Page 31 of Christmas at Carnton

“He’s fine,” the Captain whispered as they drew closer. “He just finally ran out of steam, that’s all. That, and he has a full belly. Five pieces of sausage, at least. And tenderloin and corn bread. This boy can eat.”

Smiling, Aletta brushed back the hair from her son’s face and kissed him. He didn’t stir. “Thank you, Captain,” she said softly.

“Are you feeling better? Tempy said you’d gone to lie down.”

“I am. It was good to rest. Although I feel guilty for having napped while the rest of you were out here working.”

“The rest of us don’t have your reason for being tired, Mrs. Prescott. Besides, I saw you up fixing breakfast long before the day even started.”

She looked at him. “You saw me? Did you come by the kitchen and I missed you?”

He opened his mouth as though to respond, then smiled. “Actually, no”—he glanced away—“I-I can see into the kitchen from the front window of my cabin. And when I woke up and looked out, I saw the light in the window, then spotted you standing there. I saw Tempy too, of course,” he added quickly. “Not only you.”

His expression looked a little like that of a boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar, and the discovery put her at ease, for some reason.

“Are you hungry?” He motioned to a table off to the side. “Roasted pork, fresh sausage, butter beans, and corn bread are ready to eat.”

“I think I will, if you don’t mind holding him for a moment longer?”

“Not at all. I’ve enjoyed his company today.”

Aletta hurriedly filled a plate that Tempy covered with a cloth.

“Oh wait, ma’am!” Tempy held up a hand. “You gotta have some of Missus McGavock’s chow-chow. I make it from an old family recipe. Just opened a fresh jar a while ago.” She spooned some onto the plate. “There you go. Now you enjoy!”

Aletta thanked her then joined the Captain again. She held out an arm to take Andrew, accustomed to balancing him on her hip. But the Captain shook his head.

“Let me carry him back to the house for you. We’re about done for the day out here anyway. And . . . there’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”

They retraced her steps to the right wing of the house, Aletta readying herself for a conversation she wasn’t eager to have.

“I wrote to my commanding officer two days ago, Mrs. Prescott. I asked him if there was anything he could do to . . . help find out how your husband died. I know it won’t bring your husband back, of course. But I also know how painful the not knowing can be.”

It took Aletta a moment to find her voice, his admission not what she’d been expecting. “Thank you, Captain Winston. That’s so kind of you. Truly.”

He passed Andrew to her, their bodies touching in the transfer, and she met the Captain’s gaze—and felt that unexpected stirring inside her again. She became intensely aware of him—his broad shoulders, the kindness in his eyes, in his character, the strong line of his jaw, the way that same lock of hair always fell across his forehead. Hearing the disturbing tone of her thoughts, she quickly looked away.

“Do you have him?” he asked softly, seemingly unaffected.

“Yes. Thank you.” But even as she said it, her plate slipped from her grip, and was saved only by Captain Winston’s swift reflexes.

“Whoa there,” he said, laughing. “Tell you what . . . Why don’t I carry this inside for you? Put it on a table in the kitchen.”

She balanced Andrew on one hip as the boy tucked his face into the crook of her neck, his soft breath warm on her skin. Captain Winston opened the kitchen door for them, and Aletta stepped inside, her thoughts and emotions swirling. She turned up the oil lamp left burning low on the stove top.

“Thank you, Captain Winston. For your kindness and for helping with Andrew today.”

“It was my pleasure,” he said, his deep voice overloud in the silence.

She started for the stairs, yet when she didn’t hear the kitchen door open and close again, she turned back to find him watching her.

“Mrs. Prescott . . . I owe you an apology, ma’am. More than one, actually.” He took a step toward her. “First, I should’ve kept my opinion to myself the other day. About the Women’s Relief Society auction. It was rude of me to state it aloud. And I’m sorry.”

She heard the sincerity in his voice. “Thank you, Captain Winston. However, everyone is entitled to their opinion. I only hope that after you help with the auction, you might discover yours somewhat . . . altered.”

He nodded, but the doubt in his expression led her to believe that chance was slim.

He glanced away and when he looked back, she detected a reluctance in him that hadn’t been there a moment before. And with no small measure of discomfort, she realized what it portended and sighed inwardly, again feeling as though she’d somewhat contributed to what had happened between them. Or what had almost happened.