Christmas at Carnton (Carnton 0.5)(14)

“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.