Christmas at Carnton (Carnton 0.5)(42)

Aletta drew in a breath. “With the extent of Corporal Zachary’s injuries, even I didn’t realize it wasn’t Warren until the man opened his eyes. They favored each other in build and in coloring. Almost could have been brothers.”

The tick-tock of a clock marked off the seconds somewhere behind her.

Mrs. McGavock rose from her chair and moved to sit beside Aletta on the settee. “I’m so sorry for your loss, my dear. Not only once, but for a second time.”

Mrs. McGavock drew her into an embrace and Aletta briefly closed her eyes. When she opened them, she saw Jake staring at her, the same mixture of guilt and relief in his expression that she felt in her own.

After a moment, Mrs. McGavock drew back. “But wait . . . if Mr. Zachary had a bundle of letters with him, then that means—”

Aletta reached into her reticule and withdrew the bloodstained envelopes tied with twine. “These are the recent letters I’d written to him.” She bit her lower lip. “And the last letter he wrote to me.”

She smoothed a trembling hand over the familiar handwriting on the envelope, still sealed and unread.




Later that evening, Aletta sat on the edge of the bed holding the envelope, Andrew finally quieted and asleep beside her. She slid her forefinger beneath the sealed flap of the envelope and withdrew a single sheet of paper.

She started to unfold it, then paused and closed her eyes, not to whisper a prayer but simply to . . . be still. And to recall happier memories of Warren than the ones today had given her.

She turned her thoughts back, back, back . . . like thumbing through the pages of a well-loved book. And after a moment, she could see him. Warren’s face so clear in her mind, his smile, the joy lighting his eyes when he would toss Andrew high in the air and catch him and hold him close. She could see his handsome features in the soft glow of lamplight as he’d sat by the hearth reading at night before they retired to bed.

Emmett Zachary hadn’t been surprised to find her with child, so at least she knew that Warren had gotten that letter she’d written. He’d known they were going to have another child.

She let out a sigh, opened her eyes, and unfolded the letter. Her gaze went first to the date—9 October, 1863, almost two months ago today—then to the familiar script.

My dearest Lettie,

This will be brief, but I trust that after my last three ramblings earlier this past month, you may find this discovery more of a relief than a disappointment.


Three rambling letters . . . that she’d never received. She read on.

The sun is rising, and we’ll soon break camp. I wish you were here, Lettie, right now, only for a moment, to share the dawn with me. Or even more, I wish I were there. I miss you and Andrew more than I thought possible, and I’d already set that expectation mighty high.

I hope you and the baby are well. It pains me more than I can say not to be with you during this time. I’ve recalled, on more than one occasion, the conversations we had about this war before I left. And while I still believe, more than ever, in our cause, I do believe you were right, my dearest. That the cost, to both sides, will be greater and leave a far deeper and more lasting wound than anyone anticipated at the outset. I could never have imagined the horrors and indecencies I have witnessed over these long months during our separation. And I wonder if our nation will ever fully heal from this wound that we have inflicted upon ourselves.

If God is gracious enough to hear my prayers, and I believe he is and does, then may he answer them and see me through this journey and back to you and Andrew. And to our precious child yet to be born.

Though I am not so far from you in the span of distance, I am yet another world away. But no matter where I am, my love, know that I carry your love inside me and that I am holding you close even now, recalling the sweet smell of your hair, the warmth of your smile, and the melody of your laughter. I cherish you more than words can say, and eagerly await the day our family will be joined together once again.

As ever, your faithful and

loving husband,

Warren


Aletta read the missive again and again, her tears moistening the bottom of the page. Then she pulled back the bedcovers, removed her boots, and, still fully clothed, slipped between the sheets. She extinguished the lamp, letter still in hand, and lay unmoving in the darkness, grieving the love she’d lost with Warren’s passing, for the second time. And also the seed of what might have been love, one day, with Jake.

Because if today had shown her anything, it had shown her she wasn’t strong enough to go through this again. To love someone and lose them. She didn’t want to be that strong. And when Jake returned to his regiment, which he undoubtedly would following the auction, there were no assurances that he would come home. On the contrary. The growing number of widows helping with the auction who filled the church every day attested to that.

No matter where I am, my love, know that I carry your love inside me . . .

Love outlasted this life and carried on into the next. She believed that with all her heart. But that was just it. She’d given her heart once, and now it felt as though half of it had been ripped from her chest—all over again. Did she knowingly want to open herself to that kind of pain a second time?

She turned onto her side, the baby moving within her as she did, and stared into the white-hot embers of the fire in the hearth, listening to the sharp crackle and pop of the wood as it succumbed, without a choice, to the flame.