“I’m sure he’ll be home soon,” she said for her grandmother’s benefit.
“Of course he will.” Granny put down her tea and turned to stare out the front window, the one that faced the road. “Any day.”
He’d better, Cressida thought, staring into her tea, now stone cold in the expensive new teacups Papa had ordered when they moved to Marston. Otherwise they were all sunk.
After tea, when Granny had dozed off in her chair and they had cleared away the tea, Callie followed her to the kitchen. “What was wrong?” she wanted to know, setting down the tray of dirty dishes as Cressida put on her apron. Papa had hired a cook and a pair of maids, but they were all gone now. How fortunate that Cressida and her sister were quite used to having no servants at all. “You just jumped up and ran from the room, and then were gone a quarter hour. Granny remarked on it.”
“Did she?” Cressida poured out the dregs of the tea from the pot. “What did she say?”
Callie sighed. “She thought you might have heard Papa approaching. She’s certain he’ll walk through the door at any moment.”
“If only he would,” she muttered. “I begin to wonder…”
Her sister went still. “To wonder what?”
“To doubt,” Cressida admitted. She picked up a teacup and began to wash it. “He’s never been gone this long without some sort of word, not unless there was a war going on. And then we certainly knew where he was.”
Callie bit her lip and said nothing.
“I heard a horse,” she said bluntly. “Out behind the house. I thought it might be another creditor, so I went out to see. A man was walking around the stables, and I thought he had come to take the horses.”
“Cressida, you shouldn’t go out there by yourself! You should send Mr. Webb—”
“He was busy mending the fence, and there wasn’t time to fetch him. We’ll be even worse off if the sheep get loose. Don’t worry,” she added, seeing Callie’s dismayed expression. “I took Papa’s pistol, just in case.”
Callie gasped. “You pulled a pistol on him?”
She flushed. “I didn’t shoot him, if that’s what you’re worried about. Even Granny would have heard that.” The door creaked open, and Tom came in. At the sight of Callie he stopped short, ducking his head in a hasty bow.
“Mr. Webb, my sister says there was a man on the property, looking at the horses,” Callie said.
He glanced at Cressida, who kept her eyes on the teacup she was wiping. “There was.”
“What are we to do?” When no one answered, Callie threw up her hands. “What aren’t you telling me? Did he take the horses? Did he set fire to the stables? What happened?”
Tom just looked at Cressida, who took her time washing every last crevice of the delicate cup. It would be worth more unchipped, when she had to sell it. “It was our neighbor,” she said.
Callie looked puzzled. “Which one?”
“Major Alexander Hayes,” Tom answered for her. Cressida shot him a dark look.
Callie gasped, her hand flying to her throat. “Oh dear—the dead one?”
“He’s definitely not dead anymore.” Cressida handed the cup to Callie to dry. “And he was looking for Papa.”
There was a long moment of silence in the kitchen, broken only by the splash of water as Cressida washed a plate. The three of them were conspirators, keeping the bad news from Granny that Papa was gone and apparently not coming back. Cressida hated to think that, but every day that he was gone was another day of doubt that he would ever come striding back through the door in his exuberant way, roaring with laughter and bearing gifts for them all. Every day that he was gone, they sank deeper into debt, since Papa had left only a few weeks’ worth of funds. Among the three of them standing silently in the kitchen, they had managed to feed themselves and the animals, but they’d had to let go all the servants and quietly return most of the more frivolous things Papa had bought. They were getting by, but only just, and Cressida knew they were perilously close to slipping beyond that into true difficulty.
“Perhaps I should go after the sergeant,” said Tom at last. “He’s been gone a long time.”
Callie made a soft noise of distress and Cressida shook her head. “I think we’d rather you stay, Tom. Papa…” She paused, steadying her voice. “Papa can look after himself.” I hope…
“Thank you, Mr. Webb,” Callie added in a heartfelt tone. “But I—yes, we would much rather you not go.”
Tom flushed. “Of course, Mrs. Phillips,” he mumbled. He and Callie kept up a formality in address that Cressida had long since discarded. Tom was like a member of the family after all these years. He’d come home with her father from the wars, and with no family of his own to go to, he’d stayed. He had become a man of work around their house in Portsmouth and now the farm, with a much more practical bent than Papa had. Papa could charm an extra pint of ale from even the most hard-hearted innkeeper, but Tom could fix the fence around the sheep pen and start a fire with new wood—infinitely more useful talents, particularly in their present situation.
“Well, the good news is that he wasn’t here to collect on a debt Papa owed him,” said Cressida.
“He said that?”
She frowned at her sister. “No, but how could Papa owe a man who was dead and buried five years ago?”
“Obviously he was not really dead and buried five years ago,” snapped Callie. “He’s had just enough time to find debt markers in the late Mr. Hayes’s things.”
That was true. Papa might have owed money to Frederick Hayes, and his brother could have discovered the note. Cressida sighed. “Perhaps. Tom, could we get by without the horses? They cost a fortune to feed.”
Tom folded his arms and thought a moment. “That’d be the end of farming. Oxen cost just as much and can’t pull a carriage. And you’d have to tell your grandmother.”
With great care Cressida set down the last clean teacup. She didn’t want to tell Granny, who had lived so frugally and even meanly to raise two motherless granddaughters while their father was at war, that they were destitute again. Granny had been happier than any of them to move to Marston almost a year ago, delighted beyond words that Papa’s grand plans had finally paid off and bought them a life of relative comfort and ease. Leaving this country cottage would be hard on Granny, even had it not been a tacit admission that Papa was not coming back any time soon.
“We’ll worry about that if he comes again seeking repayment,” she said softly. “For now, we’ll just…keep on as we are.”
Chapter 4
Cressida’s plans had progressed no further than that when they were abruptly ruined the next morning. In the middle of her morning chores a knock sounded at the front door. Pausing only to pull off her apron—Granny would ring a peal over her head for opening the door in her apron, even if everyone knew the Turners had no more servants and must do the cleaning themselves—she opened the door and inhaled sharply. Standing on the front step was the man who had been in the stable the previous day, the dead man who was not dead.
“Good morning,” he said, doffing his hat with a courteous bow to reveal close-cropped dark hair. Cressida could only stare at him in mute horror.
“Is there someone—? Oh!” Callie had come up behind her. Cressida couldn’t seem to look away from the visitor, even when she felt her sister’s gaze on her. He looked different in the sunlight: taller, cleaner, more commanding. Richer, too; unbidden, the fear that he had come for money owed him clutched at her. They had no money to pay anyone. And he was still looking directly at her with searing blue eyes that seemed to have frozen her mind and tongue.
“Good day, sir,” Callie said after an awkward pause. She poked Cressida in the back as she bobbed a brief curtsey. “May we help you?”
He finally turned that gaze on Callie. “Forgive me for calling unannounced. Alexander Hayes, at your service. I have come on a somewhat delicate matter, involving Sergeant George Turner. This is his home, is it not?”
&
nbsp; Cressida’s knees locked. Oh dear God. A delicate matter. He had come about money. She gripped the dust cloth in her hand until her fingers shook.
“Of course,” Callie said hesitantly. “Please come in. I am Mrs. Phillips, and this is my sister, Miss Cressida Turner. Sergeant Turner is our father.”
Major Hayes bowed again, without looking in Cressida’s direction. Her face feeling like wood, she followed Callie’s example and bobbed a curtsey. A fine sort of gentleman he turned out to be. Vulture, she thought wildly, even though she knew it was unjust. If the Hayes family had lent Papa money, they deserved to be repaid. She just didn’t know how she would do it.
She followed Callie and Major Hayes into the parlor, which thankfully she had already dusted. In fact, the dust cloth was still in her hand, and she hastily dropped it on her chair and sat on it, trying to calm her thundering pulse. Perhaps she should have told him to just take the horses the other day…
“I have come at the request of Colonel Lord Augustus Hastings,” said the major when he had taken a seat. “I believe you wrote to him inquiring after your father.” Callie shot a worried look at Cressida, but slowly nodded. Major Hayes smiled a little, a kind, reassuring smile. Not at all like a vulture. “He has asked me to look into your father’s disappearance, and to see if I might be of assistance to your family.”
“Why didn’t you say this earlier?” Cressida said before she could stop herself. He had come to help them, not to beggar them—oh, if only she had known that yesterday! She had pointed the pistol at him before he could explain anything, it was true, but if he had mentioned his connection to Hastings or his intentions, she certainly wouldn’t have kept pointing it at him.
He turned those deep blue eyes on her, and she wished she hadn’t spoken. “I was somewhat discomposed when we met previously, Miss Turner. Forgive me.”
“Of course,” she muttered. If he had been discomposed, what would describe her feeling now? Regret, that she had almost shot a man who came in response to her letter? She could hardly apologize for that now, with Callie glancing curiously between the two of them. Cressida dug her fingernails into her palms. No, it wasn’t regret; more like red-faced embarrassment. Had she really called him a vulture, even if only in her mind? She resolved to let Callie, the more temperate sister, speak from now on.
“That is very good of you, sir,” her sister said when Cressida sat in resolute silence. “Lord Hastings sent us only a brief note that he knew nothing of what my father might have done after their meeting, and that he would make inquiries.”
Major Hayes nodded. “I was informed of your situation and asked to make those inquiries. I know only the bare facts, though, and anything you can tell me would be a great help.”
Callie cleared her throat and looked down. “Yes. Thank you. I—We—That is, my father left four months ago. He had gone to meet Lord Hastings in London, and we expected him to return within a fortnight.”
“Did he send any word after his meeting with Lord Hastings that he would be delayed or planned to stay longer?”
“No.”
The major’s piercing eyes flashed toward Cressida for just a second. “And you did not write to Lord Hastings until a fortnight ago.”
This time Callie turned toward Cressida, silently appealing for help. She wet her lips and reminded herself to be calm and polite. “Our father is not in the habit of telling us his every plan. We did expect him home sooner, but it would not be unusual for him to do…other things.”
“Might those other things delay him three months?”
“Yes,” she said. It didn’t reflect very well on Papa, and she hated telling this stranger that he regularly took off on unexplained larks, but there was no point in hiding it, and she was beginning to run out of patience with her father anyway. “Sometimes.”
“Ah.” He was still looking at her. “And do you usually worry?”
Cressida felt the blood rush to her cheeks. Did they often write to senior military officers and ask for helping finding him, was what the major meant. “Not normally, no.”
“If I may be so bold, what has alarmed you this time?”
He knew, she thought; he knew it was because they were running out of money. “He has never been gone this long,” said Callie, diplomatically stepping into the breach. “We’ve had no word from him, and he did say he would return soon. We wrote to Lord Hastings in the hope Papa might have mentioned something to indicate where he had gone.”
“Of course. I hope I may be of assistance in locating him soon. As I’ve no acquaintance with your father, it would be most helpful if you could describe him, sketch his character for me, to give me an idea where to begin.”
Cressida bristled, although she tried to hide it. How was this man going to find Papa when he didn’t know the first thing about him? “He’s my height,” she began in a flat voice. “Dark, like my sister, and very fit. If there is a gathering in the pub sharing ale, my father will be in the center of it, laughing and talking with everyone. He’s clever and very amiable, the sort of fellow everyone likes.”
Alec listened closely as she spoke, absorbing every detail available. The two sisters were nervous, although the taller one, whom he had met the other day across her pistol, was also angry—at whom, he wasn’t certain, although from the way her eyes flashed when she looked his way, he was sure her opinion of him had not improved overnight. The other lady, Mrs. Phillips, was the prettier sister, with wide dark eyes and a delicate face. Her hands were slender and graceful, and the pile of curls atop her head gave her the appearance of a willowy flower.
Miss Turner, though, was more interesting. From her clenched hands to her rigid posture, he saw more of interest in her than in anything about her sister. Aside from the fact that she was not pleased to see him—perhaps out of instinctive dislike, perhaps out of embarrassment for her behavior the previous day—he could tell she was holding herself tightly in check. That alone made her intriguing, but Alec knew it was more than that.
He had to work at keeping his eyes away from her, in fact. She wasn’t beautiful, but rather striking—not just for her height, which was quite tall for a woman, but for the fire in those extraordinary eyes. There was no name for that color, he thought, because it wasn’t just one color but a changeable swirl of gold and brown, like a kaleidoscope. He had a feeling her eyes mirrored her thoughts, maybe more than she knew. She and her sister were both hiding something, of course. It could have been as mundane as a lack of money, but for all the fire in Miss Turner’s gaze, Alec didn’t think she was rash or foolish. Something had made her take a pistol into the stable and point it at him without even asking what he was about. He wondered what they weren’t telling him about their father, or themselves, or their situation.
“Is there anyone else who might know Sergeant Turner and his habits?” he asked. So far neither woman had said anything he hadn’t already known or guessed. Turner was a bit of a scoundrel, but a lovable one.
They shared a glance. “Our mother died many years ago,” said Mrs. Phillips. “Our grandmother lives with us, but she is not well.”
“I am sorry to hear it. Perhaps when she is recovered—”
“She is not physically ill,” said Miss Turner. “She is just…not herself. I don’t think she’ll be able to tell you anything useful about Papa.”
“Ah.” Perhaps the old lady’s mind was not strong. Perhaps something had occurred to unhinge her. Alec tucked the thought away for future investigation. “Then I shan’t disturb you any longer.”
“What do you plan to do?”
He smiled briefly at Miss Turner’s terse question. “Ask about. It’s been a while since Sergeant Turner was in Marston, so it may take some time.”
Mrs. Phillips shot to her feet. “Thank you, sir,” she said in a rush. “It was very kind of Lord Hastings to send you.”
“It is my pleasure,” he replied, still looking at Miss Turner even as he rose. She had pursed her lips in unveiled skepticism. “Good da
y, Mrs. Phillips. Miss Turner.” He bowed and left, trying to shake the image of those golden brown eyes.
“So.” Callie folded her arms and gave Cressida a stern look when he was gone. “You threatened to shoot him.”
She ignored that look and occupied herself with running the dust cloth along the already-clean table. “Obviously I was wrong. But what else was I to do? He certainly didn’t tell me all…” She waved one hand. “All that!”
There was a long pause. “You also did not mention he was so handsome.”
Cressida shrugged. “Do you really think so? He’s awfully…tall.”
“I have never seen eyes so blue. And yes, he looks very well indeed for a man who was, as you said, dead and buried five years ago.”
“I thought he had come to take our horses.” Guilt pinched her again; had she really threatened a man on such a quick assumption? That man?
“If he did take a horse, at least it would save us the expense of keeping it. And now someone will be out looking for Papa. Perhaps we shall pull through after all.”
Cressida heard the fearful hope in her sister’s voice and closed her eyes. “It seems very odd for Lord Hastings to send him.”
“Well, perhaps,” Callie slowly agreed. “But surely Lord Hastings wouldn’t send someone unsuitable…”
Cressida snorted. “No, he sent a man thought dead these last few years—dead, and a traitor as well. What would be odd about that?”
“Do you not want his help?” Her sister sounded frightened. “What choice do we have?”
She didn’t answer, just shrugged again. Perhaps there was no choice, but something about the major set her on edge. Cressida didn’t like feeling flustered or slow-witted, and he made her feel both.
After a moment, Callie tilted her head and looked thoughtfully into space. “Too tall? I should think you liked being able to look a man in the eye for once.”
For Your Arms Only Page 4
