He will look like that when he is dead, she thought, as she blew out the candle and quietly slipped away.
It was snowing hard when Jefferson awoke early in the morning.
The raw ugliness of this new city of Washington was being charitably hidden under a blanket of downy feathers. The stumps where the big tulip poplars and oaks had been cut down to open up streets and clear space for building were now, all of them, so many thrones cushioned with ermine. The cutting of those trees had grieved Jefferson’s heart. How he hated to see a tree go down, though he had slaughtered a young forest in his younger years to clear the top of his little mountain for the home he visioned there.
He looked down at the narrow streets where sleighs and wagons were already churning up dark mud to profane the virgin beauty of the snow.
Martha came in early accompanied by two aides. Jefferson, half dressed, was eating the breakfast Burwell had brought up, picking the meat from a fried fish with his fingers, dipping bits of corn bread into new cane syrup. He dried his fingers quickly on his handkerchief, gulped the last swallow of tea, and motioned Burwell to take the food away.
“And what brings you here so early, my dear Patsy?” he inquired. “I thought you would be starting out for Richmond and Charlottesville on the next coach?”
“I knew you’d never finish this packing alone or let any one help you.” She kissed his forehead, smoothing back his rough motley of hair. “I declare, Burwell, if you don’t cut his hair soon, he’ll be riding the country looking like a mangy old lion!” she scolded. “Trim this on top and fix him a proper cue, or I shall go out and buy you a stylish wig, Mr. Ex-President.”
“Can’t stand the things! They’re dirty,” he snorted. “I’ll get everything packed, Patsy. These boys will help me. You go along home and get a good fire going to thaw out my old bones after that long three days in that drafty coach.”
“You will never finish packing,” she fussed. “You’ll find some book or paper you haven’t seen in a long time and spend hours poring over it. I know you, Thomas Jefferson. You gentlemen bring in all those boxes and, Burwell, see that Mr. Jefferson’s trunks and carpetbag are packed. This baggage will be taken off the barge at Shadwell, Father, and we’ll have wagons sent down to carry it to Monticello.”