“Freezing mud. Makes slow traveling. Now, baby,” he protested to a young granddaughter, “Grandpapa can take off his own boots.”
“No, you can’t,” insisted young Cornelia, “because I’m going to do it for you. Ellen’s fetching some wool socks she knit—and, Grandpa, one is too long but please don’t mention it.”
“I won’t, I promise. Not if it reaches halfway to my neck.”
“I found these old slippers in your wardrobe. A mouse had started to build a nest in one but I brushed it out and aired it. Thank goodness, he hadn’t gnawed any holes in it.” She jumped up.
“Ah, my dear sir,” he looked up gratefully at Thomas Randolph, who was followed by a servant with a steaming mug on a server, “you save my life!”
“Just what you need to heat up your blood, sir.” said Randolph. “Another log on the fire, Cassius, and tend the fires in Mr. Jefferson’s library and bedroom.”
Jefferson sipped the warm punch slowly while his granddaughters busied themselves dressing his feet in warm hose and old slippers.
“Your breeches are damp, Grandpa,” one said. “But we can’t do anything about that.”
“I am marvelously served already.” He pulled them close to kiss their flushed young faces. “Burwell will find me some dry clothes presently as soon as I am warmed and rested. I see that our Paris lamp hasn’t tarnished very much, Patsy.” He looked up at the ceiling. “Remember what a time we had packing that thing? I remember you stuffed the globes full of hose and shirts and winced every time the box was moved.”
“I expected it to arrive here a mass of scraps and splinters,” she said, “and after you had paid such an outrageous price for it, too.”