Christmas at Carnton (Carnton 0.5)(12)

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.”