Rachel’s face had drained gray. She pressed both hands hard on her chest where the pain sprang alive, shutting off her breath, making her ears throb. Eaton half rose from his chair, looking at her uneasily.
“Stop teasing her, General,” he warned. “Tell her about President Monroe’s magnificent offer—which you don’t mean to accept.”
Andrew Jackson took a pose on the hearth, a boyish grin lightening his long face. Emily drew a breath of relief, laid her hand against Rachel’s cold cheek.
“It’s all right. Uncle Jackson is just having one of his jokes.”
Rachel relaxed a little. “I don’t like jokes,” she sighed. “Not when they scare me half to death.”
“But this is a splendid joke, my dear,” insisted her husband. “John and I laughed about it all the way home—especially we laughed at what Secretary Adams said about it. President Monroe has offered to send me as ambassador to Russia.”
“Russia!” both women cried at once.
“But you aren’t going, uncle Jackson?” Emily asked when the silence had stretched too long. “Why, it’s thousands and thousands of miles away! They have wolves there and snow all the year—I read it in a book.”
Rachel had never had time to read many books. There had always been too much to do. Russia was as vague, as far, and as uncivilized as China or Africa in her gentle mind. She sat rigidly waiting.
“I am not going to Russia,” announced the General finally.