A Basket Brigade Christmas (30 page)

Judith Miller is an award-winning author whose avid research and love for history are reflected in her novels, many of which have appeared on the CBA bestseller lists. Judy makes her home in Topeka, Kansas. You an find her online at
www.judithmccoymiller.com

by
Nancy Moser

“My Dear Friend. You are not my husband nor son; but you are the husband or son of some woman who undoubtedly loves you as I love mine. I have made these garments for you with a heart that aches for your sufferings …”

—Note accompanying an aid society shipment to the US Sanitary Commission’s Northwest Branch at Chicago

November 1862
Decatur, Illinois

Z
ona Evans cringed.

She wasn’t the only one.

The singing voice of Gertie Collins caused heads to turn, shoulders to rise, and eyes to squint. Three children who were too young to know that one did
not
cross Mrs. Collins if you wanted to enjoy peace in your lifetime did what their elders wished they could—covered their ears and made the faces they usually saved for their mama’s lima beans or brussels sprouts. Luckily for all the adults present at the Decatur Auditorium, one child led the others on an exodus out of the building, saving themselves—and all present—from the singer’s wrath.

If
Mrs. Collins would have noticed. Which she couldn’t have because of her habit of closing her eyes when she sang. The blissful look upon her face indicated she thought her notes Divine—with a capital
D
.

As the director of the auditions for the Christmas musicale, Zona knew it was her responsibility to end the torture. But she also knew tact was needed to sustain the aforementioned peace.

She raised a hand, then realizing the singer couldn’t see it, raised her voice. “Would you open your eyes when you sing please?”

The torture paused when Mrs. Collins stopped singing. She looked at Zona. “What?”

“A singer connects with their audience through their voice
and
their eyes.”

“Oh. All right.”

She began again from the beginning, which made Zona kick herself for delaying the end of the song.

And Mrs. Collins did keep her eyes open for the first phrase. Then they closed yet again and she sang on, immersed in her own private fantasy world.

Before she began the second verse, Zona interrupted. “Thank you, Mrs. Collins.”

The older woman stopped in midaria and blinked. “I can sing more.”

I’m sure you can.
“I’ve heard enough.” Zona knew she should have couched her words, but sometimes cryptic honesty had its place. “Thank you. I’ll let you know if you’re chosen for a part.”

Mrs. Collins strode to the edge of the stage and dug her fists into her ample hips. With her smallish head and largish middle, she looked very much like a two-handled sugar bowl. “Why wouldn’t I get a part? I was always assigned the lead back in Springfield.”

Zona wasn’t sure what to say. Perhaps the people in Springfield had a smaller talent pool than she had in Decatur?
Had
was the key word. With many of the men off to fight the Confederates, Zona’s choices had slimmed. But slimmed enough to let Mrs. Collins sing a solo in the musicale?

Zona read the eyes of the other auditionees awaiting her response. Pleading. “
Don’t let her have a solo. Please.
”

“You can be assured I always appreciate talent, Mrs. Collins.” Zona was tempted to say more but decided against it. “Thank you.” She turned to the next singer on the list. “Richard? Your turn.”

Mrs. Collins flounced off the stage, letting her hoop skirt assault Richard’s side as she whipped past.

Zona smiled at the boy, needing the sound of his lovely voice to erase the memory of Mrs. Collins’s song. “How are you today, Richard?”

He bit his lower lip. “I’m not sure.”

She was taken aback because Richard was a cheery boy, eager to use his voice in whatever capacity Zona chose. She already had him pegged to sing “O Holy Night” as a solo.

“Go ahead, son,” Zona said. “Whenever you’re ready.”

He moved to the front edge of the stage, taking the place vacated by Mrs. Collins. But instead of her huff, he appeared humble. He squatted and spoke softly for her ears alone. “My voice is acting up, Miss Evans. I’m not sure you’ll want to use me this year.”

“Balderdash. You have a lovely voice.”

“Had.”

In that moment, Zona saw him with new eyes. He’d grown six inches in the last year, which probably meant …

She gave him another encouraging smile. “Let me be the judge.”

He stood, took a step back, cleared his throat, and began to sing “It Came upon a Midnight Clear.” By the second note, with its jump of an awkward sixth, Zona’s fears were confirmed. Richard’s voice cracked.

Zona heard giggles behind her to the right and flashed the three female offenders a look that silenced them. She turned back to Richard, hiding her own distress in order to ease his. “You’ve become a man. That’s something to be celebrated. Your voice will settle down, and when it does, you know you are most welcome on this stage. This year … perhaps you could help with the set design?”

He looked to the far corners of the auditorium, as if searching for something. Then he said, “Actually, I’m going to join the army with my brother. I want to go fight.”

Zona shuddered. “You are not eighteen yet, Richard. They won’t let you fight.”

“I’ve heard of some boys
saying
they was eighteen and getting in.”

The idea of true boys fighting in a war made her cringe.

“And if that don’t work, then I’ll be a drummer boy. I’m going with Timothy. We want to go together.”

Mrs. Collins spoke up. “I’m sure that won’t please your mother, young man.”

“No, ma’am, it won’t. But Pa says he’s proud of us.”

The sound level of the auditorium rose as people shared their opinions with each other. The thought of this sweet boy putting himself in danger made Zona want to take a train to Washington and tell President Lincoln enough was enough.

As if he would listen.

“Sorry, Miss Evans,” Richard said. “Will you wish me well?”

Zona met him on the stage and pulled him into an embrace. “Of course I do. And I’ll pray for your safety.”

“Timothy’s, too, please.”

“Timothy’s, too.”

Unfortunately, Zona’s prayer list for local boys was far too long.

When the auditions were complete, Zona herded everyone out of the auditorium and closed the front doors. She blew out the kerosene sconces then made her way backstage and through another door leading to her private living quarters.

Mary Lou was setting the kitchen table for dinner. “Done so soon?”

Zona set down her notes and let the savory scent of stew warm her from the inside out. She lifted the lid and gave the stew a stir, only to have her hands slapped by her former governess and lifelong friend. “To answer your question, I’m home early because the pickings were slim.”

“Speaking of someone who’s
not
slim … Did Mrs. Collins audition?”

“Unfortunately.”

“If you want something to do, slice the bread.” Mary Lou sprinkled some pepper in the stew, gave the spoon a swirl, and put the lid back on. “I heard her talking at the mercantile. She expects at least one solo.”

“So she told me. I have too many women and not enough men. Even Richard is unavailable because he’s going off to fight with his brother.”

Mary Lou was taken aback. “Both of them?”

Zona nodded.

“His poor mother.” She shook the thought away and changed subjects. “Instead of three kings, you’ll have three queens?”

Oddly, Zona
could
imagine Mrs. Collins wearing a fake beard.

Mary Lou moved the pot to another burner and covered the hot one with a burner cover. “Jeb Gruning joined up.”

It took Zona a moment to change her thoughts from the pageant to the patriotic. “He’s got to be in his fifties.”

“Fifty-nine. Amelia is upset.”

“Rightly so.” Zona brought bowls close, and Mary Lou ladled in the stew. They sat at the table, bowed their heads for grace, then tore off pieces of bread and dunked them in the rich broth. “I used to be one of the only single ladies around, but this war has given me company.”

Mary Lou shook her head. “Unlike the rest, you chose to live alone.”

It was an old subject that still bore sharp teeth. Mary Lou was technically right, yet not completely. Fifteen years ago, Zona’s fiancé, Cardiff Kensington, chose to leave her to fight in the Mexican War. She hadn’t heard from him since.

She hoped he was alive. Prayed so every night.

Mary Lou reached across the table and touched her hand. “Forgive me. I’m grouchy today. It was wrong of me to open an old wound.”

Zona offered a smile of forgiveness then pressed a mental hand on the sore subject, refusing to let the bleeding continue.

Dr. Cardiff Kensington sat in the office of his medical practice in St. Louis, staring at the door. The door had done nothing to earn his scrutiny. It was a simple six-panel door, painted white, the doorknob shiny brass only because there had been little else for his hired attendant to do these past six months except keep it polished. His office had never been in better order, with every bottle dusted and labeled, every surgical instrument laid in a row, ready to meet a patient’s needs.

The door was of interest because of its lack of use. Cardiff couldn’t remember the last time it had opened, letting in a patient who needed to partake of his curative abilities. Not that he wished accident or disease upon anyone. But to sit in the empty office day after day, accompanied only by the tick and tock of the mantel clock was driving him near crazy.

What distressed him the most was his lack of foresight in anticipating this dearth of business. When the war started eighteen months earlier and the young men took up the call to arms, his thoughts and prayers went with them. He remembered heeding the call fifteen years earlier, when the United States had fought with Mexico over southern borders. He knew the lure of adventure in the name of patriotism. He also knew the awful trauma as adventure turned to panic and pain.

His lack of foresight involved those left behind. At the risk of being indelicate—even in his own mind—with so many men gone off to war … he couldn’t remember the last baby he’d helped bring into the world. With no births, and no infants and new mothers needing care, his practice had dwindled to the occasional sprained ankle or sore throat. Nothing of particular interest, and nothing that provided an income that could sustain employing an assistant at all. He’d let Bobby go last month.

Cardiff’s attention was diverted to the window as he saw Mr. Cooper peer inside. The man tapped on the pane and pointed at the door. At least the door would get some business.

Cardiff remained seated as Cooper entered the office, his jowls vibrating with the effort. Although he was in his twenties, his penchant for rich food and poor drink had made him a man of extravagant girth long before the time of normal age-related corpulence.

“Kensington.”

“Cooper.” It was not Cardiff’s habit of omitting the Mister as he addressed any man, but in this case, since Cooper had yet to deem him worthy of his doctor-title, he followed suit.