“But I don’t want to go anywhere,” Rachel almost wailed. “I’ve been to Kentucky and Florida and Washington and Natchez and New Orleans and I hated all those places. I just want to stay in my home and I want you to stay in it with me. Mr. Eaton, we’ve been separated more than we have been together all these years we’ve been married, Mr. Jackson and I, and now were both getting old.” “Old? You call yourself old, dear lady?” protested Eaton. “Why, the best part of your life is ahead of you.” “It could be,” she sighed, pressing her hands together, strong, sun-browned hands that had helped to steer a heavy boat down the Ohio River, that had gripped the rein on many a weary ride through the wilderness, poured lead into bullet molds when savage enemies howled outside the stockades, spun thread, planted rosebushes, tenderly comforted many a child. “It could be,” she repeated, “if only I could have those years in my home with my husband.” The General’s eyes twinkled. He rapped out his pipe on an andiron, brushed tobacco from his tight, snuff-colored trousers. “I’m disappointed in you, my dear,” he bantered. “Here I bring you news that you could have a chance to cross an ocean and see a new, strange, fascinating world, and you don’t even want to hear about it.” “The ocean?” gasped Emily. “Oh, no, uncle Jackson!” 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. “What was it Secretary Adams said?” Emily asked.