Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [5]
“Robert. Is that you?”
He stepped in, looked at the bed, thick and white, but she wasn’t there. Then he saw her, sitting by the window, and he made a sound, a small gasp. He couldn’t help himself, felt his knees give way, then stiffened, gained control, said, “Mary . . . are you not well?”
“No, Robert, I am not well.”
She sat in a small leather chair, leaned slightly to one side, and Lee saw her right arm, hanging down, the hand twisted in a grotesque curl.
“I am sorry I did not greet you at the door. I saw you ride up. It is difficult for me to walk.”
Lee stared at her, did not understand, did not know what to say.
“Please don’t look at me like that.”
“I’m sorry, but what is wrong? Are you getting better?”
“I have arthritis. The doctor says I will likely get worse. It’s been a year or so. I could not tell you. I am ashamed that you should see me like this.”
“No, no, it’s all right. I am home now, I will take care of you.”
“For how long?” Lee felt the edge in her voice, had heard it before, the bitterness she tried to hide, that the letters did hide. But now it could not be concealed, and he felt a sudden wave of guilt, as though if he’d been here, she would not be this way, it would all be different.
“I am . . . I have a two-month leave. General Twiggs . . . the army was very understanding.”
“Understanding? I doubt the army has ever understood what it is like around this house.”
Lee turned away from the argument, felt only the need to help, to mend the wounds.
“I was shocked at the news. I did not realize your father was ill.”
“He wasn’t. It was pneumonia. He had only a few days. We were with him . . . the girls were with him when he died.”
She tried to stand, raised herself up with her left arm, pushing against the chair. He rushed forward, held her, lifted her under the arms, pulled her against him and felt the frail stillness, the dead right arm. She groaned suddenly, pulled back.
“I’m sorry. It hurts. It . . . always hurts. I just wanted to see outside.”
Gently, he reached for her again, could feel her bones, had a sudden fear he might break her, and she turned, left his hands and faced the window.
“Would you please ask Agnes to bring me some tea?”
He backed away, still held his arms out toward her, and she moved closer to the window, a slow painful step, placed her left hand on the sill and looked out toward the gray sky. He watched her, felt sick inside, shut out. Behind him, in the hallway, he heard soft steps. He turned, said, “Agnes? Are you there?”
There was a silence, and then the girl answered, “Yes, Papa.” Lee opened the door, stepped into the hallway and, in one motion, went to his daughter and held her, felt her strength and gave her back some of her tears.
HE SAT at the old man’s desk, surrounded by high walls and thick oak shelves. The dark office was suffocating, every space occupied by some memento, some piece of history, and Lee had begun to feel it all as a great weight.
He read through a stack of papers, the massive confusion of the old man’s will. Custis had drawn it up himself, had felt no need for lawyers, and now Lee agonized at the contradictions, the grand pronouncements and the wholly impractical way Custis had divided his holdings. But it was the first page, the first paragraph that had given Lee the greatest dread, because the old man had named Lieutenant Colonel Robert Edward Lee as the principal executor of the estate.
There was land, thousands of acres on three plantations, and Lee’s sons, Custis, Rooney, and Robert, Jr., inherited that. Then there was cash to be paid to the girls, but there was no cash in the estate: the money was to come from the farming operations of the lands. So, if the older sons were to come home and give