For Your Arms Only

by Linden, Caroline

  “I’m sure it will be a lovely evening,” said Callie wistfully as they cleared the table. “But we’ve really nothing to wear.”

  “No.” Cressida felt a mixture of relief and resignation. Relief that she wouldn’t be required to face the major any sooner than three days hence, resignation because…Well, because she hated being poor and shabby and it would have been nice to go to a fine party. But, like much else in life, it couldn’t be helped. She told herself she would send a polite refusal in the morning.

  But she still hadn’t written it by midday, when Tom came into the kitchen and handed her a package.

  “What is this?” She pulled the string. She hadn’t asked him to purchase anything, not when they didn’t have any money. The package was round and soft, like a cushion, and wrapped in a generous length of linen. Tom didn’t answer, and was halfway to the door by the time she got the string off and unfolded the linen to reveal a bundle of silk the color of spring roses.

  “Oh, Tom!” She was almost speechless. The silk spilling out of the linen wrapping was far finer than anything Papa had ever bought them. “What on earth…?”

  “You and Mrs. Phillips need nice dresses.”

  “But—Tom, wait!” Hand on the doorknob, he stopped and turned back, eyebrows raised. Cressida stroked the silk, unable to repress a sigh at the cool softness of it. Underneath the rose she saw a shimmer of blue-green, like water captured in fabric form. “I can’t pay for this,” she blurted out.

  “Do you not like the colors?”

  “Yes! No! It’s beyond beautiful, but—”

  “’Tis my gift to you both,” he said. “For the party. I wanted you to have enough time to make something nice.”

  “Tom…” She shook her head to clear the haze of delight, and carefully folded the linen back around the shimmering fabric. “It’s too much.”

  “That’s my decision,” he answered gruffly. “I sold a few of my consuls and had some coins in my pocket when I saw the bolts in the shop, and thought it would become you well. I’ve still got my pension,” he said at her expression. “Don’t worry about me. You told me I’ve been like a brother to you, aye? Can’t a brother give his sister a gift?”

  Not when the gift cost this much. And she had called him a brother years ago, when she was still a girl. Cressida realized this was more than a brotherly gift. Tom knew how tight their finances were. He hadn’t sold his consuls to buy silk for her and Callie, but to help feed them. In that light, this expense was even more outrageous, but the gift was so touching she couldn’t bear to argue with him about it. She bit her lip and nodded. “Thank you, Tom.”

  The corner of his mouth crooked upward, then he slipped through the door. Cressida caressed the bundle of silk, already thinking of the dresses they could make. The rose would look best on Callie, of course, with her darker hair and eyes, but the blue-green was the most beautiful color she’d ever seen. For one night, at least, they wouldn’t look like the poorest people in town.

  It also sealed her fate regarding the party. There was no way she could refuse to go now—and if she was very honest with herself, she was not sorry the decision had been made for her. She hugged the package close to her chest and ran up the stairs in search of Callie, who was mending in her room.

  Her sister’s eyes widened in amazement when Cressida showed her the silk. “Where did you get it?” She stroked it lightly.

  Cressida hesitated. “Tom gave it to me—to us.”

  Callie’s hand froze. “How on earth?”

  “I think he would be gravely insulted if we refused. He knows how things stand. He said it was a gift, like from a brother to a sister.” Callie put her hand back in her lap, looking troubled. Cressida sank onto the opposite chair. “He said we should go to the Hayes party, and needed something to look nice.”

  “That was his reason?”

  Cressida nodded.

  Callie chewed her lip. “We are not Mr. Webb’s sisters. Granny would not approve of us accepting such a gift from him.”

  “Granny won’t know,” Cressida said bluntly. “If that’s your only basis for objection…”

  “Then you want to go to the party at Penford. I know you, Cressida; if you were set on not going, you would have told Mr. Webb in no uncertain terms, and he wouldn’t have bought this.”

  Again she hesitated. Cressida wasn’t immune to the lure of the blue-green silk, nor to the thought of looking elegant and even lovely in a dress made of it. And if the enigmatic Major Hayes were to see her in it…“Julia is my friend,” she said. “She particularly asked me to go, and Penford is lovely. We’ve little enough to do at nights, except mend and read. Why shouldn’t we have a night out?” Callie’s eyes narrowed at her. Cressida felt the heat rising in her face, but somehow couldn’t stop herself from blundering on. “And perhaps it will help us form a better opinion of Major Hayes and decide if we wish to accept his help in finding Papa.”

  “You are the only one hesitant to accept his help,” Callie pointed out. “What do you have against him?”

  She didn’t even entirely know, beyond the fact that she seemed unable to act sensibly and rationally in his presence. “Don’t you think it odd, that a man who had been thought dead for five years, whom everyone thought to be a traitor, should suddenly reappear? And not just that, but come straight to us and offer to help find Papa? Why would Lord Hastings send him, a man who is likely to be mistrusted by everyone and who must have a great many other things to tend to?”

  “Lord Hastings must have had a good reason…” Callie’s voice trailed off.

  “Well, no one knows what it is.” Cressida sighed, drumming her fingers on the package that lay across her lap. “Even Julia said she doesn’t know if we can trust him.”

  Callie touched the silk again. “I think we have little choice. You yourself said we have no idea where Papa might have gone, or why. Major Hayes is the only person who has offered help, and we need it. The rent is due in a fortnight, we’re about to lose our horses, we still owe half the merchants in town, and we have only a small income. We’ll be cast on the parish if Papa doesn’t return soon.”

  “I know.” Cressida shook her head, shoving aside her reservations. “Very well. I promise to either present a good argument against him, or graciously accept his help, by the day after the party. Because we’re going to go and have a splendid time.”

  “We’ll have to sew through the night.” Callie’s eyes sparkled as she set aside the drab brown dress she had been mending.

  “Get your scissors,” Cressida replied with a grin. “We’re going to look marvelous!”

  For two days they sewed, early in the morning after chores and late into the evening after dinner. Callie, with her eye for fashion, cut the shining silk for two gowns, and Cressida ripped lace from her old best gown for trim. Cressida, who could whip a fine straight seam in no time, did most of the construction work, while Callie turned rosettes on the skirt hems and corded the sleeves with tiny bands of silk. Working with such fine cloth, anticipating the evening awaiting them, their spirits rose above all the worries about money, Papa’s absence, and Granny’s health. Granny sat with them during the day, smiling and laughing with them both, just as they used to do in Portsmouth. Tom sat with them at night, smoking his pipe in the corner and blushing whenever Callie would hold up a sleeve or a skirt and ask his opinion. For two days Cressida didn’t worry about anything but the undeniably exciting prospect of being well-dressed, well-fed, and carefree for an evening.

  When the night arrived, Brighampton was a flurry of activity. Cressida shivered as she pulled the sinfully soft silk over her head, marveling at her appearance. The aquamarine color looked very well against her skin and hair, and the line of the gown flattered even her gangly figure. She turned from side to side, admiring the swing of the skirt and the feel of the silk against her skin, and for a moment she felt beautiful.

  “Hold still, you can bask in your glory in a moment,” said Callie, who was trying to f
asten the buttons on the back of her gown.

  Cressida stopped turning and laughed. “Glory! Next to you, I’m still the plain one.” Callie looked stunning tonight, with her dark curls pinned atop her head and Granny’s gold earrings in her ears. The matching locket was around Cressida’s neck.

  Her sister finished the buttons and gave her a quick pat. Cressida shifted aside and they shared a moment looking at themselves together in the mirror. Both gowns were on the simple side, with little ornamentation, but still fashionable and so gloriously luxurious it almost made her moan in delight. “It’s lovely not to look poor for one night,” said Callie softly, echoing Cressida’s thoughts. “Even if we are.”

  “I think we look utterly smashing,” Cressida declared. “Rich gentlemen will faint dead away at the sight of us, and we shan’t be poor for long.”

  Callie burst out laughing. “We’d better go, then!”

  Tom was waiting with the carriage. Granny, dozing in her chair by the fireplace in the sitting room, woke up to exclaim over how lovely they looked and kiss them both. Granny didn’t want to go with them, and was staying home instead with a neighbor from down the road. But she was still standing in the doorway waving good-bye as Tom drove them down the lane.

  Penford was ablaze with lights. Julia had said it was to be a small party, but Mrs. Hayes still brought the full resources of her estate to bear on the arrangements. Cressida relinquished her light cloak at the door, trying not to gape as she looked around. She had been a guest at Penford before, but never when it looked like this. The wide hallway glowed with candlelight and smelled of the freshly picked roses that graced the marble-topped table in the center of the hall. Penford’s garden was famed throughout Hertfordshire. Mrs. Hayes was there, greeting her guests with a gracious smile. And beside her, tall and dark and almost broodingly somber, stood the major.

  Cressida’s breath seemed to have solidified in her throat. He looked…powerful, as he had never looked before, and at the same time almost dangerously attractive. The dark severity of his evening clothes suited the hard lines of his face and his unfashionably short hair. There was nothing soft or light about him, just a pure masculine appeal that rooted her feet to the floor. He did not look at all like a man to be trifled with—and yet so far she had been rude, abrupt, and querulous to his face. Now she apparently was trying to be stupid as well, as he looked up from shaking the curate’s hand, right into her eyes, and her brain completely stopped. She couldn’t move, speak, or even think as his bright blue eyes held hers. Callie nudged her, and she jolted forward.

  “Are you ill?” whispered her sister.

  “No,” Cressida muttered, flushing at her own awkwardness. She pasted a smile on her face and followed Callie.

  Mrs. Hayes greeted them cordially before turning to her son, standing at her side. “You have already met my son Alexander, I believe,” she said with a smile.

  “Indeed, sir. It is a pleasure to see you again.” Callie curtsied as he bowed over her hand.

  “Mrs. Phillips. Welcome to Penford.” Cressida braced herself. “And Miss Turner.” This time there was a slight curve to his mouth. “Welcome to Penford.”

  “Thank you,” she managed to say as he took her hand.

  “I trust you had a pleasant walk home the other day.”

  He was still holding her hand, still watching her with that secretive gleam in his eye. Callie was speaking to Mrs. Hayes. She had to save herself. Cressida stiffened her spine, flashed her widest smile at him, and said, “Superb, thank you.”

  It worked. His eyebrows went up a fraction of an inch and he straightened, which seemed to let a rush of fresh air between them. Or perhaps it was because she was holding her breath every time he came near her. She hated that feeling, the way her heart seemed to seize and then jump into her throat when he fixed his attention on her. It just wasn’t fair that he could unsettle her so easily.

  “Cressida!” With perfect timing, Julia swooped down on them. “How wonderful to see you,” she cried gaily, clasping Cressida’s hand. The major had released her as soon as Julia called out her name. “Excuse us,” Julia said to her brother as she pulled Cressida away. “Thank heavens you’ve come,” she whispered. She linked her arm around Cressida’s and headed toward the drawing room. “I’ve been expecting you for ages.”

  “We’re not but a quarter hour late,” said Cressida with a shaky laugh. Now that she was away from the major, her heart—and tongue—seemed to work again. “What horror have you had to endure in that time?”

  Julia sighed. “The whole party is a horror. Everyone is being so careful not to say a thing about the last few years, but no one can think of anything else. And Alec! He’s not helping things by being so grim and silent.”

  He hadn’t looked very grim in the hall, when he teased her and held her hand too long. Cressida tried to banish the memory of his long fingers around hers. “What would you have him do?”

  “He could explain himself properly.”

  “What, just stand up in front of everyone and tell all?” She looked around the room, not recognizing most of the guests. After five years, quite likely the major didn’t, either. “That doesn’t seem likely.”

  Julia dipped her head, acknowledging the point. “You don’t know Alec. He has no trouble speaking his mind.”

  Cressida remembered him walking so stealthily and watchfully through her stable, then not saying a word as she aimed her pistol at him. He might not have trouble speaking his mind, but he also had no trouble holding his tongue. In fact, he seemed almost nothing like the man Julia described, and she wondered who was mistaken. “Nor do I,” she said instead. “And I say this is a lovely party, and I thank you for inviting us.”

  “Yes, indeed! Thank you very much, Julia.” Callie had come up beside them, her eyes sparkling and her cheeks flushed. Julia’s expression brightened, and they talked of other things.

  Alec never thought he would miss the French sharpshooters, but as he strolled through the drawing room with his mother, he would far rather have faced a field of Bonaparte’s finest than the thinly veiled curiosity of their guests.

  His mother was intent on telling him all about everyone. “Mr. Edwards, the new curate,” she would murmur. “Perfectly acceptable, but his wife is a little too full of Christian piety. I do believe she beats her children, they are so quiet and still.” And the curate’s wife would curtsey to him with her mouth primly pursed, condescending tolerance writ large on her face. Alec knew this party was really for his mother, to reassert her own pride in him to the world at large, so he simply smiled and bowed until his mother reached the only interesting guests in attendance.

  “Mrs. Phillips and Miss Turner.” Mother clucked her tongue softly. “Very sad.”

  “Oh?” said Alec, his attention caught at last. “How so?”

  “I believe they have been living above their means and are about to suffer a fall. I don’t think it’s been entirely their fault. Their father is quite a spendthrift, and now he’s gone and abandoned them. Julia is well-acquainted with Miss Turner, and she fears the family might lose their home soon.”

  Now that she had given him the excuse, Alec took a long look at Miss Turner. She looked lovely tonight in a shimmering gown of sea green, a golden locket gleaming right above the swells of her breasts. The soft light from the chandelier darkened her hair to the color of chestnuts, but when she turned her head it shone like fresh honey. She was with Julia, listening to his sister with a mischievous little smile that made his stomach tighten. “How unfortunate,” he murmured.

  “Indeed. Still, they are both very amiable ladies.” Mother paused. “Mrs. Phillips in particular.”

  Alec shifted his gaze to look at Mrs. Phillips. She was beautiful in a deep rose gown, but his eyes strayed back to Miss Turner. Not a beauty, that one, but something more. “Yes. I had the pleasure of meeting them both the other day.”

  “Did you?” Her voice rose with interest. “Is that where you go off to? I wo
ndered why you are never about. I should have known, an attractive lady in the neighborhood—”

  “Don’t start matchmaking, Mother,” he said evenly. “I called to offer my assistance in locating Sergeant Turner.”

  She stopped and looked at him in amazement. “Good heavens, I never knew that. Are you acquainted with Sergeant Turner?”

  “No.” She waited expectantly, her wide blue eyes fixed on him. Reluctantly, Alec added, “As a favor for someone in London.”

  “Oh!” She looked delighted, as though she’d been anticipating this moment since he came home. To be fair, she probably had been. “Then you have been in London? Alexander…” She touched his arm. “I have wondered, dear, what to tell people. Everyone has been so…so curious, you see, how you have been and what adventures you might have had…”

  Alec felt a pang of shame and unease. His mother had been waiting so patiently for him to explain everything to her, and he hadn’t said a word. Of course people were talking about him; he certainly knew it. The convenient response would be to make up something out of whole cloth, to tell a story of injury, hard luck, perhaps a bit of secret romance or memory loss, anything to answer the question of where he had been for the last five years. Twice already he’d had to stop himself from inventing details of his recent past, as had become his habit. Say anything, Stafford had always instructed him, except the truth. Never the truth. Somehow, at some time, the truth had become dangerous.

  But that was to strangers. Alec didn’t want to lie to his mother unless he absolutely must. “I’ve been to London,” he answered vaguely. “It was a favor for someone from the army. Miss Turner wrote to him asking for assistance, and he asked me to look into things.”