Jack Caldwell - Pemberley Ranch

“Miss Beth?”

Beth closed her eyes in anger. The very last man she wished to speak to had somehow found her—was now standing behind her, invading her privacy. It took all the control she had not to turn on the cousin of her hostess and lash out at him. Instead, she resolutely stared out at the rolling countryside, one hand on the porch railing, not favoring Mr. Darcy with so much as an acknowledgment of his presence. She hoped her slight rudeness would put the man off.

She was disappointed. Darcy moved to her side, just far enough away to meet propriety. He, too, gazed at the expanse of the range. “I don’t blame you for seeking the quiet of the veranda. It’s very close inside,” he said softy. He half-turned his face to her. “Would you care for a lemonade? A glass of wine, perhaps? You must be parched.”

Beth could not help but turn to him. “Thank you, no. I require nothing but solitude.”

“You and I are alike, then,” he said with the ghost of a smile, which raised Beth’s ire. How dare he compare himself to her!

“You look very lovely tonight.”

That got Beth’s attention. Her head whipped around of its own accord to behold Darcy looking at her in that familiar, intense, unexplainable manner. One corner of his mouth still twisted up.

“Yes, blue is your color. I’m glad Anne took my suggestion. That dress favors you very well.”

“What?” she cried. “You… you spoke to Anne about my choice of dress?”

“Yes. I’m very glad I did. You look quite beautiful, Beth. Much better than in dungarees. You were born to wear that dress. I’m glad I bought it.” He took a step forward, almost touching her. Beth could not move, so surprised was she at his statements.

His half-smile faded as he seemed to struggle with himself. Finally, he blurted out, “It won’t do. It won’t do anymore. I must tell you that I have quite lost my heart to you. I can’t go on, can’t see myself without you.” He suddenly took her hands, his thumbs running over the calluses on her fingers. “So rough,” he said sadly, looking at them. “Living on a farm, doing chores.” He raised his eyes to hers. “No more. Let me take you from all that. Let me take care of you. Come with me—you’ll never have to work again. Whatever you want, you’ll have. Dresses, books, music—anything.” He lifted her hand to his lips. “I’ll give you everything if you’ll only say you’ll be mine—”

“No!” Beth’s astonished mind had finally regained control of her voice. She yanked her hands from Darcy’s grasp. “How dare you! Are you insane? How dare you touch me!”

Darcy colored and took a half-step back. “I’m… I’m sorry. I only meant—”

“I know what you meant, and I won’t be one of your conquests!” She reached back, ready to slap him, only to stop at his confused expression.

“Conquests? What are you talking about?”

“Are you playing me for a fool? I won’t be your mistress!”

Darcy gaped. “Is that what you thought I was talking about? Beth, I’m asking you to marry me!”

Beth’s hand dropped. “Marry you?”

“Yes! I love you! How could you think I would ask something dishonorable of you? What kind of man do you think I am?”

Darcy’s question seemed to break the dam of resentment Beth was holding against the man. “I know exactly what kind of man you are, Will Darcy. You say you’ll give me anything if I go with you. Am I for sale? Do you think you can buy me like one of your slaves?”

“No—I didn’t mean—I’ve never—I’ve never had slaves.”

“Don’t lie to me! George told me all about the slaves you’ve bought. Just like all of you Southerners—you’ve all owned slaves. How can you live with yourself?”

Darcy drew his mouth into a thin line. “You think that, do you? And what about Charles? Do you feel the same about him?”

“You dare bring up Charles? I heard what you said about him and Jane to Caroline. About how he could have done better had he not come to Rosings—that his marriage to Jane must always doom him to be poor. And you call him your friend! And Jane, who has always defended you—what has she done to earn such scorn?”

Darcy’s face went white. “If you overheard that, didn’t you hear the rest of the conversation?”

Beth ranted on, heedless of his rejoinder. “You sit in your big house, unwilling to take any notice of anything that’s going on. People are losing their homes, and your bank does nothing! You make sure no one unsuitable even touches one inch of your precious Pemberley. But, oh, if your sister shows the least interest in doing something that may broaden her horizons, like going to town and meeting other people, well, then, you shadow her like a mother hen! Making sure we’re all worthy of her acquaintance. Insulting fine, upstanding people like George Whitehead. You’re as proud and unpleasant as Mrs. Burroughs and with less reason. She’s old and set in her ways. What’s your excuse, except you think you’re better than the rest of us?”

Beth could almost hear Darcy grind his teeth as his face turned red. “If you believe George Whitehead to be a fine, upstanding person, then you’re a fool, Miss Bennet. Whitehead’s the biggest piece of scum in the county.”

“George Whitehead is a war hero! And what are you? A traitor to the country of your birth! My brother went to fight to save the union, not break it apart. He fought to end slavery, not defend it. And he died doing it. You killed him—you and any who took up arms against the United States. If it weren’t for people like you, Samuel would still be alive! Marry you? I hate you!”

Darcy recoiled as if struck. He said nothing; he only stared at her wide-eyed, as the music from the ball filled the silence. Beth, tears running down her face, refused to break eye contact with him. After a moment, the man seemed to deflate.

“I see. It seems I was under the impression you enjoyed my company. I now see I was wrong. Please excuse me for bothering you.” He gave her a quick nod. “I’ll leave you now, as my presence is understandably unwanted. My… my best wishes to you and your family.” His voice almost broke at his final words, and he walked swiftly away down the veranda. Beth did not move until he turned the corner of the house and she could flee to the sanity of her guest room upstairs, hoping her passage would go unnoticed.

In that, she failed, for out of the shadows at the other end of the veranda stepped a distraught Anne Burroughs.

As much as she tossed and turned, Beth could find no rest. She sat up in her bed, staring at the richly appointed walls of the guest bedroom that had been given over for her use. A single candle flickered uncertainly in its holder on the bedstead, its pitiful light adding to the gloomy atmosphere suffered by the room’s only occupant.

Beth could not comprehend her agitation. True, Darcy’s totally unexpected proposal had unnerved her, but that was hours past. She could not understand why, once her righteous indignation over the arrogant man’s presumption had burned out, it was replaced by numbness. She tried to remember George’s words and fought to keep Samuel’s portrait in her mind, but she was failing miserably.

All she could hear was Darcy’s passionate declaration: “I love you!” All she could see was the flash of intense pain in his face before it returned to its habitual expressionless demeanor as he voiced his surprising and unexpectedly cordial farewell. Beth could do nothing—not sleep, not answer Anne’s earlier knock on the door—while she wrestled with whatever was consuming her.

Will Darcy loved her. It was impossible, she kept telling herself. He didn’t know her, had hardly spoken with her. He was everything she disliked, and she should have been as distasteful to him as he was to her. Yet, he had declared his love—almost shouted it, in fact. George had been wrong. Darcy wanted to marry her, despite her lowly beginning. A rich Southern rancher wanted a Yankee farmer’s daughter. It was absurd.

Beth was mortified to learn that she had been wrong, so very wrong, about his constant staring. His look was the same one she had seen in one of her dreams, as a wet Will Darcy emerged from the river, his shirt plastered to his skin, his hand outreached for her… No!! Stop it! Stop thinking of him!!

Her frustration grew as her overactive imagination betrayed her again. She needed a distraction. Beth looked about the room, searching for something to read, but there was nothing. The place was as impersonal as a museum. Besides her few personal items on the dressing table, the only other thing in the place that took away from the stark perfection of the expensive décor was the blue dress, carefully draped on a chair.

Beth sat in bed, contemplating the dress. It was the prettiest thing she had ever worn, and Darcy had ruined it for her. As much as she would have liked to believe otherwise, she knew his claim of choosing it for her was not an idle boast. Darcy would not dare lie, knowing how friendly Beth was with Anne, who would know the truth. She could never think of the dress or the way she looked in it without recalling his soft words, and that would never do. And the remark he made suggesting that Anne dress her in that color— it was as if he already owned her and could dress her as he liked.

Beth stood and put on a dressing gown over her cotton nightdress. Without a clock, she had no idea of the time, but the silence of the house told her that everyone must be abed. She could chance going down to the library for a book. Reading always helped her sleep.

In a matter of minutes, Beth was proven correct; the house was as still as a tomb. She made her way down the stairs without incident, pausing only when she saw light streaming from the library. Courage almost failing her, she nearly turned back in defeat before her need overcame her caution, and she forced herself to pause at the threshold, listening for noises within. Hearing nothing, she crept inside.