Wishing now that she’d stayed outside, Aletta curtsied, certain she was addressing the mistress of Carnton. She only hoped her gaffe wouldn’t cost her the position. “Hello, Mrs. McGavock. As I said, my name is Mrs. Prescott, and I’m here to interview for one of the positions as cook for the Women’s Relief Society event. I’ve worked in a bakery before and certainly know my way around a kitchen. My mother was a head cook for the Parks family years ago, and she taught me well. And regarding how long I’ve been here . . . only a handful of moments, I give you my word. A young boy gave me entrance.”
The uncertainty in the woman’s countenance finally lessened by a degree. “Ah . . . that young man would be my son, Winder. He has taken to answering the door of late. And though I’ve instructed him to do otherwise, he is quite obstinate in his opinions for one so young.”
Aletta offered a smile. “I could say the same of my own son, who I believe would be about your son’s age.”
The woman closed the distance between them. “I’m Mrs. Colonel John McGavock. And while I appreciate your interest in the position, Mrs. Prescott—and your credentials—I’m sorry . . . All the positions for cooks have been filled. When the flyer first appeared in the newspaper earlier this week, we were deluged with applicants. I’m certain you can understand.”
Hope deflated, Aletta tried not to let it show. “Of . . . of course, Mrs. McGavock. I didn’t realize it had been advertised before yesterday.” She felt a burning behind her eyes. “I don’t suppose you have need of any other help? A housekeeper, perhaps? Or a laundry maid.”
The woman eyed her. “I’m very sorry, but we don’t.”
Aletta nodded. “Well then, I won’t take up any more of your valuable time. Good day, ma’am.”
“Mrs. Prescott.”
Hand on the doorknob, Aletta paused and looked back in time to see the woman’s gaze drop briefly to her distended belly.
Mrs. McGavock’s features softened. “It’s particularly cold outside today. Perhaps you would like a cup of hot cocoa before your journey back to town?”
Thinking of Andrew, Aletta shook her head. “That’s very kind of you, ma’am. But . . . I’d best not.”
“But I insist, Mrs. Prescott. Come with me, and I’ll show you to the kitchen.”
Again, Aletta resisted. “I’m sorry, Mrs. McGavock, but—” She lowered her head. “My son is waiting for me outside. I didn’t have anywhere else for him to stay this morning, so—”
“Well, that will not do at all! It’s so cold! I’ll have Winder invite him in straightaway. I wager your son would welcome a cup of hot cocoa as well.” Mrs. McGavock strode to the door through which Winder had disappeared and opened it. “Winder, come quickly, please!” She glanced back to Aletta. “Your son’s name, Mrs. Prescott?”
Aletta stared, near speechless at the woman’s kindness. And her straightforward manner. “It’s Andrew, ma’am. But truly, I don’t—”
Winder appeared at the door, wearing the same mischievous grin from moments before, and Aletta began to wonder if that wasn’t his usual countenance.
“Winder, dear. There’s a boy about your age outside—” Mrs. McGavock looked back. “Where is he waiting, Mrs. Prescott?”
“On the bench in the garden, ma’am.”
Mrs. McGavock nodded. “Winder, put on your coat and go fetch the young man and bring him inside for a cup of—”
Winder was out the front door and down the steps in a flash.
“Winder!” his mother called after him. “I said put on your coat, young man!” She huffed beneath her breath as the boy ran full tilt toward the garden. “Boys are such rambunctious creatures. So different from girls.”
“I’ll have to take your word on that count, Mrs. McGavock.” Aletta smiled.
The woman looked over, a sparkle in her eyes. “At least for now you will. But there may come a day in a few months when you’ll know that fact for yourself only too well.”
Aletta smoothed a hand over her rounded midsection. “Far sooner than that, I hope. January, I expect.”
“So short a time remaining?” The woman’s expression revealed her surprise. “I had assumed spring. But it’s always more difficult to gauge with you petite women. I have a belly that size after eating a single petit four.”
Aletta laughed softly, knowing she was jesting. Mrs. McGavock was a handsome woman with striking dark hair and pale skin. The dress she wore was finely tailored yet lacked the elaborate trappings of lace, silk, and pearls other women of similar wealth wore. Still, the manner in which Mrs. McGavock carried herself lent the gown simplistic elegance.
On first impression, the mistress of Carnton struck her as a most practical woman. And based on what Aletta had witnessed thus far, a woman not much concerned with what people thought of her, but rather concerned with people in general. Odd how such quiet humility encouraged such deep respect.
Aletta spotted Winder running back toward the house with Andrew fast on his heels, both boys grinning from ear to ear.
“Hot cocoa!” Winder cried as he bulleted across the threshold into the foyer.
Andrew echoed the call at the precise moment Aletta managed to catch him by the arm as he barreled past.
“Andrew!” Aletta held on when he tried to pull away, then gave him a swift look before turning him to face Mrs. McGavock. “Andrew, may I present Mrs. Colonel John McGavock, the lady of Carnton, and the kind woman who is offering you hot cocoa. Mrs. McGavock, my overly excited son”—Aletta winced playfully—“Andrew Thomas Prescott.”
“You have hot cocoa?” Andrew asked, and Aletta grimaced.
As though anticipating Aletta’s apology, Mrs. McGavock waved a hand. “Yes, we have cocoa, young man. And cookies too! Follow Winder there, and he’ll show you to the kitchen.”
The boys took off through the door on their right, yammering as they went, and Aletta followed Mrs. McGavock in their wake. They passed through what appeared to be the office for the estate.
Mrs. McGavock glanced back. “Your husband is fighting for the cause, Mrs. Prescott?”
“He was, ma’am.” Aletta kept her voice soft. “I was notified of his death a month ago.”
Mrs. McGavock paused beside an open door that led to two sets of stairs, one set leading up to the second story and the other down to the kitchen, judging by the savory aromas wafting toward them. Genuine concern shadowed her expression. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Prescott. My heart goes out to you in your loss. And that of your son of his father.”
Aletta nodded, briefly bowing her head. “Thank you, ma’am. And your husband, Mrs. McGavock? Is he fighting?”
“Colonel McGavock is of some years now, so he was not called into service. Though he does support the effort in many ways. His title is honorary in nature, but is nonetheless important to him.”
“To you both, I’m sure.”
Mrs. McGavock nodded, sadness creeping into her expression. “Even so, the war has touched us deeply. My brother, Felix Grundy Winder, fell at Vicksburg this past summer. There are days I still find it difficult to grasp that he’s truly gone from us.”
Hearing the pain in her voice, Aletta remembered Warren writing her about the battles at Vicksburg and how many had died there. Over seven thousand killed or wounded, if memory served. The confrontation at Vicksburg had given new meaning to the cruelty of warfare. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Mrs. McGavock. So many, too many, have died.”
Her hostess nodded then continued down the stairs and into a spacious kitchen that boasted an enormous hearth with a fire blazing brightly. An older Negro woman stood before a cast iron stove stirring a large pot, the comforting aroma hinting at potatoes and onions and a plentiful cupboard.
Aletta considered herself diminutive, but this woman was even more so. Scarcely four feet tall, she estimated, and that included the shock of gray hair caught up in a kerchief on her head. Yet the woman lifted a large cast iron kettle from the stove without the least sign of strain and poured a measure of its steaming contents into two oversized mugs.
No delicate china teacups for the two boys seated at a table by the window, eager-eyed and watchful as they devoured a plate of what appeared to be butter cookies. Her own stomach complaining from want, Aletta took comfort in knowing that Andrew would talk about this for days on end.
“Tempy, this is Mrs. Prescott who came inquiring about the positions for cook. I told her they’ve been filled, but I invited her to enjoy a cup of cocoa before she starts back home.”
“Yes, ma’am, comin’ right up. You want some, too, Missus McGavock?” The older woman reached for another cup.
“None for me, Tempy, thank you. I must return to my meeting in the family parlor before a skirmish breaks out.”
Tempy’s high, airy laugh sounded like the tinkling of a bell. “Missus Tyler gettin’ outta sorts ’bout my bread puddin’ again? If I’d known that’s what the lady wanted for dessert today, I coulda made it.”
“No, it’s not about the bread pudding. As serious an issue as that is . . .”
Aletta caught the humorous look that passed between the two women.
“It’s actually about something pertaining to the auction.” Mrs. McGavock included Aletta with a glance. “The Women’s Relief Society hired an older gentleman to build a booth and manger for a life-sized nativity scene. You know him, Tempy. It’s Mr. Baker.”
“Kind old soul, that Mr. Baker.” Tempy set a cup of cocoa on the worktable between them and aimed a smile at Aletta.
“Thank you,” Aletta said softly, her interest more than a little piqued by the conversation. She wrapped her hands around the mug, the warmth causing a shiver. And as she sipped, she realized she’d all but forgotten this sweet, smooth, chocolatey delight.
“Yes, Mr. Baker is a kind old soul. It was our thought that the children could take turns being Joseph and Mary, as it were. But Mr. Baker has had to withdraw his offer due to his rheumatism. With the rest of the slaves sent away, and the Colonel busy with the farm, I can’t think of anyone else to ask either. Neither can the other members of the committee. And the women are divided amongst themselves. Half are saying we don’t need the nativity scene and the other half are saying we can’t have the auction without it. I, for one, believe the Lord will understand us not having a booth and a manger for him. But not helping the soldiers as best we can with what we have?” Mrs. McGavock shook her head. “Not while I’m serving as committee chair. Still . . . it’s a pity we can’t find anyone else to make the items. The children would have enjoyed it so, and it would have been a tangible reminder for them, and the adults, of who lies at the heart of every effort behind this event.”
Aletta set her mug on the table. “Mrs. McGavock, I know this may sound forward of me, and I certainly don’t mean to come across that way. But . . . my father was a master carpenter, and he taught me a great deal about woodworking.” Already, she could glimpse the thoughts forming in Mrs. McGavock’s mind. “I realize it’s not a typical skill for a woman, but I’m certain I would know how to build whatever you’re imagining for the nativity scene. All I would need is someone to help me lift the pieces and put it together. And I’d be happy to do the work for whatever you’re able to pay.” She felt her face heat. “I truly am in need of a job.”
Mrs. McGavock took her time in responding. “Mrs. Prescott,” she finally said, her voice gentle. “I appreciate what you’re offering, and admire your tenacity. And while I believe women can do a great many things not customarily attributed to our gender, I do not believe a woman in . . . the family way”—she spoke the words softly—“could, or even should, strive to undertake such a task. I fear it would put at risk both your health and that of your child.”
“Don’t let my stature mislead you, Mrs. McGavock. I’m quite strong and able to do the work, I promise you. And with no threat to my child. I would never do anything to harm him. Or her,” she added with a smile, recalling their earlier exchange.
Mrs. McGavock eyed her, then sighed. “You’re most persuasive, Mrs. Prescott. And I would say yes”—the woman lifted a hand—“if not for the fact that there is no ‘someone’ here to help you in that regard. Tempy already has more work than one woman can do. And with the pastry chef arriving anytime now, and cooking not only for the auction and those food sales, but for the women volunteering to knit and sew for the soldiers beforehand . . . her load is only going to increase. So I fear that we shall simply have to make do with the two small crèches we have. We’ll display them on the front table in the foyer and by the Christmas tree. But thank you, Mrs. Prescott, most sincerely, for your offer. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must force myself back into the fray. Please stay and enjoy your hot cocoa.”
And with that, Mrs. McGavock turned to leave. Aletta felt her face fall.
“Oh, and, Tempy,” Mrs. McGavock said. “The soldier Colonel Stratton is sending to help with the auction should arrive sometime today. The colonel said he’s one of the wounded. So please see to him and make certain he has whatever he needs in the house out back.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll do that.”
Aletta watched Mrs. McGavock go, feeling as though the woman were taking her last hope with her. Her gaze fell to Andrew and Winder, both boys quiet, momentarily under the spell of warm cocoa and cookies.
“You really know how to do all that, ma’am? With the wood?”
Aletta looked back to find Tempy watching her, her expression questioning.
“Yes. My father never had a son to teach, so”—she lifted her shoulders and let them fall—“he taught me instead. I enjoy it. Woodworking is . . . gratifying. Even comforting.”
Tempy shook her head. “A lady carpenter. I ain’t never heard of that before.”
“And I’ve never had hot cocoa this delicious before.”
“Well then, let me fill your cup again.”
Tempy offered her a cookie as well, and Aletta accepted, eating it far too quickly, she knew. But it tasted so good, and she was hungry. And she’d been right. Butter cookies. One of her favorites.
“Oh!” Tempy scowled. “Look what I gone and done. Put too much pepper in the soup. What was I thinkin’?” She exhaled, tiny hand on hip. “Here, you taste it, Missus Prescott. Tell me if you think it’s still fit for eatin’.”
Tempy ladled a generous portion into a cup and set it before Aletta, who saw precisely what the woman was doing. At another time in her life she might’ve politely declined. But not today.
Aletta lifted the cup to her lips and sipped. Then briefly closed her eyes. Potato soup, with bits of bacon. “It’s divine. Too much pepper and all.” She slipped the woman a grateful look, which earned her a grin.
She sipped for a moment while Tempy worked, then looked over to see the boys whispering in hushed tones, the spell of warm cookies and cocoa apparently fading. They jumped up.
“Mama, can I go with Winder to the barn? He says there’s kittens!”
“Andrew, we need to leave shortly and—”
“Please?” he added, only to have Winder repeat it.
Aletta glanced out the window, then heard Tempy’s soft whisper behind her. “Barn’s out back. Only just out that door, ma’am. You could ’bout watch him from where you sit.”
Aletta nodded. “All right. Go. But wear your coats. Both of you!”
“Yes, ma’am!” they said in unison and darted back out the kitchen the way they’d come.
A moment later, Aletta spotted the boys outside, racing for the barn, coats on but unbuttoned. She shook her head.
“It’s only you and your boy then, Missus Prescott? With your husband away at war?”
Aletta looked back to see Tempy stirring the soup. “Actually, it’s only Andrew and me.” She glanced down. “And this little one, of course. Warren, my husband, was killed. Earlier this fall.”
Tempy shook her head. “One of the hardest things in this life . . . losin’ those we love. Havin’ to go on without ’em.”
A depth of empathy colored the woman’s tone, a kindred kind of loss that went far beyond the simple offering of a condolence, and Aletta found herself unable to offer a reply. Death had taken Warren from her. But Aletta knew that Tempy, as a slave, had no doubt suffered losses stemming from death, and far worse. Because in many cases, for a slave, the person you loved hadn’t died. They’d been bartered or sold as though they weren’t human, flesh and blood like everyone else. Mothers sold away from children, children from fathers and mothers, families torn asunder.
At least she knew where Warren was, even if she wished he were still here.
“When you expectin’ that baby, Missus Prescott?”
Pulling her thoughts back, Aletta managed a smile. “Toward the end of January.”
The woman smiled. “It’s a blessed child who’s carried close to a mother’s heart through Christmastime. Soakin’ up all that love and goodness.”
Considering her current circumstances, Aletta wasn’t too certain about that, but hoped her expression didn’t convey her doubt. “Tempy . . . That’s a unique name.”
The woman smiled. “My mother give it to me when I’s just a girl. Not meanin’ to, I guess. She always said I had me a temper, and she used to warn me about it, too, sayin’, ‘Careful now, Cecelia. Temper, temper!’ Somehow my younger brother and sister never got good enough hold of my front name. So I guess they latched onto what they could.”
Aletta studied her. “You don’t strike me as the kind of person who would have a temper.”
The old woman shook her head. “Well, life has a way of smoothin’ out the rough edges of a person. Of takin’ what seems so all-fired important and showin’ you its real face. No, it’s been years since that young girl looked out through these old eyes, but I swanny”—her expression grew thoughtful, even melancholy—“if there aren’t times when I can’t still feel herself livin’ and breathin’ inside me.”
Aletta nodded thoughtfully. She’d be twenty and five on her next birthday come spring, yet felt twice that most days, and caught only occasional glimpses of the youthful bride she’d been a short lifetime ago. Yet she told herself not to give up hope. The newspapers wrote of the war ending soon and of the South’s pending victory. Oh, she prayed that would be true. Though the prediction was based on newspaper accounts, she found herself doubting it, the Federal Army so much larger as a whole and better equipped than the Confederate.
Yet love for home and family and the determination to have a voice in the law of the land had to count for something too. She and Warren had never owned slaves. Neither had their parents nor most of the people they knew. That hadn’t been at the heart of this conflict for them. How many nights had she and Warren stayed awake late discussing this, most heatedly, before he’d left to join the Tennessee Army.
“This isn’t only about slavery, Aletta. President Lincoln refuses to recognize the Confederate States of America. He sent a garrison to occupy Fort Sumter! The Confederates attempted to negotiate their withdrawal, but again, Lincoln refused. Now he’s issued a call-up for seventy-five thousand troops to put down what he’s terming ‘the rebellion’ in the South. We have a president claiming power for himself—and the government—that far exceeds what’s given to him by the Constitution. And if we don’t stand up now, I fear that what was fought for almost a hundred years ago might be lost forever.”
Aletta stared into the empty mug of cocoa, once again acknowledging Warren’s fear even as her original fear crowded her own heart. That fighting this war—however true and noble the variety of reasons—would, in the end, prove far too costly. To both sides.
She watched Tempy kneading a mound of bread dough on a stone worktable, the yeasty aroma filling the kitchen, and she wondered at the woman’s past. And her future. Her movements were almost hypnotizing in the warmth and coziness of the kitchen, and Aletta sighed within herself. If only she’d responded to the ad sooner.
She rose, mindful of not overstaying her welcome. “Thank you, Tempy, for your kindness. Both to me and my son.”
“Oh, ma’am, no trouble at all. I hope you find a place to plant yourself real soon.” Warmth deepened the brown of her eyes, and Aletta smiled.
“I do too. I’ll still come back and offer what help I can around the time of the auction, if I’m able. I’d like to be a part of it.”
Footsteps sounded on the stairs and Aletta turned to see a woman who looked every bit a soldier on a mission.
“Tempy, I’m looking for—” The woman stopped, her attention falling on Aletta. “Oh, forgive me. I didn’t mean to intrude.”
“On the contrary.” Aletta offered a smile. “I was taking my leave.”
The woman nodded. “I don’t suppose either of you have seen Master Winder anywhere about. He was supposed to return to the classroom by now.”
Tempy laughed. “He’s in the barn, Miss Clouston. Holdin’ school with some kittens.”
“In the barn?” The woman exhaled.
Aletta stepped forward. “I fear my own son may be partially to blame for leading him astray. I’ll go get the boys immediately.”
Miss Clouston shook her head. “Winder needs no help in that department, I assure you. The boy is intelligent beyond his years, but his attention is like that of a puppy come spring! Which is constantly getting him into trouble.” She laughed softly. “I’m Elizabeth Clouston, the children’s nanny.”
Aletta liked her smile, so natural, genuine. “I’m Aletta Prescott. I came today in reference to the advertisement for cooks. But it seems I was too late.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Me too,” Tempy said behind her, and they all laughed.
Aletta slipped her coat on. “I’m going to the barn now. I’ll send Master Winder back to you.”
“That would be much appreciated. It was a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Prescott.”
“You as well, Miss Clouston.”
Already missing the warmth and welcome of this household, Aletta let herself out the front door of the kitchen and was met by a stiff northern wind—and the unmistakable scent of snow. She peered up and hoped she and Andrew could get back to town before the gray skies unleashed their threat.
Pulling her coat closer about her expanding middle, she started around the house toward the barn in the back when she noticed another carriage parked behind the others, and a woman exiting with the assistance of the driver. The woman stood for a moment staring up at the house before continuing toward the front door. Judging by her slight frown, Aletta assumed she wasn’t overly impressed.
The master pastry chef, Aletta assumed, remembering what Mrs. McGavock had said. Yet this young woman looked far too youthful to have achieved that status. Still . . .
She’d read in Godey’s of a wealthy young woman who had eschewed marriage and gone abroad to study cooking and baking and then returned to the States—New York City, if she remembered correctly—to open up her own bakery, or patisserie as the article had called it. She couldn’t imagine having the wherewithal to do that. She didn’t hail from a wealthy family, after all. And traveling so far from home . . . She’d never traveled outside Tennessee. Nor wanted to. This was her home.
She hurried to the barn, eager to escape the cold and wind, when she spotted yet another conveyance coming up the road. Even from a distance, she recognized the familiar gray of the two uniformed men riding in a buckboard. The wounded soldier Mrs. McGavock had mentioned.
Poor man. Likely an amputee like the former soldier she’d seen days earlier. Life was hard everywhere she looked. Which made her more determined to be grateful for what she did have, even if gratitude wasn’t her natural response at present.
Feeling the not-so-gentle movements of the child inside her, she hurried into the barn just as the first flurries of snow began to fall.