Free A Basket Brigade Christmas by Judith Mccoy Miller Page A

wouldn’t it give Mrs. Collins a shock.”
    Lucy frowned. “Mrs. Collins? How so?”
    “You don’t think I’d sign
my
name?” Portia chuckled.
    Lucy clamped her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing aloud. Her composure regained, she tapped the notepaper before Portia. “Back to work, Miss Dameron. This is serious business.”
    “As you wish, Miss Maddox.”
    Lucy dipped her fountain pen in the inkwell and began to write.
    I do not know your name, but our kind Creator does. You have been prayed for today by the author of this missive.
    When she completed her first comforter top, she changed the wording a bit.
    You have been prayed for by the maker of this patchwork.
    May our Redeemer give you peace.
    Thank-you notes began to arrive and, along with the notes, a few letters. Some of the latter made the ladies blush, for they contained outlandish praise and, on occasion, a promise to come to Decatur one day. It was all nonsense, of course, but everyone agreed that it would be an unforgettable day if that actually happened.
    There was one letter in particular that tugged at Lucy’s heartstrings. A Private Oscar Greene wrote that the Basket Brigade missive was the first mail he’d received since joining up. He had no family, he said, and if some kind soul would care to write again, he would be grateful. He apologized for his “abominable penmanship,” which he blamed on his injuries. His grammar was impeccable, his spelling excellent. Lucy thought that Oscar Greene must be an educated man. Perhaps even a gentleman.
    She wrote again, although she did not sign her name. Initials would have to suffice. After all, a lady had to be careful.
    Write and tell me all about yourself and how you get on in the hospitals. Where do you live when you are at home?
    She wrote of the weather and the work of the Basket Brigade. She spoke of opening her “huge, drafty house” to the work and how grateful she was for the help of many. She wished he could hear the pleasant murmurings of a dozen or more voices working together each day in the parlor, intent on bringing comfort to others. Her faithful housekeeper and the gardener had been a great support. She wrote a humorous account of Henry Jefferson dressed in old livery and standing guard at the gate on the morning of the first meeting. She hoped it would make the private smile.
    She took Mr. Greene’s mention of the president as an interest in politics and told the well-known local story of how the future president’s first political speech had been delivered from atop a tree stump in front of a Decatur hotel. She boasted on behalf of a local tailor employed by her father who had had the honor of fitting Mr. Lincoln for a suit of clothing.
    I hope you do not think it silly for me to write of such things as speeches and suits.
    Private Greene did not think her silly. Her letters, he said, were the only light in his dismal days. He had nearly come to fisticuffs with another soldier over the cherished patchwork that would forever be a treasured reminder that there was, indeed, kindness in the world.
    The private’s words made Lucy blush. She moved her correspondence with him to her bedroom, writing by lamplight late into the night, counting the hours until a reply came, and wondering…
is this what it is like to fall in love
? She caught her breath when Oscar first mentioned a visit. What a gift it had been that the mail could be carried between them so quickly, he said. How thankful he was for the frequent train service between Decatur and Chicago. He would soon be leaving the hospital. Decatur was not so far from Chicago.
    It would be my great joy to one day meet you. However, I consider it the height of impropriety to force oneself on others without an invitation. You have my promise that if we were to meet—which would be the granting of a secret wish—it would be only after you have granted your permission.
    Lucy studied herself in the mirror. She was still just plain Lucy