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.’
Jim ran his hand across his chin and studied the book. It was exactly the same as the one he’d found in the old office that he’d tucked at the bottom of his saddlebag. Would a record of the sale be here? Forcing his mind back to India he said, ‘It doesn’t leave you with a lot of choice. Which horses do you intend to use?’
‘I was hoping you could help me with that.’
She pulled a chair from the corner of the room and sat down, then gestured to another chair.
‘May I look?’ His voice snagged on the words as he waited. Had she noticed his shaking hands, his eagerness?
India slid the ledger onto the corner of the desk and opened it. His father’s neat cursive script and meticulous figures filled the pages. He craned across the desk. Nothing that resembled a deed of sale or transfer. His hopes plummeted.
‘If you turn to the back of the book it’s all listed there.’ India flicked the pages. She started as his wrist brushed against her arm, and then she pulled back and walked to the window leaving him alone.
His thudding heartbeat drowned out the hiss of the lamp. He flicked to the back of the book where the spider-like lines indicated the ancestry of each of the mares and stallions. The faded writing blurred. He would abuse this trust she’d placed in him. This may not be the sales record but it would show Jefferson’s lineage.
Oblivious to his rising excitement she stared out the window, her eyes fixed on the night vista. The lines of neatly inscribed names: sires, dams and offspring burned like a brand in his mind. He turned to the very back of the book. Somewhere in this tome lay the information he needed and once he’d found it his job would be done. He could fulfil his father’s dying wish—and, if truth be known, his own dream.
Flicking from the front to the back of the book he cross-referenced the entries until he found Goodfellow’s name. Sire, dam, grand sire, grand dam. He ran his fingers down the names. The founding stock of Australia. The horse was a wonder. To think Kilhampton had wanted him destroyed. Why would he part with an animal like that?
‘Have you come to any conclusions?’ India spoke from across the room. ‘I would like to begin breeding as soon as possible and ensure spring births next year.’ She wandered back to the desk and trailed her long fingers along the tooled leather.
Dragging his mind from the past he concentrated on her words. ‘We will check all the females and I suggest we divide them into groups with a male. Paddock mating might be better. It places less stress on the males and the younger fillies will feel less threatened in the company of the experienced mares.’
‘That sounds perfect. We’ll start tomorrow.’ She yawned.
Disgusted by his duplicity, he took the opportunity she offered. ‘Why don’t you leave me here to go over the records and I’ll group the mares and check the lineage. Tomorrow I’ll give you a list of suggestions and see if you agree.’
India nodded. ‘You’re right, I’m tired. It’s been a long day. I’ll leave it with you. Please turn off the lamp and close the door when you’ve finished.’ She took a step closer and offered her hand then withdrew it as though she thought better of it. ‘Goodnight Jim, and thank you.’
No. Thank you.
As the door closed behind her Jim returned to the ledger. If he found the deed of sale and transcribed Jefferson’s heritage he would have all he required. Jefferson would race in the Melbourne Cup in November.