Hurrying to the table laden with filled baskets, Lucy and Mrs. Tompkins each grabbed one. Together, they made their way to the most distant car, where a soldier waited to help them up the steep stairs. As soon as Lucy stepped through the door, another soldier with a lilting Irish accent called out, “What did I tell you, boys? They may not have wings as we can see them, but sure as Decatur brings us angels, may the saints be praised.” When Lucy handed him a bit of pound cake, he held it up for all to see. “Angels with cake!”
There was laughter and good humor as the two women made their way down the aisle—so much laughter and good humor that Lucy’s heart broke a dozen times, humbled by the men’s gratitude and once again amazed that they could put on such a brave face. Bandaged or missing limbs and faces either too pale or blazing with fever evidenced their suffering. Some eyes glittered with unspilled tears and yet, almost to a man, the soldiers had nothing but good words for the ladies.
Lucy had emptied her basket and was waiting for Mrs. Tompkins when the young man nearest her said quietly, “Please tell whoever made the pound cake that she gave a boy from New York a taste of home.” His voice wavered as he choked out the words, “Tell her that Private Joe Donlin blesses her for it.”
“I’ll make sure she hears of it,” Lucy said, wondering which of the two dozen pound cakes he’d tasted. Of course, it didn’t matter. She’d tell all the bakers about Private Donlin.
“Beware of that one,” a soldier across the way called out. “Next thing you know, he’ll be writing love letters, just to get more pound cake.”
“Or a pair of socks,” someone hollered.
“If it’s socks you want, you’d better write a poem.”
“A poem? I’d write an entire ode if it’d earn me a blanket without holes.”
“An ode to holes? Why’d you write an ode to holes?”
Private Donlin looked up at Lucy with a grin. “Don’t mind Lyle. He doesn’t hear very well these days. Artillery gunner. Too many shells exploded with too little cotton in his ears.”
Good-natured banter continued until a blast of the train whistle signaled departure. Mrs. Tompkins joined Lucy, and with a wave and a “God bless you,” the two of them descended to the platform. Empty baskets in hand, they waved to the men until the train was out of sight.
“That was quite the group,” Lucy said as she and Mrs. Tompkins hurried toward the depot.
“Indeed,” Mrs. Tompkins said. “I hope Lyle regains his hearing.”
Lucy agreed. “All that nonsense about writing love letters just to get a pair of socks.” She looked over at Mrs. Tompkins. “Surely they’ll get fresh socks and new blankets when they reach the hospital—won’t they?”
“One can only hope.”
Inside the depot, the ladies were preparing to leave, gathering up the empty baskets to be taken home, refilled, and brought back on the morrow. Lucy stood by the door and called them to order. “I’ve a message to pass on to the pound cake bakers.” She told them about Private Donlin of New York.
“One of the boys on my car said he hadn’t had yeast bread for weeks. He showed me a piece of hard tack.” The speaker shuddered. “I can’t believe we expect them to fight when that’s what they’re eating.”
“I know,” another woman said. “If only there were a way, we’d want them all to have steak or roast beef every night.”
“And pound cake,” someone called out.
Lucy was about to mention socks and blankets when Jimmy Kincaid trotted into the depot. He hurried to Lucy’s side. “Ma asked me to see if you’d stop back in once the Brigade work is finished.” He leaned close and lowered his voice. “She’s in a tizzy about the Ladies Aid meetings.”
The Ladies Aid. Of course. As chairwoman of the group, Mrs. Kincaid hosted weekly meetings in her home. A woman in mourning could not host social events. Lucy nodded at Jimmy. “All right. Let’s go.”
“I’ve got to stop at the mercantile, too,” he said. “We’re out of sugar. Seems like at least a thousand people have called. And they stay and stay. We ran out of biscuits a while ago.” Jimmy looked over at Lucy. “Your Mrs. Jefferson rescued that. Came to the back door with a plate of her Scotch cakes, and when Cook started to cry ’cause she was so relieved, Mrs. Jefferson said she’d rustle up more. Seems like she’s delivered more every hour since. And folks just keep coming. And now we’re out of sugar and Cook’s in a panic about it.” Jimmy grunted his disapproval. “As if it’s the worst thing in the world not to have sugar for people to put in their coffee. Hunh. The worst thing in the world already happened.”
Lucy patted him on the back. “Cook just wants things to go smoothly. It’s her way of helping out. So let’s get her that sugar.” Together, Lucy, Mrs. Tompkins, and Jimmy departed the depot. They stopped at the mercantile just long enough for Mrs. Tompkins to wrap two cones of sugar. Bidding a good evening to the woman, Lucy led Jimmy out into the night. The moon rose as they rounded the corner of Main and Poplar.
Jimmy gestured toward the line of carriages in the distance, some with coach lights burning, others dark and silent. “See what I mean? People just keep coming. Your Mr. Jefferson put lanterns out on the porch so nobody would break their necks in the dark.”
Indeed, the Kincaids’ expansive front porch was crowded with people who’d gathered in the light of several lanterns positioned at intervals along the wide railing. Light spilled out of every first-floor window of the house. Just as they reached the front porch steps, Lucy glanced toward home and saw Martha coming through the Maddoxes side gate, then hurrying across the yard toward the back door.
“More cakes, I suppose,” Jimmy said.
Lucy frowned. It was one thing for people to call and express their condolences, but there was something unseemly about their lingering. Didn’t they know how weary Mrs. Kincaid had to be? Shouldn’t Jonah’s brothers have some time alone with their mother?
Lucy sent Jimmy to the back door with the sugar. The moment she entered the front, Mrs. Kincaid latched on to her like a drowning woman reaching for the rope that would pull her to safety. “Thank goodness you’ve come.” She glanced toward the back of the house. “The sugar?”
“Jimmy’s taking it around back.”
The poor woman’s shoulders sagged with relief. “Thank God.” She looked back at Lucy. “I knew Jonah was popular, but I had no idea—” Her eyes filled with tears.
“You need to rest,” Lucy said.
“Yes. I do. And I will, as soon as I know you’ll see to the Ladies Aid.”
“Of course,” Lucy said quickly. “Don’t give it another thought.”
“You know all the members, but you’ll need the roster to make certain everyone is kept informed. There’s a copy in the entryway table drawer.”
“Perfect,” Lucy said. “Now, please. Go upstairs and lie down. And—where are the boys?”
“In the back, I suppose. Or upstairs. I think maybe Cook sent Boyd and William to bed.” She frowned. “But I don’t quite recall.”
“They’re in bed,” Jimmy said as he stepped up and put his arm about his mother. “And Lucy’s right. You should rest.” When his mother looked toward the parlor, Jimmy said quickly, “I’ll keep watch.”
Ah, yes. The watch. Lucy glanced toward the parlor. Someone must always be with the casket until the funeral.
“I asked Silas about it earlier,” Jimmy said. “He’s already in the parlor, and he said that he’ll stay with us.”
“God bless him,” Mrs. Kincaid said. Without another word, she grasped the stair railing and proceeded up the stairs.
Lucy watched her go, thinking that the poor woman seemed to age with every step.
Chapter 3
At Jimmy’s request, Lucy stood beside him to receive callers. Finally, the crowd began to wane. Cook came to get the boy, insisting that he eat something before he joined those keeping watch in the parlor. As the last carriage pulled away, Lucy made her way back to the kitchen, deeply touched when Jimmy jumped t
o his feet to give her what he called a “thank-you hug.” The unusual show of emotion left her speechless. Feeling awkward, she patted the boy on the shoulder, nodded at Cook, and made her way through the house and past the parlor where Silas Tait, the Kincaids’ pastor, and a handful of others would remain through the night. Lucy bid them a silent farewell with a raised hand.
Henry Jefferson was on the front porch, dousing the lanterns. “I can carry a couple of those,” Lucy said, and grabbed two. Henry carried two more with one hand, raising a third before them to illuminate the way home. A fine mist had blown in early in the evening. Now, as Lucy and Henry made their way past Mrs. Kincaid’s dormant rose garden, the grass crunched softly as their footsteps broke through a thin sheen of frosted mist.
Martha was waiting for them in the kitchen. She’d just taken another tray of cakes out of the oven, and while Henry and Lucy removed their wraps, Martha poured cups of tea. When Lucy thanked her for the evening of baking and the regular deliveries to the Kincaids’, Martha only shrugged. “That’s what neighbors do.”
The three sat around the kitchen table for a few moments until Henry gave a soft grunt and said, “Time for these old bones to say good night.”
“Thank you for taking the lanterns over,” Lucy said. “They probably saved a few necks.”
“Necks that should have had sense not to linger so long,” Henry grumbled. He shook his head. “That poor family.”
Wishing Martha and Henry a good night, Lucy ascended the back stairs to the second floor. She undressed quickly, but instead of going to bed, she waited for the sound of the back door closing and the faint click of the lock. Certain that Martha and Henry were gone, she pulled on her wrapper and tiptoed into the wide upstairs hall and, from there, down the front stairs toward the foyer. Instead of going all the way down, though, she perched on the fifth step from the top, staring down at the patch of moonlight shining on the polished floor. Thinking. She’d promised Mrs. Kincaid that she would “take care” of the situation with the Ladies Aid. They would need a new place to meet. Almost as if to protest the logical solution to that dilemma, the house creaked. Lucy looked about her. Nodded. Yes, I know. Father would not approve. He’d never have allowed it.
Robert Maddox had insisted on calling the house a “cottage,” but with its broad veranda and two-story central gable, the ten-room Gothic Revival mansion made the use of that word ridiculous. Even though she’d been only a child when the house was built, Lucy remembered the stir it had caused. But the curious were to suffer their curiosity unsatisfied, for Father declared the new home a sanctuary, not a showcase. Only close friends would ever be invited in. Only the kind of people who would appreciate nice things but never gossip about them.
As the only child of middle-aged parents, Lucy eventually learned that one could be alone without being lonely. She grew up in solitude, spending hours at a time entertaining herself, her imagination transforming this nook or that cranny into a castle tower or a pirate ship as the need arose. Father’s expansive library offered unending delights in the form of cherished books.
After her parents died, Lucy faithfully continued her mother’s legacy of doing good—elsewhere. The house remained as it had always been, private and protected from the curious. Tonight, though, the intersection of two obvious needs was challenging the way things had always been. First was Mrs. Kincaid’s need for someone to step into her place of leadership for the Ladies Aid. The organization had done a superb job of helping the war effort in recent months. They’d shipped barrels of bandages west to Rolla, Missouri, and south to Cairo and Paducah. After the Battle of Fort Donelson this past February, they’d collected dozens of shirts, sheets, and pillowcases and sent them to St. Louis. They’d also supported the Basket Brigade. Lucy had done her part at every turn, but as she sat alone on the stairs, listening to the house creak, she pondered a new possibility. The men on the daily train needed so much more than food. If Lucy provided a place to work, what more might the ladies accomplish? With help from Maddox Mercantile. She had unique access to an abundant supply of calico and yarn, needles—and more.
Descending to the foyer, she tiptoed into the formal parlor and opened the drapes. When moonlight spilled into the room, Lucy turned her attention to the formal portrait of Mother as a young woman. When, Lucy wondered, had Mother begun to “think more highly of others than herself”? Had she always had a servant’s heart? She’d been quite a beauty. A fresh pang of regret coursed through Lucy as she looked up at the portrait. If only I looked like Mother. Jonah might have— She forced an end to that foolishness. If wishes were horses, beggars would ride—and you would be a very young widow. The realization sent chills up her spine.
Taking a deep breath, Lucy crossed the foyer and went into the dining room, where Father’s portrait hung above the sideboard. Opening first the heavy drapes at one window and then the interior shutters, she made her way down the row of upholstered dining chairs toward the far end of the room and the massive sideboard. She stood for a long while, staring up at the uniformed young man mounted on a dark bay horse. You were a soldier once. We can do so much more for the men, Father. Please understand.
Her confidence wavered. What would Mrs. Collins think of Lucy’s plan? Ever since moving to Decatur not long ago, the banker’s wife had fought to become one of the leaders of Decatur society. She would expect to be consulted first about—well, about everything to do with the Ladies Aid. Lucy wasn’t even an officer of the organization. Mrs. Kincaid had asked only that Lucy contact the ladies to make arrangements for the next meeting. Now that Lucy thought about it, the other ladies might resent it if she seemed to be going off on a tangent. Lucy Maddox had never been at the forefront of anything. That was not her way. She stayed in the background, lending her assistance—and Maddox money—to worthwhile projects, but never assuming a leadership role.
Taking a deep breath, Lucy mounted the stairs to the second floor, newly aware of the rooms to her left. Mother and Father’s rooms, still exactly as they had been three years ago. Martha dusted faithfully. Every spring, she aired the bedding and beat the carpets. The windows were opened until spring breezes banished the staleness of the winter. And then the rooms were closed up again.
“I’d write an entire ode if it’d earn me a blanket without holes.” Lucy thought about the soldier who’d said that—and then about the blankets on the unused beds in that wing of the house. The dozen or so blankets stored in a chest beneath the window in Mother’s sitting room. It had never occurred to Lucy to donate things from those rooms. But … why not? Why hadn’t she ever challenged the notion that the Maddox mansion was a sanctuary that must not be invaded?
For the first time in Lucy’s life, the empty house felt cavernous instead of comforting. She frowned. Should she be ashamed of her wealth? No. You should use it. You must use it. The time has come. Lucy looked down the stairs toward the first floor. Yes, indeed. The time had come for things to change.
The aroma of coffee brewing woke Lucy at first light. Dressing quickly, she crossed the hall into Mother’s sitting room and opened the trunk sitting beneath the east-facing window. She stared down at the woven blanket lying atop the contents. Draping it over one arm, she descended the back stairs to the kitchen. Martha was standing at the stove. When she heard Lucy’s footsteps, she turned around.
“What’s this?” She nodded at the blanket Lucy draped over the back of a kitchen chair.
“A blanket from atop the pile of things in that chest in Mother’s sitting room.”
“What’s it doing in my kitchen?”
Lucy waited until she was seated at the table and Martha had served coffee before answering. “Something happened on the train yesterday.” She told Martha about Private Donlin and the mention of socks and blankets.
Martha nodded. “Are you taking that to the train, then?”
Lucy sighed. “I don’t know. I just thought—there’s so much in this house that could be put to good use. I think the Ladies Ai
d has quite a stack of things stored over at the Presbyterian Church, just waiting to be packed up and sent off somewhere. And those boys coming through Decatur without decent blankets. There’s always been such a rush to feed them, I doubt anyone’s taken the time to realize—I don’t even know why I noticed, but I did.”
“And …? I suspect there’s more to this than blankets.”
Lucy took a deep breath. “Mrs. Kincaid asked for my help with the Ladies Aid, now that she can’t host the meetings.” She glanced toward the front of the house. “She didn’t really ask me to take over, but … I was thinking …” She glanced at Martha. Shrugged. “Two needs crossed paths … here. In this house.”
Martha chuckled. “That explains the open drapes in the parlor and the dining room.”
Lucy nodded. Looking down at the light reflecting off the surface of her coffee, she circled the rim of the cup with her finger. Martha returned to the stove, humming while she rolled out biscuit dough. Lucy finished her first cup of coffee and poured a second. Finally, she said, “The parlors. The formal dining room. Father’s library. All of those rooms just sitting here. Not doing anyone any good.”
Martha said nothing.
“But Father was always adamant that we not open the house to just anyone.”
Martha worked the pump at the sink and rinsed her hands. As she dried them, she said quietly, “Mr. Maddox was a very private man. But he left the house—and the mercantile—to you.”
Lucy took Martha’s gentle reminder for encouragement. “If we opened the pocket doors between the two parlors, more than a dozen women would have ample space for knitting and stitching.” She swallowed. Might as well tell it all. “And if we moved the chairs away from the dining table, we’d have a grand surface for spreading out fabric.”
A Basket Brigade Christmas Page 2