Christmas at Carnton (Carnton 0.5)(45)
Jake followed her gaze, as did Aletta, and he saw a sprig of mistletoe hanging above them. He smiled, but Aletta only looked back at him, her expression saying she wasn’t yet convinced. But that was all right. He had a little time yet. And though Aletta Prescott didn’t know it, he could be awfully persuasive when he put his mind to it.
He leaned down and kissed her forehead, lingering only a second before he turned and walked out the door, tossing Tempy a discreet wink.
CHAPTER 18
On opening day of the auction, with dawn’s first blush barely tracing the horizon, Aletta descended the stairs to the kitchen to the sounds of clanging pots and pans and the sweet aroma of Christmas simmering spices. The past week had flown by in a flurry of final details, and today at noon the auction would begin. She was even more excited—and nervous—than she’d anticipated.
She hoped the venture turned out to be profitable. Not only so she could prove Jake wrong, which would be enjoyable enough. But so that all the weeks of work from dozens and dozens of women would prove worthwhile.
She passed a window and caught a glimpse of someone entering the barn. Jake. Already up with the sun, working as hard as anyone, which spoke volumes about the man he was.
“You just need time, that’s all,” he’d told her. “And I’ll give it to you. As much time as you need.”
And he was giving her just that. And keeping his distance too. Somewhat. If she didn’t count the occasional sprig of holly or out-of-season wildflower that just happened to appear in a little glass by the sink where she washed dishes. Or the pretty ear bobs that were waiting in a tiny decorative box by her bedroom door the other morning. Or the sketch of “General Prescott’s Nativity” that hung, even now, on a board above one of the worktables.
But it wasn’t time she needed so much as a guarantee. And as she already knew so well, life never came with one of those.
The heady aroma of coffee brewing on the stove greeted her as she rounded the corner and spotted Tempy cracking eggs into a bowl.
“No matter what time I rise, Tempy, you’re already down here at work. Eggs gathered and sausage already brought up from the root cellar.”
The older woman smiled. “I’m old and can’t sleep no more like I used to. That’s one of the things folks don’t tell you when you’re young, Missus Prescott. That one day your body’s just gonna up and decide it don’t need to rest like your mind tells it to.”
Aletta smiled and reached for an iron skillet to fry up the sausage, the woman’s comment spurring a question. “How long have you been here, Tempy? At Carnton, I mean.”
“Oh, land sakes . . .” Tempy paused. “Nigh onto sixty-five years, I guess. I was all of maybe two or three when Master Randal, that be Mister McGavock’s father, bought me and Mama from over in Montgomery.”
Aletta looked over at her. Tempy stated it so matter-of-factly, about being bought and sold. And it occurred to Aletta then that she’d never had occasion to know a slave as well as she knew Tempy. A measure of shame accompanied that realization, as did a puzzlement. She chose her words carefully. “My understanding, Tempy, is that all the other slaves here at Carnton were sent south when the war started. And yet . . . you’re still here.”
“That’s ’cuz I’m near ancient, Missus Prescott. Guess Mister and Missus McGavock figured the Federal Army wouldn’t reckon an old woman like me was worth freein’.” Tempy stilled and met Aletta’s gaze, a knowing look moving into her eyes. “And I guess they was right,” she finished succinctly, then dropped the remnants of a cracked eggshell into the compost bucket and turned back to her work.
But for Aletta, the air in the room seemed to evaporate.
From rote memory, she lit the stove, placed the skillet atop a burner, then sliced and pattied out the pork sausage, the image of a young black girl no more than two or three filling her mind. So many other questions she wanted to ask. But had no right to. What must it have been like to have had all the choices in life taken from you? Your freedom stripped away?
As she placed the sausage in the skillet, the meat sizzling, aromas rising, Aletta realized with both a grateful and humble heart that at least she had choices. Choices that were hers alone to make.
A while later, after the McGavocks’ breakfast was served, Aletta hurried back upstairs to rouse Andrew and get him dressed. In a blink, it would be noon and the auction would be under way. And there was still much to be done.
She returned to find the kitchen abuzz with hired help and volunteers. Voices and footfalls from the upstairs signaled that Mrs. McGavock was readying to give tours of the main floor of the home. Mrs. McGavock’s mother, Mrs. Winder, along with a cousin, had arrived two days earlier with plans to stay through Christmas. Both women had jumped right in to help, including assisting with the decoration of the nine-foot cedar tree now standing statuesquely in the front hallway.
Tempy had Andrew’s eggs waiting at the table in the corner for him, scrambled like he liked them, and he dove in, eating not one but two slices of warm pumpkin bread. Aletta didn’t object when she spotted Tempy slipping him a fresh butter cookie. She was stepping in to see how she might best serve preparations in the kitchen when a voice interrupted her thoughts.
“Mrs. Prescott?”
Aletta turned to see Mrs. Buckner, one of the younger widows, standing in the doorway. She looked for the woman’s precious twin girls but didn’t see them.