On Elizabeth Bennet's tenth birthday, her father gave her a special treat she had been begging for months to obtain. He made her earn the privilege through what seemed quite an onerous set of reading assignments, although she did not feel particularly put out by the exercise. For her special treat, she traveled with her beloved Papa alone to visit a blacksmith nearly ten miles from Meryton. Her home village boasted only a very old farrier, and while interesting enough, Elizabeth truly wanted to see how ornamental ironwork was made. The banister on the stairs in her house was an especial favorite, and her father had arranged with the blacksmith to see how it was done.
"Papa, tell me about the forge, again."
"Well, Lizzy, I assume it will be quite similar to Mr. Johnson's. It will have coal and fire, and perhaps a boy or young man to work the bellows, but since I am not an expert, I imagine you will have to wait to find out."
"And the anvil? Do all blacksmiths have anvils?"
"Yes, I believe that is one of the most basic tools, along with a hammer and tongs."
The ten miles of travel over only moderately acceptable roads took just over two hours, with the young girl chattering questions nearly continuously.
Arriving in the village of Harpenden, the young lady jumped with excitement as her father took her to the shop and introduced her to the blacksmith, Mr. O'Malley, a genuine red‑headed Irishman. The shop was everything magical and wonderful, and she immediately envied the man's son, a young boy about her age, who was pumping the bellows of the forge when they appeared. The blacksmith was an old friend of a friend of a friend and he found it no trouble at all to explain what he was doing to the curious young girl. He would explain all the same things to his son without her presence anyway, so having an audience suited him just fine.
Elizabeth found everything about the day to be exciting. The heat of the forge, the wonder of watching cold iron turn red hot, the clashing ringing sound as the blacksmith beat a bit of bar stock into any shape he desired against his anvil, all carried her to absolute dizzying heights of pleasure. The hiss of the hot iron in the oil or water bucket just about had her swoon, even though her father insisted that ladies were at least as tough as any man and, when swooning did occur, it was usually for effect.
Perhaps her favorite part of the entire day was the blacksmith's vise. This was some type of screw contraption, that could, according to the mountain of a man, squeeze anything into practically nothing. He showed her how he could take a red-hot length of bar stock, bend it around a pin, then use the vise to clamp the ends together until they completely touched, flat as can be. Four of those, with a few nail holes, made a hinge, and the squeezing was fascinating. He also showed her how he could use it to simply hold one end of a piece of stock still while he twisted the rest into a curly shape to make her beloved banister, and he even made a small twisted bit of bar stock a foot long for her to keep as her very own. Between his tongs and his vice, Mr. O'Malley claimed he could hold the world.
Now, sitting in the parlor at Longbourn, she was reminded once again of the vise, or perhaps the tongs. For some reason, Mr. Bennet had invited Mr. Darcy to supper, and Elizabeth could hear him arriving in the outer hall with Mr. Bingley. At least Jane would be happy, however Elizabeth was anything but. She felt the pressure as if her head were being squeezed relentlessly by both vise and tongs from two sides simultaneously.
Elizabeth had fought and fought and fought and fought to regain her equilibrium after Ramsgate. No amount of self‑justification had ever managed to get her to forget that she had killed a man, and no amount of rationalization could get her to give up her fear of retribution. No amount of congratulations on her lucky escape kept her from seeing a gallows and rope in the middle of the night when things were dark and still. No amount of thought, walking, exercise, work, books, stillroom or any of the other tools available to a young lady of moderate means, could keep her mind from remembering that her best friend, Charlotte Lucas' father was a magistrate. She had finally, over several months, managed to quit worrying about it every minute of every day, only to once again return to the lion's den with the appearance of Mr. Darcy.
Now, the gentleman was in the process of removing his hat and gloves, so he might enjoy supper with the Bennets, and Elizabeth had no idea what to do. She had, upon waking up from her numerous injuries in Ramsgate, decided the course of prudence for her was to become a perfectly behaved woman, and she cleaved to the idea with implacable stubbornness.
She had no idea whether her propensity to walk alone should be considered a blessing or a curse. For her on that summer day, it was a curse, but for the hapless young lady who had decided to step even farther from the rules of society, Elizabeth's presence had most definitely been a lifesaving blessing. Even though she had committed what the church would consider a grave and mortal sin, she also had some pride that she managed to do what needed to be done when it needed to be done. Soldiers did the same thing on the battlefield to men who had committed no offense worse than wearing the wrong uniform and fighting for the wrong king, so why could she not have the same clemency? But that was not how the world worked. In the true world, murderesses were hanged or transported.
Elizabeth had finally gotten so she could sleep somewhat easy at night, when Netherfield had been let. She had not had a nightmare in weeks, had not woken up before the sun in several days, and thought she might be able to get on with her life, just like she had advised the young victim to do.
Now, there was Mr. Darcy. His presence brought all the old fears back, doubled or trebled, at the precise time when she had finally started to relax.
In the eyes of society, it made little difference whether the last piece of Miss Darcy's defenses had been breached or not. If the truth were known, she would be ruined already. Similarly, whether Mr. Darcy was in fact the lady's brother or not, had little effect on Elizabeth's feeling of safety. If she were in Mr. Darcy's company for any length of time, any number of things could come out. The young victim might be a cousin or some other relation, but whether cousin, sister or acquaintance, unless the young heiress was completely unknown and unrelated, some conversation might eventually lead to the gentleman learning things he should not know. Conversation with Mr. Darcy was dangerous, and Elizabeth could not imagine speaking with the admittedly very handsome man without seeing the rope hanging just behind him.
To add some aggravation, Elizabeth was in fact quite impressed with the man's apology. She had never heard such a sincere one in her life, despite nearly daily exposure to behavior that truly demanded them. The apology had been short and sweet, and oh-so sincere. Had she not heard it herself, she would not have believed it. A very handsome man having a bad night had said some unfortunate things, had apologized profusely at the very first opportunity, and Elizabeth was left in a quandary. She truly wished the man was ill‑formed, impolite, impecunious, ill-mannered, or generally disagreeable. Much to her disappointment, she could see from her few minutes in his presence, that he was a man who she would ordinarily be thrilled to engage with… and yet, it was not to be. A man of his station would typically not condescend to even befriend a Miss Elizabeth Bennet, let alone do any more. She had no real worries about him asking any undue intimacies from her. However, to even entertain the possibility of meeting his sister, or just discussing her, even once, if in fact she existed, would send Elizabeth into another spiral of doubt and fear.
Elizabeth knew she was not being quite rational, but she just could not allow herself to become well known to the man. She could not put herself into a position where she might once again meet the young victim. The entire idea was just too raw, too hurtful, too painful. It also seemed likely that the young victim might be suffering similar anxieties, and that a load of guilt might be added to the mix. Encountering her savior again would almost certainly be as bad for Miss Darcy as it would be for Elizabeth.
Since she had hitched her wagon to the idea of being a polite and decorous young lady, she could not make herself be rude or unkind, but she had to somehow discourage him.
Her first sally had been to come as close to cutting him as she could without being truly offensive. She knew her father. She knew he would find it amusing, and she also suspected he would tell the young man of her disinterest, thus saving her from the bother of being rude to the man.
One would think that after killing a man with his own walking stick, being rude to another should not be all that much of a transgression, but for some reason, Elizabeth had an unnatural and unreasonable fear about going down that road. She believed that once she decided to take the route of ill manners, all would be lost. She had, with Mary's help, been having some effect on her youngest sisters' behavior, and even had some hope that Lydia and Kitty might show some sense for several minutes at the least every other day… eventually. All that would be lost, if she discarded whatever moral authority she possessed. She firmly believed that her sisters would follow her down into the darkness. Elizabeth or someone else in the family would disgrace them, and in the fallout, Elizabeth's deepest darkest secret might be discovered.
And so, with the vise closing in on her from one side and the tongs from another, she decided she needed to dissuade the gentleman with vigor. Unfortunately, all this thinking came to a head right about the time he held out her arm and offered to escort her into dinner.
"Dinner is served."
"Miss Elizabeth, may I escort you into dinner?"
"You may."
Fitzwilliam Darcy had never in his life had a woman take his arm with more apparent reluctance, nor with so few words. He had been standing near her in the drawing room for some half‑hour prior to dinner being called but found her in nearly constant discussion with her sisters. Whether it was ribbons with the two youngest, the dress the eldest was remaking, the decorations with Mrs. Bennet or any number of other topics, Miss Elizabeth seemed to be able to keep a constant stream of conversation going without more than a dozen words. A question here or there was entirely sufficient to send the two youngest into a long‑running dispute over colors that he could barely comprehend. They were apparently arguing with some vigor about the suitability of one shade of light pink versus another, when he could not tell the two apart, even when Miss Lydia showed him both side by side. Almost as few words could induce Mrs. Bennet into raptures about her eldest daughter. At the end of half an hour, Darcy spoken far more liberally than he typically did, but Miss Elizabeth had said just about as little as possible.
Based on his own observations and Mr. Bennet's conversation over chess, he suspected Miss Elizabeth could hold up her end of the conversation with nearly anybody, or both ends if required. However, if he had to guess, he would have to conclude that Miss Elizabeth wanted to be dull. Her sister Kitty even commented on it, and the lady made no defense of herself, not even the token defense one would expect of anybody.
With the polite exchange completed as usual, he escorted the lady in and sat her down in the chair next to him. She looked at the chair as if a dead rat or two was sitting on it before she sat down, but then as the soup course was served, she managed to get her sister on the other side of herself talking again.
"Miss Elizabeth, might I offer you some wine?"
"Yes, thank you."
"Miss Elizabeth, do you enjoy books."
"Yes"
"Might you share some of your favorites? It is one of my favorite pastimes, and I find great pleasure in the written word."
"Shakespeare"
"Oh, he is quite a favorite of mine. I have read everything many times and find it very compelling. Have you read all of his major works?"
"Yes"
"Do you prefer the comedies or the tragedies… or perhaps the sonnets?"
"Tragedies"
"I find myself quite enamored with Henry V. Do you have any particular favorite?"
"Macbeth"
"Anything in particular you enjoy about it?"
"No, I just like it."
"I understand you enjoy chess?"
"Yes"
"You play with your father?"
"Yes… and Sir William"
"Ah, I met Sir William. Quite a congenial man. I am told he is an avid player. Bingley mentioned that he heard about the man's prowess from another neighbor, a Mr. Goulding. I believe I attended Cambridge with Mr. Goulding's eldest son but have not managed to talk to him in Hertfordshire. I have been told he is in London at the moment, but I am looking forward to renewing the acquaintance. Is Sir William very skilled in the game?"
"Yes"
"I played your father two games yesterday, and we seem quite evenly matched. We are tied at one game apiece, and plan for a rematch next week. I would not ask you to boast, but do you win often against either gentleman?
"Sometimes"
"Your father asserted that it might be more often than 'sometimes'."
"He would know."
"I have been told by your father you are quite a walker, Miss Elizabeth. Are there any particular favorite places around Meryton you like to walk? I have been walking in the woods near Meryton, and ridden quite a number of the fields, but have not ventured much beyond the manor house by foot. Are there any places you would recommend for a good ramble?"
"Oakham Mount"
"Do you usually walk alone, or with someone else?"
"With Mary"
"Is it a pleasant walk? Is it very steep or muddy? How far is it?"
"One Mile"
"Can you see Longbourn from the top, or Netherfield?"
"Both"
"I understand you are quite a student of estate management. It is an unusual accomplishment in a lady, but one that I esteem greatly. What is your opinion about crop rotation?"
"I like the four-course system."
Some flavor of this conversation went on for the entire dinner hour. It mattered not if Darcy asked a long question or short, interesting topic or threadbare, complex or simple, injected his own opinion or asked for hers; he got answers of six words or less. Miss Elizabeth could easily pass for the shyest or dullest person in England (or both). Darcy thought that, when considering himself and his sister Georgiana, he could well be called an expert on the topic of shyness, but Miss Elizabeth was in a whole class by herself. Of course, the young lady managed to keep conversation flowing around the table with any number of thoughtful and well‑placed, if terse, comments to her sisters, but her reticent continued unabated through dinner. She was never impolite, and never gave him any less attention than good manners demanded, but he never got a single inch more.
During the separation of the sexes, Mr. Bennet commented on the surprisingly few words Darcy had managed to pry out of his normally voluble daughter but had no real advice to give the young man. His daughter was stubborn, and that was really all there was to it. He told the young man that he could not with any confidence predict if Elizabeth would relent in a day or a year.
Upon returning to the drawing room, Darcy found that Miss Elizabeth was a master of being somewhere in the room where he was not. No matter how much he tried to politely nudge close enough to talk with her, or even to hear her conversation, he found her to be elsewhere.
The remainder of the evening passed in much the same way, and at the end of it, two young people went to their beds equally frustrated and dissatisfied with the level of discourse, but for opposite reasons.
A/N: A tiny little shout-out here. You can make a good case that Harpenden is the actual, real life 19th century village JA called Meryton. Google for Harpenden Longbourn