(2022-03-25) Thursday in the Park with George (and Gracienne)

Details

Author:	inkie
Summary:	Ben makes the acquaintance of Mr. and Mrs. Callis, over tea and threats.
Rating:	M for Mature 17+

Chain: Bizzy

Ismene Hazan sits in the padded chair of the little tea house in Stormwind’s sprawling park, perched just a bit forward, ankles folded and tucked neatly to one side. “Mizzy” had fallen away a little at a time as she and her husband made their way there from the Trade section. First to go had been her bright smiles, her ready (though nervous) laughter. Then her death-grip on Ben’s arm. Her posture, always good, had straightened further, head up, spine long. By the time they’d reached the Kaldorei-run establishment, she had everything under control.

Except her anxiety. Anyone looking for it could see it. A slight tightness around her eyes, perhaps, or the shallow breaths she takes. Perhaps it’s the way she constantly looks over Ben’s mage-tailored outfit of intricately stitched cobalt-blue silk and its row of satin-covered buttons, his waistcoat of cream in soft leather delicately embroidered in wheat sheaves of palest gold and buttons to match. Or the way she smooths her own gown, twin in color to his waistcoat but in thin silk, its embroidery a deeper gold confined to the high priest’s collar and hem.

She smooths a hand over the wide, dark gold belt around her waist. “Any last questions before they descend upon us?” she asks.

Ben, who has been gazing straight ahead, glances toward her and flashes an automatic, reassuring smile. It doesn’t quite ring true with the military stiffness of his posture or the way he absently jogs his knee. “I’m good,” he tells her gently. “I have practiced.”

What he has practiced, he does not say. Presumably not punching anyone, at least.

His hair has been Domesticated somehow — possibly with the aid of a pomade, and certainly with a comb — and he is cleanly shaven. He wears his wedding ring and, tucked discreetly beneath his shirt, his pendant of the matched pair that Colson gifted them with. He is not fussing with his cravat. He is decidedly not fussing with it.

“You look very elegant,” he tells her, with Diction, and offers his hand over, just in case she wants to hold it.

She extends her hand to grip his, her ring catching just enough light to sparkle. “Thank you,” she says. For all that her grip is hard (for her), she lets him go after a properly decorous moment and sits back again.

Her breath catches as the door opens, but she rises smoothly and her pleasant smile is slightly wider.

At the door stands a well-dressed couple. The man, balding with a gray moustache and tidy beard, is dressed in an impeccably tailored poofy-sleeved shirt and leggings of dark grey silk, a black vest with onyx buttons, and high black boots. The woman wears a day-gown of lavender with slashes at the bodice that show ruffled white silk, a little lavender hat worked into her greying brown hair. He’s holding the door for her, and she is swanning through it, though she pauses to wait for him.

Her eyes are of a familiar shape, but are chill and unfriendly, and they are fixed on Ismene.

The man declines an offer of seating with a dismissive, “No, thank you,” that somehow feels rude even though the words are polite, and they walk to the table.

The man’s dark eyes assess this fellow at his daughter’s table.

At the little catch in Mizzy’s breath, as though it were a stage cue, all of the soldierly stiffness drains from Ben’s posture and he slouches back in his chair, stretching a leg out. He looks abruptly rather more like himself — or, seen at just a slightly different angle, taking into consideration the clothes and hair and surroundings, like an entitled son of privilege.

He considers both of the Callises blandly, his own gaze frankly assessing in turn, and rises to his feet a casual moment after his wife. Thus upright, he does not slouch. He is very tall.

Mr. Callis continues to eye Ben while Ismene and his wife greet each other. It is very polite, a soft murmur of ‘so pleased you could make it’ and ‘thank you for inviting us’ and a brief cheek touch without any of that noisy kissing. To her father, Ismene makes a small curtsey.

Then she smiles (pleasantly, of course) at Ben. “Lord Hazan, may I please introduce my father, Mr. George Callis, and his wife, my mother, Mrs. Gracienne Callis. Mother, Father, this is Lord Bennarin Hazan, Lord Ference’s heir.”

Her parents both stiffen a little at Ben’s insouciance, but Mr. Callis bows correctly, and the Mrs. does a nice little curtsey.

Ben makes a gesture somewhere between his usual respectful nod and a bow to Mrs. Callis, and flashes her that winning, boyish smile. He repeats the half-bow gesture for Mr. Callis but sans the winning smile, that Manly Sizing-Up gaze back in place.

“Mr. and Mrs. Callis. Ismene has told me a great deal.” There is no mistaking the country drawl, which cannot be ironed out, but he is on his very best Enunciation for the occasion. “Please, join us.”

Manners and Ladies and Manners With Ladies being the things Ben knows best (albeit not necessarily the City People versions of these), he steps away from his own seat to draw out a chair for Mrs. Callis.

Since Ben is seeing the Mrs., Mr. sees to Ismene. When both women are settled, Mr. sits. The motion that opens one vest button is made neatly and with no fuss, as if he simply draws his arm across his torso.

Neither speaks, but this would have been something Ismene warned Ben about. As the ranking person, it’s up to him to decide on the topic of conversation. Weather is usually safe. Tea. Farming. Trade routes. They will likely regard jumping right into the marriage bit as startlingly blunt, but it’s his right as a Lord person since they are merely Mr. people.

It is either fortunate or unfortunate, depending on one’s perspective — a fortunate skillset unfortunately taught, perhaps — that chief among Ben’s social skills are Charm, Talkin’, and keeping a conversation Safe. He settles back into his own chair and resumes his insouciant Lounge, casting Mizzy a proprietary, sidelong smile before returning his bland attention to her parents. “I hope the trip south was pleasant? Ismene tells me y’all enjoy a visit to Stormwind generally.” He is still doing Enunciation, so it isn’t clear whether that y’all was an unconscious slip or a deliberate choice. Don’t needle the snobs, Ben.

Ismene dips her chin a little, looking appropriately shy and demure as Ben gives her that sidelong smile. She doesn’t speak, though, and doesn’t sip her tea. She’s just sitting there. Her eyes move to her father as he speaks, and her hands are in her lap.

In every way, she is a reflection of her mother. Like two puppets controlled by the same puppeteer; they’re even holding their heads at the same angle.

“It was fine, my lord,” says her father. “Of course, one doesn’t like to use the gryphon flightpaths for trivial things, but the Aspenwood wedding could hardly be called that. Convenient, if not entirely comfortable. I myself come here three or four times a year.” He neither moves nor takes his eyes off Ben, even as a Kaldorei approaches and sets down a fresh pot of tea and a small plate with sandwiches and pastries.

There is no menu. Eat what the elves give you, humans.

“Business, you know,” her father continues. “Stormwind is the center for the entire continent.” Which Ben would not know because he has no business.

Ismene takes the pot and lifts it slightly in Ben’s direction, a questioning look on her face.

Ben flicks a glance to Ismene and nods at her, then looks back to Mr. Callis. “A great city,” he agrees; his tone clarifies that he means great in the sense of, like, Catherine the Great and not just real good. His expression remains bland as paste. “As much travelin’ as we have done in the past year in service for the Alliance, it is always a pleasure to come back through Stormwind, and particularly now after a little time on the other side of the Portal.”

He arches an enquiring eyebrow at Mr. Callis. “Which reminds me — with the portals open now, there’s a lot of call out there for goods from home, particularly in the way of food and drink. I expect you are lookin’ into that already? Sir Trollbane’s people at Honor Hold would pay a mint; the Sons of Lothar have been out there twenty years without an apple.”

Ismene pours, quiet still, and each person receives tea as they like it. Except, Ben may note, Ismene herself. She takes it with one sugar and a breath of milk, instead of her usual plain (in her favorite tea) or with extras of everything.

"Inquiries have been made, of course, but military contracts are locked down, and I've found that supplying those contractors doesn't justify the costs," Mr. Callis says, lifting his cup for a sip. He ignores his daughter, and ignores his wife as she puts together a small plate of a few delicacies for him.

"Of course, our boys in the war deserve our best," Mr. continues piously.

“Of course,” Ben agrees, as an eyebrow ticks upward. There is a genteel hint of surprise in his manner, as though he’s astonished it even needs to be said. He has a sip of tea himself, regarding Mr. Callis over the cup’s rim with a faintly dubious air.

He sets his cup down, shifts another glance at Ismene, and then from her to her mother. He contemplates Mrs. Callis a moment, then lays his open hand, palm upraised, on the table between himself and Ismene. It is a clear request rather than an offer this time.

He smiles at Mizzy’s father. “I do not suppose you ever served, Mr. Callis.”

No one sitting at other tables would notice a difference, but there’s a definite rise in tension. Mr. hesitates as he lifts his cup, his eyes on Ben’s hand. Mrs. hesitates as well while placing a tiny cake on her own plate. Even Ismene turns her head to stare at Ben, if two seconds can be called a 'stare'.

Calmly, Ismene rests her (clammy) hand on Ben’s palm.

Mr. sounds just a little strangled as he replies, "I did not, my lord." He either can't or won't follow up.

“I see,” says Ben, again with that faint air of Eyebrow. Without looking at her, he closes his fingers around Mizzy’s hand, giving her a gentle squeeze, and then releases her to take up his tea again. “House Ference, I guess you know, has a long history of service to the Kingdom of Stormwind, and now to the Alliance. The present Lord Ference served in all three wars, on both continents, for Stormwind and the Silver Hand.”

"So I have heard, my lord," Mr. says, sitting back slightly. His voice is tight, threaded with disapproval. "I suppose it can hardly be surprising that I have Made Inquiries."

Yes, you can hear the capital letters.

Ismene hesitates with her hand on the table before she reaches for the tongs and dares brazenly to get herself a strawberry tart, right there in front of everyone when she hasn't gotten a thing for Ben, or even waited for him to get his own. Then the hussy has the audacity to take a bite.

Mrs. takes a very audible breath. Her mouth twitches as if she's about to speak, but just pinches her lips together

Ben smiles blandly at Mrs. He has a sip of tea, sets the cup aside again, and settles back comfortably in his chair. He flashes Mr. his most ‘aw-shucks’ chipped-tooth grin. “I expect you have, Mr. Callis. You strike me as that sort of fellow.”

He might mean diligent and responsible. Or paternally concerned. Or nosy as fuck. He could not say.

Mr. almost frowns. Clearly his emotions are getting the better of him. "Yes," he says, "quite. I was surprised, your lordship can imagine, at finding out my daughter had been keeping close company with two young men." He pauses and looks over at Ismene. "Very close company indeed."

Ismene sets the tart down on her plate and folds her hands in her lap, her eyes downcast.

Ben drops a hand beneath the table to rest it casually on his thigh. Mizzy — and only Mizzy — might be able to see from her vantage the fist he makes there briefly, before relaxing his hand to smooth his trouser-leg idly. There is a short, flinty silence.

“Mr. Callis,” Ben says at last. He regards the older man levelly. “I must say that I am frankly shocked at what I think is your implication. Of your own daughter. Are you suggesting that she was not brought up right?” His Eyebrow would make Aunt Niris proud. The look in his eyes might not.

“I realize that you are not a man with military service to his name, but I would have thought you are aware that the men and women who take their duties to the Crown seriously serve together as a matter of course. Ismene is a fine combat healer, a credit to her trainin’ and her name, just as the present Lady Ference was in her time. She is invaluable in the field.”

(Niris would definitely not be proud of that ‘in her time’.)

(The Enunciation on invaluable would likely go unnoticed by the Callises, but to anyone who knows Ben, it’s probably audible that he has rehearsed saying that word in particular smoothly.)

"I have no doubt, my lord, that she works hard in the field." Is there a tiny pause before the honorific? A little too much emphasis on it? Surely not. "I am also aware of her prior innocence and the attention that can draw from certain young men."

Gracienne murmurs a soft objection, but her husband's slight hand gesture silences her.

Ismene has gone sheet-white since the word 'prior'. There's a quiet rustle of fabric as her hands knot in her skirt.

“I will thank you,” says Ben in an alarmingly mild tone, “not to make a suggestion of Lady Ismene.” He pauses. “I am certain you’re aware, if you made inquiries, that she is the Lady Ismene Hazan.” He reaches for Mizzy’s hand again, his gaze hard on her father. “Or did you only mean to suggest, Mr. Callis, that I am certain young men?”

"I have heard a rumor that says she claims to have married one of the young men in question, sir, but I dismissed it as preposterous!" Oh my, he's annoyed. "As she has not sought my permission to marry, and as no young man has approached me to put forth such a proposal, as I'm sure a gentleman of good breeding would do, she cannot possibly be married. In fact, sir, I believe it to be a hoax perpetrated to permit liberties that I shall not discuss!"

He's turning colors. His wife is staring at Ismene. Ismene peeks over and up at Ben, dark eyes damp and pleading.

There is a very long silence. Ben, who has promised Mizzy he will not hit anyone, does not hit anyone. He is quite obviously, however, calmly contemplating a murder.

At last he says, in a coolly Reasonable tone, “I will be sure to advise Lord Ference that you think he has given his blessing to some kind of dishonorable hoax by his heir. Although whether I should do it before or after I explain that you suspect his heir is not of good breeding, I cannot decide.”

The drawl is even stronger now, but anger seems to have heightened Enunciation as well.

Ben sits up. “The facts of the matter, Mr. Callis, i– are that Lord Ference and I had considered carefully the prospect of a marriage between Ismene and me. I am certain that I should not have to tell you the qualities that recommend her. There are plenty. She is a sensible, practical, mannerly young lady who will do a fine job of managing the Ference lands when I am at war. She is a credit to the Ference legacy that I mentioned before, of service to the Kingdom. Lord Ference and I were fully prepared to send to you to discuss the matter in formal. And then, as I am sure you are aware, the Dark Portal opened.”

What is a timeline? Ben couldn’t say. The beauty of secret elopements.

“It was not convenient or mannerly timing, I am sure, but I will take that up with the Burnin’ Legion. Meantime, Lady Ismene’s invaluable” — look, he practiced the word a lot, he’s going to say it more than once — “aid was sure to be required at the front lines, and I did not think it would be seemly or appropriate to take a gentle-bred girl that I intended to make the future Lady Ference so far from home without honorably securin’ my interests. Now, I will ask your pardon for the unusual handlin’ of the matter, but I am sure you will agree that unusual circumstance may call for unusual action. And the Ferences are men of action, Mr. Callis, and not just mottos and manners. If you would like us to have — now that there is some break in the fightin’ — a correct and public ceremony, I will be more than glad to do so, because I hate nothin’ more than for you to feel like there is a stain on Ismene’s honor. I had hoped that the fact that she is now Lady Ismene Hazan, the future Lady Ference, would be reassuring enough to your interests. I am pretty shocked to hear you talk in an insinuatin’ manner of the young lady who stood up as Matron of Honor at the Aspenwood weddin’ only this last Saturday evening. I would have guessed that a young lady good enough for the Aspenwoods and good enough for the Ferences would be good enough in your eyes.”

"You may be sure, sir, that I will be speaking to Lord Ference at his convenience, and have had a message sent asking for his time on a matter most urgent." It sounds like a threat, but then Mr. doesn't know Elo.

And Mrs. finally speaks. "Chin up, Ismene," she says to her daughter, voice soft and cool. "Your lap is not part of the conversation."

Ismene's hand trembles under Ben’s, but she obeys and corrects the fault in her posture.

Mr. blusters on. "Until I can verify the truth of the goings-on, I shall be taking my daughter home where she is free from such influences."

Ben’s grip on Ismene’s hand is abruptly and briefly crushing. He tries to relax it almost at once. “You will do no such thing,” he tells Mr. Callis, low-voiced. “It is Church record that she is my lawful wife and the Lady Hazan, and I will have you up on an abduction charge if you attempt anything like it. You would also be bringin’ a hell of a scandal down on your own head, considerin’ that the best part of Stormwind’s gentry was all introduced to the Lady Ismene Hazan not a week past at the Aspenwood wedding — where, I must add, she made quite a fine impression.

“I had hoped that you would see reason like a gentleman and a man of business, and that you would find honor in a family connection to the Ference name and title for your daughter. If none of that is the case, then you are not the gentleman I thought and I am sorry to hear it. If you think to take my wife and a Lady of House Ference away from her rightful place, though, Mr. Callis, you will answer for it, either to the laws of Stormwind or to me like a gentleman.”

Did you want a duel, Mr. Callis? Because this is how you get a duel.

"Ben!" Mizzy says, turning her hand palm up to grip his. Her face is etched with desperation, tears just now spilling over.

There's silence from the Callis side of the table. Mrs. is looking at Ben calmly, a slight tilt to her head as though he is a new species of bird she might write about. Mr. has become the earthbound avatar of Indignation.

He finally rises. "You are plainly overwrought, my lord," he says, "to suggest such a thing between a fit, young fighter and an elderly merchant trying only to see to the safety and well-being of his daughter. I will remain in Ironforge, then, and we shall discover exactly what Lord Ference will make of your behavior!"

"By all means," Ben says. "Let's discover that." He smiles benignly. His hand is stiff and trembling in Mizzy’s grip but none of that is readable in his tone or expression. "Have a pleasant stay in Ironforge, and once all this is ironed out, I hope we can extend hospitality again." Over his dead body.

He gets to his own feet, releasing Mizzy's hand, to make that same polite not-quite-bow to Mrs. Callis.

Mrs. rises, her husband assisting her with her chair. Mr. bows stiffly, but Mrs. gives the same curtsey as when she came in. The two leave as they entered, though Mr. does cast a Frown back at Ben before he steps outside.

Part Two