Christmas at Carnton (Carnton 0.5)(15)

“None for me, Tempy, thank you. I must return to my meeting in the family parlor before a skirmish breaks out.”

Tempy’s high, airy laugh sounded like the tinkling of a bell. “Missus Tyler gettin’ outta sorts ’bout my bread puddin’ again? If I’d known that’s what the lady wanted for dessert today, I coulda made it.”

“No, it’s not about the bread pudding. As serious an issue as that is . . .”

Aletta caught the humorous look that passed between the two women.

“It’s actually about something pertaining to the auction.” Mrs. McGavock included Aletta with a glance. “The Women’s Relief Society hired an older gentleman to build a booth and manger for a life-sized nativity scene. You know him, Tempy. It’s Mr. Baker.”

“Kind old soul, that Mr. Baker.” Tempy set a cup of cocoa on the worktable between them and aimed a smile at Aletta.

“Thank you,” Aletta said softly, her interest more than a little piqued by the conversation. She wrapped her hands around the mug, the warmth causing a shiver. And as she sipped, she realized she’d all but forgotten this sweet, smooth, chocolatey delight.

“Yes, Mr. Baker is a kind old soul. It was our thought that the children could take turns being Joseph and Mary, as it were. But Mr. Baker has had to withdraw his offer due to his rheumatism. With the rest of the slaves sent away, and the Colonel busy with the farm, I can’t think of anyone else to ask either. Neither can the other members of the committee. And the women are divided amongst themselves. Half are saying we don’t need the nativity scene and the other half are saying we can’t have the auction without it. I, for one, believe the Lord will understand us not having a booth and a manger for him. But not helping the soldiers as best we can with what we have?” Mrs. McGavock shook her head. “Not while I’m serving as committee chair. Still . . . it’s a pity we can’t find anyone else to make the items. The children would have enjoyed it so, and it would have been a tangible reminder for them, and the adults, of who lies at the heart of every effort behind this event.”

Aletta set her mug on the table. “Mrs. McGavock, I know this may sound forward of me, and I certainly don’t mean to come across that way. But . . . my father was a master carpenter, and he taught me a great deal about woodworking.” Already, she could glimpse the thoughts forming in Mrs. McGavock’s mind. “I realize it’s not a typical skill for a woman, but I’m certain I would know how to build whatever you’re imagining for the nativity scene. All I would need is someone to help me lift the pieces and put it together. And I’d be happy to do the work for whatever you’re able to pay.” She felt her face heat. “I truly am in need of a job.”

Mrs. McGavock took her time in responding. “Mrs. Prescott,” she finally said, her voice gentle. “I appreciate what you’re offering, and admire your tenacity. And while I believe women can do a great many things not customarily attributed to our gender, I do not believe a woman in . . . the family way”—she spoke the words softly—“could, or even should, strive to undertake such a task. I fear it would put at risk both your health and that of your child.”

“Don’t let my stature mislead you, Mrs. McGavock. I’m quite strong and able to do the work, I promise you. And with no threat to my child. I would never do anything to harm him. Or her,” she added with a smile, recalling their earlier exchange.

Mrs. McGavock eyed her, then sighed. “You’re most persuasive, Mrs. Prescott. And I would say yes”—the woman lifted a hand—“if not for the fact that there is no ‘someone’ here to help you in that regard. Tempy already has more work than one woman can do. And with the pastry chef arriving anytime now, and cooking not only for the auction and those food sales, but for the women volunteering to knit and sew for the soldiers beforehand . . . her load is only going to increase. So I fear that we shall simply have to make do with the two small crèches we have. We’ll display them on the front table in the foyer and by the Christmas tree. But thank you, Mrs. Prescott, most sincerely, for your offer. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must force myself back into the fray. Please stay and enjoy your hot cocoa.”

And with that, Mrs. McGavock turned to leave. Aletta felt her face fall.

“Oh, and, Tempy,” Mrs. McGavock said. “The soldier Colonel Stratton is sending to help with the auction should arrive sometime today. The colonel said he’s one of the wounded. So please see to him and make certain he has whatever he needs in the house out back.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll do that.”

Aletta watched Mrs. McGavock go, feeling as though the woman were taking her last hope with her. Her gaze fell to Andrew and Winder, both boys quiet, momentarily under the spell of warm cocoa and cookies.

“You really know how to do all that, ma’am? With the wood?”

Aletta looked back to find Tempy watching her, her expression questioning.

“Yes. My father never had a son to teach, so”—she lifted her shoulders and let them fall—“he taught me instead. I enjoy it. Woodworking is . . . gratifying. Even comforting.”

Tempy shook her head. “A lady carpenter. I ain’t never heard of that before.”

“And I’ve never had hot cocoa this delicious before.”

“Well then, let me fill your cup again.”