The near two-mile walk from the house to Carnton felt much longer in the cold and wind, and Aletta squeezed Andrew’s little gloved hand tucked inside hers. She sensed him watching her and looked down to see him frowning, his handsome little-boy face a more youthful image of his father’s.
“A penny for your thoughts, sweetheart?”
His brow furrowed. “I hear Santa Claus won’t be makin’ it down here for Christmas, Mama. Seth says it’s ’cause of them good-for-nothin’ Yankees. Said they likely shot him to bits by now. So there won’t be any Christmas this year.”
Aletta slowed. “When were you speaking with Seth?”
“He came by yesterday while you was resting. To bring back my ball.”
Aletta gently pulled her son to the side of the dirt drive and knelt to be at eye level with him. She glanced toward the main house a short distance away, hoping no one happened to be peering out a front window. Here she was, applying for the position of cook with a reference letter praising her seamstress skills, which already didn’t bode well. But arriving with a child in tow was another mark against her. Her breath ghosted white in the frigid morning air.
“I will remind you, Andrew, that you cannot take everything Seth says to heart. He’s a good friend, but sometimes he spouts opinions upon subjects he knows nothing about.” She coerced an unruly curl from his forehead, which promptly fell right back.
“So you’re sayin’ we are still havin’ Christmas?” Andrew’s dark brows knit together.
“Why . . . of course we are.” Aletta hugged her son tight, needing to feel his arms around her neck as much as she needed for him not to glimpse her own sadness. She breathed in his little-boy scent before drawing back, her smile firmly in place. “I know it for truth that Santa is doing well. In fact, he’s quite hearty from eating shortbread all year.”
Andrew beamed. “Like the kind you used to make?”
She nodded. “However, from what I hear, he will be busy. More so than usual. Because there seem to be a lot more children who’ve been good, like you. So whatever he brings, however modest, Andrew, we must be grateful for it. Do you understand?”
He nodded, his impish smile widening. “When he brings me my red train engine, like Papa said, I’ll share it with anybody who wants to play with it!”
Aletta cringed, wishing for the thousandth time that Warren hadn’t promised their son a train for Christmas while home on his furlough last April. She’d never be able to find such an extravagance, much less afford it. Not even if she managed to get this temporary job at Carnton. Because she still had the problem of where they were going to live in less than two weeks’ time.
On the wind came the pungent scent of evergreen, and her gaze moved to the hills, to the leafless elm and poplar standing shoulder to shoulder with pine trees frocked in silvery winter green as though unwilling to be outdone. Where was God’s hand of provision now, when she needed it most?
Bless her sweet son, he’d been four years old when he’d said good-bye to his papa when Warren left to fight. And now, two years later, she still wondered whether Andrew truly grasped that his papa wasn’t ever coming home again. Andrew had wept the night she’d told him his papa had been killed and was now in heaven with Jesus and Grandpa and Grandma. But then days later he’d asked, yet again, when Papa would be home next.
“Your papa loves you very much,” she whispered. “You know that.”
He nodded.
“And while getting a train for Christmas would be very nice, we both need to remember that Christmas really isn’t about receiving presents, is it?”
His gaze wary, he slowly shook his head.
She looked into his eyes. “It’s about being thankful for the greatest gift God has ever given us.”
He didn’t respond.
“You know who that gift is, Andrew. He left heaven and came down to live among people just like us. He was born a baby and grew up to be a strong man, honest and true. Our Savior.” She waited.
“Jesus,” he finally whispered. “Who Papa’s with.”
Her eyes burned. “Yes, sweetie. Who Papa’s with. Right now. And we’ll both be with them, too, someday. But for now, you and Mama, we’ll take care of each other as Jesus watches over us.”
Andrew looked down. “And we’ll take care of the baby too?”
She smiled. “Yes, and the baby too.”
He framed her face in his palms and leaned close as though having a secret to tell. “I’ll share my train from Papa with the baby,” he whispered, then beamed.
Aletta had to smile, despite wondering if anything she’d said had truly registered.
She rose and smoothed a hand over the swell in her gray woolen skirt and noticed the singed hem toward the front. Wishing to hide the flaw, she cheated the waistband over to the side again and they walked on, hand in hand.
They reached the winter garden, and she spotted a line of carriages parked in front of the house, and hesitated. Carriages likely meant that Mrs. McGavock was hosting a gathering of some sort and the staff—and head cook—wouldn’t appreciate being disturbed. But she’d come all this way. Too far to turn back now.
A bench drew her attention, nestled by a hedge of hydrangea near a towering osage orange tree. The bench, hidden from view of the house, was sheltered from the wind and would be a perfect place to wait unseen. She led Andrew into the natural alcove and immediately felt the difference in temperature minus the wintry gusts.
She motioned him toward the bench. “You wait here. I won’t be long, sweetheart.”
His cheeks ruddy with cold, he looked at the bench then at her and nodded. But the stubborn set to his jaw gave her pause.
She leaned down and tugged his coat collar closer about his neck. “Remember what we talked about. You must wait for me. Do not go exploring like you did the other day. This is a very important visit, and I need to—”
“How come I can’t go too? Why do I have to stay here? And how come I couldn’t stay with Seth?”
Aletta hadn’t even asked MaryNell if she would watch Andrew this morning. Not under the circumstances. She prayed again for MaryNell and for whatever decisions she faced. And prayed her friend would make the right ones.
“We’ve already been through why, Andrew. Mrs. Goodall was busy. Now I need you to stay here until I get back. Understood?”
He gave a begrudging nod, climbed up on the bench, then slumped down.
Aletta reached into her pocket and withdrew the folded napkin even as her own stomach growled. When he spotted the piece of bread and cheese she held out, he beamed.
“I thought you said we didn’t have any extra!”
Aletta placed half of her breakfast in his outstretched palm. “You’re a growing boy. And a growing boy needs nourishment.”
He took a bite of bread then cheese, his jaw working furiously. It did her heart good to see him eat. The day she’d lost her job, she’d begun rationing what little was left in the pantry, stretching it to make it last. What few coins remained in her reticule would be enough for bread and another wedge of cheese and perhaps some milk, but after that . . .
She gave his hair a last tousle, then cut a path back to the gravel drive and around the fine carriages. She opened the front gate, a tree-lined serpentine-pattern brick walkway bridging the distance to the front portico. She made sure the gate closed behind her before continuing to the front entrance of the two-story redbrick home, fresh determination taking hold.
She would not leave here without a job.
She’d heard of Carnton and its owners, the McGavock family. What person living in Franklin, Tennessee, hadn’t? But she’d never had cause to make the trek out here.
The estate encompassed a sprawling farm, and the main house—with its stately windows situated on the ground level and mirrored on the second—resembled a residence she’d once seen portrayed in Harper’s Weekly. Never had she dreamed she’d actually set foot in such a place.
And she still might not, she reminded herself, if she couldn’t talk her way into an interview.
The estate seemed awfully quiet for being so large. Not a worker in sight. But it was winter. And if Carnton was like other plantations, they’d sent their slaves south months ago, far from the reaches of Federal troops bent on freeing them.
She tugged her coat together in the front and climbed the stone steps to the portico, noting the detailed carpentry work of the four square columns supporting the upper porch. Her father had been a master carpenter, God rest him, and he’d bequeathed to her a considerable knowledge of woodworking, much to her late mother’s dismay. Beveled recessed panels adorned each column, and a simple yet elegant vase-shaped balustrade enclosed both the lower and upper porches. Details that had lined some woodworker’s pocket quite nicely while adding considerably to the beauty of the home.
She’d never mastered carving but could build a solid, if simple, piece of furniture. She smiled remembering how Warren had teased her when he’d learned that the chest of drawers she brought to the marriage was one she’d crafted herself. “Land sakes, woman! If I’d known you could cook and build furniture, I’d have asked you to marry me sooner.”
Sooner than two months? That was the length of time between when they met and when they married. Both of them had simply known. It helped that her parents had loved him like the son they’d never had.
A deep breath for courage, and she knocked on one of the paneled double doors. After a moment, she started to knock a second time, thinking perhaps—
The door opened. But no one was there. Or at least that’s what she thought, until she looked down. A young boy peered up. About Andrew’s age, she guessed, and with Andrew’s slight build.
“May I help you, madam?” His serious tone belied both his youth and the mischievous grin on his face.
Aletta swiftly decided to play along. “Yes, you may, kind sir.” She curtsied and curbed a grin at the pleasure that lit his blue eyes. It felt good to be playful again, the way she and Andrew were, or used to be, together. Before the war, before Warren had gone away. “I’m here seeking an audience with the head cook,” she continued. “If you would be so gracious as to inquire whether she has time to see me, I would be most grateful.”
The boy blinked as if suddenly uncertain what to do next, then he straightened his shoulders and stepped to one side. “Please enter,” he said stiffly, his chest puffing out.
Aletta did as he asked, half wondering if she should or not. After all, a child lacked the proper authority to invite guests into the home, and she didn’t wish to jeopardize her chances for employment. Yet she needed to gain an audience with the cook if she hoped to get the job, which she wouldn’t get standing out on the porch.
He closed the door behind her, and though the foyer lacked a hearth and was chilly, she welcomed protection from the wind—and hoped Andrew would stay where she’d left him.
“Wait here.” The boy pointed to a certain section of floorcloth, and Aletta smiled and shifted slightly to the left to accommodate. He grinned, apparently pleased with her compliance, then disappeared through an open doorway to the right.
The thrum of female voices drifted through the closed door of one of the rooms farther down the hallway to the left, and she gathered that a meeting or some such was under way. A meeting involving a rather heated discussion, judging by the escalation of voices.
She waited. And waited. And began to feel more awkward as the moments lengthened. She peered out one of the sidelights, watching for any sign of Andrew, not putting it past him to—
“Miss Katharina Boudreaux?”
Startled, Aletta turned and found a woman staring at her.
The woman stepped closer. “You’re the master pastry chef from Atlanta? We’ve been expecting you.”
“Oh, no . . . I’m sorry.” Aletta shook her head. “I’m not Miss Boudreaux. I’m . . . Mrs. Warren Prescott.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed. She scanned the foyer. “And pray tell, Mrs. Warren Prescott . . . precisely what are you doing standing in my front entrance hall? And who gave you entry?”
Hearing censure in the woman’s tone, Aletta realized she’d made a serious misstep.