Page 1 of Christmas at Carnton

CHAPTER 1

NOVEMBER 13, 1863

FRANKLIN, TENNESSEE

21 MILES SOUTH OF NASHVILLE

“Very nice stitching, Mrs. Prescott.”

Aletta looked up, not having heard her employer’s approach. Focused on her task, she was determined to leave the factory on time that afternoon. It was a special day, after all, and Andrew would be excited. Her son needed this encouragement. They both did. “Thank you, Mr. Bodeen, for your kind words.”

“You always do excellent work, Mrs. Prescott. Every stitch so straight and even, perfectly matching the one before.”

She smiled her thanks despite perceiving a negative quality in his voice. Not that Mr. Bodeen ever sounded jovial. Unmarried, not much older than she was, he always seemed a sad sort. A discontented, melancholy man. But then, how could any able-bodied, healthy man maintain a sense of self-worth, much less pride, when he’d chosen to stay behind and work in a factory instead of joining the rest of the men who’d left home and loved ones to fight in the war?

Like her beloved Warren had done.

Her throat tightened with emotion. Would it always hurt this much? She swallowed. Nearly one month to the day since she’d received the letter from the War Department, yet she still had trouble believing he was gone. Perhaps if she could see his body one last time, she’d be better able to accept that—

“Would you join me in my office, Mrs. Prescott?”

“In your office, sir?” Aletta paused mid-stitch and looked across the rows of seamstresses to the clock on the factory wall. A quarter past four. Almost another hour before her shift was over. Then she felt the stares.

She looked around only to see the other women quickly bowing their heads and turning curious gazes back to their work. Except for one woman. On the opposite side of the factory. Aletta recognized her. Marian, she thought her name was. They’d begun working at Chilton Textile Mills about the same time. Marian was gathering her coat and reticule—and wiping tears from her eyes.

“Mrs. Prescott.” Mr. Bodeen gestured. “My office, please.”

Aletta laid aside the garment she’d been sewing, bothered by having to set it aside unfinished, while the greater part of her sensed that unfinished stitches should be the least of her concerns.

She followed him down the aisle, then past rows of co-workers, the click of her heeled boots marking off the seconds as the tension in the room swiftly registered.

Mr. Bodeen’s office proved to be considerably more insulated from winter’s chill than the factory, and she rubbed her hands together, welcoming the warmth while also trying to control her nerves. Her knuckles were stiff and swollen from long hours of stitching. But she had only to think of what Warren had endured to silence that frivolous complaint.

He’d always been careful not to reveal too many details about the war in his letters. But one night during his furlough home in April—the last time she’d seen him—after he’d banished any doubt she might have had about his continued desire for her, he’d lain beside her in the darkness and talked into the wee hours of morning. He talked all about the battles, life in the encampments, and the countless friends he’d made—and lost—during the war. “Friends as close as any brothers I might’ve had,” he’d whispered, his strong arms tightening around her, his breath warm on her skin. “There’s one fellow from right here in Franklin. Emmett Zachary. You’d like him, Lettie. Maybe you and his wife, Kate, could meet up sometime.”

She’d never heard him go on like that. So unfettered, as though the weight of his soul had grown too heavy for him to bear alone. His words had painted indelible pictures in her mind. Images she’d have wished to erase, but for Warren’s fingerprint on them.

Anything from him was something she wanted to hold on to.

She’d made a point to look up Kate Zachary, and they’d even had tea on two occasions. But the hours in each day seemed to fly, as did the weeks, and she hadn’t seen Kate since the afternoon she’d visited her to tell her about the letter she’d received from the War Department. “. . . slain on the battlefield, having given the ultimate sacrifice for love of home and defense of country” is how the letter had been worded.

The notice had arrived only two days after she’d received a hastily written letter from Warren telling her he was faring well enough and that he’d penned two more letters to her that he would send shortly. The letters never arrived.

What she wouldn’t give to have them now. To have him back.

“Please have a seat, Mrs. Prescott.”

Aletta did as Mr. Bodeen asked, her gaze falling to a handwritten list atop his desk. Was it a list of names? She attempted a closer look as she sat. It was hard to read the writing upside down, and yet—

She was fairly certain she saw Marian’s name, the coworker she’d seen crying moments earlier. Aletta swallowed, panic clawing its way up her chest.

“Mrs. Prescott, you know how much we appreciate your work. How you—”

“Please don’t take away my job, Mr. Bodeen. Reduce my hours if you need to, but—”

“Mrs. Prescott, I—”

“I’m behind on the mortgage, Mr. Bodeen. And keeping food in the pantry is already a challenge. Mr. Stewart at the mercantile has extended my credit as far as he can, and I don’t know what I’ll—”