Page 34 of For Your Arms Only

Tom shook his head. “As God is my witness, I’ve no idea. I know as little as you do, that he went to London to see Pickering and planned to return within a fortnight.”

“But you have seen this before.” She held up the journal.

Tom glanced at it before dropping his eyes to the floor. “Yes, that’s the sergeant’s journal. He kept it for years.”

Cressida flipped it open. The writing was small but precise; Papa did write a very gentlemanly hand, something he took great pride in. But why had he written it in code? “Did you know it was in code?”

“Yes,” Tom mumbled. “He started that in Spain, after hearing about French letters being in code. He liked the idea tremendously.”

Cressida believed that. Papa had a secretive bent and a fondness for mysteries and drama. When he would come home on furlough, he would make puzzles for her and Callie to solve, usually revealing the location of a bag of sweets he’d brought them. She never knew how he managed to hide the sweets before he got home, but they would always be right where the puzzle indicated.

Callie had been frustrated and then bored by the puzzles, but Cressida loved them. She loved the euphoria of solving one, and the twinkle in her father’s eye when he would pinch her cheek and say she had a quick brain behind her pretty face. This promised to be the most challenging—and perhaps most important—puzzle he ever gave her. Already her fingers were itching to start making notes, looking for patterns and clues.

But there was something wrong about Tom’s reaction to the sight of the journal. “Tom,” she asked slowly, running one finger down the cover, “don’t you want Papa to come home?”

“I don’t want you and your sister to be hurt.”

“That’s not the same thing—or is it?” She closed the journal and took a step toward him. “How could Papa’s return harm us?”

He shrugged. “Never mind.”

“I know he wasn’t the noble saint my grandmother describes. I suspect he was. . . is. . . a bit of a scoundrel at times. I'm not blind. But I want to know. He's my father.”

Tom looked at the book in her hand again. There was no mistaking the anguish in his face. “I know you love your father, and it does you great credit. But that book will only lead to heartache. Trust me, Cressida.”

She inhaled sharply. “You don’t want to see him again, do you?”

After a long pause, Tom sighed. “No.”

“Why?” She was shocked. “You’ve been with him for so long! You might have left us at any time. We cannot pay you for the work you do, and⁠—”

“I don’t want money,” he snapped. “Not your money, at any rate. It’s not that. It’s just. . . Well, haven’t you noticed that things run smoother when the sergeant’s not around?”

Cressida pressed one hand to her forehead and paced away. “I know. I know, Tom! But what can I do? He’s my father.” She chastised herself daily with those words. If not for the lack of money, her wicked, selfish mind thought, they would get on perfectly well without Papa. There would be no quarrels over silly things. Callie had completely lost the cowed expression she’d come to wear in Papa’s presence. There was peace in the household, and Cressida couldn’t deny, to herself, that it was nicer than the boisterous strife Papa spawned wherever he went.

“I know.” Tom came up behind her. “You’re doing a fine job keeping things together, but perhaps we could get on better if we stop waiting for him to return and go on as if he might never come home.”

“You think he’s left for good this time,” she replied in a flat tone.

“He might have done, yes.”

“You’re wrong.” She opened her eyes and looked out, down the winding drive to the road. “He didn’t take every last penny in the house. Granny still has her locket and earrings, and if he meant to abandon us, he would have taken them.”

Tom touched her arm, then his hand fell away. “Perhaps it was a sudden decision.”

“When he’d had a promising interview for a position he wanted?” She shook her head. The road was empty. Major Hayes was long gone, and so, still, was Papa. “He meant to come back. I know it, Tom. And since he hasn’t, it’s likely something has happened to him.”

“Aye,” he agreed on a sigh. “I suppose it is. But that book—” He frowned at the journal she had tucked under one arm. “That book won’t bring you peace. Take my advice and put it back where you found it.”

As his footsteps echoed and faded away, Cressida continued to stare out at the deserted road. There was no help from that direction, as usual; not yet, anyway. The journal was important. She was sure of it.

But unfortunately, she was just as sure that Tom was keeping something from her.

Chapter Thirteen

Alec had to admit, searching was easier when there was no need to conceal his actions.

He knew Miss Turner still had her doubts, but she was warming to him—or rather, to working with him. It was unsettling that he had to keep reminding himself of that distinction. When she stood close beside him over the ledger, with the sun glinting on the wisps of hair—not just brown, but gold and chestnut and honey—wreathing her long, lovely neck, he’d felt an inexplicable urge to sweep his hand up her nape, smoothing those wayward hairs back into the mass pinned atop her head. And then she’d looked at him, eyes alight and mouth soft with surprise, and exclaimed, it’s a code.