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Something like sympathy drifted across his cousin's face. "Pitt will handle most of it, if you direct him to. This—Penford—is in your blood. Don't be so quick to deny it. 'Tis a good estate with fine, fertile land, well-organized and not too encumbered by debt. Freddie and your father were responsible men, and I believe you'll be the same." He grinned. "You never did like to come up short. Freddie and I would marvel how you'd damned near kill yourself to do what you said you'd do."

Alec blinked, then the memory came. "Black Bess."

"The meanest animal I ever saw.” John shuddered. “I’ve still got a scar on my arse where that bloody horse bit me. And you rode her from here to Marston and back."

"She bit me, too," Alec reminded him.

John snorted. "Aye, before you even got in the saddle. But still you climbed up there, swearing for all you were worth. Freddie was sure you'd have a broken arm or two for your trouble."

"Father whipped me hard enough to break his arm." Alec grinned, but it faded soon enough. Riding a nag, even a vicious one, was hardly the same as running Penford. Riding the horse had been daring, exciting, dangerous. . . but Penford was a far more challenging pursuit. It didn’t have the thrill of surviving a foolish dare, but—if he worked for it—perhaps it offered the satisfaction of taking care of his family. Providing employment for half of Marston. Proving he was worthy after all.

He squared his shoulders. John was right about his determination to succeed. He was bloody fortunate it had been John who stepped in during his absence. His cousin was making this easier than Alec deserved. "Let's to it, then."

* * *

Finances were growing extremely tight in the Turner household.

After Major Hayes’s surprising visit, a flood of bills seemed to descend on the house. The largest one was for feed for the horses. Tom handed it to Cressida without meeting her gaze, knowing as well as she did what it meant.

“Does he want payment now?” she asked anyway, hoping against hope she might be able to put it off. Most of the others could not be; apparently Papa had already delayed payment, and they were firm about being paid this time. But a shake of Tom’s head indicated that he’d already tried, and failed.

Cressida sighed and pressed one hand to her forehead. She should have done this weeks ago, in all likelihood. “Take the horses into town and sell them, Tom. I’ll explain to Granny.”

Tom nodded and ducked from the room. Cressida hoped he could get a good price. The horses were decent animals, and they were certainly well-fed, as her depleted purse could prove. The funds from selling the horses, though, would allow the rest of them to eat well for several months.

But when Tom returned later, the news was not good. “I need to speak to you,” he muttered as he strode through the hall.

Cressida hurried after him, her heart thumping. “What happened?” she demanded as soon as she closed the door of Papa’s study behind her.

Tom folded his arms. “The horses were hired.”

For a moment she couldn’t breathe. Hired? But no; Papa had said. . . “What do you mean?” She sank into the room’s only chair.

“Bickford showed me the paper. The sergeant signed it, right and proper. Two carriage horses, hired from his stable, paid six months.”

“Papa said he bought them,” she said through numb lips. All this time she’d been scraping to feed two beasts that didn’t even belong to her.

“Perhaps he did, at a later date, and Bickford thought to fool me.” Tom looked around the small room. “Perhaps we can find a bill of sale.”

Her heart had stopped thumping. It might have stopped altogether. A black, cold pit seemed to have opened up inside her. “I don’t think so,” she whispered. “I looked through all the papers in here and didn’t find it. It didn’t even occur to me there ought to be one.”

The silence was overwhelming. Then Tom squatted in front of her and patted her hand. “There, don’t fret. We’ll manage.”

Cressida closed her eyes and gulped in deep breaths. What other choice did they have but to manage? She just didn’t know how. “Did you take the horses back at least? Is Mr. Bickford going to be coming to collect money owed him?”

“No, he said it had been paid in advance. I gather he took the impression your father didn’t want it widely known the horses weren’t his.”

That was no surprise. Cressida thought bitterly of how proud her father had been, a gentleman keeping his own team and carriage. How he’d laughed when she asked about the cost and told her they were well-situated now, and he meant to live like it. No one could overrule Papa when he set his mind on something, although she’d certainly tried on some occasions. Mostly everyone got caught up in his infectious enthusiasm and promises of having it all in hand. Cressida admitted to herself that she, perhaps most of all, had wanted to believe it was so, that Papa had come home from the war with connections and funds and would lift the burden of endless economy from them all.

Apparently not. She scrubbed her hands over her face and tried to think. “We'll have to take them back anyway, and see if Mr. Bickford will refund any part of what Papa paid. It will save on feed if nothing else.” Tom nodded, and let himself out.

Cressida stayed in her seat for several minutes after Tom left, nearly paralyzed by the enormity of their problems. There was no money to be had from the horses; the lease was coming due; they had lost several sheep; even the vegetable garden wouldn’t be putting out a bounty, thanks to the incessant hot weather. They were worse off than in their most pinched days in Portsmouth, and there was still no sign of her father. “Where the bloody hell are you, Papa?” she asked of the still, stuffy room.

Slowly she pushed herself to her feet. Desperate times called for desperate measures. She had tried to nibble at the problem, selling all the fancy new things Papa had bought. Unfortunately, he had purchased so much on credit, she hadn’t realized much money. Now Cressida saw few choices open to her. They had the house for a few more weeks. That gave her just enough time to unload as many of their unneeded possessions as possible and find a suitable new lodging. Returning to Portsmouth was out of the question, much too far away. Cressida still missed the ocean, but Marston was a nice town as well. She and Callie had made friends here. Still . . .

With heavy feet she climbed the stairs, catching Callie just as her sister emerged from Granny’s room with a tray. Callie put one finger to her lips and closed the door.

“She didn’t eat much.” Cressida noted the nearly full bowl of stew with dismay. Granny was wasting away.