But riding close behind it was the guilt he felt for Thomas Gerald, now floundering around in London, looking to rebuild his life. His young love, Sally Palmer, would return to Australia — as a convict this time. The woman had poisoned his horse, abducted his sister, and attempted murder. It had taken the weight of Marshall’s influence to save her from the gallows. He couldn’t help but pity the anguish Thomas must feel at losing her. Indeed, he could empathize all too well.
“If you don’t mind my asking,” Hornsby said, pulling Marshall from his thoughts, “what was all this about poisoned horses and whatnot? Not that I would expect a stupid journalist to get anything botanical correct, but something in the report in the paper struck me as off.”
With his elbow propped on the arm of the chair, Marshall rested his forehead against his fingertips. He was exhausted, and loathe to discuss recent events yet again. Nor was he particularly interested in Hornsby’s drunken insights, which probably sounded more sensible in his addled mind.
The portly man clinked the decanter against his glass as he refilled his beverage. “Why don’t you tell me? What happened all those years ago?”
Marshall raised his head to meet a surprisingly penetrating gaze. Hornsby’s esteem for him would come crashing to earth when he heard the truth, but what did it matter? The pain of losing Isabelle had dulled his response to everything else. Losing the regard of someone like David Hornsby would not even register.
He shrugged and related the story of his father’s ailing mare, and his desire to help induce her foaling. “I cooked up the medicine. Thought I’d used juniper berries. Thomas Gerald fed it to the horse, because she wouldn’t let anyone else approach her. A short time later, her womb ruptured, and she and the foal died. Later, I discovered I’d made a dreadful mistake, and used yew instead of juniper.”
Hornsby grunted. “Yew is nasty business.”
Marshall nodded in agreement.
“However,” Hornsby raised a finger, “as I suspected, you’re completely mistaken about that mare’s demise.”
Marshall’s eyes snapped to his face. “What do you mean?” His words were clipped. “I was right there in the stable when she bled to death.”
“Well, that’s jus’ it.” Hornsby took a long swallow of his drink before continuing. “Yew is deadly stuff, but it don’t cause bleeding, old man — it stops the heart. If you don’t believe me, we can pay a visit to Jeremiah Brodrip, a sheep farmer lives just down the way. He lost several of his flock to accidental yew poisoning this summer. And I tell you, Monty, there was no blood or anything like what you’re talking about with that poor beast all those years back. C’mon, Monty, this is basic stuff. Surely, you know what’s what here.”
Marshall stared, stupefied, at his half-inebriated friend. “I … You’re right. Huh.” Suddenly, he felt cut loose, ungrounded. Everything he’d believed about this one wretched incident was wrong. “It was so sudden, so violent. The screaming and bleeding started seconds after Thomas gave her the medicine. I was so sure it was my fault.”
Hornsby blew through his lips. “If you’d killed that horse with yew, she would’ve dropped dead without spilling a drop of blood. Sounds like your Thomas Gerald didn’t feed her enough of it to do her in. What you’ve got is a foaling gone wrong, nothing more. Unfortunate about that Gerald person being dragged into all this, though he seems a shady sort, anyway.”
Marshall’s gaze floated to the flames crackling in the fireplace. By slow, minute increments, the pain and guilt he’d carried for half his life began to fall away. He hadn’t killed Priscilla and her foal, after all. For an exquisite moment, he was awash in relief.
I have to tell Isabelle, he thought. For an instant, he envisioned the warm smile she’d give him when she heard; he could almost feel the welcome weight of her in his arms when they embraced.
No, there would be none of that. The memory of her last words seared through him again like a red-hot poker. He couldn’t share his news with her, because she despised him for what he’d done. She’d all but sworn to eradicate whatever love she may have felt for him.
He hastily excused himself, claiming a complaint in his wounded leg. In his guest room, he sprawled face-down across the bed while the same tormenting thoughts that had been eating at him for weeks resumed their relentless circuit.
Learning that he’d not been responsible for the mare’s death was welcome news, but it did nothing to fill the hole in his life created by Isabelle’s departure. While reason suggested their separation should have left two plenary individuals in its wake, this was not the case — at least not for Marshall. When Isabelle left, she’d incised out some fundamental part of his being, so that he was now less than he was when they’d been together.