Page 34 of Christmas at Carnton

His left shoulder complaining, Jake managed to carry another table into the room where Aletta had instructed. He set it down just inside the door. It was still early, but the various rooms of the church building were already brimming with women again, same as the past three days.

Females young and old, with children in tow, had shown up to help with preparations for the auction. So much crinoline. Too much. And the thrum of conversation filled the place. It occurred to him that these women would use more words in a minute than he would likely use in a month of Sundays.

Being the only male in the group, he’d met many if not most of them by now, but had stopped trying to keep track of names after the first four or five. He did recognize Kate Zachary, the widow Aletta had visited last month, and was surprised but pleased to see her among the volunteers. Per Aletta, as soon as the body of Mrs. Zachary’s husband was returned, there would be a funeral. Same for the body of Aletta’s husband. Jake had offered to help with both in any way he could.

True to Aletta’s word, the women had made enormous progress over the past three days. Which, considering all the visiting they did, he found impressive. Some sewed on quilts, others knitted various articles of clothing, all grouped in circles, heads together. And though he still held to his original opinion—it would be far more efficient if everyone simply donated their money to the cause straightaway—he wasn’t about to voice it.

“Jake.”

He turned to see Aletta looking at him and was glad she couldn’t read his thoughts.

“That table goes over there, please.” She gestured. “Then would you retrieve the crates of yarn from the back of the wagon? The ‘caps and scarves’ ladies—those four groups knitting over there—are running low.” She flashed him a smile. “Thank you.”

She immediately returned to her tasks, not waiting for his response. She was working hard, a bit too hard, if you asked him, for a woman in her condition. He’d encouraged her to take a rest but she’d waved aside the comment, saying she was enjoying it. And granted, it did appear that way. They’d fallen back into a comfortable pattern with each other, which he was grateful for. Still, it wasn’t quite as it had been before. He was simply more aware of her. No matter where she was in a room, he knew it. And he sensed she knew it. Which likely accounted for the increased distance she kept between them.

Nothing anyone else would notice, but he did. He positioned the table as she’d indicated, then went outside to get the crates of yarn from the wagon.

He couldn’t fault her for keeping that distance either. Like yesterday when she’d placed Andrew squarely between them on the bench seat of the wagon as they’d ridden into town. She hadn’t told him until they’d reached her house what they were there for. He shook his head.

Foreclosure.

He’d loaded as much of the smaller furniture and her belongings from the house as he could manage into the back of the wagon and—with Colonel McGavock’s approval—had stored it all in one of the outbuildings on the Carnton estate, along with a trunk full of her husband’s clothes. Jake was certain Andrew hadn’t noticed his mother’s silent tears as they’d driven home.

Still, he wished she would’ve told him about the foreclosure. Not that he could have done anything to stop the bank from repossessing the home, but at least he would’ve been aware of the situation and could have been more sensitive to her and Andrew’s plight.

He stacked the two crates and headed back inside the church, eager to walk the short distance to the telegraph office later that day to see if Colonel Stratton had responded yet. Surely the man would see his side of things and agree to allow him to return.

Jake delivered the yarn to the “caps and scarves” groups of ladies as requested when he heard a sudden cry. He turned, as did everyone else, and spotted a young woman across the room, a newspaper clutched in her hands. He’d scanned that day’s edition an hour earlier and knew the War Department had issued another list of soldiers either killed, wounded, or missing.

He knew that the young woman’s relative—be it her husband, brother, or some other kin—hadn’t been an officer. When an officer was killed, wounded, or missing, the army, if at all possible, dispatched a rider with personal notification of such in the form of a hand-delivered letter.

“No!” the young woman sobbed and dropped to her knees.

In a blink, every woman in the room stopped what she was doing. Those closest to the young woman surrounded her, kneeling alongside, Aletta among them, a stricken look on her face. The women comforted the grieving woman as she pulled two identical-looking little blond-haired girls close.

Another gasp sounded close by, and a second woman doubled over in her chair, silent tears tracing her cheeks. She wrapped her arms around herself and around her unborn child, and the deep, mournful keening that rose from her chest caused Jake’s own to tighten. The pain in her expression, the depth of her grief and that of the other woman, cut straight through him. And he had to look away.

He’d fought on countless battlefields, had focused his rifle sights on a man’s chest then pulled the trigger. He’d seen boys who would never reach manhood cut down by cannon fodder or gutted with a bayonet. He’d watched soldiers struggle to take their last breaths, their bloodied chests rising and falling with the effort. He’d walked among the corpses after battle, the stench of gunpowder and death heavy in the air, and he’d felt compassion, grief, and had accorded them a soldier’s respect and honor. And on more than one occasion, back in his tent, he’d wept bitter tears beneath the weight and horror of it all. But this . . .

These women were defenseless. They weren’t on the battlefield. They weren’t brandishing weapons or—

“Jake?”

Hearing her voice, he turned.

“Would you please make the wagon ready and escort Mrs. Buckner and her two young daughters home? They live a good ways from town and I don’t want them to have to walk all that way back.”

He nodded, grateful for a task. “Of course I will.”

“As well as Mrs. Hunter,” Aletta continued. “Alice lives here in town and this is their first—” Her voice caught. “First child,” she finished in a whisper, her voice failing.

His throat constricted, making it difficult to speak. “I’ll make certain they get home safely, Aletta.”

“That would be much appreciated. Some of the other ladies will accompany them, too, I’m sure. And they’re already making plans for meals. So please make certain there’s room in the back of the wagon for them.”

He nodded. “I’ll make sure both ladies have on hand what they need for a few days before I head back here.”

Chin trembling, she nodded.