it. In Papa’s mind the one year he’d granted her was an arrangement to appease his headstrong daughter prior to her marriage—or so she’d believed. Through the haze of tiredness and confusion the joy on her mother’s face became apparent. Papa was offering her the job. She would employ a stud master. She’d done that already and look where it had led. Was he saying she could re-employ Jim? Jim would never agree. Did she dare ask? He might agree. What had she to lose? She chased her scattered thoughts into some semblance of order.

  ‘I would very much like the position—’ she sat up a little taller and sucked in a fortifying breath, ‘—on the condition I can reinstate Jim—James Cobb as stud master.’ She waited, the silence crippling. Papa pursed his lips, studied something outside the window, picked up a pencil, twirled it in his fingers, turned to Mama and raised his eyebrows in question. Mama gave an imperceptible nod. Or was that simply her imagination, wishful thinking?

  ‘I suggest you go and discuss the matter with Cobb. See if he’s interested. When I spoke to him this morning he had every intention of leaving, returning to Munmurra to see if he could take up his old job, now he no longer has a sentence hanging over his head. Apparently he has a debt to pay. If you hurry up you might catch him before he leaves.’

  She snapped her mouth closed before Papa could change his mind and shot to her feet. She must speak to Jim before he left.

  Thirty-Four

  It was harder than Jim expected, but if he took shallow breaths he could manage quite well. He reached into his saddlebag, pulled out a shirt and eased his way into it. His boots proved more difficult. With a deal of bending and tugging he won in the end.

  He cast a glance around the room ensuring he’d left nothing behind, then walked back through the cottage. A final farewell. Not exactly as he’d imagined matters would work out, although considering the alternative he should count himself lucky.

  Making his way through the house he checked the windows and doors, quite why he didn’t know. The place wasn’t his to worry about. He cast one last look at the two chairs in front of the fire, his father’s presence finally gone, before he slipped the latch and stepped outside.

  As he passed through the door he reached up to the lintel and traced his initials. JMC. James, or Jim, his mother’s pet name for him. Mawgan, a nod to her Cornish ancestry. His assumed name had more credibility than bloody Kill-Hampton.

  His abiding regret would always be India, leaving without the opportunity to explore the strange and frightening rapport they had. One day, when he had something to offer, he’d return. If Kilhampton could drag himself up from the gutter then why couldn’t he? He was young. He’d find a job, and pay Kilhampton the money for his bloody service if it was the last thing he did. Give it twelve months and he would see Jefferson race, then with a few judicious bets on the racetrack and a lot of luck he’d be set.

  As long as she didn’t marry that fool Bryce—she couldn’t. From all he’d heard Violet would be better suited to the life Bryce offered. India belonged here, on the land; it was in her blood and he knew how strong that pull was.

  He slipped his hands through the strap of his saddlebags and hefted them onto his shoulder, batting away the stab of pain in his ribs. There would be no mad gallop with Jefferson today. No fifty miles covered in a day. It would be a gentle journey, along the river. A night spent under a tree and the opportunity to farewell his father. He could rest easy now. Goodfellow was back where he belonged and there was nothing for him to be ashamed of.

  The barn doors stood open. The light streaming in filled the high roof with dancing dust motes, twinkling flecks of gold cavorting in the shaft of sunlight. A pile of straw stood by the door steaming into the air. There was no sign of Jefferson or Goodfellow. Fred must have let the horses loose in the paddock. He dropped his bags in the corner of Jefferson’s stall and hung his saddle on top of the dividing wall, then set off to collect his horse, the bridle swinging between his fingers.

  The spring air carried a hint of warmth. In another two months the Cup would be run. He’d be watching from the hill, not cheering Jefferson to victory as he’d hoped, but soaking up the atmosphere and learning everything he needed to know. Kilhampton would have his money so fast, even if it meant he had to work every hour God sent until he held Jefferson’s papers in his hands and could submit them to the Victoria Racing Club.

  He skirted the courtyard and the house, not wanting to have to explain himself to anyone, least of all Peggy with her uncanny knack of seeing right through him. It was Violet’s coy twitter that caught his attention. ‘Oh, Cecil!’

  Cecil? Cecil Bryce. It had to be. Kilhampton’s words echoed in his head. An air of respectability. Not convict stock. Money, society, connections.

  Violet and the pompous fool on the wooden bench under the apple tree in the sunshine. What was he doing here?

  Jim ducked around the corner of the stable block and cast another glance just in time to see India lifting her skirts and running across the courtyard. She skittered to a halt in front of Violet and Cecil, a radiant smile on her face. A shaft of jealousy far worse than any pain from his altercation with Kilhampton stopped him in his tracks as she clasped both Cecil’s hands. The buffoon’s face turned brick red as she leant in and dropped a kiss on his whiskery cheek. He hadn’t wasted much time.

  Hands thrust deep in his pockets Jim stomped off. Ten minutes to get Jefferson and he would be out of the bloody place. But for his father he wished he’d never returned to Helligen Stud.

  When he reached the first fence he stopped and rested his arms along the top rail. This was where he’d sat with India on that first day as she explained her hopes and dreams. She wanted to breathe life into the place, breed the best horses and enter them on the racetrack. He’d never imagined he’d share a common goal with a Kilhampton. In this very spot he’d said he would help her.

  It was obvious she no longer needed any assistance from him. She’d got Cecil Bloody Bryce to do that and besides, there was something more important than India Kilhampton. His pride. He squared his shoulders. He’d almost lost all sense of self-worth and dignity amongst the Kilhamptons. What had possessed him? He’d buried the hunger that burnt deep within him and become enmeshed in their lives. It was over. He would do what he’d promised. Rise above his birth and be his own man, subject to no master. He’d come so close to becoming a replic
a of his father, suffering at the hands of the Kilhamptons.

  Something inside India burst free and she laughed aloud with the relief of it. Cecil and Violet made the perfect couple. Both of them loved Sydney, they would have everything they wanted and so would she. Who would have thought the solution could be so simple?

  ‘I’m so happy for you both. I’ll see you later. I have one more thing I need to do.’

  ‘And we—’ Cecil grasped Violet’s hand in both of his and patted it, ‘—are absolutely delighted for you.’

  ‘I do think, though,’ Violet simpered, ‘you should go to your room and get changed first. After all, if you’re going to run Helligen you need to look the part. Even your gauchos would be more appropriate than that very dirty, blood-splattered evening dress. I’m sure if you give it to Jilly she can do something with it. Mind you, I have to say the colour suits you. It highlights your eyes.’

  ‘I don’t have time,’ India threw the words over her shoulder. ‘I have to go and find Jim, before he leaves.’

  She crossed the courtyard and rapped on the door of the cottage. Receiving no response she tried the handle. The door refused to budge. Frowning, she peered through the window into the bedroom. The faded quilt lay neatly rolled at the end of the bed and there was no sign of Jim. He couldn’t have gone. Not yet. Not without saying goodbye.

  Running across the courtyard she made for the barn. The doors hung open; a sure sign Fred had let the horses out into the paddocks. That’s where Jim would be, getting Jefferson. He wouldn’t leave without telling her. Or would he?

  She slipped around the back of the stable block and headed for the paddocks. Within moments her sodden slippers slipped and the hem of her skirt clung heavy and dripping to her legs. She hitched the material a little higher. Damn Violet for being right. This was the last time she’d dress in anything but gauchos and boots. She would have several pairs made. The dressmaker could take a pattern from the old ones. She ploughed on, the grass getting longer and damper and making her progress nigh on impossible.

  She stopped and pushed back her hair, squinting across the rolling grass into the sun and her heart lifted.

  Jim stood at the fence gazing out, down to the river. Even from a distance she could tell he was lost in thought, see in her mind’s eye the faraway look on his face. The weight of anxiety she’d carried for days lifted and then came crushing back down again. What would he say? Would he accept her proposition? Would he want to remain at Helligen? He might refuse. After all, he’d only come in the first place to find the deed of sale for Goodfellow and prove Jefferson’s lineage. Papa had given him all he sought, or would in exchange for a few pounds.

  Maybe the bond they had was a figment of her imagination, or worse, something he’d manufactured to make his task easier. She stopped, suddenly embarrassed and a little shy.

  Even though she was at least a hundred yards away Jim sensed her presence. He turned and lifted his hand. A farewell? The bridle swung from his hand, and Jefferson and Goodfellow grazed behind him, oblivious to the tumultuous emotions of mere mortals.

  As long as Jefferson remained in the paddock she had time. Jim wouldn’t leave without his horse. He might leave without saying goodbye to her, but not without Jefferson. She repeated the mantra over in her head. Perhaps she should just lift her hand and wave. If he wanted to say more he’d call out, walk to her. What if he turned and left? Then she’d never know.

  She had to find out. Perhaps he’d had a change of heart since that day on the wharf at Morpeth. He was right—it had everything to do with the past and their families—but that was an eternity ago. Before he’d been accused of horse theft, been carted off to gaol; before he’d escaped, before Papa had knocked him senseless in a drunken rage born of past grudges.

  Biting her lip she took one long last look at him and her heart soared. No longer would she be held prisoner by the past; the truth had set her free and the future beckoned. Without a twinge of regret she lifted her silken skirt and flew across the grass.

  ‘Jim! Jim Mawgan!’

  Why did she insist on calling him that? Jim Mawgan was no more. A relic of the childhood he’d once cherished. The name belonged to the world of halcyon dreams and foolish ill-conceived plans where there was no class structure, no haves and have-nots, and no Kilhamptons.

  Jim Mawgan died somewhere on the floor of the barn beneath the soaring roof trusses that matched his infantile notions of right and wrong. Black and white—a world where there was no grey, no grey like the colour of India’s eyes.

  Eyes that right at this very moment were gazing up into his face like the precocious child who’d ridden on her father’s shoulders, convinced everything in the world existed for her own pleasure.

  ‘What are you doing? You can’t leave. Not yet. I have to talk to you.’

  ‘The time for talking is over, India. I’ve got a lot of miles to cover today and I need to make a move.’ He reached for the gate but she beat him to it, insinuated herself between the five bars and his body. Wildflowers, warm summer skies, everything he’d ever wanted and nothing he could have.

  ‘Please, Jim, listen for just a moment. It’s so exciting. I’ve been talking to Mama and Papa and everything, just everything, has changed.’

  What could have changed, what could have brought such a flush to her cheeks and a sparkle to her eyes? The prospect of a marriage to Cecil Bryce? He didn’t want to hear about it.

  ‘I have a job, not just for a year but forever. I am the new manager of Helligen Stud.’ Wonderful. The perfect wedding present for her and her husband-to-be. She performed a small pirouette in front of him, her blue skirt billowing around her.

  He gritted his teeth. ‘Congratulations. I’m very happy for you. I wish you and your husband all the best.’

  ‘My husband? What are you talking about?’

  ‘Cecil Bryce. He looked suitably pleased when I saw you smother him in kisses in the courtyard.’

  ‘Cecil has nothing to do with this. He’s here because he brought Violet and me back from Morpeth. I have to admit he was wonderful. When I went to the gaol I thought that I’d made matters so much worse and he came rushing to the rescue.’

  ‘You went to the gaol?’ What was she talking about?

  ‘Yes. I wanted you to know Papa had dropped the charges against you. But I was too late, you’d already left.’ She stared up into his face, her brow furrowed, and then she smiled.

  His heart performed some sort of backflip and he wrestled it back into place. She had gone to the gaol, to see him. To let him know the charges were dropped. She’d cared enough to do that.

  ‘Oh! In all my excitement I forgot to tell you. Violet and Cecil are to be married.’

  Violet and Bryce?

  ‘Cecil and I were in total agreement. He was so relieved. He and Violet—’

  ‘Excuse me, India, I need to open the gate. Let Jefferson out. I have to be on my way.’ As far away as he could get from Helligen before he made an even bigger fool of himself.

  ‘Jim, listen to me, please.’ Her tiny hand rested on his arm, her grip firmer than he imagined. ‘I won’t be going back to Sydney. I’m going to stay here. Stay and run Helligen. And that’s why I’m here. I want to ask you if you’ll stay. Do you remember the day you arrived and you said you would help me rebuild Helligen?’

  Oh yes! He remembered. He would never forget, but he had no intention of being lured into her world again. A man could take so much, and no more. He didn’t want to be beholden to the Kilhamptons, India, her father, anyone.

  ‘We can make it all real. Our dream. Remember we sat here on this fence on the very first day and you said you would help me. Now we can do it. Oh, please say yes. You don’t want to leave. I’m offering you the job as stud master of Helligen.’

  Stay! How could he stay and recreate the situation that had caused all the problems they’d faced. He would be living his father’s life. He didn’t want to work for her. He wanted to provide for her, marry her
, and be her husband, not her hired lackey. The thought hit him like one of Kilhampton’s punches, right in the kidneys, the truth robbing him of breath.

  But first he had a bill to pay and there was no way he intended to work for Kilhampton and hand over his wages like a bonded servant. No! As much as it would pain him to leave his pride was more important. Was pride a sin? Did it matter? One more to add to the long list of sins he’d committed. He couldn’t do it.

  ‘No, India. I’m leaving.’

  He opened the gate and slipped the bridle over Jefferson’s head, then eased through the gate leaving Goodfellow hanging over the fence with a puzzled expression on his face.

  Not daring to wait a moment longer in case he changed his mind, he set a cracking pace across the paddock, Jefferson trotting by his side in an attempt to keep up. He had to go, leave before he weakened, before he remembered her soft skin, the feel of her in his arms …

  ‘You told me in Morpeth the only thing standing between us was the past.’ Her voice, loud and irate, stopped Jefferson in his tracks. Jim tugged the bridle, the horse stood firm. India didn’t. Puffing with exertion, or maybe emotion, she caught up.

  ‘The past has been sorted out. Mama and Papa have resolved their differences, put it behind them. Why can’t we?’

  His temper snapped. ‘Why, India? You ask me why? Can’t you understand that I want you as my wife? As an equal. Not as your hired hand, someone who answered your advertisement. Filled a vacant position.’ There he’d said it.

  Her face paled, her eyes widened and she sank down into the long grass, a blue pile of soggy silk. Like an injured bird, head hanging, shoulders slumped.

  He couldn’t stop. She had to understand. ‘Besides, Jim Mawgan answered your advertisement. Not James Cobb. I’m not the person you believe me to be.’ His pain made him cruel.