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Ben-in-motion

Benjamin Waller moved through the world with care born of experience rather than fear. He measured before he stepped, listened for what was not being said, and preferred plans that could withstand disappointment. Once, he had trusted enthusiasm over evidence and paid for it with a wound that still ached when he allowed himself to remember it. Since then, he had learned that restraint was a form of wisdom and that hope, while pleasant, was best handled sparingly. He did not object to joy; he simply required proof before investing in it. And yet, despite himself, he found that Lydia Bennet’s unconsidered confidence unsettled his careful balance—not because it was foolish, but because it reminded him of the man he had been before caution felt necessary.

Mr. Darcy had a fine cottage.

Benjamin Waller could not help but notice that, while it was not large, it did not lack for elegance. He smiled at the thought that a cottage with an aspect of the sea at its front could be called elegant. He supposed that to a wealthy landowner such as Darcy was, this cottage was adequate. Not elegant. But for him, a man of no landed status and from a common background, this cottage was the finest seaside abode in which he had ever taken up residence.

He sat on the edge of his bed and looked out the small window. It did not boast a sea view. It rather looked out on the walled garden at the rear of the dwelling. If the window were bigger, he could quite easily step outside and enjoy the bit of grass and one tree without anyone else in the house knowing he had escaped.

He blew out a breath. That was not true. He was certain that Miss Lydia Bennet would come looking for him if he were not to be where she expected him to be.

He chuckled softly and shook his head. That young woman was action personified. Action without thought in human form to be exact. From the moment he had met her at his store in London, it had been apparent that as quickly as a thought would pop into her head, she would launch herself into whatever had appeared without any consideration for whether the thought was a good one or not.

He got the feeling, both from what he had observed and heard from her uncle, that Miss Bennet had never had many strictures put upon her life.

“Spoiled,” he muttered. That seemed to be the best way to describe such a young woman. At least she was pleasant enough and did not seem to think of him as someone with whom to flirt. And she was decidedly proficient at flirting. He had seen her bat her lashes and smile coyly at more than one unattached young gentleman on their voyage down the Thames.

It was that moniker – gentleman – the one which he did not own, that kept him free from her flirtatious ways. It was the reason she did not give him more than a cursory look. She was not the sort of young lady to entertain the idea of marrying beneath her class.

She was a gentleman’s daughter with an uncle, who was an upstanding member of the wealthy merchants in London – and whom, by the by, she seemed to adore. But her aspirations were set higher than some shop owner and importer of good like himself.

Not that he was complaining. He did not want to have her flirting with him. It was bad enough that she thought she needed to find him a wife! He did not need a wife – no matter the station of the lady.

He had been in love once and ready to marry. However, Augusta had been chasing money. His future had looked promising. It still was. But ready cash and a tie to the land and moving up from a mere solicitor’s daughter to the lady of an estate had won Augusta’s heart – or more precisely, loyalty – over the mere promise of future wealth in the hands of a tradesman.

He really was not sure if she loved her husband or not. Their courtship had been quick. The marriage had not been overly publicized. On the one time he had seen her in town after her wedding, she had seemed happy enough. He sincerely hoped she was. He could say that now. Six months ago, he could not have. But the pain of betrayal had dulled.

Pretty words and charming features would not trick him twice. He would not love again. Not without substantial proof that the lady whom he decided would match him best was as honest and honourable as any of his business partners were.

Again, he chuckled to himself. Gabe Durward would find it more than slightly humorous that he was the standard by whom Ben measured every relationship – whether business or romantic.

“Oh! What a lovely tree!” The excited lilt of Miss Bennet’s voice floated down from the room above him. She must be standing at her window. There was a scampering of feet overhead and some soft thumps that sounded like someone descending the stairs.

Ben waited and watched from his window. He would wager every pound in his accounts that Miss Bennet would be in the garden in a moment. He was not one to gamble on anything without a healthy dose of certainty that his wager would be returned with interest. And this was a gamble that simply would not be lost.

He chuckled and adjusted his comment from before. Miss Bennet was not action personified. No, she was exuberance in the living breathing form of a lady who loved all the pretty and feminine things in life.

And there she was, marching her way directly to the tree and then, stopping to look up at its branches once she reached it.

“It needs a swing,” she declared before turning toward the house as if looking for someone to direct about installing a swing on one of the branches above her head.

She bit her lip and her face scrunched as she turned back to the tree. She put a hand on her head as she tipped her head backward to look higher into the tree’s canopy and then, gasped, before patting her head.

Apparently, she had not remembered to put her bonnet on her head before she left her room and had just discovered it. Her inability to think before acting was going to get her in trouble one day.

Maybe he could be a voice of reason for her when they were together. He was certain her uncle would appreciate the help.

“You may wish to ask the owner of the house before you add a swing to his tree,” Ben called through the window.

“Oh!” she cried in delight as she spun towards his window. “Do you really think he would mind? Could we not just add it and then remove it before we leave?”

“And would you like someone rubbing grooves into a branch on your tree without consulting you first?” Ben answered.

Again, her face scrunched but not happily or in a confused fashion. This time, the action was accompanied by a small pout.

He shuddered. Augusta had been adept at pouting to get her way. He braced himself for the onslaught of whimpers and whines that accompanied such a look. But they did not come.

“I suppose not,” Miss Bennet admitted. “But it is the perfect place for one.”

“I will not argue with you about that,” Ben assured her.

She smiled and even from the distance away from her that he was, he could see her whole expression smiled, not just her lips.

“It could be fun if you did,” she answered. “I have missed having Mary around to torment with arguing.”