The Dickinson duel was never spoken of in her presence.
“That was very bad taste, Andy,” reproved his aunt, “and you should know better.”
“But it’s true!” protested the boy, his voice breaking in a contralto tremolo. “Even when I was little, boys used to yell at me that my father had killed a man—on account of Mama.”
Rachel walked away quickly and they heard the door of her room close.
“Andy, how dreadful—on Christmas Eve!” scolded an aunt, “I’ll go—”
“No,” urged Emily, “she’ll want to be alone, aunt Mary. But I’m ashamed of Andy.”
“Everybody picks on me,” mourned the boy.
“Go outside and help your father. And remember that there are things never mentioned in your mother’s presence. One of them is Charles Dickinson and that tragic duel that happened before you were ever born.”
“Papa did kill him!”
“My boy, I hope that when you are grown a man you will find a woman as fine and faithful as Rachel Jackson,” said the older woman gravely. “If you are so fortunate as to win a wife like that and a man cast slurs on her in public, I think you will be moved to kill him too. Now go on out of here before I get the itch to box your ears, big as you are!”