Page 26 of Christmas at Carnton

Trunks packed, she opened the front door and waved, and Captain Winston strode toward her. She watched for a limp or even the slightest hiccup in his gait. But whatever injury he’d sustained didn’t affect his manner of walking.

She didn’t know why, because she didn’t know him well by any means, but it bothered her to think that he was the type of man who would try to cheat his way out of doing his duty. Because she wouldn’t have thought that about him based upon first impression.

She stepped aside for him to enter the home, but he hesitated.

“It might be better, Mrs. Prescott, if you stay out here on the porch while I go in. Just tell me which room the trunks are in, and I’ll retrieve them.”

Hearing what he wasn’t saying, she stepped out onto the porch. “Yes, of course, Captain. You’re right.” She told him where to find the trunks, and he went inside.

As she waited, she thought of the afternoon she’d arrived early to MaryNell’s and discovered MaryNell’s friend there. Aletta looked across the street, then down both ways. No one in sight, but she still felt better leaving no room for even a hint of impropriety.

As Captain Winston loaded the trunks into the back of the wagon, she locked the front door then accepted his assistance up to the bench seat. It occurred to her then that she didn’t even know if the Captain was married. He wore no wedding ring. But that meant little these days, as she knew. Yet he hadn’t mentioned anything about having a wife or family.

He snapped the reins and the team responded.

As they rode in silence, she debated within herself about whether he was a man of character—as his behavior back at the house would lead her to believe—or perhaps a shirker. Finally, as he guided the wagon up the drive leading to Carnton and the house came into view, she could take no more.

“I understand from Mrs. McGavock that you were recently wounded, Captain Winston.”

He said nothing for a moment, then looked over at her. “That’s right.”

She waited for more of an explanation, but none came. And the silence stretched. She couldn’t account for the frustrating sense of wanting more of an answer. She only knew she couldn’t let it go.

“And . . . how were you wounded?”

He kept his focus ahead. “I was shot, Mrs. Prescott. In the shoulder.”

Aletta felt the air slowly seep from her lungs. Something about the way he said it, or maybe the way he didn’t look over at her, made her feel as if he questioned her motive in asking. Which, given what she’d been thinking, he would’ve had a right to do, had he been privy to the fact.

“I’m sorry, Captain. I . . . imagine that was very difficult.”

He eyed her briefly. “It hurt a mite.”

Feeling more than a little put in her place, she kept her focus on the road. But as she thought again about how “loud” his silence had been back at the church, she soon found the same pesky sense of frustration returning.

“Captain, do you not believe the auction to be a worthy pursuit?”

He smiled then. But still didn’t look at her. “What I think, Mrs. Prescott, is that my opinion doesn’t matter in this regard.”

“So you don’t believe it’s a worthy pursuit.”

“I didn’t say that, ma’am.” He glanced away, and took his time before responding again. “I think the auction is a well-intentioned event.”

“A well-intentioned event?”

“Yes, ma’am. I think all that you and Mrs. McGavock and the other ladies have planned is very nice. And very generous. And I hope it raises a lot of money for the cause. Because the soldiers, we sure need it.” He paused. “It just seems like an awful lot of work to get there.”

She turned on the bench seat. “A lot of work that won’t amount to much good? That’s what you’re saying?”

“No, ma’am. I did not say that. I believe it’ll amount to a lot of good. I simply think that sometimes”—his grip tightened on the reins and the levity left his expression—“there’s a faster way to get something done, that’s all.” He brought the wagon to a stop in front of the house. “I don’t say that to upset you, Mrs. Prescott. And I never would’ve volunteered my opinion had you not inquired.”

“Well . . . I suppose that will teach me not to inquire.”

He climbed down and was on his way around to help her, but she quickly managed it on her own again, feeling a small—if not a tad silly—sense of accomplishment. “You’re right. There are faster ways to get things done.”

He just stared.

“Thank you for your help today, Captain Winston. Now would you please unload the supplies for the nativity into the barn? I need to go inside and check on Andrew, then begin helping with dinner. Good day.”