“Then don’t be a gentleman,” she suggested boldly. “Be a politician. They seem to be able to ask for anything they want without any qualms whatever.” He laughed so loudly that some of the guests came hurrying in to hear the joke. “When James Monroe makes me ambassador to Mexico or Russia or some other heathen spot on this globe, I’m going to make Emily Donelson my prime counselor,” he said. “This gal has brains.” Emily laughed and hurried out to help her aunt. She was feeling easier in her mind. If uncle Jackson was harassed about money, he might be relieved at hearing that Jack was not going back to school. There was young Andy coming along to be educated and Andrew Hutchings, also a ward of the Jacksons, and it must cost a tremendous lot to run this huge plantation and care for all the people, white and black. And anything aunt Rachel wanted she had, whether it was a pair of silk mitts, a ten-dollar hat or an expensive suite of furniture shipped in at enormous expense from halfway across the country. Somewhere Andrew Jackson found the money to gratify Rachel’s every desire. That expensive saddle for Andy—and her locket—and it was very certain in her mind that there were some things that the General needed for himself. He needed new clothes anyway. She had noted the shabbiness of his braided coat, shiny at the elbows, and all his waistcoats were worn on the edges. Destiny might have planned great things for Andrew Jackson through his lifetime, decided his niece, but fate had certainly been stingy with the practical rewards. 6 The heavy damask cloths had been spread. Another carriage full of cousins and aunts and uncles arrived to fill the house with more confusion. Mary Eastin and some of the other girls came to help Emily direct the placing of the great piles of china plates, the gleaming goblets and compotes that would be filled with uncle Jackson’s wine and aunt Rachel’s preserves and relishes. The heavy soup ladle was rubbed till it glittered, a mound of apples and nuts was heaped on a tray which Emily edged with holly. Mary Eastin, very young and eager, had a cameo face and a lilting laugh. Life would always be gay for Mary. A president’s nephew would one day find her irresistible, but now she was a dancing sprite, doing pirouettes with a vinegar cruet for a partner, getting in everybody’s way. “You’ll break something, Mary. Do go and coax uncle Jackson to tootle on his new flute,” urged Emily. “He makes such silly noises on it,” protested Mary, “and he screws up his face till I’m scared to death I’ll laugh and offend him.” “But he loves it and it gets politics out of his mind.” Mary grabbed Emily’s arm. “Emmy, he’s coming isn’t he? I can see it sticking out all over you. Emmy, I think all these stuffy old people are crazy. If I had a boy in love with me, I’d have him, no matter if every Donelson alive croaked themselves to death.”