Her Christmas at the Hermitage: A Tale About Rachel and Andrew Jackson
Helen Topping Miller
9781465657817
213 pages
Library of Alexandria
Overview
Hannah was fat and her knees were getting stiff. When she had a chance to rest on the well-polished stool before the fireplace, it was a groaning misery for her to get up again. Her head, wrapped in a starched white turban, thrust forward followed by a lunge of her shoulders till finally her legs could be persuaded to lift her erect. But once on foot she glared at the black women who giggled in corners, and at toothless old Moll. Moll had come all the way from Virginia. She remembered the long terrifying journey down the river to the Cumberland, the Indians, the hardships. She was privileged. She had no work to do now. “You black trash better stir your stumps,” Hannah snapped, “Heap of company comin’. You, Betty, you put more sage in that dressin’. I raised them turkeys. Ain’t goin’ to have ’em ruint. Mis’ Jackson, she like her turkey seasoned high.” Betty, narrow-faced and thin-lipped, gave an irritated shrug. But she did not look about for sympathetic support from the others, from the heckling tyranny of old Hannah, knowing that it would be nonexistent. Betty was a pariah on the plantation, holding her place only because she was the best cook in the county. Last year she had been sent back from Pensacola for rebellious behavior. It was whispered that she had been ordered whipped by General Jackson, had escaped that bitter disgrace because the General’s lady had a heart as soft as butter. No other house servant at the Hermitage had ever been ordered whipped and the stigma of her disgrace lay now over Betty’s peaked brows, her bitter mouth. Nobody ever talked to her, they all shied away from her aura of wickedness. All but Emily Donelson, Rachel Jackson’s favorite niece. “You let Betty alone,” Emily ordered now, looking up from counting out silver on a long table. “Dilsey, you see that Simmy rubs all these spoons with fuller’s earth and soda. Let’s see—I count fifty-two. There’ll be Hutchingses and Hayses, Eastins, Donelsons—we’ll have to set two tables and the children may have to wait. Has Sary got the napkins ironed good and stiff?” “Sary ironin’ in the washhouse now, Young Miss. She just yelled for Goby fetch her more charcoal to hot her irons up good.” “Hannah, you come along with me while I ask aunt Rachel to unlock the press. We’ll need all the long tablecloths and they’ll have to be pressed. I’ll need four more spoons. These are those lovely French ones uncle Jackson brought from New Orleans. You tell Simmy to be mighty careful with them, Dilsey. Come along, Hannah. People may begin coming in today. There’s a lot to do.”
