with forced heartiness, “If you’re sure you wouldn’t like something else to eat, we can drive out and see the house now.”
He took the expressway to the exit for the old part of the city, the kernel of graceful houses and tree-lined boulevards that lay within the layers of interstates and neon strips encircling the original settlement. John Huff sat silently in the front passenger seat, observing their progress without apparent emotion, but Nathan Kimball peered out the window, exclaiming over various splendid examples of neoclassical architecture.
“And these date from before the Civil War?” he asked.
“A lot of them, I guess,” said Bill, whose interest in architecture had stopped with his tree house at the age of nine.
“But I thought General Sherman burned all the mansions in the South.”
“I believe he only did that from Atlanta to Savannah,” said Bill diffidently. “You know, Georgia. I expect my law partner A. P. Hill would know. She’s descended from the general.”
“Which general?” asked Kimball.
“Oh, never mind,” murmured Bill. “Here’s the house. It’s quite large, as you can see. It could stand a coat of paint, but the Orkin man assures us that it’s free of termites; the woodwork is perfectly sound. And these oak trees are all healthy, too. They’re over a hundred years old as well.”
“Very nice,” grunted Huff.
“It looks like Tara!” said Nathan Kimball admiringly.
Bill concluded from this remark that Kimball either hadn’t seen the movie or hadn’t been paying attention when he did, because in fact the Home for Confederate Women was considerably grander than the O’Hara’s North Georgia farmstead as depicted in
He parked the car on the paved loop behind the carriageway and led the way up the flagstone path to the front door. “They’ve left the key under the mat for us,” he said, stopping to retrieve it. “It’s a very safe neighborhood. I think the ladies were shy about showing their home to strangers. And of course they didn’t want you to feel
“I never feel pressured,” Huff replied.
Bill unlocked the door and escorted the visitors into an oak-paneled hallway that extended the length of the house. To their right was a flight of stairs with an elaborately carved banister and newel post. The carpet was threadbare and the dusty light fixture did not sufficiently illuminate the hall, but traces of the home’s former splendor were still evident in the workmanship and the materials used. “There are three stories to the house,” Bill told them, stealing a glance at an index card he’d concealed in the pocket of his blazer. “And a full basement. The third floor has been sealed off for many years, as the number of residents diminished. All in all, though, there are ten bedrooms in the house, and”-another peek at his notes-“eight baths. One on the first floor; the rest are upstairs. The main parlor is to your left. The ornamental plasterwork is original.”
John Huff inspected every room in the house with meticulous care while the two attorneys trailed after him, making what they hoped were intelligent remarks. He examined all three floors, paying particular attention to the shelves of books in the first-floor library. Bill had never heard of most of the titles, but the books were certainly old, many of them were leather bound, and they were probably valuable.
“I would expect these to be included in the sale of the house,” said Huff.
“I’ll mention that to my clients,” Bill stammered.
“Is there an attic?”
“I think so,” said Bill. “Would you like to see it?” He was trying to remember how to get there.
“Perhaps later,” said Huff. “When we looked in the basement, I noticed that there were some trunks and boxes. What about them?”
“I’ll ask. Do you want that stack of
“Everything. Also, do you have any information as to what role this house played in the Civil War?”
“Nothing much,” said Bill, who didn’t have to consult his notes for that. He considered it the weakest link in his sales pitch. “I mean, Robert E. Lee didn’t sleep here or anything. Of course, Danville was the last capital of the Confederacy, for about ten days in 1865 when nobody cared anymore. You know that song, ‘The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down’? When Joan Baez sings that line about being on the Danville train, that’s what she’s talking about.”
“Country music seems to have been a vast educational resource for you,” said Huff. “I believe we were discussing this house during that time.”
“Oh, right. Well, as I said, it was here then, but it wasn’t used for government business. I think that the Phillips family played host to some minor Confederate officials. People named-” He peeked at his card. “Miss Dabney wrote this out for me in case you turned out to be a history buff. Umm… here it is. A Mr. Micajah Clark, a Mr. Semple, and the postmaster general, a Mr. Reagan. Wonder if he’s any relation?”
“I think not,” said Huff, looking singularly unamused. Bill got the impression, though, that there had been a flash of recognition in his cold eyes at the recital of that list of names.
They finished their tour in the antiquated kitchen, but John Huff did not seem dismayed by the lack of modern appliances or the faded linoleum and drab green walls. “It’s a big room,” Bill said lamely. “It has possibilities.”
“So does garbage,” muttered Nathan Kimball to himself.
“I’ve seen enough,” John Huff announced. “I’ll be staying in town a few days. Perhaps you could recommend a hotel?”
“Sure,” said Bill. “There’s the Stratford Inn, the Best Western on Highway 58-”
“Never mind. We’ll look in the phone book. As I was saying, Kimball and I will be staying a few days. If at the end of that time we find that everything checks out-the appraisal, the survey, and so on-then I’ll make your clients an offer for the house.”
“Did I mention their terms?” asked Bill, waiting for the deal to come crashing down as he spoke. “I’m afraid they’re rather eccentric about business matters. They don’t seem to trust banks. It’s probably the result of having lived through the Depression, don’t you think? Anyhow, they don’t want to be bothered with financing.”
“I understand. If the details all check out, I’ll be prepared to offer them a cashier’s check for the full amount. I will, of course, expect a discount for cash.”
“I’ll tell them,” Bill promised. “I expect you’ll be meeting them at closing, so if there’s anything else you’d like to know about the house, perhaps you can ask them then.”
John Huff nodded. “Well, there is one thing. Do you happen to know if there are any secret passages in the house?”
– STEPHEN VINCENT BENET,
WASHINGTON, GEORGIA- MAY 5, 1865
