Page 6 of Christmas at Carnton

Andrew cocked his little head. “We’re not gonna live at home anymore, Mama?”

Confusion riddled his expression, and Aletta wished again that she hadn’t had to bring him along. But leaving him with MaryNell wasn’t an option at present. “Everything will be fine, sweetheart,” she said softly, wishing she believed it. She turned back and sighed. “My apologies to you, Mr. Tanner. Focusing my anger toward you is out of line. I know you did all you could. It’s simply . . . two weeks is not a very long time. Especially for a woman . . . in my circumstance.”

Mr. Tanner briefly bowed his head. “I understand, Mrs. Prescott. And may I offer, again, my sincere condolences on your loss. I, too, am sorry. I held such hope that this would turn out differently.”

She heard the finality in his voice and started to rise—when Andrew lunged again for the candy dish. She swiftly grabbed his arm. But not before he snatched a handful of peppermints. He yanked away from her, hitting the candy dish and sending it crashing to the floor. Shards of glass and peppermint scattered everywhere.

Heat poured through her. “Oh, Mr. Tanner! I’m so sorry! Allow me to help clean this up.” She rose, holding on to Andrew while already calculating how to kneel, something that was becoming more of a challenge.

“Don’t worry yourself over it, Mrs. Prescott. Please. My secretary will see to it.”

He crossed to the door and opened it, a clear message sent in the act. Trying to regain her composure, Aletta followed, Andrew in hand. She couldn’t bring herself to look up at Mr. Tanner as they exited.

“Thank you for your time, sir.”

They were nearly to the front door of the bank when Andrew tugged hard and attempted to turn back. But Aletta was having none of it, her grip viselike.

“Andrew, I told you—”

“There’s Mrs. Goodall’s friend.” Andrew pointed.

Sure enough, Aletta turned and spotted the man she’d seen at MaryNell’s house last week. He was seated behind a large desk in an office near the center of the bank. Her gaze went to the shingle hanging above the door, and the truth expelled the breath from her lungs.

Herbert Cornwall, President, Franklin Bank.

The man happened to look up, and their eyes met. His gaze deepened in recognition, and Aletta felt the heat of indignation rush through her. She still hoped her suspicions were mistaken. However thin that hope was. So much about this world was wrong, and unjust, and didn’t seem at all to be moving in the right direction. What kind of world would her son—her children—grow up in? She didn’t know. She only wished they could have had their father alongside them as they did.

She turned and strode from the bank, Andrew in tow.

“You want one?” he said after a minute. “I’ll share.”

She looked down to see him extending his hand, two peppermint candies nestled in his sticky palm.

“Mr. Tanner sneaked ’em to me as we left,” he said quickly. “I promise.”

Reading honesty in his eyes, she took one of the candies and popped it into her mouth, the cool rush of sweetness nearly overwhelming her taste buds.

“It’s good. Huh, Mama?”

She nodded, seeing Warren in his expression, and cherishing both of them.

“News from the War Department!” a newspaper boy called out from the corner.

Unwilling to part with another precious coin given her circumstances, she still wanted to read that list. Some would call her foolish, she realized. But she’d heard of a woman who had received notification of her husband’s death only to read his name sometime later in the War Department’s updates—where he was listed as having been wounded in battle and was still very much alive.

She spotted three women huddled close around a newspaper and waited, understanding their heartache, as, gradually, relief smoothed a measure of the worry from each of their expressions. One of the women happened to look up and meet her gaze. A wordless exchange passed between them, and she held out the paper to Aletta.

“Thank you,” Aletta whispered. “I’ll look quickly.”

“You can keep it,” the young woman responded, unmistakable relief softening her voice.

With Andrew beside her, Aletta turned the pages, then scanned the list of names under the heading “Tennessee—Killed, Wounded, and Missing,” all while telling herself she wasn’t nurturing foolish hope.

She was simply still hoping.

CHAPTER 3

Aletta kept an eye on Andrew as she read through to the end of the list. No Warren Wesley Prescott. Under any category. No Richard Goodall either, although she did recognize two of the other names on the deceased list. Poor Virginia Cates and Margaret Kirby. Did the women even know the fates of their dear husbands yet?