Christmas at Carnton (Carnton 0.5)(3)
But according to recent reports in the newspaper, the Federal Army had moved farther south, leaving only a small garrison behind in the fort. The absence of Federal soldiers in town seemed to substantiate those reports.
Mr. Bodeen rose, so she did likewise, her mind in a fog.
“Mrs. Prescott, today being Friday, you may collect this week’s wages from the accounting office as you leave.”
She struggled to think of other arguments to offer on her behalf, but none came. And even if they had, she didn’t think he would listen. His mind was decided. She retrieved the letter of recommendation, folded it, and stuffed it into her skirt pocket.
Moments later, she exited the factory and walked to the corner, numb, not knowing what to do, where to go. So she started walking. And with each footfall, snatches of the conversation from Mr. Bodeen’s office returned on a wave of disbelief. And anger. “Please do not make this more difficult on me than it already is.”
Difficult on him?
She had half a mind to turn around, march right back into his office, and tell him what difficult truly looked like. Yet such a decision would undoubtedly mean she’d forfeit her letter of reference. Which she sorely needed to help distinguish herself from the flood of other women seeking employment.
Already, evergreen wreaths dotted the occasional storefront, some wreaths adorned with various shades of ribbon, others with sprigs of holly, the red berries festive with holiday color. One bold shopkeeper had even hung a bouquet of mistletoe in the entryway. But despite the hints of Christmas, Aletta couldn’t bring herself to feel the least bit festive. Not this year.
Approaching the train station, she saw a man seated on the corner of the street. He was holding a tin cup. Beggars were commonplace these days, and she hated that she didn’t have much to give him. As she grew closer, though, she realized he wasn’t seated. He was an amputee. The man had lost both of his legs. He turned and met her gaze, and the haunting quality in his expression wouldn’t let her look away.
He was blond with ruddy skin and didn’t look like Warren at all. Yet all she could see was her husband. How had Warren died? On the battlefield, yes, but had he suffered? Oh, she prayed he hadn’t. She prayed his death had been swift. That he’d been surging forward in one breath and then drinking in the breath of heaven in the next.
She reached into her reticule and withdrew a coin—one of precious few remaining even counting this week’s wages—and dropped it in the cup, the clink of metal on metal severing the moment.
“God bless you, ma’am.”
“And you, sir,” she whispered, then continued on even as a familiar sinking feeling pressed down inside her. President Lincoln had recently issued a proclamation to set apart and observe the last Thursday of this month as a day of thanksgiving and praise to the Almighty. But, God forgive her, she didn’t feel very grateful right now. And it hurt to even think about celebrating Christmas without Warren.
She hiccupped a breath, the freezing temperature gradually registering as her body cooled from the exertion of walking. She slowed her steps and wrapped her arms around herself as a shiver started deep inside. She tugged her coat tighter around her abdomen, no longer able to fasten the buttons.
Seven months and one week. By her calculations, that’s how far along she was.
She knew because that was how long it had been since Warren’s furlough. They’d been so careful when they’d been together, or had tried to be. Oh dear God . . . How had she let this happen? What was she going to do? She tried not to let her thoughts go to the dark places again, as she thought of them. She was a woman of faith, after all. She believed in God’s loving care.
Yet there were times, like this, when her faith seemed far too fragile for the burdens of life. She wished she could hide her thoughts from him. Wished the Lord couldn’t see the doubts she courted even in the midst of struggling to believe. But he saw everything. Heard every unuttered thought. And right now, that truth wasn’t the least comforting.
Guilt befriending her worry, she continued down the thoroughfare.
When she reached Baker Street, she turned right. Ten minutes later, she paused at the corner of Fifth and Vine and looked at the house two doors down. Their home. A modest residence Warren had purchased for them four years earlier with the aid of a loan from the Franklin Bank. A loan the bank was threatening to call in.
And now she’d lost her only means of support. And stood to lose all their equity in the home as well if she couldn’t convince the bank to give her more time. She’d considered selling, but no one was buying. Yet when—or if—the economy finally improved and houses did start selling again, she couldn’t sell if she’d been evicted. She continued past her home and toward her friend’s house a short distance away.
She’d waited until late August to write Warren about the baby, wanting to be as certain as she could be—following two miscarriages in the last two years—that the pregnancy was going to be sustained. Yet he hadn’t mentioned anything about their coming child in his last letter. Had he even known about the baby before his death? The Federal Army had recently blockaded certain southern ports, seizing all correspondence belonging to the Confederate Postal System. So perhaps he’d never received her letter. Or maybe that explained why his last two letters had gone—
“Mama!”
Nearing MaryNell’s house, Aletta looked up to see Andrew racing toward her from down the street, his thin legs pumping. She hurried to meet him.