Christmas at Carnton (Carnton 0.5)(36)
He knew that the young woman’s relative—be it her husband, brother, or some other kin—hadn’t been an officer. When an officer was killed, wounded, or missing, the army, if at all possible, dispatched a rider with personal notification of such in the form of a hand-delivered letter.
“No!” the young woman sobbed and dropped to her knees.
In a blink, every woman in the room stopped what she was doing. Those closest to the young woman surrounded her, kneeling alongside, Aletta among them, a stricken look on her face. The women comforted the grieving woman as she pulled two identical-looking little blond-haired girls close.
Another gasp sounded close by, and a second woman doubled over in her chair, silent tears tracing her cheeks. She wrapped her arms around herself and around her unborn child, and the deep, mournful keening that rose from her chest caused Jake’s own to tighten. The pain in her expression, the depth of her grief and that of the other woman, cut straight through him. And he had to look away.
He’d fought on countless battlefields, had focused his rifle sights on a man’s chest then pulled the trigger. He’d seen boys who would never reach manhood cut down by cannon fodder or gutted with a bayonet. He’d watched soldiers struggle to take their last breaths, their bloodied chests rising and falling with the effort. He’d walked among the corpses after battle, the stench of gunpowder and death heavy in the air, and he’d felt compassion, grief, and had accorded them a soldier’s respect and honor. And on more than one occasion, back in his tent, he’d wept bitter tears beneath the weight and horror of it all. But this . . .
These women were defenseless. They weren’t on the battlefield. They weren’t brandishing weapons or—
“Jake?”
Hearing her voice, he turned.
“Would you please make the wagon ready and escort Mrs. Buckner and her two young daughters home? They live a good ways from town and I don’t want them to have to walk all that way back.”
He nodded, grateful for a task. “Of course I will.”
“As well as Mrs. Hunter,” Aletta continued. “Alice lives here in town and this is their first—” Her voice caught. “First child,” she finished in a whisper, her voice failing.
His throat constricted, making it difficult to speak. “I’ll make certain they get home safely, Aletta.”
“That would be much appreciated. Some of the other ladies will accompany them, too, I’m sure. And they’re already making plans for meals. So please make certain there’s room in the back of the wagon for them.”
He nodded. “I’ll make sure both ladies have on hand what they need for a few days before I head back here.”
Chin trembling, she nodded.
He walked to the door, then turned back, not as surprised as he would’ve been before spending time with these women to see the groups who had been knitting and sewing and chatting together only moments earlier now huddled together again. But this time with heads bowed, lips moving silently as whispered prayers rose from around the room.
How could he ever have thought that women could be shielded from war’s cruelties? That they weren’t strong enough to bear up beneath the weight of it? Granted, he would never wish to be fighting side by side with them on the battlefield.
But these women were fighting nonetheless. On a battlefield all their own.
Aletta pulled three loaves of hot pumpkin bread from the oven, mentally ticking off the final item on her menu that awaited Mrs. McGavock’s approval before the auction officially began on the seventeenth of December, only eleven days hence. But this recipe was a tried-and-true Prescott family recipe, so she’d intentionally saved it for last.
She caught a flash of movement outside the window and spotted Andrew and Winder running full tilt from the barn toward the house. Following their lunch break from studies—which almost always included a trip to the barn—they would enter the house through the kitchen to see if there was anything of interest, so she prepared for the door to fly open. Which it did only seconds later.
“Somethin’ smells good in here, Mama!” Andrew ran up to the counter, cheeks flushed, breath coming hard.
“Can we have some, Mrs. Prescott?” Winder leaned close, eyeing the warm pumpkin bread.
“Thank you, Andrew. And yes, Winder, you may both have a slice. After you wash your hands from all that playing with the kittens.”
They made a beeline for the washbasin, each boy boasting about how much pumpkin bread he could eat without regurgitating it. Aletta shook her head but had to smile. Where did boys get these ideas? Then her smile faded.
Although she was grateful for this job—not only for the money it provided, but for a safe place for them to live in the interim—she had begun to dread the day coming soon enough when she and Andrew would have to pack up and leave and find somewhere else to live.
She’d heard of special homes in other cities that specifically accommodated only widows and orphans, and where everyone shared in the running of the place. And it had sounded so promising. But after checking with several sources, she’d learned that Nashville didn’t have one of those homes. Which was unfortunate. She knew so many women and children, herself and Andrew included, who would have benefited from it.
Losing the house to foreclosure last week had been far more painful than she’d imagined. And even now the memory of walking through each of the rooms for the last time brought a reminiscence she didn’t wish to indulge. All of this cooking and baking, the organization required for the auction, had been a godsend during this time of uncertainty.