Christmas at Carnton (Carnton 0.5)(13)

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.





CHAPTER 5

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?”