Christmas at Carnton (Carnton 0.5)(16)

Tempy offered her a cookie as well, and Aletta accepted, eating it far too quickly, she knew. But it tasted so good, and she was hungry. And she’d been right. Butter cookies. One of her favorites.

“Oh!” Tempy scowled. “Look what I gone and done. Put too much pepper in the soup. What was I thinkin’?” She exhaled, tiny hand on hip. “Here, you taste it, Missus Prescott. Tell me if you think it’s still fit for eatin’.”

Tempy ladled a generous portion into a cup and set it before Aletta, who saw precisely what the woman was doing. At another time in her life she might’ve politely declined. But not today.

Aletta lifted the cup to her lips and sipped. Then briefly closed her eyes. Potato soup, with bits of bacon. “It’s divine. Too much pepper and all.” She slipped the woman a grateful look, which earned her a grin.

She sipped for a moment while Tempy worked, then looked over to see the boys whispering in hushed tones, the spell of warm cookies and cocoa apparently fading. They jumped up.

“Mama, can I go with Winder to the barn? He says there’s kittens!”

“Andrew, we need to leave shortly and—”

“Please?” he added, only to have Winder repeat it.

Aletta glanced out the window, then heard Tempy’s soft whisper behind her. “Barn’s out back. Only just out that door, ma’am. You could ’bout watch him from where you sit.”

Aletta nodded. “All right. Go. But wear your coats. Both of you!”

“Yes, ma’am!” they said in unison and darted back out the kitchen the way they’d come.

A moment later, Aletta spotted the boys outside, racing for the barn, coats on but unbuttoned. She shook her head.

“It’s only you and your boy then, Missus Prescott? With your husband away at war?”

Aletta looked back to see Tempy stirring the soup. “Actually, it’s only Andrew and me.” She glanced down. “And this little one, of course. Warren, my husband, was killed. Earlier this fall.”

Tempy shook her head. “One of the hardest things in this life . . . losin’ those we love. Havin’ to go on without ’em.”

A depth of empathy colored the woman’s tone, a kindred kind of loss that went far beyond the simple offering of a condolence, and Aletta found herself unable to offer a reply. Death had taken Warren from her. But Aletta knew that Tempy, as a slave, had no doubt suffered losses stemming from death, and far worse. Because in many cases, for a slave, the person you loved hadn’t died. They’d been bartered or sold as though they weren’t human, flesh and blood like everyone else. Mothers sold away from children, children from fathers and mothers, families torn asunder.

At least she knew where Warren was, even if she wished he were still here.

“When you expectin’ that baby, Missus Prescott?”

Pulling her thoughts back, Aletta managed a smile. “Toward the end of January.”

The woman smiled. “It’s a blessed child who’s carried close to a mother’s heart through Christmastime. Soakin’ up all that love and goodness.”

Considering her current circumstances, Aletta wasn’t too certain about that, but hoped her expression didn’t convey her doubt. “Tempy . . . That’s a unique name.”

The woman smiled. “My mother give it to me when I’s just a girl. Not meanin’ to, I guess. She always said I had me a temper, and she used to warn me about it, too, sayin’, ‘Careful now, Cecelia. Temper, temper!’ Somehow my younger brother and sister never got good enough hold of my front name. So I guess they latched onto what they could.”

Aletta studied her. “You don’t strike me as the kind of person who would have a temper.”

The old woman shook her head. “Well, life has a way of smoothin’ out the rough edges of a person. Of takin’ what seems so all-fired important and showin’ you its real face. No, it’s been years since that young girl looked out through these old eyes, but I swanny”—her expression grew thoughtful, even melancholy—“if there aren’t times when I can’t still feel herself livin’ and breathin’ inside me.”

Aletta nodded thoughtfully. She’d be twenty and five on her next birthday come spring, yet felt twice that most days, and caught only occasional glimpses of the youthful bride she’d been a short lifetime ago. Yet she told herself not to give up hope. The newspapers wrote of the war ending soon and of the South’s pending victory. Oh, she prayed that would be true. Though the prediction was based on newspaper accounts, she found herself doubting it, the Federal Army so much larger as a whole and better equipped than the Confederate.

Yet love for home and family and the determination to have a voice in the law of the land had to count for something too. She and Warren had never owned slaves. Neither had their parents nor most of the people they knew. That hadn’t been at the heart of this conflict for them. How many nights had she and Warren stayed awake late discussing this, most heatedly, before he’d left to join the Tennessee Army.

“This isn’t only about slavery, Aletta. President Lincoln refuses to recognize the Confederate States of America. He sent a garrison to occupy Fort Sumter! The Confederates attempted to negotiate their withdrawal, but again, Lincoln refused. Now he’s issued a call-up for seventy-five thousand troops to put down what he’s terming ‘the rebellion’ in the South. We have a president claiming power for himself—and the government—that far exceeds what’s given to him by the Constitution. And if we don’t stand up now, I fear that what was fought for almost a hundred years ago might be lost forever.”