“Uncle Jackson, Jack wrote me—”
“And what,” he interrupted, “did Mister Andrew Jackson Donelson write to you?”
That he loved me leaped like a lovely tongue of fairy flame into her mind. She blinked very fast to keep uncle Jackson from reading it in her eyes.
“He said something about circumstances—about a ground swell in Kentucky—he was rather vague—”
He frowned, then his face lightened and his mouth quirked up at one corner in a halfway impish grin. “So young Andrew has been hearing rumblings in Kentucky.” Always he had refused to call his nephew by the family nickname of Jack. “Why didn’t he write to me? Kentucky is the fighting ground of our friend Henry Clay. If there are any honors to be handed out, the Speaker of the House would like them for himself, no doubt? I will tell you this much, Emily, and you will keep it to yourself. In spite of all I can do, I have friends determined to push me into the forefront again. Now, they are talking about running me for the highest office in this land.”
“But that would be a great honor, uncle Jackson. Why must we keep it a secret?”
“I don’t want to spoil her Christmas. Some women would be elated at a chance to spend a winter in Washington, move in important circles, perhaps be elevated to the highest position in this land. But not your aunt Rachel. I want to talk her into the right mood, or she might refuse to leave here and then I’d be separated from her again for a long time.”
“But she must go! I won’t let her refuse,” argued Emily. “We’ll buy her some beautiful clothes. She can be a fine lady.”
“She’s already a fine lady,” he sighed, “but she’d rather go on here dosing the bellyache of the most worthless hand I own than to be invited to dinner in the proudest house in the country. I love her for her simplicity, and I want her to enjoy peace as long as she can, so say nothing about any plans, Emily.”
“Yes, uncle Jackson, but you could be wrong about aunt Rachel. The thing she wants more than anything is to be with you.”