“I’ll need you, Emily,” Rachel whispered hoarsely. “I’ll need everybody.”

Her eyes looked far and strained as though she saw before her those next five stormy years. The year that would see Andrew Jackson defeated for the office of president when the election was carried into the Senate of the United States by the failure of any of the seven candidates to win a majority in the electoral college, defeated by the trades and connivings of Henry Clay and by the one vote in the New York delegation of a tremulous, undecided man named Van Rensselaer.

And after that the terrible years when the power and strength of Andrew Jackson would mount in an invincible tide, when her own name would be pilloried and long-buried agonies she had tried to forget dragged from their graves and published abroad to discredit her and her man on horseback. The years that would be too much for the faithful, failing heart of Rachel Jackson.

She would never be a queen in that palace in Washington. But she had no wish to be a queen. As the day darkened into dusk and the candles were lighted, she stood alone at her window looking out upon her quiet garden, sleeping its winter sleep that promised the wakening of beauty in the springtime.

It would be a pleasant place to sleep, she was thinking. But at least, at long last, she had had her Christmas at the Hermitage.

Footnotes

[1]Young Andrew was the master of the Hermitage when eventually that tragedy did occur, and Rachel Jackson had lain for eight years under the roses of her garden.

Transcriber’s Notes