was sallow and he had several long lines in his face." Charles looked conspiratorially at Anna. "But we took a pair of handsome portraits, didn't we?"
"Being President would give thee long lines too," Hannah said. "It's a job for a master juggler."
Sarah examined the portrait with admiration. It would be worth any amount of work to be able to paint as well as her uncle.
Charles showed her Senator King's likeness. "I was struck by his natural pose, eyes gazing into the distance, his hand holding spectacles as though just taken from the face. It was a thoughtful look and he seems a thoughtful man."
"And Clay?" Sarah prompted, pausing at his portrait. "He looks like a fox."
Charles's face twisted in a wry smile. "He dominates in Congress, but he is a painter's delight."
"We have not been idle," Anna said. "Uncle Charles has startled onlookers with his facility."
A touch of remembered indignation flashed in Charles's eyes. "Some of these idlers think a man of seventy-seven should stay at home and work on his will. Bah, I intend to live another fifty years at least. My hand is steady, and with my spectacles, I see more than I need to see. My work speaks for itself."
"And none could be more eloquent," Anna said.
Charles shook his balding head. "We have already accomplished some of the tasks we set for ourselves; some alas, were doomed from the beginning."
"What sort of things was doomed?" Sarah asked. "It seems every thing is lovely here."
Charles drew in a deep breath. "The Museum is about as far as it ever was from attaining national status. But I have never given up a cherished dream because of one more set-back." He smiled. "However, any hope I had of patenting the windmill improvement is gone. After all my work on it I find that another man has already patented a similar improvement. Ah well, if I cannot give it to the world as I would have liked, at least I had the fun of developing it."
"You have done enough," Hannah said. "You will give your portraits to the world, and your sons will give theirs."
Charles nodded. "And don't forget my painting nieces."
"Your nieces will forget painting this evening," Hannah said.
Anna turned to Sarah, her face flushed. "Washington City is as lively as you can imagine."
"That's right," Hannah said, shaking her head. "It's no place for a Quaker lady of years and quiet habits, but there is much to enjoy as thee will see this evening."
Sarah curled her hair in the latest fashion and wore Margaretta's blue taffeta with the scooped neck, tucking lace in the bosom, since on Sarah the decolletage was shockingly low.
The reception hall reverberated with music and laughter as they arrived amidst the glitter of candlelit chandeliers, jewelry, and brass trimming on the military officers' uniforms. A bouquet of fragrant orange blossoms on a pedestal near the entrance drenched the air with its delicious aroma.
Colonel Johnson introduced them to many people with wonderful paintable faces, set off by fashionable gowns, elaborate hairstyles, and brilliantly-jeweled combs and earrings.
But even with the light-hearted atmosphere around the punchbowl, the gay lanterns strung across the room, the sweetness of the music, there were often sober words about General Andrew Jackson.
Sarah did not question anyone about Jackson's problems. She was too busy meeting people and dancing. The entire evening was one delightful whirl. And it wasn't until they were settled in the barouche and on their way home that Sarah thought of Jackson again. I am confused about General Jackson," she said "Some think he should be given high praises for what he did in Florida, while others want to censure him. Can anyone tell me what really happened?"
"Not tonight," Charles said. "Maybe the general will come to town and explain it himself."
"Oh surely he will," Anna said. "Clay's accusations are so serious; he could not leave them unanswered."
"Executions are sometimes justified," Charles said. "It's not a pretty patchwork. But later; we'll know more, later."
Sarah sensed her uncle's reluctance to enter into the issue. Perhaps tomorrow would be best, she thought. There were other things to think of now, pleasant things.
Sarah's excitement peaked when a messenger from the President delivered an invitation to the city's most important affair of the sea son, the Christmas party at the mansion. Charles read it with grand ‘gestures. Hannah sighed. "So many festivities. It's too much. One could wish to send regrets."
Charles's arms dropped to his side. "Of course, if you don't wish to attend, we shall send regrets, but let us think it over."
To be so close to such a celebration and to send regrets was unthinkable to Sarah, but what could she say? She was only included because she was a guest in her uncle's household. She stared at Hannah.
Hannah looked from one face to the other. "My dears, my dears," Hannah said. "I have spoken too quickly. Attending the festivities with you will give more pleasure by far than staying here."
Sarah threw her arms around Hannah, hugging her and whirling her around. Uncle Charles winked. And at once the problem became what to wear and how to wear it. Hannah set about brushing and laundering Charles's best. Sarah chose a daring dress of deep plum velvet. Anna wore a green gown with draped neckline, tightly-fitted bodice and full skirt.
Colonel Richard Johnson, looking more dashingly handsome than before, came to take them to the presidential mansion in his barouche. The party set out in high spirits.
When they arrived they were led to rooms furnished magnificently and lit by chandeliers holding hundreds of candles and reflecting a thousand lights in polished cut-glass festoons. The carpet followed the oval of the room and bore the coat of arms of the United States in the center. The guests glowed as brightly as the chandeliers as they moved with flair and elegance. Chirruping laughter in a muffled sea of voices surrounded them. Coffee, tea and a variety of cakes were offered as the lively music played.
"Another charming niece, Mr. Peale?" Senator King greeted. "And I understand from Mr. Wirt that this Peale lady also has talents in the arts. In the Peale tradition, eh?"
As they chatted with Senator King a handsome couple approached. Charles, recognizing them, extended his hand. "Stephen Decatur, hello."
The young man grasped Charles's hand. "You know my wife, Susan, don't you? Raphaelle painted her in Norfolk."
Charles knew the Decaturs in Philadelphia. Rembrandt had painted Stephen handsomely. "I understand you are Mr. Monroe's neighbor," Charles said.
"Ah, that's right. We're situated just up the hill a stone's throw." As they talked, President Monroe put his hand on Stephen's shoulder. "I would like to borrow your words to propose a toast to the country. May I?"
Stephen smiled. "My sentiments haven't changed since Algiers."
Monroe winked and clapped his hands "A toast," he said. "To our country." He bowed to Decatur and gestured for him to come for ward. Stephen held his glass high and finished the toast. "Our country! In her intercourse with foreign nations may she always be in the right—but our country, right or wrong."
"Our
