Regency and Reconstruction

The Cajun Cheesehead Chronicles by Jack Caldwell

Greetings, everyone. Jack Caldwell here.

Way back in the Dark Ages—the early 2000’s—I had discovered Fan Fiction Boards while searching for a sequel to Pride and Prejudice. As I worked during the day, I read fan fiction at night. My wife likes to go to bed early, so we would discuss what I read the next morning over breakfast. I’d not only talk about the plot, but any mistakes I felt the author was making.

Let me let you in to something about me. You don’t want to watch a movie with me. I will spend the whole time filling your ear, pointing out all the plot holes, unresolved issues, and irrational actions by the characters. My wife, bless her soul, puts up with this character defect of mine—mostly.

So, this went on for several years, until in early 2004. My lovely wife one morning reached over the breakfast table, took my hand, looked deeply into my eyes, and said … Okay, big mouth, can you do any better?

So, I started writing. The result was THE THREE COLONELS, a sequel to Pride and Prejudice and Sense and Sensibility. It was so well received on the boards that I continued to write and post. I now have nine published novels, with three more (at least) on the way.

One morning in 2006, my wife and I watched a TV report of the March of the Protestant Orange Order through the Catholic neighborhoods of Belfast, commemorating the 1690 Battle of the Boyne. This annual “thumb in the eye” by the Protestants to the Catholics ticked me off.

You see, my people were Protestant immigrants from Northern Ireland to Virginia, and later Kentucky, in 1727. Once my family branch arrived in Louisiana (about 1830), they would occasionally marry Catholics. I myself was baptized Methodist, but became Roman Catholic later in life. As far as anyone in my family could remember, no one had problems with the majority Catholics here in the Bayou State.

Also, I knew people who were Reenactors—mostly Civil War Reenactors. They did this to honor the men who fought and died. The funny thing about reenactors is that while they mostly dressed as the troops from their home state, there was always those who did not. Men from Pennsylvania wore the gray of the Confederacy while Mississippians dressed in Yankee Blue. It is all done in fellowship.

I pointed out to my wife that the United States was not a prisoner of its past, like much of the rest of the world. If it was, I would have never married Barbara, for she was the child of a couple from Wisconsin and I was a Cajun. In fact, most Americans would find such an idea stupid.

Why? What makes the people in this country different? After all, the Civil War happened only 158 years ago, and it cost America 600,000 lives. My father’s family fought for the Confederacy, while my mother’s fought for the Union. I wanted to explore that. I then realized I could use the plot of Pride and Prejudice to do so. Thus, the genesis of what would be my first published novel: PEMBERLEY RANCH.

PEMBERLEY RANCH is both an exploration of Reconstruction in Texas (Georgia has already been done—it’s called Gone With the Wind) and a mystery. The setting is 1870 Central Texas, five years after the war, near a town called Rosings along the Long Branch River.

From the back cover:

When the smoke has cleared from the battlefields and the Civil War has finally ended, fervent Union supporter Beth Bennet reluctantly moves with her family from their home in Meryton, Ohio to the windswept plains of Rosings, Texas. Handsome, haughty Will Darcy, a Confederate officer back from the war, owns half the land around Rosings, and his even-haughtier cousin, Cate Burroughs, owns the other half.

In a town as small as Rosings, Beth and Will inevitably cross paths. But as Will becomes enchanted with the fiery Yankee, Beth won’t allow herself to warm to the man who represents the one thing she hates the most—the army that killed her only brother.

But when carpetbagger George Whitehead arrives in Rosings, all that Beth thought to be true is turned on its head, and the only man who can save her home is the one she swore she’d never trust …

This is like nothing you’ve ever read. This is Pride and Prejudice on steroids.

***

(From Chapter 1:)

Rosings, Texas—September, 1870

A lone figure sat astride a tall, black Arabian under a single oak tree atop a ridge. It was a hot day, and in the early afternoon sun, the shade was welcomed by horse and rider alike, standing as still as a statue. He was a tall man in a white shirt with dark trousers and black boots, his unbuttoned vest flapping in the slight breeze, a tan, wide-brimmed, ten-gallon hat pulled low over his brow. Before him stretched a sea of prairie, dotted with hundreds of cattle, lowing and grazing. They were not alone; a handful of wranglers carefully moved their cowponies around the vast herd, keeping an eye out for trouble. The movement of the horses disturbed the man’s mount, and he reached down to gently stroke its neck.

“Whoa there, Caesar, rest easy,” William Darcy cooed. “We’ll just stay here under the shade for now. Enjoy the cool.” The stallion nodded his head in apparent agreement and bent to take a few nibbles of grass. The man’s attention returned to the scene before him, his bright blue eyes taking in every detail.

A flash of moving white caught his attention. He turned away from his perusal of the herd and twisted in the saddle. There! Across the ridge of hills was a rider, moving fast. Darcy narrowed his eyes in concentration. The horse was a brown-and-white paint, and none of his riders had such a horse. A stranger—on his land! Caesar began to prance in place, feeling his master’s tension through the reins.

The rider seemed to be alone, and while Darcy had left his gun belt and Colt revolver at the house, he did have a rifle holstered to his saddle. “What say we go check that out, boy?” The horse agreed, and they loped down the hill.

Darcy moved at an angle to the stranger, holding Caesar back until necessary. The intruder was at a full gallop, flying across the crest. Darcy lost sight of the paint as he reached the valley between the hills, and he allowed Caesar his head. The stallion dug in and moved quickly up the rise, and Darcy saw with confidence that he was in the proper position to cut off the paint. Caesar spotted his quarry and headed toward the other horse, waiting for direction from his master.

As they grew closer, Darcy could see that the rider and paint moved in perfect harmony. The horse was rather small, but so was the rider. A boy? Darcy thought, before noticing the wild, curly hair flying on either side of the rider’s hat. As Darcy pulled to a halt, blocking the paint’s progress, a shock of realization coursed through him. That’s no boy—that’s a girl! A girl in men’s clothing!

He pulled his hand away from his rifle, and unarmed, raised his palm in an unmistakable sign. “Hold on, miss!”

The surprised girl came to a halt a few feet away, dust swirling in the breeze. She had on a red-and-white gingham shirt and dungarees, boots firmly in the stirrups. She wore a wide-brimmed floppy hat, shading her face, but even at that distance, he could see her blazing eyes.

“What do you want?”

Her voice was lower than Darcy expected from so short a person—she could not be more than five feet two inches—but it was not unpleasant to his ears, though it was Northern and unfriendly. Darcy was not used to answering demands from anyone in the last four years, and he wasn’t going to change for some strange female.

“Who are you?” he demanded. “This is private property. Who gave you leave to ride across Pemberley?”

“Private?” It was clear he surprised her. “All this? I thought this was open range.”

“Not hardly. Everything this side of the Long Branch belongs to Pemberley Ranch.” He considered her. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

The girl raised her chin. “We are now. Our place is across the river. My father owns the farm there.”

Darcy relaxed a bit. “The old Thompson place?” She answered with a nod. “You’re one of Tom Bennet’s daughters? I was told he had a herd of them.” Almost immediately he recognized how his choice of words could be considered an insult, but it was too late.

The girl’s voice was ice cold. “Tom Bennet is indeed my father, sir, and I thank you for your kind observations about my family. Now, if you’ll pardon me.” She pulled her reins to return from whence she came, only to be halted by Darcy’s words.

“I’ll escort you back to the ford, miss, if you don’t mind.”

She looked over her shoulder at him. “I do mind. You’ve made it clear that I’m not welcomed here, and I can see myself home. Good day.” To her increased irritation, Darcy fell in beside her. “I see there was no cause for me to voice my preference!”

“The ground is uneven here, and as it’s unfamiliar to you, you might meet with misfortune.”

“So—I cannot ride my horse, is that what you mean?”

Darcy snapped back, “I truly don’t wish to offend, miss, but you’re being mighty stubborn! Your pony might fall into some gopher hole and break his leg and have to be put down. Now, I call that a tall price to pay for your pride!”

The girl said nothing, she only lowered her head. But Darcy could see the color rise on her cheek as she bit her lip. The two rode in silence for some time along the ridgeline before turning right and making their way down to the river. The trees grew more plentiful and thick next to the riverbank. Darcy tried to come up with some conversation, but the girl’s studied avoidance of his glance stilled his tongue. After a few more minutes, they reached a shallow ford across the Long Branch.

“Well, here we are—Thompson Crossing. Your daddy’s farm’s on the other side. I reckon this is how you crossed over?”

The girl’s sarcastic side reasserted itself. “It is. Thank you so much for assuring I didn’t cause Turner any injury. I am forever grateful!”

Darcy blinked. “Turner? Your horse’s name is Turner?”

A grin stole across her face. “It is, sir.”

“Strange. Most girls name their ponies Star or Brownie or Buster.”

Her grin turned into a mocking smile. “But I’m not like most girls, as I’m sure you’ve discovered.” With that, she spurred the paint across the ford, splashing water everywhere, leaving a bemused Darcy behind. He shook his head before turning Caesar back toward the Pemberley ranch house. It was only then he realized that he had neglected to introduce himself.

No harm done, he thought. It’s not likely we’ll meet up again.

***

For a video introduction to PEMBERLEY RANCH, open the link below:

[Pemberley_Ranch_sm]

Until next time, this has been the Cajun Cheesehead Chronicles.

It takes a real man to write historical romance, so let me tell you a story…