For Your Arms Only by Linden, Caroline (best fiction books to read .TXT) 📗

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?”

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