by Téa Cooper
Before she’d reached Mama Anya caught her and carried her, kicking and screaming, to her own room. She’d bathed her face and stroked her back until the tears subsided. Then she’d told her to sleep and soon she could tell her mother of her day. And so began the afternoon visits and the words she repeated every day: I’ve come to see Mama and tell her about my day.
The clock on the mantel struck five as if to remind her of her duty. She closed the old book and rearranged the paperwork on the desk. She stood, pushed the leather chair back, squared her shoulders and left the room. The door closed behind her with a gentle click and she made her way up the stairs.
Nine
Jim followed the circular patterns India traced with her fork on the white damask tablecloth.
Eyes the colour of storm clouds studied him. ‘Do you have everything you need?’
Her question startled him. A simple inquiry about his accommodation and his wellbeing, or was she hinting at something more? He couldn’t tell her he needed the stud records. Then he’d have to admit to his previous association with Helligen and his father’s unceremonious departure. Did she remember his family? Taking a punt, influenced by the formality of the dining room, he took her words at face value. ‘Yes, thank you. The cottage is far more than I need. It’s very comfortable.’
Her gaze narrowed as she completed another circular movement with the prongs of the fork. ‘No-one has used the place since the last stud master and his family left. We …’ Her words trailed off as Peggy bustled in wheeling a timber trolley laden with steaming bowls of vegetables and a platter piled high with chicken. She parked it next to the table and began unstacking. ‘And where’s Miss Violet, then? I heard you call her.’
‘She’ll join us in a moment,’ India said. ‘I told her dinner was ready on my way downstairs.’
‘I’m here.’
Jim shot to his feet, fumbling to steady his chair and prevent it falling. Putting down the silver fork India raised her eyes to his and suppressed a grin. ‘Jim, may I introduce my sister, Miss Violet Kilhampton.’
‘A pleasure.’ Remembering his manners, Jim dropped his napkin onto the table and escorted the girl hovering in the doorway to her seat.
‘Thank you.’ She sat and lowered her thick lashes then arranged her skirt. ‘Please sit down.’ Violet folded her hands neatly in her lap and smiled at nothing in particular.
The two sisters were as different as night and day. Where India stood tall and slim, Violet reclined small and soft. She had the palest blonde ringlets he had ever seen and her eyes were, as her name suggested, pure violet. Not the grey-blue of her sister’s, but a vivacious purple. Violet was a china doll in a cabinet, painted and perfect, whereas India sparkled, alive as the sun on water.
Only Peggy’s huffing and puffing as she served each of them broke the rather uncomfortable silence. Once she’d deposited the two bowls in the centre of the table she sat down. She crossed herself before passing the vegetables to India and the potatoes to Violet who pushed the bowl aside.
As India spooned the beans and carrots onto her plate she met his gaze. ‘Violet has just finished school.’
Dragging his thoughts from his contemplation of the two sisters, Jim said the first thing that came into his head. ‘I expect you’re pleased to be home, Miss Violet.’
India’s eyes grew round like the plates on the table before him and her lips twitched.
‘You are quite wrong.’ Violet’s high-pitched voice, scratchy not melodious or lyrical, rang out in the formal room.
In an attempt to continue the conversation Jim plucked an inanity from the air. ‘May I say how elegant you look this evening?’ His pathetic attempt at social conversation made him cringe. He belonged in the stables not in a dining room with polite company. ‘It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.’ He couldn’t help himself. Despite the delicious smell of Peggy’s roast chicken his appetite deserted him.
Violet gave a little giggle and patted her perfect ringlets. ‘You told me you were employing an overseer, India. I didn’t expect him to be such a ladies’ man.’
India raised her eyebrows, her eyes twinkling as she slipped a slice of carrot between her lips. Taking a sip of water Jim searched for something else to say. In future he’d take his meals in the kitchen with Peggy, or in his own quarters, where words meant what they said. This language of gestures and raised eyebrows was more difficult than the speech of the natives. Right at this moment he’d rather be breaking a fickle filly to the saddle than attempting to entertain the women who sat across the table from him. These squattocracy games were way out of his league.
‘Miss Violet will be living at Helligen from now on.’ Peggy threw him a lifeline. He owed her.
Giving it one last try, he said, ‘I’m sure you’re delighted.’
The clatter of silverware hitting fine bone china resounded through the room. ‘No! I am not. I have been dragged to the back of beyond by a conspiracy between my father and my sister. They are determined to prevent me from finding a husband.’
At a loss for words Jim cut a piece of chicken and speared it with his fork.
‘I might as well be locked up in St Vincent’s asylum, or better still Bedlam.’
‘That is enough.’ India pushed up from the table. ‘I will not countenance this appalling behaviour.’
Violet’s eyes narrowed and she stumbled to her feet. The air crackled as they glared at each other, their hands flat on the damask tablecloth, their shoulders tensed and their faces flushed.
‘Girls!’ Peggy’s voice cut through the charged atmosphere.
Violet straightened up and flung back her chair. ‘If it hadn’t been for you and your misbegotten plans we would both be living in Sydney enjoying a far happier life, instead of rattling around in this mausoleum dying of boredom.’ She ran from the room, slamming the door behind her.
Jim moved around the table and with exaggerated care lifted the upturned chair from the carpet. The cloying scent of Violet’s perfume hovered in the air at odds with the homely aroma of roast chicken.
India sank back into her seat, eyes closed. One elbow rested on the table supporting her chin and her fork dangled loosely from the fingers of her left hand.
Unperturbed Peggy covered a piece of chicken with gravy and popped it into her mouth.
‘I apologise. I didn’t mean to cause such an upset,’ Jim offered. The fraught silence was almost worse than Violet’s outburst.
India opened her eyes and with great care placed her fork onto her plate. ‘Please don’t apologise, Jim. It’s nothing of your making.’
‘Nothing a good spanking wouldn’t cure.’ Peggy munched her chicken. ‘Coming back from Sydney full of all those highfalutin ideas of her own importance.’
‘Peggy, it’s not Violet’s fault.’
India’s wan smile twisted his gut.
‘I shouldn’t have insisted she came back to Helligen. You know how difficult she finds it here.’
‘That’s all well and good but who’s going to look after her in Sydney? If she wants to live there then she’d better find herself a husband.’
Jim chased the remains of his food around the plate. The small successes of the day and the delight of spending time with India had turned cold and greasy like the chicken on his plate.
‘You’ve hardly eaten anything. Big strapping bloke like you needs his food.’ Peggy pushed the platter of meat towards him.
His stomach roiled. The blatant aggression in Violet’s display had dissolved his hunger pangs faster than the biggest meal. ‘No, thank you, Peggy.’ He concentrated on the remaining food on his plate; the congealed gravy and the cold vegetables stared back at him. Following India’s lead he placed his knife and fork together on the plate and wiped his mouth on his napkin.
‘Perhaps I can tempt you both with a little bread and butter pudding.’ Not waiting for an answer Peggy loaded the plates and bowls onto her trolley. ‘I’ll be right back.’ Accompanied by the squeak of t
he wheels Peggy pushed the contraption out the door and down the hallway.
For a few moments Jim sat motionless. India took several small sips of water, rearranged the remaining cutlery in front of her and eased back in her chair. When she lifted her head her eyes were full of pain and almost black. More than anything else he wanted to assure her everything would be well.
‘As you can see—’ her raspy voice hid unshed tears and she took another sip of water, ‘—life at Helligen isn’t a bed of roses.’
‘Family tiffs happen. Please don’t be embarrassed.’ The possibility his presence or words had sparked Violet’s outburst weighed on his mind. ‘I’m mortified to think I caused Violet such distress. Obviously my social skills are lacking.’ No wonder Violet would rather be in Sydney, forced to sit at the dinner table with the cook and a stablehand.
‘Jim, please don’t take it upon yourself, you will only make me feel even worse. Violet is upset, beyond upset, with me. She didn’t want to come home, however, I insisted. You’ve seen for yourself the state of disrepair the property is in. It mirrors our life.’
Jim stood, walked around the table and moved Violet’s vacant chair closer to India. He sat and rested his arms on the tablecloth. Her face, usually so alive and animated, was pale and wan and her head slumped. ‘I’ve got broad shoulders and they say a problem shared is a problem halved.’
India gave a watery smile. ‘I don’t think I’d know where to begin.’
‘It doesn’t have to be the beginning, just wherever you feel you are at the moment.’ The impulse to reach out and touch her was almost more than he could control. She needed consolation but it wasn’t for the stablehand to provide.
The incongruity of his situation struck him. Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined he’d find himself concerned for the wellbeing of one of the Kilhamptons. To see India struggling cut him to the bone. He’d returned for one reason and one reason only—to discover Jefferson’s lineage. Without it he couldn’t enter him in any reputable race, nor could he stand him at stud. As soon as he found the information he needed he intended to leave.
The chair scraped and India sat tall and raked back her long hair. The lamplight caught the amber highlights and returned the colour to her cheeks. ‘Thank you. I feel I owe you an explanation. You can’t be expected to do a job without knowing what it entails.’ Her eyes flashed. ‘I am determined to get Helligen back on its feet. In a way Violet is right. This place is like a mausoleum. That’s why Papa left. Why he sent Violet and me away to school. I want Helligen to be as it once was—a home and the best horse stud in the area. I want to breed racehorses.’
Jim started. Their dreams were no different. He could only imagine the cost and responsibilities involved in a property of such size and it was unusual for a woman to be taking it on. ‘And your father left you to manage the stud?’ Kilhampton must have paid scant attention to the effects his actions had on those around him. His own father would have vouched for that.
‘Why is that so unusual? Before her accident Mama ran the property while Papa attended to his business matters in Sydney. She’s no longer capable and it is my responsibility. It’s the obvious solution. Things might look run-down but the structure is here, and as always there’s a demand for good horses. We still have the stock, as long as I don’t keep selling animals to pay the bills.’
‘And that’s where I come in.’
‘That’s where you come in.’ She rested her hand flat on the table.
Acting on instinct he covered it with his own. ‘We can make this work. Look how much we managed today.’
Peggy’s trolley squeaked its way across the polished floorboards of the hallway. He lifted his hand with a sense of regret.
‘Bread and butter pudding. Everyone’s favourite.’ Peggy’s lips twitched, and he had no doubt her bright eyes noted their proximity. ‘I’ve taken some up to Miss Violet. She’s in her room sulking. I told her to stay there until she learns some manners.’
‘That’s a bit harsh.’ India pushed her chair back. ‘I’ll go upstairs and talk to her.’
‘You’ll do no such thing. What that girl needs is to understand she’s not the most important person in the world. Besides, you’re talking business.’ Her face broke into a dubious grin.
‘Indeed we are. Tomorrow will be day one of the new breeding program. Give it twelve months and just as I promised Papa, a whole new herd of animals will be frolicking in our paddocks.’
Peggy poured the golden custard over a generous helping of pudding and placed it in front of India. ‘Eat up. You’ve got a busy day ahead of you tomorrow.’
The soothing smell must have restored India’s appetite. Once he had his plate in front of him she picked up her spoon, grinned and tucked in.
Perhaps Jim was right. Having shared only a small part of her concerns the future already looked brighter. India sneaked a look at him from under her lashes. Would he have dropped his hand from hers so quickly if Peggy hadn’t come bundling into the room? His warm and welcoming touch soothed her. Sitting side by side instead of staring at each other across the table stripped the room of the false formality Violet’s presence had created.
Her buoyant mood of the afternoon returned and with it the belief Peggy was right, too. She would stop pandering to Violet’s tantrums and leave her to her own devices. If Violet wasn’t going to be any help then at least she could ignore her and prevent her being a hindrance. She put down her spoon. ‘Thank you, Peggy.’ Wiping her mouth she turned to Jim. He was so close the stubble on his tanned cheeks was visible. It gave him a disreputable air she rather liked.
‘If you can spare me an hour or so I’ve located the studbook and perhaps you could give me some advice. I’d like to begin making plans tomorrow. It should be our first priority.’
‘I think it’s a perfect idea.’ Two bright spots of colour flared on his cheekbones as he pushed his chair back from the table and began to rise. ‘Thank you for a delicious meal, Peggy.’
‘Come with me and I’ll show you the library. It’s the office now.’
India led the way through the double doors into the library at the front of the house. The scent of Papa’s tobacco still hung in the air and the soft light from the desk lamp bathed the room in a comforting glow.
Ten
An enormous hand clenched Jim’s heart and a cold sweat peppered his forehead. The massive oil painting hanging over the fireplace dominated his very being. He forced some air into his starved lungs.
The bay horse in the centre of the framed canvas stood proud between the two fig trees leaving no doubt where it had been painted. A perfect anatomical representation of a thoroughbred in his prime. It might have been Jefferson.
He bunched his fists defying the impulse to reach out and touch the painting. The carriage of the animal’s head and the proud arch of his neck were as familiar to him as the lines on his own hand. Even the black markings on the legs replicated Jefferson’s. There was no doubt. He didn’t need to read the small silver plate screwed to the frame. He knew what it would say. Nevertheless, he couldn’t resist.
Goodfellow: Sire Helligen Park 1840–1850
‘That’s Goodfellow, Papa’s horse. He was his pride and joy.’
Jim winced and turned, a knot tightening in his stomach. The dates couldn’t be right. ‘What happened to him?’
‘He had to be put down. He broke a leg.’
The pounding in Jim’s ears threatened to block out her words. How could Goodfellow be dead? He was at Munmurra grazing in the paddock behind the stables. He’d groomed him only a week ago. Goodfellow sired Jefferson four years ago.
‘He’s buried under the fig trees.’ She gestured to the front of the house.
Sucking in a deep breath Jim continued to stare, mesmerised. ‘He’s a beautiful horse.’ His father’s dying words echoed. I did something I’m not proud of. Right the wrongs of the past before they shatter your dreams. ‘What happened to him?’
‘There was
an accident. He reared and threw my mother, badly injuring her. We never knew exactly how the accident occurred. Papa held our stud master responsible. When they found Mama she was insensible. She’d cracked her skull. Goodfellow’s leg was broken. He had to be shot. Papa lost his horse, his wife and his son in a matter of days.’
And my father lost his life’s work into the bargain, but not Goodfellow. How could two stories differ so? His father owned Goodfellow. Kilhampton had transferred the injured animal to him, in lieu of wages. After his wife’s accident he no longer intended to run the property as a stud. Jim’s mind spun. For a moment he was tempted to tell India his real name. How connected their families were. Maybe with two heads together they could solve this strange puzzle.
‘This is the studbook.’
He swallowed the bitter taste in his mouth and turned from the portrait.
‘I found it this afternoon.’ India moved the pile of paperwork and revealed the leather-bound ledger.
The picture was so clear. His father in front of the fire, a pencil in his hand, entering the names of the horses. He’d repeat them, labouring over the spelling. The smell of the yellowing paper was as familiar as bread and butter pudding, the crackle of the fire in the grate or his mother’s gentle touch.
His fingers itched. India held, in her hands, the very reason for his return to Helligen. If he found a deed of sale he could prove his ownership; he could dispute India’s story. Goodfellow had not died. Was not buried underneath the wretched fig trees. He cast a look out the window at the sinister buttress roots nursing untold secrets.
He forced a casual note into his voice. ‘When was the last mating on the property?’
‘Over ten years ago. We’ve sent some animals out since then but nothing on the property.’ She rifled through a series of papers on the desk and produced a smaller book, resting it on top of the studbook. ‘Father sold three of the stallions while Violet and I were in Sydney and several of the mares and their offspring.’
