Christmas at Carnton (Carnton 0.5)(2)
She looked around only to see the other women quickly bowing their heads and turning curious gazes back to their work. Except for one woman. On the opposite side of the factory. Aletta recognized her. Marian, she thought her name was. They’d begun working at Chilton Textile Mills about the same time. Marian was gathering her coat and reticule—and wiping tears from her eyes.
“Mrs. Prescott.” Mr. Bodeen gestured. “My office, please.”
Aletta laid aside the garment she’d been sewing, bothered by having to set it aside unfinished, while the greater part of her sensed that unfinished stitches should be the least of her concerns.
She followed him down the aisle, then past rows of coworkers, the click of her heeled boots marking off the seconds as the tension in the room swiftly registered.
Mr. Bodeen’s office proved to be considerably more insulated from winter’s chill than the factory, and she rubbed her hands together, welcoming the warmth while also trying to control her nerves. Her knuckles were stiff and swollen from long hours of stitching. But she had only to think of what Warren had endured to silence that frivolous complaint.
He’d always been careful not to reveal too many details about the war in his letters. But one night during his furlough home in April—the last time she’d seen him—after he’d banished any doubt she might have had about his continued desire for her, he’d lain beside her in the darkness and talked into the wee hours of morning. He talked all about the battles, life in the encampments, and the countless friends he’d made—and lost—during the war. “Friends as close as any brothers I might’ve had,” he’d whispered, his strong arms tightening around her, his breath warm on her skin. “There’s one fellow from right here in Franklin. Emmett Zachary. You’d like him, Lettie. Maybe you and his wife, Kate, could meet up sometime.”
She’d never heard him go on like that. So unfettered, as though the weight of his soul had grown too heavy for him to bear alone. His words had painted indelible pictures in her mind. Images she’d have wished to erase, but for Warren’s fingerprint on them.
Anything from him was something she wanted to hold on to.
She’d made a point to look up Kate Zachary, and they’d even had tea on two occasions. But the hours in each day seemed to fly, as did the weeks, and she hadn’t seen Kate since the afternoon she’d visited her to tell her about the letter she’d received from the War Department. “. . . slain on the battlefield, having given the ultimate sacrifice for love of home and defense of country” is how the letter had been worded.
The notice had arrived only two days after she’d received a hastily written letter from Warren telling her he was faring well enough and that he’d penned two more letters to her that he would send shortly. The letters never arrived.
What she wouldn’t give to have them now. To have him back.
“Please have a seat, Mrs. Prescott.”
Aletta did as Mr. Bodeen asked, her gaze falling to a handwritten list atop his desk. Was it a list of names? She attempted a closer look as she sat. It was hard to read the writing upside down, and yet—
She was fairly certain she saw Marian’s name, the coworker she’d seen crying moments earlier. Aletta swallowed, panic clawing its way up her chest.
“Mrs. Prescott, you know how much we appreciate your work. How you—”
“Please don’t take away my job, Mr. Bodeen. Reduce my hours if you need to, but—”
“Mrs. Prescott, I—”
“I’m behind on the mortgage, Mr. Bodeen. And keeping food in the pantry is already a challenge. Mr. Stewart at the mercantile has extended my credit as far as he can, and I don’t know what I’ll—”
“I wish there were something else I could do, ma’am, but—”
“I have a son, sir. Andrew. He’s six years old. Today, in fact.” She tried to smile and failed. “He’s waiting for me even now because we’re supposed to—”
“Mrs. Prescott!” His voice was sharp. “Please do not make this more difficult on me than it already is. You are an exceptional worker, and I’ve written you an outstanding reference. Which is more than I’m doing for the others.” He pushed a piece of paper across the desk.
Numb, Aletta could only stare at it, the words on the page blurring in her vision.
“With the war, customers aren’t buying clothing like they used to. And there’s simply not enough work for the seamstresses we’ve employed. I’m sorry. You were one of the last women we hired, so it only seemed fitting.”
“But you complimented me a moment ago. You said I always do excellent work.”
“I know what I said, Mrs. Prescott.” He averted his gaze. “I was hoping to . . . soften the blow.”
She blinked and moved a hand to her midsection, feeling as though she’d been gut-punched, as Warren might’ve said. It had taken her weeks to find this job, and that had been almost a year ago—after she’d lost her job at the bakery. The town of Franklin was in far worse shape economically now than then. Up until a couple of months ago, the Federal Army’s occupation of the town had made for a tenuous existence for Franklin residents. Especially considering the garrisons of soldiers encamped in and around Fort Granger while thousands of Confederate troops were entrenched only miles away.