Christmas at Carnton (Carnton 0.5)(25)

He looked over. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

She nodded, emotion rising to her eyes. “Kate was there for me when I got the news about Warren,” she whispered. “And I want to be there for her.”

He stilled. “Your husband . . . was killed?”

She bowed her head. “Yes . . . Only last month.”

He said nothing for a moment, then a deep sigh left him. “I-I didn’t know, Mrs. Prescott. I’m . . . I’m so very sorry.”

A moment passed before she could finally look over at him, and the empathy in his expression was nearly her undoing. “Thank you, Captain Winston,” she whispered.

He held her gaze for what felt like a long time but was probably only a handful of heartbeats. Then he turned, gathered the reins, and started for town.




Jake kept his gaze on the road, resisting the urge to sneak a look at Mrs. Prescott seated beside him on the bench seat. Her husband was dead. She was with child, already had a small boy, and her husband wasn’t coming home. Mrs. McGavock hadn’t said anything about that to him. Then again, why would she? She’d told him about hiring Mrs. Prescott as the new pastry chef, which included room and board, and that was about it.

They rode in silence, Mrs. Prescott’s hands knotted in her lap, and he wondered exactly how far along with child she was, not that he was about to ask.

He recalled Miss Boudreaux’s less than graceful exit on Friday and silently congratulated Colonel Carrie on her decision to hire the better woman. He could easily imagine Mrs. Prescott cooking and baking in the kitchen alongside Tempy. And imagined that Tempy would welcome her presence.

Moments passed, and the low coo of a mourning dove drew his attention. He casually looked off toward the side of the road and searched the thicket of pines, but the icy branches were only a frustrating blur. Seconds later, the call sounded again, as he’d suspected it would, and he faced forward. He gave a slow nod, just once, aware of Mrs. Prescott seemingly lost in thought beside him. And he found it reassuring to know Confederate brothers were close at hand.

When they reached the edge of town, she turned to him.

“It’s not far. Two streets up on the right,” she said softly. Then a moment later, she pointed. “There. That’s the Zacharys’ house. The one with the yellow shutters.”

Jake brought the wagon to a stop and set the brake. He climbed down and assisted her down as well. “I’ll wait here for you.”

“If you have an errand to see to, Captain, I could meet you in town somewhere. I’m fine to walk.”

“I’ll wait here for you, ma’am,” he repeated softly, and noticed her eyes begin to fill with tears.

She nodded and walked to the door. She bowed her head, and a moment passed before she knocked. When the door finally opened, a woman appeared and the two of them simply stared at each other for several seconds. Jake began to wonder whether Mrs. Zachary had even received the news. Then he saw the newspaper clutched in her grip and heard a strangled cry as she threw her arms around Mrs. Prescott.

He looked away, the moment demanding privacy. And when he looked back the stoop was empty, the door closed.

He climbed back into the wagon and settled in to wait, senses alert, grateful for the sunshine despite the cold. He pulled his rifle sight from his pocket, the one his father had given him years ago, and carefully wiped the lens. For as long as he could remember, he’d had the ability to shoot. And not just to shoot, but to shoot well. Better than anyone else around him. And to think that he might have lost that ability made him feel so much less a soldier. So much less a man.

He lifted the scope to his eyes and peered through it as he’d done thousands of times. He adjusted the lens. And again. Then sighed. Would his world ever be clear again? He’d spent some time over the weekend applying the poultices and compresses the doctor had prescribed. But same as before, he couldn’t tell a lick of difference.

And yet, knowing what he knew now about Mrs. Prescott and her son, Andrew, gave his own situation fresh perspective. Still, he prayed his change in sight was only temporary and that by the time he left here, it would be restored.

He’d crawled up onto the roof of the cabin on Saturday and quickly discovered why the chimney wouldn’t draw. With some mortar from Colonel McGavock, he’d repaired the crumbled brick and cleaned out the flue. After sealing the cracks in the mortar around the windows and planing and rehanging the door, the cabin now stayed nice and toasty. And he’d enjoyed the work. Felt good to take something and make it better.

A sound brought him around and Jake looked back toward the house.

Mrs. Prescott stepped out, whispered something to the woman in the doorway, then drew her into a hug. Eyes closed, Mrs. Zachary nodded.

Jake assisted Mrs. Prescott into the wagon then climbed up beside her.

“She’s going to be all right,” she said softly, her tone more hopeful than confident, almost as though she were attempting to convince herself that she was going to be all right too.

She sniffed and dabbed at the corners of her eyes, and Jake found himself praying for her yet again. Only this time, for her and Andrew alone.

“Kate said that her husband, Emmett”—her voice was barely audible—“was killed in battle two weeks ago. Yet his body had been so badly wounded . . .” She looked away. “The War Department said they couldn’t identify him at first. Finally, they managed to piece together a letter found in his pocket and that’s how—” She firmed her jaw, her breath coming hard now. “I hate this war,” she said through clenched teeth, tears slipping down her cheeks.