The Best Laid Plans

[MISS CAROLINE BINGLEY]

{Timeframe: Past, Tag: Colonel Benjamin Devereaux}


What ought to have been a day of leisure for a woman who fought so strenuously towards one goal had, in fact, been rather a disappointment for Miss Bingley; for while others were anxious for respite from their labours, Caroline was of the keen knowledge that every moment delayed in the process was a moment wasted and potentially a disaster gone to seed. The business of marriage was an intricate one and one could not simply leave such things to chance. That Mr Darcy had returned so suddenly to Pemberley and taken his darling sister with him – utterly removing all possibility of Caroline endearing herself to the girl in his absence – could be no more seen as a gift than the taking of bread from a man who had no other means of eating and telling him to get about feeding himself.

For Miss Bingley it was not a matter of labour at all, but a matter of life.

She must now make do with furthering the family’s connection in society general, rather than with her particular focus and it unsettled her exceedingly. Louisa had a assured her that she need not worry, and indeed she encouraged herself to think that Darcy could not so easily forget her accomplishments by being in the country a few days. It did not shake the feeling, however, that she was quite possibly wrong on that account. The Ton was full of women whom Caroline Bingley viewed as an absolute threat, though to openly say such –or indeed simply imply it with her behaviour - was an admission that would immediately cost her.

Thus, she was to present in society this evening with the face of nonchalance about her that suggested utmost confidence that her object’s departure was not in the least bit worrying. She would smile brilliantly at those who warranted her warmth and distinguish herself admirably from those who did not. That Charles was not to be with them this evening was another blow, but one that could be borne – and explained away – with a useful Mr Hurst to accompany them. Whatever Caroline thought of the manner of her sister’s husband at times, she had never disrespected the man himself on account of his being so far above their former station and so very useful in their present one. So, their presentation at St James that evening was indicative of the very nature by which their reputation had come to be known and her proud stance held that elegance and pride that was gaining momentum in the discussions of both gentleman of some repute – though not quite enough repute to satisfy Caroline’s high standards – and some ladies of fashion.

Indeed, it was a night to be recalled with fondness, but for one small and unfortunate upset in the balance; one unforeseen and certainly dangerous deviation. For while the best laid plans of mice and men oft went astray – and the outcome was that the world went on despite – the best laid plans of a woman of Miss Bingley’s position could not quite afford the same luxury. Thus, when the time came for the fourth and an introduction was made in the absence of both brother and friend, alarums ought to have been sounded.

“Colonel Devereaux,” she acknowledged with a gentle curtsy that did not know the significance of the moment, “how excellent to see you returned from the Continent - and looking so well.”

[Colonel Benjamin Devereaux]

Social gatherings amongst the Ton seemed, Ben had once reflected, not entirely unlike the sort of engagement one might see on the battlefield.

Age and wisdom had long since left him to revise that opinion, and quite frequently at that. In that rather than that gatherings amongst the wealthy Ton seemed like such an engagement upon the battlefield, they in fact were not entirely unlike the sort of engagement one might find upon the battlefield. Only, far, far worse. At least in battle, even against the wily mind of ol' Boney, one had a fairly general but accurate idea of what the other side was going to. Where they'd move, how they'd go about it, what strategy one might employ. Every general had himself a different strategy, but even without spies one would generally find that in some way, no matter how small or large, the battle plan would essentially remain the same.

The women of the Ton were the worst, and not for the first time either did Ben wryly observe the glitz and glamour, the undercurrents prevalent, and reflect that given the opportunity, England might have won many of their wars much sooner had they put a rapacious female at the head of the war council.

Then again, his brother would disagree. Jon, who was always in his infernal element when it came to tormenting his younger brother, would tell you that nothing would ever get done if one made a woman of the Ton head of a war council. Lest she were Cleopatra or some such, then perhaps there might be hope, but otherwise, not a thing. For cunning as these women oft were (and Jon would know, for even without superior breeding ancestry, he still boasted his six thousand a year and their childhood home of Riversmeet to his name), they seemed all but incapable of direct confrontation. Snide glances and snider remarks still, the undercurrent of what might have been healthy competition slagged by whispers behind one's back and silent snubbings.

Blue eyes bright with ironic humour glanced sidealong as the dregs of one such encounter at hand. Long accustomed to percieving such scenarios, as a good leader of men should be, he hid his equally ironic grin behind the rim of his wine glass. Then glanced away, for while he'd long found it a great deal more enjoyable to laugh at these things, they still grew wearying after some time. And if he grew weary, he would grow glum, and wish to be back home with Iago, or amongst the infinitely simpler ranks of the 7th Dragoons, the fierce Queen's Own. And then he would look like his dour older brother, and that would never do; he was far more attractive and to look glum would not do him any favours at all. Not that it would likely matter all too much -- Ben was not poor, quite well off for a bachelor in the military actually, but the fact remained that he was still a second son and infinitely lesser than the eldest. And money, it seemed, spoke infinitely louder than a handsome face or a delightful character.

No, Jon had the right of it. Even if he was a prat for dragging Ben along so soon after his latest return from France and Ben would never admit it even on his death bed -- nothing would get done if women ran the armies. They'd simply not have certain countries speaking to one another and slagging off to other countries about those certain countries. And then they'd sound off about those countries of supposed alliance to other countries yet again. And then two of those countries would beg the favour of one such country they had eyes so keenly for, and allies and best friends would become bitter enemies.


Not that Jonothan Devereaux had anything to concern himself with any longer with such matters, and Ben took the opportunity of a spare place at the drinks table to refil his wine glass -- the action serving to put him in the line of sight of his brother. And of course, his sister in law. Amelia Devereaux was of the few very scant miracles in the world when it came to a woman of decent character in their society; she e'er bore the tread of vipers about her with a good grace that Ben had long since learnt was nothing even close to simplicity of the mind and had everything to do with the cunning of the female miens. Regardless, Ben loved her as dearly as his sisters by blood; if he had not, his younger and entirely unwilling to be married self would never have plotted with such conniving to throw his bubbly, fair friend into the path of his dour brother. And quite literally at that.

Even as he mused did Amelia catch his gaze, and Ben very nearly snorted into his drink at the face she made while her husband had otherwise engaged their current conversationalist partners - an exaggerated little sigh he didn't need to be near her to hear, and best of all, an adorable mou-face more suited to an impish girl-child forced to wait about while the grown ups talked nonsense than a grown woman, a wife and the mother of sons. He responded with all the dignity of a true gentleman in kind, crossing his eyes quickly at her in the same way he often did with little Marianne and smirking with playful victory when she rather obviously choked on her laughter, earning the unfortunate attentions of those her husband had been keeping at bay. With victory assured (though the war not over; he'd pay for it later on at Riversmeet), Ben stepped away from the wine table for his previous place in the room, and in doing so, he nearly quite literally bumped mid-turn into the voice that had bespoken him.

There truly is too little a space for so many people.

That, or he'd been gone out in the outdoors of life with the Dragoons for a little too long. Regardless, Ben recovered quickly after his initial start, though his heart still beat with some irregularity as he took in and registered the familiarity of bright hair and the equal familiarity of the woman curtseying with all the gentle grace of a good woman before him. And then he almost grinned at the irony of that particular vision, though good manners went far to reassert themselves so that even amused he could keep his mouth shut and his cheek in check for the moment, forcing him to do little more than bow, straight-backed, in kind.

"Why thank you, Miss Bingley," he said, though he did so while waging a continuing battle against that grin that was so determined to assert itself. He rather doubted, and perhaps did so with some cynicism, that many found him looking truly well amongst the gentry; he'd heard too many a time the opinions found in something as simple as a tan. Italian blood already made for skin sallow and olive within the Devereaux family even in cold England, and after such a time as he'd spent away on the Continent in the armer months, it was inevitable that Ben would return home with skin darkened. And darkened it was, burnt mahogany or burnt caramel depending on the opinion of the observer, but though he might have cared in his younger days, he found it significantly more difficult these days to be particularly worried save a silent, passing thought of why not just come out and say what you mean to whoever might observe it as such.

Then again, he might care later, when he was less tired. Perhaps. Maybe. Possibly.

Regardless, he certainly felt well, even tired, and that was likely all that mattered to the man at the end of the day.

"Fresh air always does one surprisingly well -- not enough of us partake in the opportunity, I'm afraid." Another brief sip of his wine, and bar the slight twitch of his mouth (and the glint in blue, blue eyes, though even the sharpest of men would be unaware of such a thing lest they found a mirror), he felt he quite had his sense of humour in check for the moment.

"But I am quite certain I do not need to tell you how well you look in kind. I do not doubt you have been told so many a time this evening. It would not do to tip the balance and make such well-meaning --" and well earnt "--praise into something tiresome."

[MISS CAROLINE BINGLEY]

Looking well, of course, was a matter of expression in large part – though Caroline was loathe to deride a soldier of His Majesty’s forces for their service on the continent – for the Colonel looked thoroughly the part of a man in service, his shoulders broadened and his skin coloured by the effort. It only made the idea of war all the more abominable, that it should so touch the gentility of the Ton and render it almost common. As she raised herself from her curtsy, catching and pointedly ignoring the juxtaposing effect of the alteration on this gentleman’s blue eyes, she smiled as a young woman in the practice of actively preferring one gentleman particularly to all others.

As to his comment on fresh air, she knew well the charm of it, but it was directly proportional to the amount of sun involved. While Colonel Devereux could be forgiven his change of complexion, it was almost her moral duty to uphold hers – what in Heaven’s name could the fighting be for if not the preservation of that which was so distinctly British and so distinctly superior? No, while his war was against Napoleon’s revolutionary savages, hers was against the degradation on another front. Freckles – she all but shuddered at the thought.

She would leave the fresh air to the soldiers.

A passing servant presented just in time with wine and, as was her way when she disagreed but would not express it, she plucked a small glass from his service tray and sipped at it, finding her next mode of conversation. It would have to be keenly directed at something similar, so as not to allow notice of the deflection, and yet divergent enough to avoid further conversations about the outdoors. Fortunately, the Colonel rescued her from that indignity as well, speaking of something to which she could take quite naturally – with thanks to much hard work and the rising esteem of society at large – compliments.

“You are too kind, sir,” she countered quite naturally in the manner of propriety, but surprised at the allowance of a slight addendum following, “in both your suggestion as to my appearance and your kind assurance that I should find it tiresome.” She sipped at her wine again to hide the resulting smirk.