Pemberley Ranch (16 page)

“You… you never told us, Will,” was all she said.

“It ain’t somethin’ a man likes to remember, Annie. God help me, I wish I could forget.”

“What happened?” Beth asked.

“Three things—mismanagement, malnourishment, an’ mistreatment. Ha, didn’t think I could get all that out.” Darcy looked perversely proud of his alliteration. “Camp Campbell wasn’t supposed to be a prison—it was a way station. But the real prisons weren’t ready. So there we stayed, as more an’ more men came. A thousand souls on a few acres. Sickness an’ starvation took more of the victims.”

“
Starvation?
” Beth cried. “But what of the food the War Department sent?”

“Oh, it came, what little they actually sent. We were right by the railroad siding, an’ we saw the Yankee soldiers unloadin’ the freight cars. Funny thing, though—not all of it got into the kitchens. Charles was workin’ in the camp hospital at the time, an’
he made friends with some o’ the guards. He found out from them that a lot of the food for the prisoners was sold to the townspeople.”

“By who?”

Darcy gave her a look. “Who do you think?” Darcy took another drink as Beth digested the implication. “We couldn’t complain about it without bein’ labeled malcontents and bein’ charged with insurrection. But we complained anyway, for all the good it did. George liked that word—insurrection. Most of us were accused of it at least once. He also liked the whip.” An unreadable expression came over Darcy before he turned to the fireplace. “Flogging was a weekly occurrence.”

Beth was having a hard time handling what she was hearing. How could a handsome and charming man like George Whitehead be the ruthless and dishonest monster Darcy was describing? It couldn’t be true, could it?

Darcy continued in an unemotional voice. “By the time they shipped us out, there were three hundred graves in the Confederate cemetery. Some o’ the townspeople didn’t want individual headstones—said it was ugly an’ we didn’t deserve it anyway—but decency won out. An’ as for Captain George Whitehead, he got a promotion to major.

“Camp Douglas
⁴
in Chicago wasn’t any better. We were crammed in with twelve thousand others in a place designed for half that many. Eighty acres o’ hell. They wouldn’t let Charles serve in the hospital. We never knew how many died—four to
six thousand, Charles thinks, most in unmarked graves or tossed into Lake Michigan. An’ unlike Andersonville, nobody was punished for it.”

Darcy bowed his head before turning back to the ladies, both shaken by what they had heard. “All that kept me alive was wantin’ to get back home and see my daddy an’ my sister again. In the summer of ’65, I finally got back to Rosings, only to find my daddy sick. You remember, don’t you, Annie? I had to take over runnin’ Pemberley. For two years, Daddy and me ran the ranch together, me from a horse an’ him from his sickbed. By then, th’ Yankee carpetbaggers were movin’ in, but we paid them no mind. There was a ranch to run.

“Fitz an’ I took a herd up to Kansas in ’68. By the time I got back, Daddy had been in his grave for three weeks. And sittin’ on the front porch o’ Pemberley, pretty as you please, was good ole George Whitehead, late of Illinois an’ newly appointed Recorder of Deeds for Long Branch County, and Judge Alton Phillips, who had kept his job by kissin’ the asses o’ the occupation government in Austin. Whitehead was tryin’ to get himself named executor of my daddy’s estate an’ he was payin’ court to my grievin’ sister, while she was still wearin’ her mournin’ clothes.”

Beth’s jaw dropped. “Paying court to Gaby? But… but she’s not of age now!”

Darcy’s face screwed up in fury. “That’s right—and she wasn’t yet fifteen years old at the time.”

Beth thought she was going to be sick.

“Only reason I didn’t shoot that bastard and his scalawag friend right then an’ there was that Fitz stopped me. Convinced me that bein’ hung for killin’ those two would not help Gaby at
all. But I told them—told them both—that if I ever saw either of them on Pemberley land again, I’d kill them.

“I told Cate what had happened, an’ you know what she said? Told me to forget it. That times had changed, an’ we had to change with them. There was a new game in Austin, an’ if we were going to get ahead, we’d have to play along.” He drank down the last of his brandy.

“So, I’m sure you can understand why I don’t give a good goddamn what happens in Rosings, Miss Bennet. I went to war to serve my town an’ my state—defend my new country—an’ when I came back an’ needed help, where were the good people of Rosings? I ask you—where were they? Hidin’ under their beds! The hell with ’em!” He staggered back over to the sideboard for a refill.

Beth turned to Anne. “Is it true?”

Anne nodded. “We all heard about it. We were afraid Whitehead was going to call in the army and occupy the town. We were all scared for the longest time. But when nothing happened and Whitehead started charming everybody, the town… forgot.”

Darcy turned from the sideboard and raised his refilled glass to the ladies. “And so I hope I’ve been exonerated of bad behavior towards the Honorable George Whitehead. Here’s to you, you son-of-a-bitch.” Darcy tossed down half the glass. “And you’re now free to hate me, Miss Beth, on my own merits and not on other people’s opinions.”

“I… I…” Beth composed herself. “I really don’t know what to think right now, Mr. Darcy.”

Darcy just stared at her. “I’m sorry about your brother. I lost a lot of friends in that damned war, but I didn’t lose a brother. I’m really sorry for your loss.”

Beth bowed her head. “Thank you.”

“You gotta understand war,” Darcy went on. “When you’re on th’ battlefield, nothin’ matters except survivin’ and watchin’ out for your fellows. The other side, well, it’s like they’re not people, you see. They’re not human. You’ve got to kill them, ’cause they’re tryin’ to kill you. If a man stops to think about what he’s doing, about what war really is, you… you just can’t do it. You hesitate. An’ if you hesitate, you die, or the man next to you dies. You can’t allow yourself to think.”

Darcy took another drink. “If your brother was here today, I’d shake his hand an’ call him friend, ’cause he would know what I’m talking about. Just like that Buford fella I met today. Country, cause, flag—it don’t mean anything when th’ shootin’ starts. Only keepin’ alive. He’d know; he’d understand. I’m sorry, Beth. I’d give anything if he could be here today. Anything.” To Beth’s dismay, tears freely ran down Darcy’s proud face. “I’d trade places with him, if it would make you happy—”

Just then, Darcy lost his footing and, with a crash, fell to the floor. The two ladies jumped up and ran to his side to find the young rancher insensible on the floor, blood seeping from one side of his scalp. Beth was alarmed and stood to get help when they were joined by a white-haired man in a black jacket.

“Bartholomew!” cried Anne. “Where did you come from?”

“I was just outside the door, miss,” the butler said as he examined Darcy.

“Were you there the whole time?” Beth asked.

His eyes flicked over to her. “For much of it. It’s my job to look after you, Miss Anne,” he explained.

“Are you following me?” Anne demanded angrily.

“Of course not,” he said smoothly. “I just happen to be in your general vicinity as often as possible.” He glanced at her. “Mrs. Burroughs knows nothing of this.”

Anne stared at him, confused.

“I think Mr. Darcy struck his head as he fell,” the butler determined. “The damage is less than it seems. Head wounds do bleed freely. He needs to rest. I don’t envy his head when he wakes in the morning.” He slid his hands under Darcy’s arms and tried to lift him. Beth immediately moved to help.

“Miss Bennet, please! It is unseemly!” Bartholomew complained.

“Mr. Bartholomew, it’s obvious you need assistance, and I am no helpless female. I will help you get Mr. Darcy upstairs.” Beth’s words inspired Anne to do the same, and despite the butler’s protests, they worked together to maneuver the barely conscious man up the stairs and into a guest bedroom just across the hall from Beth. They were fortunate that Darcy could still make his legs work, for he was too tall and heavy even for the three of them. A towel was placed against his head to stem the bleeding before they allowed him to fall upon the bed.

“That won’t last,” Bartholomew said as he observed the towel turning red with blood. “I will fetch new cloths straight away.” With that he left the room.

Beth stared at the man sprawled across the bed, trying to come to terms with her feelings. She was mortified to learn that most of what she held against him was based on her own ingrained prejudgment and other people’s lies. Just who was William Darcy?

“I’d give anything if he could be here today,” Darcy had said. “Anything. I’d trade places with him, if it would make you happy.”

Will Darcy would die for me?

Anne moved over to Darcy’s towel-covered head. “Beth, help me.”

“What? What are you doing?”

“If we don’t get his shirt off, he’ll get blood on it.”

Beth hesitated a moment, frozen by the impropriety of the suggestion, before her innate sense of the absurd promoted itself.
Beth Bennet, you’re already in a gentleman’s bedroom after spending a half-hour talking to him late at night in your nightgown. It can hardly get any more improper than it already is. At least Anne is here with me.

With a shrug, she reached over to assist. They turned Darcy over, careful not to dislodge the towel, and unfastened the buttons. For the first time, Beth saw the bare chest of a man unrelated to her. And a fine, broad one it was. Unconsciously, she licked her lips.

Beth glanced up to see Anne grinning at her. “What?”

She laughed. “Nothing. Oh, we can’t get this off. We’ll have to turn him over again.” Once again on his stomach, the ladies were able to remove the shirt completely. They weren’t prepared for the sight before them. Beth gasped and Anne let out a sharp scream.

Bartholomew dashed into the room, arms filled with cloths and towels. “What is it? What is the matter—Oh, my God!” He stood stock-still at the foot of the bed.

Anne’s eyes filled with tears. “What happened to William? Who did this?”

Beth could not answer; her attention was fixed on Darcy’s back—a back completely covered in angry, white scars.

⁴
Camp Douglas POW camp was real and has been referred to as the “Andersonville of the North,” Andersonville being the infamous Confederate POW camp whose commandant was executed by the U.S. Government for war crimes. It is difficult to know how many men died at Camp Douglas, as many records were hidden or destroyed by the camp officials. Camp Campbell is fictitious.

July 5

W
HEN
B
ETH
CAME DOWN
for breakfast the next morning, she was not surprised to learn that Dr. Bingley had been sent for. She didn’t need to ask who Charles was there to see. Indeed, she was hard-pressed to get the man out of her head.

Anne glanced sheepishly at Beth, but with her mother in attendance, she refrained from speaking. It wasn’t until Mrs. Burroughs retired to her study to work on ranch matters that Anne moved to the seat next to Beth.

“Beth, about the dress, I’m so sorry. It was Will’s idea to surprise you—”

Beth cut her off. “Please, the less said about yesterday, the better.”

Anne, chastised, stared at her plate. “I hope you’re still my friend.”

Beth sighed. “I am. But friends don’t deceive each other.” Beth instantly regretted her words as Anne’s eyes filled with tears. But before she could console her, Charles came into the room.

“Well, he’ll live, but I can’t say he’ll enjoy it.” His jovial
manner dissipated with one look at Anne’s unhappy face. “Forgive me, I shouldn’t be joking,” he said, misunderstanding Anne’s concern. “Will’ll be fine. He just needs a day o’ rest. He’ll be fit as a fiddle come tomorrow morning.”

Anne smiled her thanks to Dr. Bingley, and Beth realized she was relieved, too. Anne offered Charles some breakfast, and he sat down.

“Thank you, Miss Anne,” Charles said. “Beth? We’ll leave right afterwards, if you’re ready.”

Beth waited until Charles’s surrey was well out of earshot of the ranch house before she turned to her brother-in-law.

“Charles, I’ve recently learned some disturbing things about the war.”

“Is that so?” A puzzled Charles turned to her. “What brings this up?”

Beth had no answer but the truth. “Will Darcy and I were… talking yesterday, and it just came up.”

“Talking about the war? At a party?” Charles was flabbergasted.

Beth turned away to hide the flush on her face. “All right— we had an argument. He said George Whitehead ran one of the prisons you and Mr. Darcy were in. Is that true?”

“Yeah. Will doesn’t usually talk about those days.”

“Nobody does!” Beth cried. “It’s like it’s a great big secret!”

“Beth, war is a thing a man wants to forget.”

“Have you talked about it to Jane?”

Charles ignored the impertinence of her question. “A little. Where’s all this leading?”

“Last night, when Mr. Darcy got… himself injured, Miss
Burroughs and I helped Mr. Bartholomew get him to his room. In the course of caring for him we… we saw his back.” Charles’s eyes grew wide. “Charles, where did those scars come from? Was Mr. Darcy whipped in prison?”

It took a moment for an astonished Dr. Bingley to say, “That’s not my story to tell.”

“Then he was. Charles, you can tell me. Mr. Darcy himself told us stories about horrible mistreatment in the camps, so you wouldn’t be telling me something I haven’t heard. He said George liked to have people whipped. Was it George who had Mr. Darcy whipped?”

Charles stared straight ahead. “Yes,” he admitted in a low voice.

“Why?”

“Because of me.”

“
You?
”

“Beth, this ain’t easy for me to talk about.” He took a breath. “Will and I were at Vicksburg, but instead of being paroled after the surrender like the others, we were arrested by Whitehead on false charges.”

“What were the charges?”

“Resistin’ the surrender, but that wasn’t the real reason. We knew too much. You see, we saw Whitehead and his men stealin’ from my patients. I complained, but instead of punishing Whitehead, his commanders placed him in charge of bringing us to prison.” Charles went on to talk of their trip to Camp Campbell in Missouri—how the transfer point-turned-prison was totally insufficient for the purpose intended, and how Captain Whitehead essentially became the commander of the place.

“The sanitary conditions were awful,” Charles continued.
“The latrine wasn’t suitable for even a third of the men we had there. I was workin’ in the camp hospital—there was a shortage of Yankee doctors—so I went to the Yankee colonel to get permission to have a new latrine dug. The drunkard turned me down flat—said his engineers told him what we had would be more than adequate. Beth, he was wrong. That thing was dysentery waitin’ to happen.

“Food was always scarce, so Whitehead had the idea of us makin’ a vegetable garden for the guards. Each day, a team of men would be issued hoes and tools to work the ground. I saw my opportunity and went to Will with my idea. If the men spent an extra ten minutes a day at the end of their shift diggin’ a new latrine, we’d have it done in less than a week. Will told me to go ahead, as long as the guards knew what we were doin’. I didn’t have any trouble with them, ’cause I had pulled a tooth for the head of the detail, and he took a likin’ to me.

“Everything was goin’ along fine until, in an unexpected fit of sobriety, the colonel decided to hold an inspection. He took one look at the nearly-finished latrine and started yellin’, accusing us of diggin’ an escape tunnel. Guns were being pointed every which-way, so I stepped up and told him what it was. I was immediately taken in hand and dragged to a court of inquiry.

“There I was, standin’ afore the colonel with a nervous Whitehead at his side. Now, you see, it was ole George’s idea to have us prisoners make a garden an’ put tools in our hands, so he was ultimately responsible. I figure he was there to make sure
I
took the blame, not him. So Whitehead said nothing when his commanding officer accused me of organizing a mass escape, until the colonel started talking about havin’ me shot. I guess that was too much even for Whitehead—that, or else he was
afraid of an investigation from higher authorities. That’s when he suggested that shootin’ a doctor would be bad for morale and flogging would be enough of a punishment.

“Just before sentence was read, there was a disruption at the tent entrance. I turned around to see Will walking in like he was a commanding general, surrounded by two guards. He was yelling that this hearing was illegal, a violation of the Articles of War. The colonel got mad, I can tell you, and demanded an explanation. Will said that they couldn’t punish a man following a lawful order, and that he, as commanding officer of the Confederate prisoners, had ordered me to build that latrine.

“I was shocked to see him, Beth, and not just because of his words, which was stretchin’ the truth a bit. That he was allowed anywhere near the tent was amazing. But I noted that one of his guards was the same sergeant whose tooth I pulled, so I guess he was repayin’ the favor by bringin’ Darcy to the hearing so that he could object.

“The colonel was spittin’ mad—screaming that he ought to shoot us both. Whitehead put a hand on his shoulder to quiet him down. He said, ‘Colonel, the captain is correct—we can’t punish a man for following a legal order.’ He then turned to Will, and Beth, I swear the man actually smiled as he said, ‘But we can punish an officer who encouraged insurrection against the lawful authority. Since Captain Darcy issued the order, let
him
be punished.’”

Beth’s hands flew to her mouth. “Oh, Charles!”

“Beth, I tried to stop it—I objected at the top o’ my lungs—but Darcy rode me down. Ordered me to be silent and obey. Whitehead had the guards take Will out immediately and execute the sentence.” He passed a hand over his face. “I
wasn’t at the flogging, but since they didn’t revoke my hospital privileges, I was there when they brought him in afterwards. I’ll never forget that sight for as long as I live. They almost beat him to death—I feared for his life for nearly a week.”

Charles paused in his recount. “When Will was able to talk, I asked the damn fool why he did it. He told me, ‘Charles, I’m expendable—you’re not.’” He looked at Beth, his chin trembling. “And that’s Will Darcy for you.”

Beth blinked as her tears flowed freely.

Bingley pulled himself together. “As Will got better, we got the word that there had been a surprise inspection from the War Department and that the camp had received a commendation for the new latrine. It seemed Whitehead didn’t have the time to have it filled in, but it worked out to his advantage. He took credit for it, from what the guards told me. Helped lead to his promotion.”

It took awhile for Beth to compose herself. “Does Jane know this?”

“Not the details, but enough to know that Whitehead’s not the man he seems.”

“But why not tell her everything? Why not tell the whole town? They need to know how ruthless George is.”

“Beth, it’s not that easy. For one thing, it’s not just my story; it’s Will’s, too. Just by tellin’ you, I’m going against Will’s wishes.” He sighed. “You see, there’s a code out here—what’s in the past stays in the past. A lot of folks came out west to escape the past, so people in these parts aren’t ones to bring it up. A man’s judged by what he is and not by what he was.

“For another, Whitehead’s close to the government in Austin, and he can make a lot of trouble for any that get in his way. He’s got Mrs. Burroughs on his side and a private army
in Kid Denny and his gang. A lot of people just want to put the war in the past, and Whitehead’s made friends here—your daddy, for instance.

“Darcy just wants to let it go. He’s afraid if he starts up something, people will get hurt, and there’s no guarantee that if we drive Whitehead out of town, the army or the government wouldn’t come in and make things worse.”

By now, the surrey had reached the outskirts of the town, passing the cemetery on the hill. “Beth, I reckon we just let things go on as they have. Sooner or later, this occupation by the army will be over, Whitehead will show his true stripes, the town will turn on him, and that will be the end of him. ’Til then, we’ll just keep our heads down and look out for our own, just like Will says.”

“But what about Father?”

Charles nodded. “I’ll talk to him again—make certain he’s not gettin’ in over his head in his dealings with Whitehead.”

“Again? You’ve talked to him before?”

“Yeah.”

Beth wasn’t sure that was enough, but she kept her concern to herself.

Darcy didn’t return to Pemberley until the next day. Everyone was concerned over his absence, Gaby most of all, and she asked for an explanation. Darcy declined to answer fully, mumbling something about an “indisposition,” and he immediately claimed a desire to see to the paperwork awaiting him in his study.

Once he locked the door and seated himself behind his desk, Darcy simply stared out the widow, ignoring the papers on his desk. Ever since he woke up the day before with a pounding head
and sickly belly, he had been obsessed in reviewing what had happened—how things had gone so wrong and how he could have misjudged things so badly.

He raised one hand to his forehead. He still suffered from a headache brought on by his excessive drinking and his injury. He had no recollection of how he had hurt himself. He had awakened with a bandage wrapped around his head and a chamber pot close by, which he used to empty the contents of his stomach. It had been a full day since Charles had tended to him, and he still refused to rest. Darcy well remembered everything prior to falling down, and it was those memories that haunted him. He accepted his pain as penance for his arrogant behavior.