A Basket Brigade Christmas (15 page)

Martha set the spatula on the counter and leaned against it. Her voice was gentle when she next spoke. “There’s not a woman alive who hasn’t had her heart broken at least once. Not a person alive who hasn’t believed in someone who disappointed them. It’s called life, Lucy, and you should live it.” She pointed toward the front of the house. “There is nothing I wouldn’t do for you, but you must do this yourself. I pray that you will.”

The old woman was growing more mysterious by the minute. And whoever was at the door wasn’t leaving. Taking a deep breath, Lucy hurried up the hall and opened the door.
Silas Tait.
With a massive bouquet of lilies.

Lucy stepped back.

Silas stepped in. “I hope I’m not intruding.”

“Well, it
is
only about seven o’clock in the morning.” She closed the door.

“But you were up?”

“I was. Although I had no intention of coming out of my room for the next year or so.” Lucy looked behind her. “Martha wouldn’t answer the door.”

“I … um … I was afraid … I mean … the work you’re doing. It’s very important. You shouldn’t feel any need to retreat from your friends. They all…
we
all—” He broke off.

Lucy pointed at the flowers. “Are those for me?”

He thrust them at her.

“You probably didn’t know this,” she said softly, “but I adore lilies.”

“As a matter of fact, I did know that.”

She tilted her head. “What else do you know about me?”

“Dickens is your favorite author. You love the color red, but you don’t wear it often. You take sugar in your coffee but never in tea. And”—he gulped—“you have no idea how lovely you look when you smile.”

She glanced down at the lilies and then back at him. “You know quite a lot. I’m confused, though. Why tell me now?”

“The Widow Tompkins.”

“What?”

He swept a hand across his furrowed brow. “I worked late last night. Mrs. Tompkins insisted we put a new display in the window that’s been dedicated to the Golden Needle Award all these weeks. I think it was a ruse—an excuse to tell me in a dozen different ways that if I didn’t speak up now, I didn’t deserve you. And I realized she’s right. Not that I think I do—deserve you, that is. But that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t express my—complete—devotion.”

He was blushing. Lucy thought it charming. Silas knew things that only a man who cared would notice.
Dickens. Red. Sugar. Black tea.
Why didn’t she know such things about him? Why hadn’t she ever really
seen
him? “Do you know what I know about
you
?”

He shook his head.

“Not enough.” She touched the petal of a lily. “I feel rather ashamed that after all the years I’ve known you, I don’t know
your
favorite author.”

“Dickens,” Silas said quickly.

“Or your favorite color.”

“I don’t have one.”

“Or how you take your coffee or tea.”

“Black. Both.”

Lucy nodded. “I shall remember. Just as I’ll remember what a good friend you’ve been to me, even when I was playing the fool.”

Silas protested. “You mustn’t speak ill of the lady I most admire in this world.”

The warm sincerity in his voice almost made her cry. She’d nearly thrown her life away because a handsome fop smiled at her, and Silas Tait, one of the best men she’d ever known, still admired her. Fearing that she’d lose courage if she didn’t speak immediately, she blurted out an invitation. “Would you consider escorting me to the award ceremony?”

“Nothing would make me happier.”

“And I’ll ask Martha to prepare a light supper for us beforehand.”

“That would be lovely.”

“And—did you mean what you said just now about—admiring me? Because I—I’ve come to realize that I—admire—you, too.”

He stared at her for so long that Lucy began to think maybe she’d overstepped. Her heart pounded. A creak sounded from down the hall. She imagined Martha standing just on the other side of the door to the kitchen, listening.

“Of course I admire you,” Silas finally said. “And if you will allow it, I shall spend the rest of my life proving just how much.”

He didn’t need to prove it, Lucy realized. He’d already done so, in countless ways she’d somehow failed to see. She couldn’t trust her voice to say that just yet, and so she reached for his hand. “You’ll stay for breakfast, won’t you, dear?”

Stephanie Grace Whitson, bestselling author and two-time Christy finalist, pursues a full-time writing and speaking career from her home studio in southeast Nebraska. Her husband and blended family, her church, quilting, and Kitty—her motorcycle—all rank high on her list of “favorite things.”

by
Judith Miller

“A well filled basket was the necessary card of admission to the soldiers’ car.”

— Jane Martin Johns,
Personal Recollections of Decatur, Abraham Lincoln, Richard J. Oglesby, and the Civil War

October 1862
Decatur, Illinois

S
arah McHenry placed a cool, damp rag on her mother’s forehead. She hoped Mama would finally sleep. “You’ll feel better soon, Mama. Just rest—”

At the sound of pounding below, her mother’s eyes flew open. “What’s that racket?”

Sarah sighed. Just when Mama was finally drifting off. “It’s probably just someone at the door, Mama. Papa will get it.”

But when the pounding continued, Sarah left her mother’s bedside and raced down the stairs into the bakery kitchen. Her father stood behind one of the long wooden tables, humming an unmelodic tune while sifting flour into a velvety white mountain. Calm. Unconcerned.

She let out an exasperated breath and swiped an unruly auburn curl from her forehead. “Papa!” She turned toward the bakery door. “Can you not hear the pounding? Someone is at the door.”

He merely nodded and continued to hum.

“Why didn’t you answer?”

Flour floated from the sifter like a flurry of snow. “Because we are closed. When it is time to open the bakery, I’ll unlock the door.”

“There are other reasons someone might be at the door, Papa, and Mama was almost asleep.” Sarah’s high-topped shoes tapped out a determined beat as she crossed the room and yanked open the door.

Johnny Folson lowered his fisted hand and greeted her with a gap-toothed grin. “Sorry for making such a ruckus, but I didn’t think anyone was gonna answer unless I kept pounding. I could see your pa through the window, but he wouldn’t look my way.” His forehead wrinkled, and a glimmer of confusion shone in his eyes.

“I’m sorry you had to wait, but Papa doesn’t like to be disturbed when he’s baking—especially when we’re not officially open for the day.” After directing a quick look of disapproval toward her father, she turned back to the young messenger. “Tell me what brings you out so early this morning.” A cold breeze rushed through the open door, and Sarah waved Johnny inside.

The boy doffed his cap as he stepped into the kitchen and peered longingly at the warm buns her father had recently removed from the large brick oven. “Matthew Slade from down at the depot sent me. He got a telegraph from the Centralia depot a short time ago and said to tell your ma that there’s gonna be sixty-five injured soldiers on the five thirty train, so the ladies in her Basket Brigade will need to get lots more food ready for them.”

“S–s–sixty-five?” The number caught in Sarah’s throat. Instinctively, she looked toward the upstairs bedroom. Though she longed to remain calm, her thoughts cascaded like a swollen stream plunging over towering falls. Being prepared to feed an additional twenty-five or thirty men was daunting, especially given her mother’s illness.

The boy bobbed his head. “That’s what came in over the telegraph.” He shoved his cap atop his unruly hair. “I best go and tell him I delivered the message and then get back to the livery and help Grandpa.”

Before he could turn the doorknob, Sarah grasped Johnny’s coat sleeve. “Not yet—I need to speak to my mother. The ladies of the Basket Brigade may not be able to feed sixty-five soldiers. Mother may want Matthew to send a message to the Centralia depot.” She held tight to the boy’s sleeve as he edged a step closer to the door. “This is important, Johnny. You mustn’t leave.” She leaned in and lowered her voice. “I’ll give you a warm bun if you wait right here.”

He arched his thin eyebrows and held up two fingers. When Sarah nodded her agreement, he smiled and scooted onto a stool near the front window, his attention fixed upon the yeasty buns resting on a cooling rack.

Before Sarah could exit the room, her father tapped one of the huge pans of rising dough. “I could use a bit of help if your ma is sleeping.”

“I’m going to check on her now.” Matters other than rising dough gnawed at Sarah as she ran back upstairs.

Her mother shifted and turned toward her when Sarah burst into the room. “You must quit running up the steps, Sarah. One of these days you’re going to trip over your skirt and fall.” Her mother’s reprimand fell away when she looked into Sarah’s worried eyes. “Has something happened? You’re as white as this bedsheet.” Her mother reached to feel her forehead. “I hope you’re not taking ill, too.”

“I’m not ill, but something terrible has happened.” She went on to convey Johnny’s message and then dropped to the chair beside her mother’s bed. “Should I tell Johnny to have Matthew Slade send a message to Centralia saying we can’t feed that many soldiers?”

“No, of course not. But you must take charge for me. The other ladies will help. You and Johnny divide the list of ladies in the Basket Brigade and tell them they need to supplement their contributions so that we have food enough for all the soldiers. The list is tacked to the far worktable in the kitchen. You can also post a message on the board at Logan’s General Store and ask Mr. Logan if he can help with some additional supplies. After that, go to Maddox Mercantile and ask Silas Tait if he’ll do the same. When you return, I’ll go over what needs to be done before the train arrives.”

“But Papa said he needs help in the bakery, and you know I don’t—”

“There isn’t time to argue, Sarah. Hurry downstairs and do as I’ve asked. Your father will understand. He knows the wounded soldiers must come first.”

Shoulders slumped, Sarah plodded from the room. Organizing the Basket Brigade was her mother’s passion. It was the way she’d chosen to support the men fighting for the Union. While Sarah admired the women who trundled off to the train depot each evening to board the trains with baskets of food and cheery smiles on their faces, she’d been unwilling to participate. She longed to help in the war effort and had prayed that God would reveal to her where she
could
serve, but so far, her prayers had gone unanswered.

She’d searched for some other way to show her loyalty, but one thing was certain: she didn’t want to be a member of the Basket Brigade. Seeing those young men with battered bodies and broken spirits would be too great a reminder of her twin brother, Samuel, and what might happen to him. Though their father had tried to convince Samuel he should wait to enlist, her brother wouldn’t be dissuaded. When the call went out for men to enlist in the 41st Illinois Volunteer Infantry Regiment, Samuel was among the first to sign up. More than a year ago, he’d left Decatur with the other volunteers.