Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [4]
But there had finally come a letter, a wire, special courier, unusual, and the shock of the news hit him hard—that Mary now had no one, could not possibly manage the old estate—and so the army had granted him emergency leave, and he was returning home to Virginia.
He rode closer to the grand house, felt a chill, realized how much the house looked like a tomb, pulled his coat tighter around him. He was not yet accustomed to being away from the Texas heat, and November had settled in around Arlington like a gray shroud. As he climbed the slight rise, he could see out over the lands and untended fields. There had been little planting that year, and ragged brown grass filled the fields in matted lumps. Lee tried to think back, to recall the beauty, but he could not recall the lush green, the neat rows of corn, knew it had never really been like that; the old man had never been much of a farmer.
He wheeled the coach now to the short steps, reined up the horse, and stepped down onto dirty white brick. He looked, all directions, saw no one, thought, Very strange, there was always some activity, even the field hands, Custis’s slaves, and though they did not spend much time in the fields, they could usually be seen out and around. He walked up the short steps, stood between the absurdly huge columns. The porch was empty, no chairs, and none of the white clay pots had been planted. There was no sign of any life anywhere. Lee began to feel the coldness; not the Virginia weather, but more, deeper.
He went to the doors, tried to see first through the small glass panes, could not—curtains lined the inside, and so he thought of knocking, felt a hesitation, then felt foolish. This was his home too, and he turned the large brass knob and walked into the house.
He slowly closed the door behind him, the silence broken by the sharp squeaking of the hinges, the sound startling him. He moved farther into the vast hall, looked toward both side rooms for anyone, then finally heard a voice, a girl. Lee turned, saw a whirl of black lace, and down the wide round stairway came his daughter Agnes.
She stopped, stood for a brief second with mouth open, a look of shock, said only, “Oh!”
Then she ran down, bounded past the last few steps and threw herself hard against her father’s chest. Lee wrapped her in his arms, held her, felt her crying, her soft sobs buried into his coat, and he rocked her slightly, was suddenly uncomfortable, had not expected this. He lifted her away, put his hand out and touched her soft hair.
Agnes said, “Oh, Papa, Papa,” and he felt her let go. She pressed to him again, pouring the pain out against him.
“It’s all right, child, I am home now,” he said. “Home.” She began to loosen her hold, lifted her head and looked at him through swollen red eyes. She laughed then, a short sweet sound, and he put his hand on her cheek, realized now how much she had grown, thought, She is sixteen, and soon she too will leave and be gone.
“Papa, it was so . . . sudden. Why did God take him? He is buried next to Grandma. You must see the grave. Oh, Papa, it makes me so sad to go there.” Her words began to pour out in quick bursts, overwhelming him.
He held her by the shoulders, said, “Wait, slow, slow, my child. We will talk . . . we have time to talk now. But where is your mother? I have not seen her.”
Agnes felt words boiling inside of her, wanted to tell him so much, but saw his face, the lines, the gray hair, began to see him as older, different.
“She is upstairs. In her room. Your room. Oh, Papa, I am so glad you are home.”
She hugged him again, and he turned, did not want her to start crying again. Moving toward the stairs, he looked up, expected to see Mary at the top, tall thin Mary, smiling and scolding him. She must have heard Agnes crying, he thought, and felt a chill—it was odd she hadn’t come to greet him.
He climbed in quick steps,