Page 35 of Christmas at Carnton

He walked to the door, then turned back, not as surprised as he would’ve been before spending time with these women to see the groups who had been knitting and sewing and chatting together only moments earlier now huddled together again. But this time with heads bowed, lips moving silently as whispered prayers rose from around the room.

How could he ever have thought that women could be shielded from war’s cruelties? That they weren’t strong enough to bear up beneath the weight of it? Granted, he would never wish to be fighting side by side with them on the battlefield.

But these women were fighting nonetheless. On a battlefield all their own.

Aletta pulled three loaves of hot pumpkin bread from the oven, mentally ticking off the final item on her menu that awaited Mrs. McGavock’s approval before the auction officially began on the seventeenth of December, only eleven days hence. But this recipe was a tried-and-true Prescott family recipe, so she’d intentionally saved it for last.

She caught a flash of movement outside the window and spotted Andrew and Winder running full tilt from the barn toward the house. Following their lunch break from studies—which almost always included a trip to the barn—they would enter the house through the kitchen to see if there was anything of interest, so she prepared for the door to fly open. Which it did only seconds later.

“Somethin’ smells good in here, Mama!” Andrew ran up to the counter, cheeks flushed, breath coming hard.

“Can we have some, Mrs. Prescott?” Winder leaned close, eyeing the warm pumpkin bread.

“Thank you, Andrew. And yes, Winder, you may both have a slice. After you wash your hands from all that playing with the kittens.”

They made a beeline for the washbasin, each boy boasting about how much pumpkin bread he could eat without regurgitating it. Aletta shook her head but had to smile. Where did boys get these ideas? Then her smile faded.

Although she was grateful for this job—not only for the money it provided, but for a safe place for them to live in the interim—she had begun to dread the day coming soon enough when she and Andrew would have to pack up and leave and find somewhere else to live.

She’d heard of special homes in other cities that specifically accommodated only widows and orphans, and where everyone shared in the running of the place. And it had sounded so promising. But after checking with several sources, she’d learned that Nashville didn’t have one of those homes. Which was unfortunate. She knew so many women and children, herself and Andrew included, who would have benefited from it.

Losing the house to foreclosure last week had been far more painful than she’d imagined. And even now the memory of walking through each of the rooms for the last time brought a reminiscence she didn’t wish to indulge. All of this cooking and baking, the organization required for the auction, had been a godsend during this time of uncertainty.

All the to-dos for the upcoming event had helped occupy her thoughts and her time. And her grief. Looking back over the last two years since Warren first left to fight in the war, she knew now that she’d been grieving his absence and his possible death since the very beginning.

She fed both boys a thick slice of warm, buttered pumpkin bread, then, knowing them well, cut second slices to cool while they were devouring their first. She stopped to rub the ache in her lower back, grateful she hadn’t experienced any more episodes like the one the day of the hog killing. Only six weeks or so until her baby was due—her approximation aided by knowing, within a handful of days, when she had conceived—and the precious child was steadily growing. Which meant she was too.

Needing more wood for the stove, she threw her shawl around her shoulders and stepped outside the back door. Where yesterday’s wood bin had been nearly empty, today it was full.

Jake, she knew. Because she’d seen him chopping wood behind the barn. Shot in the shoulder . . . If a man could chop wood, shouldn’t he be able to shoot and fight as well?

Feeling guilty for not being more grateful for the wood, and for all he’d done over the past few days to help with activities at the church—not to mention assisting her in moving belongings from her house—she gathered an armful and carried it back inside.

She’d made an effort to be alone with him as little as possible in recent days, which hadn’t been that difficult with Tempy and the boys around. And based on his behavior toward her, she felt certain that whatever momentary attraction he’d felt toward her had passed. Not surprising, looking the way she did. And her feelings for him truly were those of friendship.

She saw that now, having had time to parse her sentimentalities. Because enjoying someone’s company and looking forward to being with them wasn’t the same as being attracted to them.

CHAPTER 13

The next evening, Aletta practically had to drag herself out to the barn to work on the nativity. She was nearly finished with the project and eager to get it done. But after baking and cooking all day, even with the other hired cooks assisting, she could scarcely scrape up the energy.

She lit two lanterns, knowing that once she got started, momentum for seeing the job done well would carry her forward. That, and the second cup of coffee she’d had with dinner.

She surveyed the remaining work. Once she finished constructing the last side of the booth, she would require Jake’s help again from there on out. Which included attaching the star to the top. And she’d promised both Andrew and Winder that they could help with that final step. But for now . . .

She retrieved her father’s carpenter’s pouch, the worn leather supple and familiar, and pulled out the mallet and the remaining nails and set to work. After a while, Andrew joined her with a cup of hot cocoa in hand.

“It’s for you from Miss Tempy.”

Aletta stood and stretched from side to side, then accepted the offered treat. She started to take a drink, then paused and looked back at him, doing her best to make her frown look real. “If it’s for me, then why is half of it gone?”

He grinned. “I didn’t want to spill any on the way so I drank a little.”

She laughed and took a sip. Delicious as usual. She’d finally managed to watch Tempy mixing a batch one day and had learned the woman’s secret—a little salt and vanilla. And, of course, a generous amount of cream.

“Are we ready to hang the star yet, Mama?”

“Almost. But I’m to the point now where I’m going to need some help putting it all together.”