She’d have to be blind to miss the man’s disapproval. Not only about her building the nativity, but also, it seemed, about the auction in general. Aletta stole a furtive glance at Captain Winston seated on the bench beside her, trying to read him. And failing.
But his silence as she’d shared the plans for the activities prior to and during the auction had been deafening. Which she found puzzling. Because the Women’s Relief Society was doing all of this to help the wounded soldiers, of which he was one—despite how unwounded the man appeared to be.
So why wouldn’t he be in favor of it? And why exactly was he listed as being wounded?
She’d seen him carrying crates and boxes, hitching the team to the wagon. And even now he’d helped load the supplies back at the lumberyard. Precisely why wasn’t he back with his regiment fighting with the others? Unless . . . he’d seized the opportunity and had volunteered to come to Carnton in order to escape battle.
“Turn up ahead. On Vine. It’s the second house on the left.”
She’d heard of deserters, men who fled north to escape the war, and even of soldiers who abandoned their posts in the middle of the night and simply walked away. After some of the stories Warren had told her, she could see how that would be a—
The house came into view and every thought fell away as a loneliness, deep and insatiable, moved over her, along with a yearning for Warren and the life they’d shared. How was she going to raise not one child, but two, without their father? After Christmas had passed and her duties at Carnton were no longer required, what then? Where would she go? Who would be with her when it came time for the baby to be born?
A strand of fear wove itself around her heart and pulled tight, and she found it difficult to breathe.
Captain Winston brought the wagon to a stop by the walkway, then looked over at her. “Are you all right?” he asked softly.
She nodded, not speaking until she was certain her voice would hold. “It should only take me a few minutes to pack the trunks.”
“Signal when you’re done. I’ll come inside and get them.” He set the brake and quickly climbed down, then assisted her.
Packing took even less time than she’d estimated, and she realized how many items she’d either sold or bartered in recent months in exchange for necessities. She’d have to come back soon for what little furniture and whatnot remained—and for Warren’s clothes. She had no idea where she’d store the items, but she’d worry about that later. She only knew she wasn’t ready to part with his personal items yet. It was too soon.
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.”
She didn’t wait for a response but strode toward the house, yet his quiet voice still reached her.
“You’re most welcome . . . General Prescott.”
Not daring to look back, she couldn’t keep from smiling.
Two nights later, after helping Tempy with Thanksgiving meal preparations for the following day, Aletta grabbed her shawl and slipped out to the barn, oil lamp in one hand, nativity design in the other.
Tired though she was, she was eager to at least get the measurements drawn onto the pieces of wood so she’d be ready to begin cutting come the weekend. And with Andrew situated before the hearth, tucked between Winder and Hattie as Miss Clouston read them a bedtime story, now was her chance to get the measuring done quickly. Without her precious son’s “assistance.”
“Measure twice, cut once,” she spoke aloud into the quiet, recalling her father’s treasured counsel. She’d get all the pieces of wood measured and marked tonight, then would check the measurements against the plans once again on Saturday before cutting.
Captain Winston had stacked all the boards atop one another on one side of the barn, placing the largest boards on the bottom. But no bother. If she could chop firewood, she could certainly move a few pieces of wood.
She hung the oil lamp on a peg and laid aside her design and shawl. First, to get the largest pieces laid flat where she could assess everything and get clean measurements, and make certain she wasn’t forgetting anything. She moved the bags of nails atop the pile, then started to lift the first piece of wood—
But it proved heavier than she’d wagered. Even the smallest pieces were heavy. Stubbornness demanded she try again. But sensibility and awareness of her body’s limits, especially being with child, swiftly won out.
She sighed, hands on hips.
Knowing what she needed to do, she still considered asking Tempy for help first. But Tempy, though strong, would be no better equipped to lift these pieces of wood than she was. Nor should a woman Tempy’s age be enlisted to do such a thing.
Aletta glanced in the general direction of Captain Winston’s cabin. He would help her, she had no doubt. But at what cost to her womanly pride? If only she hadn’t made such a point of telling him she wouldn’t require his assistance until the final stages of the project. She blew out a breath.
And here she was, not even started yet, and already she needed him.
A knock sounded and Jake paused in his sketching. Pencil and notebook in hand, he rose from the rocking chair by the fire and opened the door.
“Mrs. Prescott?” He glanced beyond her toward the main house, the cold forcing its way inside. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes, everything’s fine.” She tugged her shawl closer about her shoulders. “I . . . have a favor to ask of you, that’s all.” Her gaze fell to the notebook in his hand. “If I’m not bothering you.”
He glanced down to see his partially finished sketch of the McGavocks’ pecan grove. “No, you’re not bothering me.” He hesitated, then gestured. “Would you like to step inside? It’s freezing out.”
Uncertainty shadowed her expression. Whether about his invitation or her reason for being here, he didn’t know. But she finally shook her head. “I need you to help me, if you would. With the nativity,” she added quickly.
And Jake suddenly realized it wasn’t uncertainty in her expression he saw. It was irritation. And he curbed a smile, knowing only too well—even just having met her—how much it likely rankled her to have to come here and ask for his help.
But how very glad he was that she had.
He laid aside the pencil and sketch pad, grabbed his coat, and draped it around her shoulders. “Lead the way, ma’am.”
They hurried into the barn, and he closed the door behind them. He wasn’t about to say “I told you so.” But it was obvious she’d realized she needed help building the nativity after all. Which was understandable. And he was only too glad to step in.
“Thank you, Captain Winston. Both for your coat and for your help.”
He accepted the jacket and laid it aside, choosing not to make her grovel. “I’ve been thinking a lot about how best to design the booth for the nativity, Mrs. Prescott, and it seems to me that . . .”
As he detailed his plan, perplexity shaded her features.
Finally, he paused. “Am I going too fast?”
She stared. “Not at all. But I didn’t ask you here to help me with the design. I already know what I want to do. I simply need you to move the wood so I can make some measurements. It’s too heavy for me to lift.”
He looked at the pile of wood, then back at her. “So . . . you don’t need my ideas.”
She smiled and shook her head, a glint in her eyes. “Only your brawn, Captain Winston.”
Enjoying the smart little quirk in her tone, he felt only mildly insulted as he spent the next hour and a half moving the stack of wood, waiting while she measured it and consulted with her original plans, then moving it all back again, out of the way of foot traffic. All while conversation—and comfortable spaces of silence—settled easily between them.
“So you’ve lived here in Franklin all your life?” he asked as he moved the final board, measured and marked, back onto the stack.
She nodded.
“No siblings?”
“I was the only child born to my parents. What about you? Any brothers or sisters?”
Jake paused, fingering a callus on his palm. “I had a younger brother, Freddie. But . . . he died at Vicksburg.”
She stared at him, her gaze glistening in the glow of the oil lamp. “I’m so sorry, Captain Winston. My husband, Warren, wrote to me about what happened there. In far greater detail than I’d read about in the newspapers.” She briefly closed her eyes, her brow furrowing. “The images his letters conjured haunt me even now. I cannot fathom how . . .”
Her voice faded and a barrage of all too painful memories rushed in to fill the silence. For them both, Jake wagered by her expression. With no small effort, he concentrated on recalling Freddie’s smile, the way his brother used to laugh and poke fun every chance he got.
“I wish,” she whispered, her voice unsteady, “I wish I knew how my husband died.” Slowly, she lifted her gaze. “All the letter said was that he’d been killed in battle, and that the army would inform me of the details as they learned them. If they learned them.”
Jake studied her features in the flame’s amber glow, wishing he could offer her more hope. But he’d walked the aftermath of war, and knew better.
She turned and began gathering the tools she’d used into a worn leather pouch. “I’ve forgotten how much closer I feel to my father when I have a hand plane or chisel in my grip.”
“Those were his,” Jake said softly.
She nodded. “Except for the mallet. Andrew and I gave that to Warren for Christmas three years ago.” Reminiscence softened her smile as she fingered the mallet’s red handle. “I’d told Andrew we were shopping for Papa, and when Andrew saw the mallet in the mercantile that day, he was convinced this was what we should get.”
“Andrew’s a fine boy, Mrs. Prescott. You’ve done well by him.” Jake sought and held her gaze. “You both did, ma’am.”
The light in her eyes warmed him where he stood.
“Are . . . you married, Captain Winston?”
The question was so unexpected, Jake had to smile. “No, ma’am. I’m not. And never have been.”
She nodded and returned to her task. Once everything was put away, he walked with her back to the house, insisting she keep his coat around her shoulders.
“This is the first time I’ve seen you out of uniform, Captain.”
He glanced down at his shirt and dungarees. “You planning on turning me in?”
She acted as though she were weighing that possibility. “Probably not just yet. I might need your help again sometime soon.”
He laughed, then offered a bow. “Well, if you do need my help, ma’am, please know in advance that you will always have it.”
She smiled up at him, her precise expression inscrutable in the shadows, and Jake found his gaze drawn to the inviting curve of her lips. His thoughts swiftly took a more intimate turn as his imagination led him down a path he knew was best left untrod. And it didn’t help his resolve when she didn’t look away. He reached up and fingered a loose curl at her temple and heard her breath quicken. He leaned closer, cupping the side of her face, all but able to taste her kiss and the softness of her lips.
“Captain Winston, I—” She took a hasty step backward, her breath coming hard. “I’d best be getting inside. It’s late, after all.”
The fullness of the moment and of what he’d been about to do hit him brick hard. “Mrs. Prescott—” Jake winced. “Please. Forgive me, ma’am. I—”
“There’s nothing to forgive, Captain.” Her smile was brief and unconvincing. “Good night.”
Far more hastily than he would’ve liked, she slipped in through the kitchen door and closed it behind her. Wishing he could recall the last moment and do it differently, he strode back to his cabin.
It wasn’t until later that evening, flipping through his sketchbook, that he realized just how much of his thoughts this woman occupied. Just as she did the pages of his notebook. More than was wise, he knew, given his circumstances. And hers.