Christmas at Carnton (Carnton 0.5)(32)

Sometime later, she stirred, aware of a chill in the room and of daylight all but faded from the swath of sky her window afforded. She pushed herself up, still groggy but knowing she needed to return to work and do her share. But when she stood, a sharp pain arced across her belly and she doubled over, gasping for breath.





CHAPTER 11

Aletta braced herself on the edge of the bed, hands fisting the covers, her breath coming hard. She gritted her teeth and pressed a hand to her belly, feeling the child within her moving. It’s too soon. Too soon . . .

She squeezed her eyes tight, concentrating, waiting, praying for the pain to pass.

In the space of what was probably a moment—but felt like much longer—the contraction subsided. Her pulse slowed. Even with the chill in the room, her forehead felt sweaty to the touch. She sat crouched on the edge of the bed and drew air into her lungs—in and out, in and out—until all but certain that whatever it was had passed.

She stood with care, pulled on her coat, and made her way downstairs and outside.

The evening sky was purple gray, the sun giving way to night, yet everyone was still hard at work. Torches flickered brightly at the various stations and along the path to the smokehouse. The aroma of freshly cooked pork and corn bread wafted toward her. Her mouth watered and she realized how hungry she was.

She looked for Andrew but couldn’t find him. So she searched through the crowd of neighbors and hired help until she spotted Captain Winston walking toward her—with Andrew cradled in his arms.

Alarm shot through her and she hurried toward them.

“He’s fine,” the Captain whispered as they drew closer. “He just finally ran out of steam, that’s all. That, and he has a full belly. Five pieces of sausage, at least. And tenderloin and corn bread. This boy can eat.”

Smiling, Aletta brushed back the hair from her son’s face and kissed him. He didn’t stir. “Thank you, Captain,” she said softly.

“Are you feeling better? Tempy said you’d gone to lie down.”

“I am. It was good to rest. Although I feel guilty for having napped while the rest of you were out here working.”

“The rest of us don’t have your reason for being tired, Mrs. Prescott. Besides, I saw you up fixing breakfast long before the day even started.”

She looked at him. “You saw me? Did you come by the kitchen and I missed you?”

He opened his mouth as though to respond, then smiled. “Actually, no”—he glanced away—“I-I can see into the kitchen from the front window of my cabin. And when I woke up and looked out, I saw the light in the window, then spotted you standing there. I saw Tempy too, of course,” he added quickly. “Not only you.”

His expression looked a little like that of a boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar, and the discovery put her at ease, for some reason.

“Are you hungry?” He motioned to a table off to the side. “Roasted pork, fresh sausage, butter beans, and corn bread are ready to eat.”

“I think I will, if you don’t mind holding him for a moment longer?”

“Not at all. I’ve enjoyed his company today.”

Aletta hurriedly filled a plate that Tempy covered with a cloth.

“Oh wait, ma’am!” Tempy held up a hand. “You gotta have some of Missus McGavock’s chow-chow. I make it from an old family recipe. Just opened a fresh jar a while ago.” She spooned some onto the plate. “There you go. Now you enjoy!”

Aletta thanked her then joined the Captain again. She held out an arm to take Andrew, accustomed to balancing him on her hip. But the Captain shook his head.

“Let me carry him back to the house for you. We’re about done for the day out here anyway. And . . . there’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”

They retraced her steps to the right wing of the house, Aletta readying herself for a conversation she wasn’t eager to have.

“I wrote to my commanding officer two days ago, Mrs. Prescott. I asked him if there was anything he could do to . . . help find out how your husband died. I know it won’t bring your husband back, of course. But I also know how painful the not knowing can be.”

It took Aletta a moment to find her voice, his admission not what she’d been expecting. “Thank you, Captain Winston. That’s so kind of you. Truly.”

He passed Andrew to her, their bodies touching in the transfer, and she met the Captain’s gaze—and felt that unexpected stirring inside her again. She became intensely aware of him—his broad shoulders, the kindness in his eyes, in his character, the strong line of his jaw, the way that same lock of hair always fell across his forehead. Hearing the disturbing tone of her thoughts, she quickly looked away.

“Do you have him?” he asked softly, seemingly unaffected.

“Yes. Thank you.” But even as she said it, her plate slipped from her grip, and was saved only by Captain Winston’s swift reflexes.

“Whoa there,” he said, laughing. “Tell you what . . . Why don’t I carry this inside for you? Put it on a table in the kitchen.”

She balanced Andrew on one hip as the boy tucked his face into the crook of her neck, his soft breath warm on her skin. Captain Winston opened the kitchen door for them, and Aletta stepped inside, her thoughts and emotions swirling. She turned up the oil lamp left burning low on the stove top.