Jack Caldwell - Pemberley Ranch

Beth’s knees parted and Darcy settled between them. He paused in his attentions to her breasts to guide himself into her. She arched her back in desire, and he slipped inside, her legs coming up and around the back of his. There was a resistance, and Darcy tried to hold back, but he was undone by the exquisite sensations. Beth cried out.

“I’m sorry, love, I’m sorry,” Darcy said over and over again into her shoulder.

“No… It’s all right… I’m fine… Don’t stop.”

Never one to turn down a lady, Darcy did as he was bid, moving slowly, then faster and faster until they both reached their release. Beth gasped as Darcy cried out her name. Spent, he collapsed upon his lover, and she, for her part, slowly ran her hands up and down his flanks.

“I… I never dreamed,” she said in wonder.

“Beth, oh, Beth, I love you so—”

“What the hell is this?”

Beth screamed as Darcy tried to roll off her. There, standing in the opening of the small clearing by the river, was a furious Tom Bennet, shotgun in hand.

Beth, in tears, tried to cover herself with her hands, scrambling towards the bushes. Darcy knew he was in enormous trouble and raised his hands over his head, desperately trying to think of something to say that wouldn’t make the situation worse.

“Mr. Bennet, I know this looks bad, but—”

“Shut up, you cur!” Without another word, the angry farmer raised his shotgun to his shoulder. All Darcy could see were two enormous black holes.

“Father! Nooo!”

There was an explosion, and Darcy’s world went black.

Will Darcy awoke from the nightmare with sweat running down his face. His dream was so real and disturbing that he was both aroused and frightened. He rose to sit on the edge of his bed, his feet on the floor and his face in his hands as he tried to calm his wildly beating heart.

Darcy needed no soothsayer to tell him what his dream meant. His desire for Beth Bennet had become overwhelming. He needed to do something about it—either forget about her, put her aside, or…

Or what?

The lessons drilled into him by his mother and the priests would not let him even consider taking Elizabeth Bennet as a mistress. His conscience would allow only two alternatives.

He would make Beth his wife or he would give her up.

July 2

A wagon from the B&R picked up Beth at her sister’s house. As the flatbed wagon was filled with supplies, Beth sat on the seat next to the ranch hand driving the wagon, a man named Wilkerson. The cowpoke drove through the center of the little town, turned north at the main crossroads, and headed out of town.

It was a warm day, and the wagon creaked as it rolled over the uneven road alongside Rosings Creek, the original namesake of the ranch. The ride forced Beth to bump into the cowboy, eliciting an apology from the girl.

“No harm done, little lady,” the man leered. “You can bump inta me anytime you like.”

Beth could think of nothing to say in response that wouldn’t insult the man, so she slid as far away from him on the bench as possible. Her actions caused the driver to laugh.

“Afraid o’ gettin’ your pretty dress dirty? That’s no cause to be unfriendly, missy.”

“I’ll thank you to remember I’m a guest of your employer, Mrs. Burroughs,” Beth said coldly.

The man scowled and turned his attention back to the team pulling the wagon. Beth’s thoughts turned to her luggage. She packed every dress she owned, thinking that Anne’s mother would never approve of Beth’s normal working clothes. Yet she felt that none of her frocks was good enough for the party a few days hence. She was afraid she was going to look like a country bumpkin.

That feeling only increased after her first view of the B&R main house. It was two stories and built in the Greek Revival style favored by many of the plantation houses in the South. Large pillars framed the front of the white mansion, and the windows sported dark green shutters. Behind the house, Beth could see men laboring to erect a huge tent—for the festivities, she surmised.

Beth had seen illustrations of such houses, but there was something wrong with this one. As she grew closer, she realized what it was that bothered her about the B&R house. What was meant to be impressive seemed pretentious. A house that would look beautiful framed by sleepy live oaks next to a lazy river was completely out of place in the middle of the plains of Texas.

The wagon pulled in front of the house where three men awaited her. A short, white-haired man helped her down from the wagon.

“Good afternoon, Miss Bennet. My name is Bartholomew, and I’m the butler here. Shall we go in? These men will bring your belongings to your room. Mrs. Burroughs and Miss Anne await you in the sitting room.”

The main door opened to a long, wide hall. Beth followed Bartholomew past a few doors before stopping. He softly knocked on one.

“Enter,” came a voice from the other side. Bartholomew opened the door and indicated that Beth should walk through. The room was in blue with gold furnishings in the French style. Gauzy curtains covered the windows, framed by heavy gold drapes. An intricately designed, ornate rug covered most of the floor. Facing the door from the other side of the room was Mrs. Catherine Burroughs, sitting in a rather large chair, a severe expression on her thin face. The lady wore a white blouse over a full dark skirt. Anne sat next to her on a small settee with a nervous smile. Beth wondered for an instant if Queen Victoria’s sitting room in Buckingham Palace could be any more flamboyant. She made a small curtsey; it was the right decision.

“Ah, Miss Bennet, please come closer,” Mrs. Burroughs said pleasantly, satisfied with the girl’s discretion. “Sit down, sit down. Anne, make some room for her. Tea? Do you wish for tea, Miss Bennet?”

“Umm—” Beth was not quite seated yet.

“Of course, you do. Bartholomew!” The little man appeared as if by magic. “Bring tea with scones and apricot preserves.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He left as quickly as he entered.

“Well, Miss Bennet, we are happy you are able to stay with us. Anne has spoken very highly of you. I understand you are from the North?”

Beth had never heard anyone dominate a conversation like Mrs. Burroughs. Her mother appeared downright quiet in comparison. And the woman’s language! Where did she learn to talk that way? Beth glanced about—did she take a wrong turn and end up in England?

“Come, come—speak up! Where is your family from?”

Beth found her tongue. “We’re from Ohio, Mrs. Burroughs.” She was surprised at the response.

“Ah, the country. I am a Matlock. I was born in New York City, you know. I was raised and went to school there. Yes, school—a fine finishing school for young ladies. I highly recommend it. Anne, of course, could not take advantage of such a place herself, living as we do in Texas. Oh, I could have sent her back East, I suppose, to my family, but it would have been terrible to lose the company of my only daughter. Do you have siblings, Miss Bennet?”

“Yes, ma’am. I have four sisters.”

“What? No brothers?”

Beth bit her lip. “My brother died in the war.”

“My sympathies, Miss Bennet. Many families have suffered grievous loss. Ah, the tea is here.”

While Mrs. Burroughs saw to the tea, Anne reached over and took Beth’s hand. “I didn’t know about your brother. I’m so sorry.” Anne’s genuine sorrow made up for her mother’s false concern. After the tea was poured and tasted, it was time to renew the interrogation.

“I understand your eldest sister is married?”

“Yes, ma’am, to Dr. Bingley. They would be attending the party, if she was not so close to her time.”

“Yes, I noticed her condition in church. It is best that she remain at home for the babe’s sake. Tea, not coffee, is the best thing to soothe her stomach if need be. And mint. Tea with mint, I always say. It helped me immensely with Anne. You must tell your sister, Miss Bennet.”

“I will, ma’am.”

“I noticed the rest of your sisters in church. What a burden they must be on your family. Your father bought the old Thompson Farm, yes? Good land there. A pity about the family—died of yellow fever many years ago. Didn’t you know? Oh, well. I understand your father is rather friendly with George Whitehead.”