“I-I’m sorry. I don’t understand.” Seated opposite Mrs. McGavock in the family parlor, Aletta searched her expression, unable to believe what she was hearing. She’d held off returning to Carnton over the weekend, scarcely able to wait until Monday morning came. “I thought you already had a pastry chef who—”
“Yes, I did, Mrs. Prescott. However, circumstances changed quite suddenly on Friday afternoon after your departure. And since you said you would return this morning to discuss the details of the nativity you’re to build, I decided to wait and offer you the position, rather certain you would still be interested. I hope I am correct in my assumption.”
“Yes, ma’am, you are. Of course.” Aletta’s mind raced.
“Very good then. We’re in need of someone gifted at making pastries and sweets, pies and cookies and such. And based upon what you said during your visit last week—that you worked in a bakery at one time and that your mother, once a head cook, instructed you—I trust you still possess those skills you learned.”
It wasn’t a question. “Yes, Mrs. McGavock. Although I can’t guarantee that my creations will be as fancy as a master chef’s.”
“The Lord Jesus is not impressed with outward show, and neither am I, Mrs. Prescott. Simple but delicious is what will please me. Can you do that?”
“Absolutely, I can. Yes, ma’am.”
“Very well then. You’re hired. For a second time,” Mrs. McGavock added, eyebrow arching. “First as our nativity scene maker, however much that may concern me.” She gave Aletta a look. “And second, as cook and pastry chef. You’ll be paid accordingly for both positions. Unless you wish to change your mind about crafting the booth and manger. You may find it to be too taxing with the other responsibilities.”
“Oh no. With Captain Winston’s help, I’ll manage very well, I’m sure. Besides, I’ve already told Andrew about the life-size nativity scene, and he’s looking forward to his turn as Joseph. Either that or dressing up as an attending cow or sheep.”
They both laughed, and Aletta sat a little straighter.
Her back ached from the long walk from town. How she would manage to accomplish everything, she didn’t know. But she wasn’t about to turn down paying positions. Especially not positions she knew she was qualified for. Granted, the tasks would’ve been more easily undertaken if she wasn’t seven months pregnant.
She’d returned home last Friday to find a formal notice of foreclosure proceedings from the bank along with a declaration stating that she and Andrew were to vacate the home no later than the third of December. She’d worried about it all weekend, had gotten little sleep. And yet, looking back on it now, she could see that God had been working on her behalf, even though she’d been blind to it. He was providing the money for her to find another place for them to live.
Her faith felt so small in comparison to his loving kindness.
Mrs. McGavock refilled both of their teacups. “You’ve already met Tempy, who has expressed her pleasure at my offering you the position. So I trust the two of you will be able to share the kitchen amiably.”
“Oh, quite, Mrs. McGavock. And it’s such a fine kitchen too. So spacious and with the large hearth. You and your husband planned well.”
“Actually it was my late in-laws, Mr. and Mrs. Randal McGavock, God rest them both, who planned well. They married in 1811, then built a home on the property some fifteen years later. The wing of the house where the kitchen is located is that home. The main house we’re in now is what they built some eleven years later. The wing of the house is where my husband lived in his younger years. So it holds special meaning to us both. And I hope it will to you as well, as soon as I explain the other condition of the job.”
Aletta didn’t quite follow.
“The pastry chef the committee originally hired was to start this past Friday, and our agreement with her—based on the responsibilities of the position—included room and board. Because even though the auction doesn’t formally begin until the seventeenth of December, we have much preparation to do between now and then. Not to mention the Thanksgiving celebration this week. Which means that you’ll need to reside here at Carnton beginning today, if possible, Mrs. Prescott. Only temporarily, of course, until we get through Christmas and possibly the New Year.”
Aletta blinked. “Live here. At Carnton.”
“Yes, that’s right. And I believe it will work out nicely. I’ve spoken with Miss Clouston, our nanny and the children’s tutor, and she’s willing to instruct Andrew as well. Miss Clouston believes that having your son in the classroom might actually help my dear Winder to pay closer attention. We’ll have to wait and see if her theory proves correct. But I trust it will. Miss Clouston hasn’t failed us yet.” Mrs. McGavock gestured toward the window. “See for yourself at how well our sons are getting along.”
Aletta turned to see the boys running and chasing each other outside, a November sun shining brightly as the boys’ breath puffed white in the cold. She could scarcely take it all in. She had a job, albeit temporarily. But far more than that, she and Andrew had a safe place to live—with a friend for him, and schooling—through the first of the year. And perhaps, if she worked hard and proved her worth, beyond that.
Although she didn’t dare set her hopes so high.
“Which brings me back to that wing of the house, Mrs. Prescott. There are three bedrooms above the kitchen. Tempy and Miss Clouston each reside in one, and you and your son will take the third bedroom on the very end. Nearest to the smokehouse, I’m afraid, which is about to become quite potent with the aroma of smoked bacon and ham once the hog killing is under way. If this entire situation is agreeable to you, of course.”
“It’s most agreeable, Mrs. McGavock.” Aletta worked to keep the emotion from her voice. “Thank you, ma’am, for your trust in me.”
Mrs. McGavock eyed her. “I do trust you, Mrs. Prescott, and I’m grateful for your willingness to help with the auction with such enthusiasm. It’s a cause that’s so important. Both to the soldiers and to the community.” She paused. “I admire you, Mrs. Prescott. I don’t know what I’d do if I were in your situation. I only hope I would handle it half as well.”
Aletta shook her head. “I do my best, ma’am. Especially for Andrew’s sake. But there are moments when despair is an unwelcome but very near companion.”
“I’ve no doubt of that, Mrs. Prescott. And yet . . . here you are.”
Aletta smiled, then listened with interest as Mrs. McGavock laid out the plans for the auction including the work leading up to it. So much to do—sewing, knitting, cooking, quilting. So much organization. But it excited her to be a part of something that would help so many, and that would keep her mind occupied and her hands busy.
Finally, Mrs. McGavock rose, and Aletta took that as her cue.
“I believe that’s all the information I have for you at present, Mrs. Prescott. I’m going to the kitchen to discuss this week’s menus with Tempy. I’ll ask her to fetch Captain Winston for you. He can take you into town for your personal items and whatever else you might require. No need for you to walk all that way again in the cold.”
“Thank you, Mrs. McGavock.” Aletta looked again at the large portrait of her hostess situated on the far wall. The mistress of Carnton in more youthful years.
Mrs. McGavock laughed softly. “That was painted shortly before my marriage to Mr. McGavock. Some fifteen years ago. And another lifetime, it feels like.”
“It’s beautiful, ma’am.” Yet Aletta found it somewhat odd that Mrs. McGavock had chosen to wear what appeared to be black for the portrait, the color of death, at what had to have been so joyous a time in her life. Although, on closer look, perhaps the color of the dress was a deep midnight blue instead. Regardless, the portrait, and the woman in it, were lovely.
“Why don’t you wait here, Mrs. Prescott, until Captain Winston has pulled the wagon around. And Miss Clouston will make certain Andrew is taken care of until you’ve returned.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Mrs. McGavock took her leave, and Aletta walked toward a rear-facing window of the home when her gaze fell to a newspaper folded in half on a side table. She looked more closely. Today’s date. And the newspaper had already been well read. Assuming she had a few moments, she picked it up and scanned the headlines, looking for updates on the war, any news that might indicate a near end to the conflict.
She came upon an update from the War Department. And more from habit than anything else, she scanned the three lists for Tennessee—“Killed, Wounded, and Missing”—hoping she wouldn’t recognize any of the names.
Nearing the end of the first list, she read the last name and it delivered an unexpected blow.
Emmett Zachary, Franklin, TN
Her eyes filled. No . . . Her hand went to her chest. Not Emmett, Warren’s friend. Kate’s husband. She closed her eyes as tears rose. She’d only met Emmett once. Briefly, at the train station. But Warren had spoken of him so often in his letters. They’d become good friends.
Aletta swallowed, resolved to go by and visit Kate while in town that afternoon, offer her condolences and see if there was anything she could do for her. Kate had done so much for her earlier that fall. Had been such a comfort.
Aletta returned the newspaper to the table and went to peer out the back window and across the large back porch. She rubbed the ache in the small of her back, the pain gradually beginning to subside.
She spotted Captain Winston in the barn, hitching the mares to the wagon, and walked out to join him. When he turned around, she was taken aback.
“Good morning, Mrs. Prescott.”
She stared at the freshly shaven man smiling down at her, a hint of stubble shadowing the jawline that only yesterday had sported a full and unruly beard. “Captain Winston?”
His smile deepened, along with the gray of his eyes, which, without the distraction of the beard, proved to be a rather disarming combination.
He rubbed a hand over his jaw as though privy to her thoughts. “Yes, ma’am. At your service. Mrs. McGavock says you need to go into town.”
“Y-yes, I do. Thank you, Captain, for taking me.”
“My pleasure. Just give me a couple more minutes and we’ll be set.” He circled the wagon and checked the harness straps on the other side.
She tried not to stare, but had to acknowledge . . . He was a handsome man with strong, angular features. And younger than she would’ve guessed upon their first meeting. He possessed a quiet confidence about him as though he had nothing left to prove. Either that, or he simply didn’t put much stock in others’ opinions.
Seeing him clean shaven brought back memories of Warren’s last trip home in April. He’d been sporting a similar soldier’s beard, as she’d called it. All wild and woolly. She’d shaved it off for him that first night, cherishing the chance to look fully into the face of the man she’d married. And loved. Loved still.
“Allow me, ma’am.”
Aletta became aware of Captain Winston’s outstretched hand and accepted his assistance up to the bench seat. He settled in beside her.
“Mrs. McGavock tells me you need to go by your house to fetch a few items.”
“Yes, that’s right. And also—” The mere thought of Kate Zachary and the pain she must be experiencing at that moment, if the woman even knew about Emmett’s fate yet, caused a tightening in her chest. “I need to go see a friend. I read the War Department’s list moments earlier and . . . learned that her husband has been killed.”
He looked over. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
She nodded, emotion rising to her eyes. “Kate was there for me when I got the news about Warren,” she whispered. “And I want to be there for her.”
He stilled. “Your husband . . . was killed?”
She bowed her head. “Yes . . . Only last month.”
He said nothing for a moment, then a deep sigh left him. “I-I didn’t know, Mrs. Prescott. I’m . . . I’m so very sorry.”
A moment passed before she could finally look over at him, and the empathy in his expression was nearly her undoing. “Thank you, Captain Winston,” she whispered.
He held her gaze for what felt like a long time but was probably only a handful of heartbeats. Then he turned, gathered the reins, and started for town.
Jake kept his gaze on the road, resisting the urge to sneak a look at Mrs. Prescott seated beside him on the bench seat. Her husband was dead. She was with child, already had a small boy, and her husband wasn’t coming home. Mrs. McGavock hadn’t said anything about that to him. Then again, why would she? She’d told him about hiring Mrs. Prescott as the new pastry chef, which included room and board, and that was about it.
They rode in silence, Mrs. Prescott’s hands knotted in her lap, and he wondered exactly how far along with child she was, not that he was about to ask.
He recalled Miss Boudreaux’s less than graceful exit on Friday and silently congratulated Colonel Carrie on her decision to hire the better woman. He could easily imagine Mrs. Prescott cooking and baking in the kitchen alongside Tempy. And imagined that Tempy would welcome her presence.
Moments passed, and the low coo of a mourning dove drew his attention. He casually looked off toward the side of the road and searched the thicket of pines, but the icy branches were only a frustrating blur. Seconds later, the call sounded again, as he’d suspected it would, and he faced forward. He gave a slow nod, just once, aware of Mrs. Prescott seemingly lost in thought beside him. And he found it reassuring to know Confederate brothers were close at hand.
When they reached the edge of town, she turned to him.
“It’s not far. Two streets up on the right,” she said softly. Then a moment later, she pointed. “There. That’s the Zacharys’ house. The one with the yellow shutters.”
Jake brought the wagon to a stop and set the brake. He climbed down and assisted her down as well. “I’ll wait here for you.”
“If you have an errand to see to, Captain, I could meet you in town somewhere. I’m fine to walk.”
“I’ll wait here for you, ma’am,” he repeated softly, and noticed her eyes begin to fill with tears.
She nodded and walked to the door. She bowed her head, and a moment passed before she knocked. When the door finally opened, a woman appeared and the two of them simply stared at each other for several seconds. Jake began to wonder whether Mrs. Zachary had even received the news. Then he saw the newspaper clutched in her grip and heard a strangled cry as she threw her arms around Mrs. Prescott.
He looked away, the moment demanding privacy. And when he looked back the stoop was empty, the door closed.
He climbed back into the wagon and settled in to wait, senses alert, grateful for the sunshine despite the cold. He pulled his rifle sight from his pocket, the one his father had given him years ago, and carefully wiped the lens. For as long as he could remember, he’d had the ability to shoot. And not just to shoot, but to shoot well. Better than anyone else around him. And to think that he might have lost that ability made him feel so much less a soldier. So much less a man.
He lifted the scope to his eyes and peered through it as he’d done thousands of times. He adjusted the lens. And again. Then sighed. Would his world ever be clear again? He’d spent some time over the weekend applying the poultices and compresses the doctor had prescribed. But same as before, he couldn’t tell a lick of difference.
And yet, knowing what he knew now about Mrs. Prescott and her son, Andrew, gave his own situation fresh perspective. Still, he prayed his change in sight was only temporary and that by the time he left here, it would be restored.
He’d crawled up onto the roof of the cabin on Saturday and quickly discovered why the chimney wouldn’t draw. With some mortar from Colonel McGavock, he’d repaired the crumbled brick and cleaned out the flue. After sealing the cracks in the mortar around the windows and planing and rehanging the door, the cabin now stayed nice and toasty. And he’d enjoyed the work. Felt good to take something and make it better.
A sound brought him around and Jake looked back toward the house.
Mrs. Prescott stepped out, whispered something to the woman in the doorway, then drew her into a hug. Eyes closed, Mrs. Zachary nodded.
Jake assisted Mrs. Prescott into the wagon then climbed up beside her.
“She’s going to be all right,” she said softly, her tone more hopeful than confident, almost as though she were attempting to convince herself that she was going to be all right too.
She sniffed and dabbed at the corners of her eyes, and Jake found himself praying for her yet again. Only this time, for her and Andrew alone.
“Kate said that her husband, Emmett”—her voice was barely audible—“was killed in battle two weeks ago. Yet his body had been so badly wounded . . .” She looked away. “The War Department said they couldn’t identify him at first. Finally, they managed to piece together a letter found in his pocket and that’s how—” She firmed her jaw, her breath coming hard now. “I hate this war,” she said through clenched teeth, tears slipping down her cheeks.
“I know,” he whispered. “I do too.”
She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve. “Emmett and my husband met each other in camp and became friends. They fought alongside each other. Warren often said that Emmett was the brother he’d never had. They even favored each other.” She gave a little smile, and in that simple, beautiful act, Jake glimpsed a measure of her strength.
He looked down at his hands. How many men had he watched die since this war had started? How many had he killed? How many women out there were grieving much like this one beside him, and Mrs. Zachary, because their husbands or fathers or sons or brothers weren’t coming home? It wasn’t a question new to him.
Yet in that moment, it had an edge to it that cut deeper than it had before. He released the brake and snapped the reins.
She gave him directions to the Presbyterian church, and he headed that way.
“I want to stop by and see the facility. That’s where we’ll host the gatherings before the auction.”
“Gatherings before the auction?”
“Yes, where the women will meet to knit gloves, scarves, socks, and caps for the soldiers, and to write letters of encouragement. The children will draw pictures for the soldiers too. We’ll also form several quilting circles, then we’ll auction off the quilts. Closer to the actual date of the event, the other hired cooks will come to Carnton and we’ll bake and cook for all the attendees. Mrs. McGavock says they’re expecting hundreds of people to come from Nashville and the surrounding communities.”
Hearing the tender pride in her voice, Jake nodded. “Yes, Mrs. McGavock told me.”
The church was unlocked and they let themselves inside. No sign of the preacher as they looked around, Mrs. Prescott peering inside rooms and commenting on occasion.
“We can set up some tables over there.” She pointed. “And the ladies can visit as they knit. We’ll need patterns, but Mrs. McGavock says she and the other ladies have plenty of those. Oh! And we’ll need to buy skeins of yarn too. Mrs. McGavock told me she has enough to get us started. But eventually we’ll need to purchase more.”
Jake just nodded. He wasn’t about to say anything to discourage her, but again he considered how much easier it would be—and maybe even more profitable—if the women would simply donate the funds, let the army buy what they needed, and be done with it.
“What?” she asked softly.
He shook his head. “I didn’t say anything.”
“I know. But you were thinking something.”
He looked into those soft blue eyes and realized he was going to have to hold his cards a little closer to his vest. He smiled and gestured toward the hallway. “After you.”
She sighed and walked back outside. “Before we go by my house, I need to stop by the lumberyard and get the supplies for the nativity.”
He paused. “The lumberyard? I bet Colonel McGavock has enough spare pieces around the barn that you could use.”
She accepted his help up to the bench seat. “Mrs. McGavock was explicit in her instructions. She said to go to the lumberyard and that a Mr. Harban would supply whatever I needed.”
He held up a hand as he claimed the space beside her. “Then to the lumberyard we go. But I know for certain there are a couple of pieces of wood in the barn back at Carnton. Enough for a child’s nativity.”
“A child’s nativity? I’m not making a child’s nativity, Captain Winston. I’m building a life-sized booth and manger that will stand in the front yard by the house at Carnton. The children will all take turns playing Mary and Joseph and the shepherds over the course of the auction.”
He stared. “You’re making a real nativity?”
She nodded.
“You are?”
He smiled. She didn’t.
“My father was a master carpenter, Captain Winston, and he taught me a thing or two about woodworking.”
Jake tried to curb his grin but couldn’t. The image of her with a hammer and saw sparked amusement. “But you’re—” He gestured.
“A woman?”
“Well . . . yes, ma’am. You’re obviously a woman. But you’re also . . .” He stared, not wanting to say it. And definitely making certain he didn’t look down.
“With child,” she finally supplied, an eyebrow rising.
“Yes, ma’am. With child.”
“Which precludes me from being able to build something?”
He laughed softly. “Which makes a project that would already be a challenge even more so.”
Her eyes narrowed the slightest bit. “For one, it won’t be a challenge. I’ll only need your help toward the end, when it comes to nailing the larger pieces together. And secondly, I’ve already drawn out the plans. I have all the measurements and the list of required supplies.” She pulled a piece of paper from her reticule and handed it to him.
He unfolded it, and his smile faded. He looked over at her. “You’re serious.”
This time she was the one to laugh, though the action held no humor. “Yes, Captain. I’m serious. Now, please, I need to go to the lumberyard, then stop by my house for some of my and Andrew’s things, then return to Carnton so I can begin baking.”
“Baking? But the auction isn’t for another two weeks.”
She lifted her chin slightly. “Mrs. McGavock not only hired me to bake for the auction, but also wants me to help with the Thanksgiving celebration this week. And to cook and prepare meals for the volunteers who’ll begin meeting the last day of November. Only a week from today.”
He nodded. Cooking and baking he could see her doing. But building a nativity like the one shown in the plans? With a roof and sides and a manger to boot? And her being with child? It felt like he was peering at the world through his rifle sight again.
When they reached the lumberyard, Mrs. Prescott climbed down from the wagon without his assistance. A show of independence, no doubt. Jake opened the door to the building for her, and she preceded him inside. But the owner still addressed him first.
“Yes, sir. What can I do for you today?”
“You’re Mr. Harban?” Mrs. Prescott said, taking the lead. At the man’s nod, she stepped forward and introduced herself. “Mrs. McGavock from Carnton instructed me to ask for you.”
Jake hung back, watching the scene, and knew what his own expression must have looked like a while earlier when Mrs. Prescott had pulled the diagram of the nativity from her reticule and handed it to him. Because Mr. Harban wore the same perplexed look now as he walked away, marching orders in hand.
“Captain Winston, would you please drive the wagon around to the side of the building so they can load up the supplies?”
He gave a quick salute. “Yes, ma’am, General Prescott.”
Glimpsing a hint of humor in her eyes, he did as she asked, and soon they were on their way to her house, wagon bed loaded with what would be the finest nativity Franklin, Tennessee, had ever seen. If the finished product ended up looking anything like the drawing she’d shown him, a feat that was still highly questionable in his mind.