“Don’t be critical of your sisters.—Ah, here’s Aunt Anna’s carriage now. Do run and call Cayce and tell him to replenish the fire in the south bedroom. Aunt Anna has refused to climb our crooked stairs for years.” Martha hurried away to welcome Thomas Jefferson’s sister and led her into the library. “Papa, here’s Aunt Anna!”
Jefferson came forward, his hands outstretched. He loved this younger sister and pulled her down into a deep chair without giving her time to take off her bonnet.
“Toast your feet,” he ordered. “I know how this first cold gets into old bones.”
“Old?” she laughed. “Since when did you decide to be old, Tom Jefferson? You’ll be hammering up things on this hill twenty years from now.—Well, Randolph wouldn’t come,” she went on in a tone of disgust. “Only twenty miles and he said it was too hard a trip in cold weather. That’s your only brother for you, Tom. How long since you have seen him?”
“Two years,” Jefferson pulled a chair up beside her. “He came over and brought me a cask of young carp for my fish pond. He stayed one night.”
“Uncle Randolph said he couldn’t sleep,” put in young Jefferson. “He said he was expecting every minute that his bed would go crashing up against the ceiling.”
“Tom and his tinkering.” She had a hearty laugh. “Well, my bed will have a stout chore to do if it hoists me to the ceiling tonight. For Heavens’ sake, Tom, get yourself elected governor again so we can have some decent roads in Virginia. Even on that turnpike the mud was hub deep and my horses traveled grunting like oxen. But if you do get elected, Tom,” she gave him an amiable prod with her knuckles, “get yourself a haircut! What’s the matter with Burwell? Has old age caught up with him too?”
“We’ll arrange to be barbered up beautifully this afternoon,” Jefferson assured her. “The people have all been busy. They are bound this shall be the most elaborate Christmas ever celebrated in Albemarle County.”
“Time there was some life in this house,” she said bluntly. “One thing you must never do is shut yourself up here like a hermit. He will, Patsy, unless you keep after him. He’ll read ten thousand books and never know his stockings are bagging down around his ankles.”
“Papa,” began Martha, hesitantly, “there’s a Christmas Eve service at the church tonight. It’s not snowing—and it’s only three miles. Would you go, Papa?”