On opening day of the auction, with dawn’s first blush barely tracing the horizon, Aletta descended the stairs to the kitchen to the sounds of clanging pots and pans and the sweet aroma of Christmas simmering spices. The past week had flown by in a flurry of final details, and today at noon the auction would begin. She was even more excited—and nervous—than she’d anticipated.
She hoped the venture turned out to be profitable. Not only so she could prove Jake wrong, which would be enjoyable enough. But so that all the weeks of work from dozens and dozens of women would prove worthwhile.
She passed a window and caught a glimpse of someone entering the barn. Jake. Already up with the sun, working as hard as anyone, which spoke volumes about the man he was.
“You just need time, that’s all,” he’d told her. “And I’ll give it to you. As much time as you need.”
And he was giving her just that. And keeping his distance too. Somewhat. If she didn’t count the occasional sprig of holly or out-of-season wildflower that just happened to appear in a little glass by the sink where she washed dishes. Or the pretty ear bobs that were waiting in a tiny decorative box by her bedroom door the other morning. Or the sketch of “General Prescott’s Nativity” that hung, even now, on a board above one of the worktables.
But it wasn’t time she needed so much as a guarantee. And as she already knew so well, life never came with one of those.
The heady aroma of coffee brewing on the stove greeted her as she rounded the corner and spotted Tempy cracking eggs into a bowl.
“No matter what time I rise, Tempy, you’re already down here at work. Eggs gathered and sausage already brought up from the root cellar.”
The older woman smiled. “I’m old and can’t sleep no more like I used to. That’s one of the things folks don’t tell you when you’re young, Missus Prescott. That one day your body’s just gonna up and decide it don’t need to rest like your mind tells it to.”
Aletta smiled and reached for an iron skillet to fry up the sausage, the woman’s comment spurring a question. “How long have you been here, Tempy? At Carnton, I mean.”
“Oh, land sakes . . .” Tempy paused. “Nigh onto sixty-five years, I guess. I was all of maybe two or three when Master Randal, that be Mister McGavock’s father, bought me and Mama from over in Montgomery.”
Aletta looked over at her. Tempy stated it so matter-of-factly, about being bought and sold. And it occurred to Aletta then that she’d never had occasion to know a slave as well as she knew Tempy. A measure of shame accompanied that realization, as did a puzzlement. She chose her words carefully. “My understanding, Tempy, is that all the other slaves here at Carnton were sent south when the war started. And yet . . . you’re still here.”
“That’s ’cuz I’m near ancient, Missus Prescott. Guess Mister and Missus McGavock figured the Federal Army wouldn’t reckon an old woman like me was worth freein’.” Tempy stilled and met Aletta’s gaze, a knowing look moving into her eyes. “And I guess they was right,” she finished succinctly, then dropped the remnants of a cracked eggshell into the compost bucket and turned back to her work.
But for Aletta, the air in the room seemed to evaporate.
From rote memory, she lit the stove, placed the skillet atop a burner, then sliced and pattied out the pork sausage, the image of a young black girl no more than two or three filling her mind. So many other questions she wanted to ask. But had no right to. What must it have been like to have had all the choices in life taken from you? Your freedom stripped away?
As she placed the sausage in the skillet, the meat sizzling, aromas rising, Aletta realized with both a grateful and humble heart that at least she had choices. Choices that were hers alone to make.
A while later, after the McGavocks’ breakfast was served, Aletta hurried back upstairs to rouse Andrew and get him dressed. In a blink, it would be noon and the auction would be under way. And there was still much to be done.
She returned to find the kitchen abuzz with hired help and volunteers. Voices and footfalls from the upstairs signaled that Mrs. McGavock was readying to give tours of the main floor of the home. Mrs. McGavock’s mother, Mrs. Winder, along with a cousin, had arrived two days earlier with plans to stay through Christmas. Both women had jumped right in to help, including assisting with the decoration of the nine-foot cedar tree now standing statuesquely in the front hallway.
Tempy had Andrew’s eggs waiting at the table in the corner for him, scrambled like he liked them, and he dove in, eating not one but two slices of warm pumpkin bread. Aletta didn’t object when she spotted Tempy slipping him a fresh butter cookie. She was stepping in to see how she might best serve preparations in the kitchen when a voice interrupted her thoughts.
“Mrs. Prescott?”
Aletta turned to see Mrs. Buckner, one of the younger widows, standing in the doorway. She looked for the woman’s precious twin girls but didn’t see them.
“Mrs. Prescott, where would you like for us to put all the pies and cakes the women are bringing?”
Aletta gestured. “All the baked goods go to the barn. Mrs. Hunter and her group already have the tables set up and are pricing everything.”
Mrs. Buckner nodded then hesitated before stepping forward. “Mrs. Prescott . . . me and the other ladies, we all want to thank you for all you’ve done to bring this event together.”
The bustle of activity around them halted, and Aletta looked about the kitchen and met gaze after gaze.
“I was speaking with Mrs. McGavock a moment ago,” Mrs. Buckner continued, “and she said you’ve worked almost night and day for weeks, and that the committee couldn’t have done this without your leadership.”
Aletta briefly bowed her head. “Mrs. McGavock is a very gracious woman.”
“That may be, but . . . with the women coming together in recent days, getting to know each other, sharing our stories . . .” The young widow smiled. “It’s helped us all so much. It’s helped me to know that I’m not alone. This time of year is supposed to be a joyous occasion . . . and it is,” she added quickly. “But it can sometimes be so lonely too. So . . . thank you from all of us for making it far less so this year.”
“You’re most welcome,” Aletta whispered. “Thanks to all of you as well. Because we’ve accomplished this together.”
Everyone returned to their tasks, and she spotted Andrew hopping down from his chair.
“Are you finished, sweetheart?”
He nodded. “Mama . . . do you think Papa can hear us from where he is?”
Surprised at his question, she brushed the hair back from his forehead and prayed for wisdom, cherishing how much of Warren she saw in his expression. “I believe that—” She paused as a better, clearer response nudged hers from her mind. “—Jesus hears us and then passes our messages along to him.”
His brow furrowed. “So . . . if there’s somethin’ I wanna tell Papa, I can just say it to Jesus?”
Aletta smiled. “Yes, sweetheart. You can say it to Jesus. Anything, anytime, anywhere, and he’ll hear you. No matter if you whisper.” She made her voice soft. “Or if you only say it in your heart. He hears everything. And he understands.”
The edges of his little mouth nudged upward and he hugged her tight. “I wanna go find Winder. But . . . can the two of us come back down later and maybe lick some of the cake bowls?”
She smiled. “Of course you can.” She walked with him upstairs, wanting to see how plans were progressing outside the kitchen.
A length of red velvet rope had been draped across the staircase leading to the second-floor landing where the family bedrooms resided. And Mrs. Louisa McGavock, Mr. McGavock’s sister-in-law who had graciously agreed to act as a docent for the tours, stood guard, her kind but firm smile at the ready.
Passing the front parlor, Aletta spotted Mrs. Felicia Grundy Porter, a relative of Mrs. McGavock and dedicated president of the Women’s Relief Society. Mrs. Grundy had graciously agreed to direct a group of children in a tableau. But the woman already appeared slightly frazzled, her supposed-to-be silent and motionless costumed participants jabbering like little magpies.
Aletta fought back a smile and gave the woman an encouraging look.
Finally, she and Andrew discovered Winder, Hattie, and Miss Clouston on the front porch overseeing the bustle of activity outside, which was a sight to behold. And there, in the midst of it all, was Jake unloading donated items from wagon beds, along with crates of preserves and endless cakes, pies, and cookies. Not to mention the textiles—beautifully embroidered pillowcases and handkerchiefs, baby bibs, quilts of all sizes, and knitted throws. Some of which she’d helped with at the church building. These women truly had given their best.
Now if only people from Nashville and the neighboring communities would attend the auction and purchase items as hoped, so that the proceeds could benefit as many soldiers as possible, both those well and those wounded, like Emmett Zachary.
Last she’d spoken to Kate, Emmett’s wounds were healing well. But the doctor had informed them that Emmett’s wait for an artificial limb could be seven months or more. Kate had shared that the emotional strain of Emmett losing his leg, compounded by his lack of mobility, was wearing him—and his hope—thin.
“Captain Winston!” Andrew called, and Aletta looked back in time to see Andrew running full out, Winder right behind him.
Jake turned and spotted the boys and hopped down from the wagon bed in time to brace himself as they barreled into him. Miss Clouston and Hattie laughed beside her, and Aletta smiled, but her insides were a tangle of emotions.
Jake looked up at her in that moment, a boy dangling from each arm, and his smile softened, his expression filled with something far more than friendship. And he didn’t seem the least bothered that someone else might see it. Even at this distance, Aletta could feel her attraction to him, the tug of his heart on hers.
Without warning, Andrew and Winder let go and grabbed Jake by his legs, nearly causing him to topple. With a deep growl, Jake grabbed them both, one under each arm, and spun the boys around until they screamed, “Uncle!”
“Mrs. Prescott?”
Aletta turned to see Mrs. McGavock standing just inside the entrance hall, the front door ajar, and joined her. “Good morning, Mrs. McGavock.”
“Good morning, my dear. Isn’t the weather lovely? So warm for December. And so promising for a strong attendance on this first day!”
“I couldn’t agree more, ma’am.”
“Firstly, I want to reiterate what Tempy said she’s already told you. That you may take whatever time you need to rest. Delegate, Mrs. Prescott. And together we’ll all rally and get the work done.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll do that.”
Mrs. McGavock briefly covered Aletta’s hands. “And if I haven’t told you often enough in recent days . . . the promise of this event’s success has been greatly increased by your tireless efforts. So I, along with the Women’s Relief Society committee, salute you. In fact”—Mrs. McGavock gestured to a handsome and well-dressed woman standing only feet away who joined them—“allow me to introduce my dear sister-in-law, Mrs. William Giles Harding of Belle Meade Plantation. Elizabeth is Mr. McGavock’s sister—”
Aletta nodded.
“—and she’s expressed a keen interest in thanking you personally for your work on the auction, Mrs. Prescott.” Mrs. McGavock finished out the introductions.
“It’s my pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Harding.” Aletta dipped her head.
“Likewise, Mrs. Prescott. This auction promises to be the Women’s Relief Society’s most successful event to date, and I applaud your coordination. My sister-in-law, Carrie, here can only sing your praises, which I echo with full confidence.”
Aletta felt her cheeks growing warm. “Thank you both, but it’s been my honor to help. It’s also been my saving grace,” she added softly, glimpsing understanding in Mrs. McGavock’s eyes.
After Mrs. Harding took her leave, Mrs. McGavock leaned close. “What you may not be aware of, Mrs. Prescott, is that my sister-in-law’s husband, General William Giles Harding, is currently imprisoned in the North by the Federal Army. So truly, she’s most grateful for our assisting the soldiers.”
Aletta glanced back in Elizabeth Harding’s direction. That woman’s husband was in prison? Again she was reminded of how wrong it was—not to mention unwise—to make judgments based upon first impressions.
“One more thing I need to speak with you about, Mrs. Prescott.” Mrs. McGavock leaned close. “It’s something Winder and the Colonel mentioned to me this morning. I told them I’d need to secure your permission first before they said anything to Andrew. But I believe you know the boys are planning a sleepout in the spring.”
Aletta nodded.
“Their thought was, especially in light of how fair the weather is, that they might do the sleepout this weekend, on Sunday night. It’ll be chilly, I’m certain. But not overly so, and they can bundle up, build a fire. The Colonel will be with them the entire time. But I sincerely doubt they’ll want to stay out there the whole night.”
“I think it’s a wonderful idea, Mrs. McGavock. And I appreciate your sensitivity to my son’s welfare. And to my own.”
“I’m grateful God brought you to my door, Mrs. Prescott. I only wish we could continue your employment after the New Year. But I’m already praying for God to guide your next steps in that regard.”
Aletta managed a smile, what hope she’d had of possibly staying on here meeting a swift and decisive end. “Thank you, Mrs. McGavock.”
“Oh gracious . . .” Mrs. McGavock glanced at the clock on a nearby table. “It’s time to meet with the committee, and I’ve forgotten my notes. I’d best run upstairs and get them.”
“Let me do that for you, ma’am.”
“Oh no, I couldn’t ask you to—”
“I’m fine, Mrs. McGavock.” Aletta gave a smile. “I’ll bring your notes right back down. Where are they?”
“Bless you, dear. They’re in my bedroom. On my bedside table. Thank you, Mrs. Prescott.”
Upon Mrs. Louisa McGavock’s official lowering of the rope, Aletta climbed the stairs to the second floor landing, a bit winded but fine.
She’d been to the schoolroom several times but never into the McGavocks’ bedroom. She opened the door and quickly found Mrs. McGavock’s notes. She turned to go when a portrait in an oval frame over the fireplace, of three girls, caught her attention. One of them resembled Hattie so much—the girl’s cute little button nose—that Aletta knew it must be her.
But the two others . . .
Two perfectly beautiful children, one brunette, the other blond, cheeks rosy, expressions so serene and happy. And both, she assumed with certainty, gone now. Carrie McGavock was, indeed, well acquainted with grief. Odd how the knowledge of another’s suffering helped at times like this, and Aletta drew strength from it as she hurried back downstairs to help get the auction officially under way.
She assisted the women in the barn as they finished pricing and arranging the baked goods. Then she checked with the older children who were hosting the hot apple cider cart, the smell of spiced apples and cloves, roasting pork, and popped corn setting the perfect festive mood.
She caught sight of Jake looking at her from across the way and saw him pointing. She turned and looked in that direction—
And even after all the preparation and all the work, she found herself unprepared for the lines of wagons and throngs of people coming up the drive.
The next afternoon, Aletta sought solace from the crowds—the auction attendance higher today than the one previous—and she was grateful to find the kitchen empty and quiet. For the moment, at least. She checked her list for the next item to bake.
Pecan pies. Her favorite.
There was something special about the sugar-coated pecans and the gooey goodness of the filling that tasted like comfort. And home. She gathered the ingredients for the piecrusts and began working them together for the pastry as her thoughts wandered, questions never far from her mind moving closer. Come January, where would she and Andrew go? Where would they live?
Since room and board were included with this position, she’d managed to save almost all of her earnings. But Andrew . . . He was going to be heartbroken to leave Winder. And to think that the boys could continue to be playmates simply wasn’t sensible.
She divided the pastry and began working the rolling pin over the first pie shell, pressing down harder than she’d intended. So she folded the dough over itself and started again.
And what of Jake? After the auction he would go back to the war, which only confirmed within her again that she’d made the right choice. No matter that her feelings sometimes challenged that decision.
“Rest assured, Captain”—Mrs. McGavock’s voice drifted down the staircase leading to the kitchen—“we’re so grateful you came when you did. It’s been a pleasure having you here with us.”
“It’s been my pleasure, Mrs. McGavock. And I appreciate your understanding about my request to return to my regiment.”
Aletta paused, rolling pin in hand. He was leaving? Already?
“Oh, I understand completely, Captain Winston. So does the Colonel. He and I both applaud your honor and dedication. In fact—”
Aletta felt guilty for listening to their conversation, but if they’d intended for it to be private, they should’ve chosen a more private setting. Still, she clanged a couple of pans together to soothe her conscience.
“Only last night,” Mrs. McGavock continued, “the Colonel commented about how much he appreciates the work you’ve done not only on the auction but on the cabin, the barn, the smokehouse. He’s been quite impressed with your handiwork and initiative.”
“Again, ma’am, it’s been my pleasure. I’m only sorry if when—”
The kitchen door opened and several volunteers entered, chatting and laughing, bringing the cool air in with them, and Aletta could no longer hear the conversation. And by the time things quieted down again, it was apparently over. She stared down at the piecrust.
So Jake was returning to his regiment. And at his own request, it seemed.
She reached for a bowl and cracked three eggs into it, then set butter to browning in a pan on the stove. That was good, that he was returning to his post. It was what she’d wanted. And what was best. He was well enough, after all. And she’d long held the opinion that every able-bodied man should be fighting. But . . .
The thought that something could happen to him formed a knot at the base of her throat. She measured a cup of sugar into the bowl and stirred. Andrew would be disappointed to learn of Jake’s departure. But perhaps not as much as he would be when the time came for him to leave Winder, and Carnton, behind.
She reached for a dash of salt when movement outside the window drew her attention. Jake climbed up into a wagon and both boys scrambled up beside him. Andrew looked up at him and said something, and Jake nodded, then handed her son one of the reins. A dull ache filled her chest and began working its way up.
Still . . . it was a good thing Jake was leaving. A very good thing.