Page 32 of Christmas at Carnton

“Captain Winston, I want to—”

“Mrs. Prescott, I want to—”

They’d spoken at the same time, only to pause simultaneously as well.

He smiled. “Usually I would say ladies first. But I need to offer you an apology, Mrs. Prescott. And I’d appreciate you allowing me to do that.”

“All right,” she said softly.

“The other night, ma’am . . . I know I made you feel uncomfortable. When I . . . tried to kiss you. I want to say I’m sorry,” he added hurriedly. “I had no right to do that. And I want to guarantee you that you have no reason to feel awkward around me. Nor do you have to worry about being safe with me. I appreciate your friendship more than you realize, and your son’s.” His gaze softened and dropped briefly to Andrew. “I only hope I haven’t overstepped my bounds in a way that will prevent our friendship from continuing in the future.”

Again hearing his sincerity in his well-chosen words, Aletta shifted Andrew in her arms, the boy growing heavy. “Thank you, Captain, for your kind apology. I accept, of course, and—”

She looked away, embarrassed, feeling almost as if she needed to apologize, too, at least in part. Because she felt guilty for allowing him to think that the longing behind the moment had rested solely with him. Yet she also felt as though her apology would only muddy the waters. And life was murky enough as it was.

“—I’m indebted to you for the kindness you’ve shown to me and Andrew. Feeling safe in your company, Captain . . . is something I will never worry about.”

Relief showed in his expression. “So . . . truce?”

She smiled. “Very much a truce.”

She started for the stairs.

“One more thing, if you would . . . a favor, of sorts.”

She turned back and studied him for a moment, trying to decipher what that favor might be.

“Since we’ve reached such an amiable truce, would you please call me Jake? And, likewise, would you allow me to address you by your Christian name, General Prescott?”

She laughed softly. “My name is Aletta . . . Jake.”

His pleasure evident in his expression, he gave her a mock salute before closing the door, and she carefully negotiated the stairs up to the bedroom.

Andrew roused when she tried to lay him down, and she busied herself with getting him ready for bed. It was a tad earlier for that than usual, and she hoped he wouldn’t fight her on it. She listened as he rattled on about the day’s events, his tired voice heightening with excitement.

“Me and Winder had fun, Mama! I know how to kill a pig, boil a pig, and scrape the hair off a pig.”

Aletta winced, grateful she’d missed those particular lessons. She reached for a brush and began running it through his dark hair, making a mental note to give him a haircut soon.

“Jake taught me,” he continued. “But we held the knife together because it was my first time. He says next time maybe I can do it by myself.”

“Jake?” She paused, her grip tightening on the brush. Had Andrew overheard them downstairs just now?

He nodded. “You know . . . the soldier.”

“Andrew, you’re to call him Captain Winston. Either that or ‘sir.’ You know children aren’t to address adults by their Christian names.”

“But he said I could. Today when we were eatin’ lunch.”

“And I’m saying that you can’t. Is that understood?”

He looked at her for a moment then gave a begrudging nod. “He showed me how to build a fire too. And how to sharpen a knife. He knows how to do lots of fun stuff.”

Grateful for the Captain’s attentiveness to her son, Aletta also felt a possessiveness rising inside her. Warren should still be here. Should be the one teaching him all those things. Not a total stranger.

And yet Captain Winston was hardly a total stranger.

“Ouch!” Andrew pulled away. “You’re brushin’ me too hard.”