Page 21 of Christmas at Carnton

He began drawing her lips, the way they curved and—

Then it hit him. What he was doing. He lifted his pencil from the page. Mrs. Warren Prescott. He stared into her eyes for a moment, then closed the notebook and blew out the lamp.

The glow from the fire bathed the room in orangey red, and as the minutes ticked silently past, that same unwanted tug of reminiscence he’d felt earlier returned.

He was twenty-eight. Had never been married, never had children. And had all but accepted, at least earlier on, that he’d likely die in this war. So somewhere along the way he’d convinced himself it was best that he didn’t have anyone waiting back home for him. Best that he no longer even had a home.

But as weeks had turned into months, and as he’d made it through battles unscathed—until recently—he’d begun to think that maybe he would live through it after all. Not that he was invincible, as Colonel Stratton had said, and as his current condition confirmed. But that perhaps, one day, he might have what his parents had had.

But there was something dangerous about embracing that kind of hope. About giving part of your heart to someone else. He’d seen evidence of that again today. In her. And in Andrew. He could only imagine how much Warren Prescott missed his family, loved and cared for them, was eager to be reunited with them.

Jake stared into the flames, sleep a far piece away, and he found himself praying for a man he’d never met, all for the sake of a woman and child he scarcely knew.

CHAPTER 8

“I-I’m sorry. I don’t understand.” Seated opposite Mrs. McGavock in the family parlor, Aletta searched her expression, unable to believe what she was hearing. She’d held off returning to Carnton over the weekend, scarcely able to wait until Monday morning came. “I thought you already had a pastry chef who—”

“Yes, I did, Mrs. Prescott. However, circumstances changed quite suddenly on Friday afternoon after your departure. And since you said you would return this morning to discuss the details of the nativity you’re to build, I decided to wait and offer you the position, rather certain you would still be interested. I hope I am correct in my assumption.”

“Yes, ma’am, you are. Of course.” Aletta’s mind raced.

“Very good then. We’re in need of someone gifted at making pastries and sweets, pies and cookies and such. And based upon what you said during your visit last week—that you worked in a bakery at one time and that your mother, once a head cook, instructed you—I trust you still possess those skills you learned.”

It wasn’t a question. “Yes, Mrs. McGavock. Although I can’t guarantee that my creations will be as fancy as a master chef’s.”

“The Lord Jesus is not impressed with outward show, and neither am I, Mrs. Prescott. Simple but delicious is what will please me. Can you do that?”

“Absolutely, I can. Yes, ma’am.”

“Very well then. You’re hired. For a second time,” Mrs. McGavock added, eyebrow arching. “First as our nativity scene maker, however much that may concern me.” She gave Aletta a look. “And second, as cook and pastry chef. You’ll be paid accordingly for both positions. Unless you wish to change your mind about crafting the booth and manger. You may find it to be too taxing with the other responsibilities.”

“Oh no. With Captain Winston’s help, I’ll manage very well, I’m sure. Besides, I’ve already told Andrew about the life-size nativity scene, and he’s looking forward to his turn as Joseph. Either that or dressing up as an attending cow or sheep.”

They both laughed, and Aletta sat a little straighter.

Her back ached from the long walk from town. How she would manage to accomplish everything, she didn’t know. But she wasn’t about to turn down paying positions. Especially not positions she knew she was qualified for. Granted, the tasks would’ve been more easily undertaken if she wasn’t seven months pregnant.

She’d returned home last Friday to find a formal notice of foreclosure proceedings from the bank along with a declaration stating that she and Andrew were to vacate the home no later than the third of December. She’d worried about it all weekend, had gotten little sleep. And yet, looking back on it now, she could see that God had been working on her behalf, even though she’d been blind to it. He was providing the money for her to find another place for them to live.

Her faith felt so small in comparison to his loving kindness.

Mrs. McGavock refilled both of their teacups. “You’ve already met Tempy, who has expressed her pleasure at my offering you the position. So I trust the two of you will be able to share the kitchen amiably.”

“Oh, quite, Mrs. McGavock. And it’s such a fine kitchen too. So spacious and with the large hearth. You and your husband planned well.”

“Actually it was my late in-laws, Mr. and Mrs. Randal McGavock, God rest them both, who planned well. They married in 1811, then built a home on the property some fifteen years later. The wing of the house where the kitchen is located is that home. The main house we’re in now is what they built some eleven years later. The wing of the house is where my husband lived in his younger years. So it holds special meaning to us both. And I hope it will to you as well, as soon as I explain the other condition of the job.”

Aletta didn’t quite follow.

“The pastry chef the committee originally hired was to start this past Friday, and our agreement with her—based on the responsibilities of the position—included room and board. Because even though the auction doesn’t formally begin until the seventeenth of December, we have much preparation to do between now and then. Not to mention the Thanksgiving celebration this week. Which means that you’ll need to reside here at Carnton beginning today, if possible, Mrs. Prescott. Only temporarily, of course, until we get through Christmas and possibly the New Year.”

Aletta blinked. “Live here. At Carnton.”

“Yes, that’s right. And I believe it will work out nicely. I’ve spoken with Miss Clouston, our nanny and the children’s tutor, and she’s willing to instruct Andrew as well. Miss Clouston believes that having your son in the classroom might actually help my dear Winder to pay closer attention. We’ll have to wait and see if her theory proves correct. But I trust it will. Miss Clouston hasn’t failed us yet.” Mrs. McGavock gestured toward the window. “See for yourself at how well our sons are getting along.”

Aletta turned to see the boys running and chasing each other outside, a November sun shining brightly as the boys’ breath puffed white in the cold. She could scarcely take it all in. She had a job, albeit temporarily. But far more than that, she and Andrew had a safe place to live—with a friend for him, and schooling—through the first of the year. And perhaps, if she worked hard and proved her worth, beyond that.

Although she didn’t dare set her hopes so high.