The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [252]
It was barely daylight, and he finished his cup of tea, moved up into the main hall, heard no one moving. He peeked into a small parlor, saw a pad of paper, pulled a pencil from his pocket. It was his way of passing the time, his quiet patrolling of the house. The house itself was clumsy in design, dark and dank spaces, a central courtyard that never saw light. He moved through halls that were too narrow, paused at the door to the dining room, shook his head at the thoughtlessness of the design. The room had been placed with the windows facing a setting sun, so that the evening meal was uncomfortably warm. He scanned the room, made notes of the disrepair, rotting timbers. He had seen the dark stains, small leaks beneath the windows that would certainly grow worse. He climbed the stairway, ran his hand over rough plaster, cracks large enough to accommodate a finger. He reached the second level, stopped, the musty smells surrounding him. The bedrooms were small, tight spaces, and he waited for a moment, then eased slowly toward her room, listened for a moment, then slowly opened the door. He peered through the dull light, could hear her breathing, the space in the bed beside her, his space, still vacant. He wanted to move close to her, felt a desperate need to lift her spirits, to give her some part of himself, his own energy, to bring her back to that wonderful time they had once shared. She moved now, soft stirring, a rustle of covers, and he saw her looking at him.
“Is it terribly late?”
He moved close to the bed.
“No. Not at all. Barely daylight. I’m sorry to disturb you.”
She lay back again, and he saw the soft smile, the perfect beauty that had captured him so completely.
“I should rise. Ruthie worries so.”
He put his hand on her shoulder.
“She worries no more than I do. But if you feel tired, there is no need . . .”
“Charles, will you stay?”
He leaned close, kissed her forehead.
“Certainly. We can spend the entire day in this bed, if that is what you want. Ruthie can bring your breakfast right here.”
She took his hand.
“Help me to sit.”
He lifted her from behind, and she sat back against the headboard.
“No. Not just today. Will you stay here? Is it so important that you return to that terrible place?”
He felt her gaze, the soft eyes piercing him. He glanced at the nightstand, the pad of paper, his notes, so much to do, so much disrepair. He felt a rush of energy, stood, moved to the small window. He stared out across the bare gardens, the dull brown grass, leafless trees, thought, So much is required, so much that is my responsibility. He thought of Clinton, of New York, the images hard and ugly in his mind. He turned, saw her still watching him, her face framed by the low light from the window.
“There may be no better time. There is so much to do here, and so little to be accomplished over there. I had so hoped it would be concluded by now, that I would be here . . . that I would return to you, to the children.”
She seemed surprised by his response.
“What do you mean, Charles? Are you saying . . . you will stay? I did not expect you to agree. Your duty, it is all I hear from the family. Your sister says I should not prey so on your feelings, I should not be such a burden. Your duty is so very important. This awful war.”
“I am not certain I even have a duty now. This war? I’m not certain that word even applies to what we are enduring in America. Wars are fought by soldiers, men who stand tall on a field and show their courage and their skill by facing their enemy and destroying him. It is the very thing that inspires any man to become a soldier, to test one’s own resolve, one’s own courage. It is certainly what inspired me.” He moved to the doorway, felt himself growing angry, aimed his words out beyond the room. “I am sorry, my love. I do not wish to upset you.”
“Nonsense, Charles. You are angry. Please. I have