“They just think they need it. Including you, my spoiled pet.” He gave Emily a pinch, ignoring her downcast face. “All spoiled, the whole pack of you. Young Andy worst of all. Where is that scalawag, anyway? And where’s supper? Are we supposed to fast till Christmas? I’ve smelled cakes baking around this place for days and get set down to boiled meat and hominy. Right now I could eat a hog, tail, squeal, and all.” “I’ll see if it’s ready, Uncle.” Emily hurried out. The General looked sharply at his wife. “Don’t encourage this foolishness, my dear! That boy has got to buckle down to his law. Andy too, as soon as he’s old enough.” “Those two—Miss Emily and your nephew—are in love?” asked Eaton. “I hope not. After all, they are first cousins.” Rachel said nothing. Her gentle face, with the round, firm chin, the dark eyes that held too often a brooding look under arched brows, grew thoughtful. Young love could be so beautiful! Oh, she knew! She knew! Never through all these years of struggle and anxiety and separation had her own love faltered for this stormy, dynamic, explosive man who was her husband. His word was law, but even a just law could be harsh when it bruised what was young and sweet and trusting. She went quietly out of the room and John Eaton watched her go, saw a troubled look darken the General’s long face. A face hewn from a hickory log, General Coffee had said once, at New Orleans. Only the eyes could tolerate pain and now they darkened with hurt, following Rachel. “A sorrow—a great sorrow that she has no children of her own,” he said. “All her family—prolific all of them. Her mother bore ten children but her daughter has none. So she has to mother a whole tribe and suffer every small disappointment with them. These lads—Andrew Jackson Donelson, young Andy and Andrew Hutchings are sons to her—to me too. The problem is that I have to hurt her with my firmness to make men out of them. Too much softness in the Donelson strain. I have been blessed by it, but now I must fight against it and defeat it in those boys. It’s not easy to do, John, not for a man who loves his wife as I love Rachel Jackson.” “You did not tell all your news, General.” Andrew Jackson shook his head. “Let her enjoy her Christmas. We’ve had mighty few of them together.” A bell rang outside, and the General looked in dismay at his hands. “Supper’s ready and I forgot to wash. Come along with me, John. You, George!” He raised his voice in a shout. “Come here and mend this fire. Feels like snow!” 2