Pemberley Ranch

by Jack Caldwell

  Mrs. Bennet mentioned something about the harvest not being what it should, but she was confident that, if this year was tight, next year should be better. Other than that, she appeared to have changed little. Beth shook her head. For all her mother’s emotional outbursts, she was a farmer’s wife through and through. Fanny Bennet was a levelheaded, dependable sort of person, except when it came to her daughters’ futures. Knowing a good marriage was the difference between plenty and poverty, happiness and hunger, she worried incessantly over the lack of eligible men in Rosings. When it came to the farm, however, she was as stoic as her husband. It was a farmer’s lot to be held hostage by the whims of markets and weather. The phrase “Things will be better next year” sustained the Bennet clan through the worst of times in the past, and Beth knew it would serve as a source of steadiness for her family in the future.

  A few days later, Beth, riding her beloved Turner, found herself at Thompson Crossing. The horse started to move forward, but Beth held him back. Normally she would not have hesitated to cross the ford and allow Turner free rein across the vastness of Pemberley, but after her argument with Darcy at the B&R, she had second thoughts.

  Yes, Darcy had forgiven her—he made that clear in town— but Beth still felt uneasy. Her terrible accusations, mostly built on lies and willful miscomprehensions, were unworthy of clemency. Beth felt a need to punish herself for hurting such a man as Will Darcy.

  Looking at the situation dispassionately, Beth could finally see that there was little to complain about when it came to the owner of Pemberley Ranch. He was kind to his kinfolk and respectful of others. True, he was a reserved person and hard for strangers to approach, but the man’s ironclad sense of justice and generous, forgiving nature more than made up for it.

  Beth could now understand the incident in Zimmerman’s store months ago. Darcy had somehow expressed in a few words and a quiet look his displeasure at how poor Mrs. Washington had been treated. That was why Mr. Zimmerman rushed to the back door to see to the woman’s order. Beth had to shake her head. How many other rich men would wait in line behind anyone, especially a former slave?

  Stupidly, Beth had not considered the enormous compliment Darcy had paid her by allowing an affectionate acquaintance to blossom between herself and his relations, particularly after Mary’s overheard outburst about Catholics. Beth knew in her heart she wouldn’t be so forgiving over such an insult to her faith. She was glad that Henry Tilney had set her family straight about the matter, but Beth hardly thought about the matter anymore. She shouldn’t have forgotten, she berated herself, because that belittled the gesture made by Will and Gaby, reaching their hands out in friendship.

  Beth had ignored all that. She had allowed herself to hate someone without knowing who he was. George’s falsehoods found fertile ground to grow in Beth’s mind because she had spent years cultivating it. She, alone in her family, held on to anger over the war. She was the only one not to put it truly behind her.

  She now knew the reason she wouldn’t let go of the war— she was afraid she would dishonor the memory of Samuel. Her initial anger at his death was understandable, but she had perpetuated her anguish by embellishing the facts. Samuel wasn’t killed by the Rebels; he died of influenza while in camp. An honest person would have to admit that it could have happened anywhere at any time. Didn’t a cholera epidemic sweep through Ohio in ’49, the year before she was born? Her parents told her the family was lucky to have been untouched by it.

  Fair was fair, and Beth had not been fair to Will Darcy or the South. Truly, the person she had been angry with was, in fact, Samuel himself. She never wanted her brother to enlist in the first place, but, caught up in the patriotic fervor engulfing the community, Samuel couldn’t wait to don the blue of the Republic, march off to defend the Union, and put paid to those foolish Rebels. Beth felt abandoned as her beloved brother and playmate joined the army and left home. Her only consolation was that the war would be short. Surely those silly Southerners would come to their senses and beg for mercy at first sight of the mighty Union Army. Only after Bull Run and Shiloh did both sides realize they were in a struggle to the death.

  For almost two years, Beth waited in fearful anticipation for news of her brother. Perversely, she held on tightly to his promise to return, a promise no man could be certain to keep. Providence would either take Samuel or return him. When the hated telegram came, Beth wanted to lash out at someone, but it couldn’t be Samuel, and it couldn’t be God. It could only be the Confederates.

  By the time she reached Texas, she thought she put the war behind her. After all, she had made friends here. But her confrontations with Darcy and Caroline, and the explanations afterwards, made her reexamine her thinking.

  What she found made her uncomfortable. She realized she had allowed herself to befriend Charlotte, Gaby, and Anne, not because of their innate goodness, but because it flattered her own vanity. Beth permitted herself to be friendly to Southerners to prove to the world that she was open-minded, tolerant, and forgiving. Though she enjoyed her friends’ company, did she really respect them? Did she ever listen to their views without a critical ear? Did she ever give credence to their opinions? Charlotte told her about Darcy, and Anne tried to apologize, but Beth had dismissed them. In her estimation, Beth knew she was superior to them, not because of wealth, position, or education, but by the simple accident of where she was born.

  Northerners were better than Southerners; it had been her belief for most of her life. The word of a Northerner must be taken over that of a Southerner. That was why she listened to Whitehead. Darcy challenged her, so she dismissed him. She felt free to heap all of her pain, grief, and disappointment onto a fine man who had suffered and lost more than she had.

  No, Beth told herself. She wasn’t better than Southerners. She certainly wasn’t better than the man on whom she had heaped all her pain and disappointment over Samuel’s death. William Darcy, rather than being a wicked representation of all that was wrong with Texas, was the best man she had ever known. Instead of being thankful for his friendship, grateful for his understanding and patience, and appreciative for his regard, she had been mean, thoughtless, and hypercritical.

  Beth fought back her tears. What a fool I was! How cruel and judgmental I was. I, who prided myself on my ability to read character and congratulated myself on being kind to those less fortunate, have been nothing but mean and critical. I believed everything George said because his stories confirmed my prejudices. Had I been in love, I couldn’t have been more wretchedly blind.

  Pride has been my weakness. George didn’t seduce my heart but my vanity. His stories allowed me to remain comfortably ignorant and allowed me to look down on my neighbors. Even Miss Bingley, for all her haughtiness, deserves more compassion from me than censure. How would I behave had her misfortunes fallen upon me?

  And Will Darcy. Why am I so distressed over him? I couldn’t be falling in love with him—it’s impossible. Yet, when I think how I wronged him, my heart is filled with a terrible sorrow. I don’t know why, but the very idea that he’s alive and might think poorly of me is unbearable!

  I know he said he’s forgiven me—in fact, he apologized for his own behavior—yet, I can hardly credit it. For him to be so kind to me after I cruelly abused him is astonishing. I’m blessed I have the chance of being his friend and the chance to change for the better.

  Poor Caroline. Her hates and disappointments are destroying her. Oh! But for the Grace of God that could be me! Thank you, God, for my family and friends, for You have surely saved me from a pitiful existence. The lesson taught me is hard, but I will be grateful for it the rest of my life.

  “Howdy, ma’am!”

  Beth looked up to see a cowboy in chaps waving on the Pemberley side of the river. He stood next to his horse, which was taking a drink. The ranch hand seemed to be about her age—or even younger; there was certainly a boyish enthusiasm about him.

  “Afternoon,” she returned tolerably, the distan
ce allowing Beth to compose herself.

  “Are you Miss Bennet?” he asked to her surprise.

  “I am,” she answered warily. “How do you know my name?”

  The young man grinned and pointed at Turner. “Your horse, ma’am. We was told to be on the lookout for a paint with a girl in… umm… dungarees. I reckon you’re her.”

  Disappointment overcame Beth. Obviously, Darcy had rescinded his open invitation to ride his range. Not that she could fault him. Though she did not intend to take advantage of Darcy’s former goodness, she was crushed to learn of his changed feelings.

  “Ain’t cha comin’ over?” the cowboy asked.

  “Pardon me?”

  “Just wonderin’ if you was of a mind to ride today.”

  “I… umm… don’t know.”

  “’Cause if’n you was, I was gonna tell you that the herd was about two miles that-a-way,” he pointed northwest, “an’ you may wanna avoid that, ’cause of all the dust.”

  “Oh! Thank you for letting me know.”

  “That’s okay, ma’am. Mr. Darcy told us to keep an eye out for you. Why, just this morning he said to… umm… ‘offer you every courtesy.’” He grinned, pleased at his memory.

  Beth tried to hide her joy. “He said that?”

  “Yep, that’s just what he said. Sure as I’m standing here.”

  Beth smiled, reassured that Darcy really was the man she was coming to believe he was. “I think I will ride today. C’mon, Turner.” The horse happily crossed the shallow ford. “Thank you, Mr. …?”

  “Aw shucks, ma’am, I ain’t no mister. Name’s Ethan. Me an’ my brother, Peter, are drovers for Mr. Darcy. Been ridin’ for him near onto three years now.” He mounted his steed. “That’s a fine-lookin’ horse you got there.”

  “Thank you, again.”

  “But, I gotta ask, what kinda name is ‘Turner’?”

  Beth laughed. “Ask Mr. Darcy next time you see him.”

  Ethan tipped his hat. “I will. You be careful. You need somethin’, we’re right over that there ridge.”

  Beth waved as the young cowpoke rode off. She then leaned over and whispered into Turner’s ear, “Ready to kick up some dust?”

  The paint shook its head and took off at the slightest urging. Within moments Beth was flying across the ridgeline, her hair trailing behind her, horse and rider in perfect harmony, reveling in the summer sun.

  Tom Bennet rubbed his forehead as his favorite daughter left his study. He knew she was angry, but he could do nothing about it.

  Beth had tried to warn him off George Whitehead. She calmly told him wild tales about false imprisonment and the torture of captives, of lies and chicanery. Once she finished, she asked if he was going to continue to have dealings with Whitehead and was flabbergasted when told that he would.

  “How can you?” she had demanded. “Don’t you believe me?”

  “Yes, dear. I believe you.”

  “Then, why? Is Whitehead holding something over you?”

  “No. I’ll tell you the same thing I told Charles. War is a terrible thing, and I won’t judge a man by his actions under fire. George has been a valuable counselor, and I’ll deal or not deal with him on that basis. The past is in the past, my dear. Let the war go.”

  “But, Father—”

  “Enough, Beth.”

  At that, she had stormed out of his small study, leaving an aggrieved and disappointed parent behind.

  Bennet stood up and looked at the portrait of his son. How much Samuel resembled his late grandfather, he thought. My son, my dear son. How I miss you. How I miss your grandfather, too.

  Tom Bennet worshiped the very ground his father walked; he considered him a man without fault until the night—the first he had shared drinking with his father and uncles—when they talked of the “old times.” What he learned shook him.

  Bennet knew his father fought in the War of 1812. What he didn’t know was that he was with General Zebulon Pike during the failed invasion of Canada of that year. For the first time, his beloved father talked about the looting and other atrocities committed by U.S. troops during their weeklong occupation of York, the capital of Upper Canada later known as Toronto, culminating in the burning of the government buildings.

  “And that was the worst thing we ever did,” he remembered his father saying, “because two years later, the Brits used it as their excuse for burning Washington D.C. Never forget, son—‘For they sow the wind, and they shall reap the whirlwind.’”

  Later, his uncles would talk of the Indian Wars and his cousins of the Mexican War. All talked of friends reduced by battle, fear, and anger to do unspeakable things. His beloved uncles killed Indians indiscriminately during attacks on hostile camps. It was impossible to distinguish between the belligerent and the innocent during the heat and smoke of battle, he was told.

  It was then Tom Bennet had his epiphany—that good men can do bad things during war and should not be held to account for their actions. Wasn’t his father the best man he had ever known? Yet he looted a helpless city. His uncles were church elders. His cousins would walk miles in the snow to help a neighbor. Should he shun them for what they felt they had to do while wearing a uniform?

  Yes, Bennet believed the stories told to him by Charles and Beth. War was awful enough for such things to occur. Besides, he was a born cynic. He took the propaganda in the newspapers with a grain of salt. He knew the South wasn’t the only side to commit atrocities. He knew of men—good men—who had been thrown in prison and had their habeas corpus rights suspended simply because, as anti-war Democrats, they had spoken out against the policies of the Lincoln administration. Bennet supported the war, but he wasn’t blind to the hypocrisy of violating the Constitution in order to save it. Bennet was friends with the sheriff who arrested these men and the judge who sentenced them to prison, but he knew they were wrong. History taught him that war was so evil it could corrupt whole governments, and here was proof of it. But Bennet never held anything against either side.

  If Tom Bennet could forgive his relations and his neighbors, he had to do the same for George Whitehead and Will Darcy. It was only fair. It was why he could so quickly put the war behind him. It was why he could happily accept Charles Bingley into his family. Why couldn’t Beth see that?

  Bennet rubbed his neck. He was happy that Beth finally seemed to put aside her dislike of all things Southern, but this new loathing for Whitehead was troubling. It seemed to him that his daughter had to dislike someone. If so, it was a character flaw he was incapable of fixing. Well, he considered, if ignoring her behavior worked before, maybe the best thing to do now is be patient until this new obsession passes.

  Tom Bennet was determined to stand by his own unique principles. Until Whitehead, Darcy, or anyone else proved a threat to what he had built, he would act as he saw best for the future of his family.

  Beth attended the next meeting of the Musical Society with far less trepidation than the month before. She was eager to go, for she wanted to see Gaby and Anne and prove to herself that she could love them for who they were, not in spite of where they came from. In the back of her mind, she admitted to herself that she’d be disappointed if Will Darcy didn’t take up his old habit of observing the gathering from the back pew. She no longer feared Darcy’s ill opinion of her, although memories of their confrontation still invaded her dreams.

  Beth and Mary drove into town in the wagon a bit early at Mary’s insistence. To their surprise, the Darcy coach was already there. Darcy and his relations were talking with Reverend Tilney outside the church doors. Tilney gestured at the approaching wagon, and Darcy turned to stare at Beth. For a moment, the two were in a silent battle, neither willing to take their eyes off the other, but Beth was the first to surrender. She busied herself climbing off the wagon as Darcy and Tilney secured the horses. Therefore, she didn’t see the rancher approach until he was almost on top of her.

  “Miss Beth,” Darcy touched his hat, “Miss Mary. Good
afternoon. I hope y’all are doing well.”

  Mary returned the greeting before turning her attention to Henry, who was more than happy to escort her into the building. Beth could not help but smile at the pair’s obvious affection.

  Will, too, was grinning. “Am I to offer someone congratulations?”

  “No, Mr. Darcy—except to my sister, Jane.”

  “Of course, and I would hold myself lax in not expressing my happiness at the Bingleys’ joyful event, had Gaby and I not already paid them a call last week. But allow me to tell you that we hold the opinion that Miss Susan is one right pretty girl, and we wish Jane and Charles all the best.”

  Darcy’s compliments to Susan could not but please Beth, and she favored the man with a dazzling smile. “I thank you, sir, on behalf of my family.”

  Darcy swallowed and his face became serious. “Miss Beth, before you go in, I have a request from my sister. She’s wanted to show you Pemberley for some time. Would you be available to be her guest this weekend?”

  Beth could not hide her surprise at the invitation, and Darcy grew uneasy. “I… I thank you, but…” Beth managed, “but are you sure? I mean,” her face flushed, “I don’t want to cause anyone unease.”

  Darcy grew grim. “I understand. Please don’t worry yourself over that. I have plenty of work to do. You would hardly know I was there—”

  “You misunderstand!” Beth cried. “I was concerned on your behalf, not mine! I would never drive you out of your own house.”

  Darcy stared at her, his face more unreadable than ever. He seemed to mull his response. “Miss Bennet,” he said slowly, “both my sister and I would be happy to have you as our guest at Pemberley. Will you come?”

  The anxious look in his face delighted Beth. Her relief that the man didn’t hate her made her bold. “Very well, sir. I will ask my father—on one condition.”