The Blacksmith
“Mr Wickham! I would have a word about your account!”
Elizabeth Bennet started at the abrupt words coming from Mr Kendall, the town blacksmith.
Despite it being early spring, the man wore his usual garb of a leather vest, leaving his massive arms bare.
She knew there were no small or weak blacksmiths in the world; but Mr Kendall, with arms bigger than most men’s legs, would stand out even amongst his peers.
He was widely regarded as a fair man, but not one you should cross.
Seeing him there in the middle of town shouting at a militia officer while waving a paper in his hand was disconcerting—though, to be fair, what would sound like shouting to an ordinary man was probably how Mr Kendall sang lullabies to his children. He was not built for subtlety.
Before the interruption, Elizabeth had been enjoying a leisurely stroll with the man who had happened upon her as she left the haberdashery.
She was certainly not overly enamoured with him, nor could she afford to encourage a penniless soldier; but she enjoyed his company, and there was nothing wrong with a short stroll through the middle of a busy street with a handsome officer, so long as she did not descend into the flirtatious silliness her younger sisters engaged in.
Beside her, Mr Wickham stiffened, but then spoke with his usual jovial air, “Ah, Mr Kendall, I do not have the funds on my person, but I shall pay you directly.”
“That is not what I hear,” the giant of a man rumbled.
Elizabeth frowned and stepped cautiously away from both men, whose business was certainly none of hers.
She became uncomfortable when Mr Wickham sidled sideways to match her. What was he about? She still had confidence their disagreement should be resolved amicably, but she could not like the motion.
“Who did you hear it from?” Mr Wickham asked, which was a reasonable question, though hardly the point since he either owed payment or he did not.
“I had a visitor suggesting I look carefully at my accounts, and the amount you owe is… troubling… and overdue.”
She slid further aside, and Mr Wickham unconsciously followed her, which made her more nervous—or at least irritated. She certainly had no part in the men’s dispute.
“If someone is slandering my good name, I should like to know who it is,” Mr Wickham cried defiantly.
The blacksmith stepped a few paces closer. “Does it matter? He made no accusations but simply suggested it might be prudent to check my accounts, since the militia will not be here long and most of the officers are not especially flush.”
Not liking the sound of what threatened to descend into an argument, though curious about who the mysterious interloper was, Elizabeth took another unobtrusive step away, only to be followed a moment later by Mr Wickham, which made no sense.
Elizabeth knew Mr Kendall as well as any gentlewoman was likely to know the town blacksmith—not well at all. She had little to do with that sort of man, but she at least knew what everyone said: Mr Kendall’s reputation for fairness was unimpeachable.
“It matters a great deal,” Mr Wickham continued. “My good name is all I have, and I should not like it slandered.”
Elizabeth thought he sounded far too petulant for her tastes. If he thought having to guard his reputation was irksome for a soldier, he should try being a woman for a week.
Mr Kendall looked at her in a kindly, paternal manner, and spoke gently. “You should not be here, Miss Elizabeth.”
As for reputations, she saw several people coming out of the shops and thought the blacksmith’s suggestion eminently sensible. If things continued their course, she wanted to be well clear of it, so she spoke loudly enough for everyone to hear clearly.
“I entirely agree, Mr Kendall. I am barely acquainted with this man. I only met him by chance as I returned from the haberdashery and walked with him for two minutes merely to be polite. I shall leave the two of you to your business."
She hoped that would be sufficient to quell any supposed connexion between her and Mr Wickham, and she fervently wished she had not championed him so vigorously on first acquaintance. She was exceedingly glad she had never shared his supposed misfortunes with anyone other than Jane.
She walked away at a pace just short of unseemly, whilst Mr Wickham seemed intent on brazening it out.
“I say, that is rather rude of you to imply anything untoward, Mr Kendall.”
With that, all shreds of desire to be in the middle of the altercation fled, and Elizabeth felt well quit of the men as she rounded the corner of her Uncle Philips’ office at close to a trot.