Jake stood to one side in the entrance hall as a delegation of women left the house in a flurry of conversation about a coming winter storm, an intense loathing of having to miss someone’s potato soup, and someone’s displeasure over the lack of bread pudding. And again he wished he could thank Colonel Stratton for assigning him to this event.
He took in the niceties of the entrance hall—the expensive-looking cream and black diamond floorcloth, carpeted staircase, a handsome archway that accented the space, and the papered walls. Definitely a family of means, even in the midst of a war. At last, his hostess—whom he’d met only briefly before the mass exodus—rejoined him.
He again offered a slight bow. “Mrs. Colonel John McGavock . . . I take it that was the Women’s Relief Society?”
“Oh gracious no, Captain Winston. That’s only the committee. There are well over two hundred of us in the society.”
Colonel Stratton’s smirk came so clearly to his mind.
“And all of us, but especially the committee, are most appreciative to General Bragg for his willingness to lend your services to our event. We seek to raise money for the cause, of course. But also, and perhaps even more importantly, we seek to raise the spirits of the men who are fighting, as well as those of their families who wait most earnestly for their return.”
“I can assure you, ma’am, the men are equally ready to return home. Victorious, of course.”
Her smile dimmed by a fraction. “Of course, Captain. That is what we all hope. But returning is what is foremost in the hearts and minds of the women and children. Now please . . . if you’ll follow me.”
She led him through a door on the left and into a front parlor. He waited for her to take a seat then did likewise.
“Would you care for a cup of tea, Captain?”
“Yes, please.” It had been so long since Jake had been asked that question, since he’d been in such a civilized setting, that the delicate pastel-colored porcelain cup and saucer felt awkward in his grip. “Thank you, ma’am.”
The tea was hot and strong, the way he liked it, and smelled faintly of cloves and cinnamon, tastes he’d all but forgotten. Which made the savoring even more enjoyable.
“Colonel McGavock is presently working the farm, Captain. But he’s eager to meet you as well. So I hope you’ll join us for supper this evening, as you’re welcome to do every evening you’re here at Carnton. That will give us the opportunity to introduce you to our children, Hattie, our eldest, and Winder, her younger brother.”
“I’d like that very much. Thank you, Mrs. McGavock.”
He listened, nodding on occasion as she shared her expectations and goals for the auction and his duties accordingly. Which basically boiled down to what Colonel Stratton had told him—anything Mrs. Colonel John McGavock requested he do.
“In the midst of my appreciation for your presence here, Captain, I am very much aware that you, too, are a wounded soldier, and that you need your rest. So while you’re here at Carnton, I’ll depend upon you to set your limits and then communicate them to me. I have been known to ask a great deal of others.” A smile hinted at the corners of her mouth. “Though, granted, nothing beyond what I expect of myself.”
Jake nodded, completely believing her admission.
“Speaking of,” she continued, “you’re certain you’re able to assist Mrs. Prescott in her . . . undertaking? She told me you very graciously agreed to help her.”
“Oh yes, ma’am. I’m happy to help with the nativity.”
“Very good then. The funds raised by our auction will be used to benefit the soldiers directly, a portion of which will be designated specifically for those wounded. A man who has fought for his country and who is left challenged in that regard deserves all the assistance we can offer him.”
“That’s most kind of you, Mrs. McGavock.”
“Very good then.” She rose. “If you’re finished with your tea, allow me to see you to the kitchen. And Tempy, Carnton’s head cook, will show you where you’ll be staying while you’re here. Did your commander tell you, by chance?”
He set his empty cup and saucer on the silver tray and followed her across the hallway and into what appeared to be an office. “No, ma’am, he didn’t. But I’m assuming in the barn, which will be fine.”
“Oh gracious no, Captain. We can do much better than that.” She paused. “We have a cabin for you. Granted, it’s one of the slaves’ quarters. But it’s by far the nicest. It’s the brick cabin just beyond the kitchen and smokehouse where the house slaves resided. Those will be your private quarters, Captain, and you’re to advise Tempy should you have need of anything.”
Jake nodded. “Thank you, ma’am.”
“I apologize that we’re unable to host you in our home. But my own dear mother will be visiting soon as well as a cousin. So I fear the guest room is in high demand.”
“The cabin will be more than fine, ma’am. Thank you. By chance, has Carnton had its hog killing yet?”
“No, we haven’t. In fact, I believe the Colonel is planning to hold that in the next couple of weeks.”
“I’ve butchered plenty of hogs back on the farm in South Carolina. Every winter since I was a boy. I’d be happy to help, if you’d like.”
Her eyes brightened. “I’m sure the Colonel would be happy to have your assistance, Captain. As with other farms, all of our slaves but one, Tempy, the head cook I’ve mentioned, have been sent south. So every hand is a welcome addition to the work.” She continued on toward a doorway that led to two sets of stairs. One leading up to the second story and the other leading down. “I meant to inquire earlier, Captain . . . Have you taken your noonday meal yet?”
“No, ma’am, I haven’t.”
“Then we’ll remedy that straightaway. Tempy is the best cook in all of Tennessee. She’s been with us for years now. And I’m certain she’ll have something you’ll—”
“I must have my kitchen worktables scrubbed clean!” A strident female voice carried toward them from around the corner. “And we must have a table dedicated solely for working pastry dough. That is imperative. Every experienced chef knows this. This one here will do.” A rapping noise followed. “Once it’s properly cleaned, of course. Get to it immediately. And no other food is to touch it. Is that understood?”
“Yes, ma’am,” came a quiet voice.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Yes, ma’am . . . Chef Boudreaux.”
Mrs. McGavock exhaled, her expression darkening. She descended the short staircase, and Jake followed, his curiosity more than a little roused.
“Miss Boudreaux.” Mrs. McGavock’s tone was polite yet had gained an edge. “I trust you’re getting settled into Tempy’s kitchen.”
Jake didn’t miss the emphasis on ownership, nor the tiny black woman he’d seen at the door a while earlier whose eyes were downcast. But the young woman who turned to face them, she was new.
Her white-blond hair was piled high in a chaos of tight curls and her hands were fisted at her waist. She smiled and her expression lost a degree of its censure, though not enough to cover the fire in her eyes or her demeanor that reeked of disapproval.
“Yes, Mrs. McGavock, I am. Though I am finding the conditions considerably more . . . rustic than I was led to believe. But I’m certain I can still work here. After all—”
She tossed Jake a look that he thought she meant to be coy and perhaps even alluring. It had the exact opposite effect.
“—I am Katharina Boudreaux, a professional chef trained in Paris.”
Mrs. McGavock smiled, yet Jake felt the air crackle with warning, much like the moment before a battle ensued.
“Yes, Miss Boudreaux, I’m aware of your accomplished résumé. Mrs. Tyler presented it to the committee when she insisted we hire you. However, Mrs. Tyler did not share that you would denigrate a trusted and beloved servant in this household. Nor did she convey how you would criticize my home. The home in which you were—ever so briefly—a guest and an employee. Tempy, please collect Miss Boudreaux’s trunk from the room upstairs. Miss Boudreaux, if your carriage has already departed, we will happily lend you use of ours. Allowing that it’s handsome enough for your taste.”
The woman stared, slack jawed, and Jake looked between the two women, liking this Mrs. Colonel John McGavock more by the minute. And starting to believe she’d earned that title.
Miss Boudreaux huffed. “I have never been asked to leave a position before!”
“Well, there’s always a first time. As I tell my children when they stumble and fall, learn from the experience. Take the lesson and just enough of the pain to remember not to repeat the same mistake again. I’ll see you out now.”
The tiny black woman skirted by Jake, a ghost of a smile touching her mouth. And Jake looked over at Mrs. McGavock. “I’ll help her with the trunk, ma’am.”
“That would be much appreciated, Captain.”
Minutes later, Jake stood inside the open front doorway alongside Mrs. McGavock and Tempy as the wheels of Chef Boudreaux’s carriage struggled for purchase on the ice-slicked drive leading back to town.
He smiled. “And I thought that by coming here I was leaving the front lines behind me.”
Mrs. McGavock laughed. “Life is too short and our days too few to willfully spend time in the company of people who insist on telling us how much better they are than everyone else.”
“Amen to that,” Tempy whispered, which drew more laughter. “Come on back to the kitchen now, Captain Winston, and I’ll get you some potato soup that’ll warm up your insides real good. And how do you feel about butter cookies?”
Later that night in the cabin, Jake ran a hand over his smooth jawline, his face cool without his beard.
“My, my,” Tempy had said when he’d shown up freshly shaven for dinner with the McGavocks. “Miracle what a difference a razor can make in a man.”
Remembering the mirth in her eyes, he smiled as he added more wood to the hearth. But he still couldn’t get the chimney to draw properly. Marking the chimney as an item to be investigated tomorrow, he settled for what heat it provided and crawled into bed—a clean ticking stuffed with fresh straw—and pulled the blanket up over him. How long had it been since he’d slept in so nice a bed?
For nearly two years now his bedroll and whatever patch of hopefully dry earth he could find had been where he’d laid his head. To have a cabin with a roof over his head and a fire burning in the hearth seemed an extravagance. And felt almost wrong. Especially when he thought of his fellow soldiers encamped in the bitter cold and snow.
The cabin boasted two rooms down and two up, and—all but for this room—was being used as storage. It was clean enough, but he looked forward to getting it into better shape. The front door stuck on one side and needed planing. There were spaces around the windows where the mortar had cracked and fallen away and cold air poured in. He could patch those spots easily enough. And the chimney was already on his list. He’d be here for the better part of a month, after all, much to his dismay. And he’d been taught to leave a place better than he’d found it.
The flame in the oil lamp flickered on a tiny side table and cast undulating shadows on the walls, the darkness playing hide-and-seek with the light. He wondered about the slaves who’d lived in this cabin through the years. Mrs. McGavock had said they’d been sent south. And depending on who won this war, they might or might not be back.
But he wasn’t fighting this war to keep Negroes enslaved. If he had his druthers, he’d free the lot of them. A free man worked harder and contributed more to society than a slave ever did. And he’d known enough Negroes throughout his life to know that they weren’t so different from white men. There were good men and bad, be they dark skinned or light. It was what lay within a man that really counted.
At supper tonight he’d met Colonel McGavock and found the man to be formidable. Rather a suitable match for Colonel Carrie, as he’d taken to thinking of Mrs. McGavock upon learning her first name this evening. Had a good ring to it, he thought, even if he’d never dare use the name aloud. He’d met the couple’s children too. A girl, Hattie, around eight, he thought. Then the young boy, Winder, whom he’d already seen running with Andrew.
As he leaned to turn down the lamp, an image from earlier that day returned and Jake reached for his notebook and pencil instead. He sat up, shoved the pillow behind his back, and turned to a fresh page, choosing to ignore the familiar twinge in his left shoulder. This notebook was almost full. He needed to get another one from town soon.
He closed his eyes for a moment, the image of Andrew looking up at his mother returning with clarity. The adoration in the boy’s eyes, the confusion warring with the desire—the need—to trust and believe that his mother really did know best.
The curves and planes of the boy’s face took shape on the page as Jake paused frequently, patient for the image to resurface in his memory, and to sharpen. He rubbed his eyes, then reached into his knapsack on the floor for his eyeglasses and slipped them on. Just like that, the lines cleared.
No sooner did he finish that drawing than another came to him, and he turned the page. But he found her face less clear to him. Yet her eyes, he remembered her eyes and drew them as she’d looked peering up at him, a sadness lingering beneath her expression even as she’d smiled. And her smile, he remembered that too.
He began drawing her lips, the way they curved and—
Then it hit him. What he was doing. He lifted his pencil from the page. Mrs. Warren Prescott. He stared into her eyes for a moment, then closed the notebook and blew out the lamp.
The glow from the fire bathed the room in orangey red, and as the minutes ticked silently past, that same unwanted tug of reminiscence he’d felt earlier returned.
He was twenty-eight. Had never been married, never had children. And had all but accepted, at least earlier on, that he’d likely die in this war. So somewhere along the way he’d convinced himself it was best that he didn’t have anyone waiting back home for him. Best that he no longer even had a home.
But as weeks had turned into months, and as he’d made it through battles unscathed—until recently—he’d begun to think that maybe he would live through it after all. Not that he was invincible, as Colonel Stratton had said, and as his current condition confirmed. But that perhaps, one day, he might have what his parents had had.
But there was something dangerous about embracing that kind of hope. About giving part of your heart to someone else. He’d seen evidence of that again today. In her. And in Andrew. He could only imagine how much Warren Prescott missed his family, loved and cared for them, was eager to be reunited with them.
Jake stared into the flames, sleep a far piece away, and he found himself praying for a man he’d never met, all for the sake of a woman and child he scarcely knew.