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 distance 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 Obviously, Darcy had rescinded his open invitation to ride his range.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.