Page 16 of Christmas at Carnton

Aletta slipped her coat on. “I’m going to the barn now. I’ll send Master Winder back to you.”

“That would be much appreciated. It was a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Prescott.”

“You as well, Miss Clouston.”

Already missing the warmth and welcome of this household, Aletta let herself out the front door of the kitchen and was met by a stiff northern wind—and the unmistakable scent of snow. She peered up and hoped she and Andrew could get back to town before the gray skies unleashed their threat.

Pulling her coat closer about her expanding middle, she started around the house toward the barn in the back when she noticed another carriage parked behind the others, and a woman exiting with the assistance of the driver. The woman stood for a moment staring up at the house before continuing toward the front door. Judging by her slight frown, Aletta assumed she wasn’t overly impressed.

The master pastry chef, Aletta assumed, remembering what Mrs. McGavock had said. Yet this young woman looked far too youthful to have achieved that status. Still . . .

She’d read in Godey’s of a wealthy young woman who had eschewed marriage and gone abroad to study cooking and baking and then returned to the States—New York City, if she remembered correctly—to open up her own bakery, or patisserie as the article had called it. She couldn’t imagine having the wherewithal to do that. She didn’t hail from a wealthy family, after all. And traveling so far from home . . . She’d never traveled outside Tennessee. Nor wanted to. This was her home.

She hurried to the barn, eager to escape the cold and wind, when she spotted yet another conveyance coming up the road. Even from a distance, she recognized the familiar gray of the two uniformed men riding in a buckboard. The wounded soldier Mrs. McGavock had mentioned.

Poor man. Likely an amputee like the former soldier she’d seen days earlier. Life was hard everywhere she looked. Which made her more determined to be grateful for what she did have, even if gratitude wasn’t her natural response at present.

Feeling the not-so-gentle movements of the child inside her, she hurried into the barn just as the first flurries of snow began to fall.

CHAPTER 6

“I’m glad I was the one asked to bring you out here, Captain Winston. After hearing all those stories about you, me and the others had begun to think you weren’t real.”

“Oh, I’m real all right, Captain Jones.” Jake glanced at the fellow officer seated beside him on the wagon bench. “Although I doubt all the stories you’ve heard about me are. They tend to grow a mite in the retelling.”

Reins in hand, Jones laughed. “Maybe. But you’re somewhat of a legend to the rest of us sharpshooters. Which made hearing about what happened to you even harder to take in. Getting shot in the shoulder was bad enough, of course. But the other . . .” He shook his head. “Sure hope you heal up all right.”

“Thank you, Captain.” Jake turned his coat collar up against the wind and snow.

He’d been surprised when, earlier, Jones had told him that his being wounded was a topic of conversation among some of the men. And while he appreciated the captain’s well wishes, Jake felt uncomfortable. Such praise had never bothered him before. But now it only served to remind him of his temporary loss.

At least he hoped it was only temporary.

“You’re from Mississippi?” Jake asked. “I think that’s what the colonel said.”

Jones nodded. “Town of Yalobusha. Born and raised there. You?”

“South Carolina.”

“A low-country man.”

Jake smiled.

“You got a family, Winston?”

“Nope.” Jake shook his head. “You?”

Jones didn’t answer for a moment. “I did. My wife and daughter died earlier this year. A few days apart.”

Jake looked at him. “I’m so sorry.”

His focus ahead, Jones nodded, then sighed. “Here I am in a war, and they die back at home. Doesn’t seem quite fair now, does it?”

“No,” Jake said quietly. “It doesn’t.”

As they passed a grove of pecan trees, Jake thought of the pecan pies his mother used to make, all sweet and buttery, especially just pulled from the oven, the pecans on top crusted with syrup. Best he’d ever had. Maybe it was seeing all the homes on his way to Franklin from the encampment, but he felt a measure of homesickness he couldn’t quite account for. His grip tightened on his rifle.

With both parents gone and Vicksburg having robbed him of what precious family had remained, there was nothing left for him back in South Carolina now. The family farm, modest even at its height, was gone to ruin. Only memories lingered now. Of good times, mostly. At least those were the ones he tried to nurture.