Chapter 5 #2
“My Franklin was but five and twenty, and he was shooting with a party of gentlemen in northern England. Suddenly, there was a landslip that carried Franklin down a steep slope. I understand, from my husband’s best friend Charles Banks, that several of the men panicked and did not know what to do.
They seemed set on riding back to the manor house where they were staying to ask for help, and everyone agreed that two of them should do just that.
Mr Banks was determined to stay and attempt to rescue Franklin, who was not responding to verbal calls—but who they hoped was still alive.
Unfortunately, Mr Banks could not see a way in which anyone could safely reach him and still hope to emerge from the ravine. ”
Then Mrs Popkins explained that it was Mr Darcy who had a rope in his saddlebag—he apparently carried with him, at all times, things such as candles, flint, and rope—and he was able to securely tie the rope to a branch and then carefully descend into the ravine.
“Mr Darcy was several years younger than my Franklin and Mr Banks, and acknowledged to be stronger than most men. Apparently, Mr Darcy was able to examine my Franklin, ascertain that he was alive but senseless, and assure himself that he had suffered no broken bones.”
Mrs Popkins wrote that Mr Darcy had carefully lifted her husband up to one shoulder and used the rope as he climbed out of the ravine. It sounded like quite a feat—almost miraculous in strength. “All the men agreed that Mr Darcy was very much a hero—but the next part of the story was very sad.”
It turned out that, even though the men carefully transported Franklin to the manor house, and even though a respected physician had rushed to attend to him, Franklin had never awoken. He died that night.
“You would think that what followed, for me, would have no mention of Mr Darcy. Of course, he came to my husband’s funeral, and of course I thanked him most sincerely for his rescue of my beloved Franklin.
But it never occurred to me that my life would ever intersect with Mr Darcy’s again.
Our connexion—my husband—was forever gone.
But once I began to recover from the shock of my loss, another shock awaited me: Franklin had overspent on our bridal tour to the continent, and he had overspent as he insisted that I redecorate our home.
In addition, he had racked up a gambling debt, and he had borrowed money to make an investment that turned out to be unwise.
I found myself not just penniless, but deeply in debt.
It had never occurred to me to ask about finances as I had never imagined that Franklin could ruin us. ”
Elizabeth stopped reading for a moment, tears in her eyes.
She had known that Mrs Popkins was not one of those wealthy widows who lived in luxury at her late husband’s estate, but she had not clearly realised how dire her situation must have been to have leased a home and set out to teach her neighbours’ daughters.
Dabbing her tears with a handkerchief, Elizabeth read on: “That is when the true heroism of Mr Darcy came to my notice. My husband’s creditors had been contacting me, but suddenly I received a letter from a lawyer stating that the debts had been settled.
The letter specifically said that if any further contact was made from someone claiming that Mr Franklin Popkins owed them money, I was to immediately write to the lawyer.
I felt immediate relief from the anxiety that had plagued me for several months, but I demanded as strongly as I could to know who had settled my husband’s debts. I got nowhere in this endeavour.”
Mrs Popkins wrote that her own father and uncle, who could give her a home but had nowhere near the ready money to help her get out of debt, were finally able to discover the name of her benefactor, “and it was, as I am certain you have guessed, Mr Darcy.”
“He does good works, but in secret, just as the Gospel of Matthew directs us to do. I honestly cannot imagine anyone more wonderful than Fitzwilliam Darcy. He rescued my husband with physical strength and he rescued me not just with a portion of his fortune, but also with his strength of character.”
Elizabeth thought of the strong, clever woman she had come to know for two years, and whose acquaintance she maintained through letters, and she cried for her.
She had always known that Mrs Popkins was a very young widow and that the story of how that came to be must be sad, but knowing the particulars made Elizabeth feel sorrowful indeed.
Elizabeth hastily put both letters away, as she did not wish to lose them to the flood of tears she fought to control.
The letters safely stowed in her desk, Elizabeth cried and cried.
She cried for Mrs Popkins and for all ladies, everywhere, who were so dependent on the character and spending habits of the men they loved.
She cried for a young life snuffed out, she cried for the devastation that must have followed as her widowed friend realised her late husband’s foolish financial choices.
She cried because Mr Darcy was too good, and that everyone acknowledged that he was unattainable.
Elizabeth marvelled at her capacity for so many tears. Crying at all was a rarity for her, and the depths of this melancholy was startling.
Not, however, as startling as the rap on her door. “Miss Elizabeth?” Mrs Hill called through the door. “You have a caller.”
Elizabeth rinsed her eyes with cool water before emerging from her bedroom. She swiftly moved down to the parlour and was not a bit surprised when the caller turned out to be Mr Darcy.
Not surprised, no—but she was still moved by the story Mrs Popkins had related, and although she had spent all her tears, she could not hide the wobble in her smile.
Mr Darcy had stood and bowed at her entrance, of course, but he immediately looked concerned, and instead of taking his seat again, he requested that they walk.
When they reached the garden, Mr Darcy stopped walking and turned to face Elizabeth. “Are you well? What has happened?” he asked, his voice less composed than usual.
“I received a letter from Mrs Popkins. You neglected to tell me that you know her.”
Elizabeth did not know why she had said that. It almost sounded like an accusation.
Mr Darcy gave a slight start. “I know a good many people, Miss Elizabeth. When was I supposed to relate to you this particular acquaintance?”
Elizabeth grimaced a bit, then smiled, attempting to mollify her odd tone. “I apologise for sounding like you are guilty of something. But, when I told you about Mrs Popkins leasing Netherfield and teaching languages, you did not tell me that you know her.”
“Oh!” Mr Darcy looked surprised again. He immediately said, “You spoke of a lady and her paid companion, and group classes offered to the ladies of the neighbourhood.” He thought carefully for another second and said, “Other than the fact that the companion was named Miss Brown, and she was able to teach pianoforte, you did not speak of anything else. You certainly did not mention the name Popkins.”
“Well, that makes my accusatory tone even worse, so I again apologise.”
“Think nothing of it,” he replied. “But did she send you bad news? You look—” He reached out one hand, as if to touch her face, but he pulled his hand back and instead touched his own cheek. “You look as though you have been crying. I dare not suppose they were happy tears.”
“No, not happy tears, but also not bad news, exactly. She just told me for the first time the manner of her husband’s death.”
Mr Darcy dipped his head. “That was such a tragic accident.”
“And she told me what you did afterwards for her.”
“You mean climbing down to get him?”
“No, after his death. Settling his debts.”
She watched his eyes widen, his brows shoot up, the corners of his mouth turn down. “How—?”
“Somehow her father learnt the truth of your unparalleled goodness.”
Elizabeth watched as Mr Darcy’s face seemed to become entirely shuttered, with no emotion at all on display. He offered his arm, and they began to stroll through the garden and, eventually, through the orchard.
Finally he said, “I am pleased to learn that you correspond with Mrs Popkins. I do not know her well, but she seems an excellent woman. How often do you write to one another?”
“About once a month.”
“Very good. Is there any news of her that a distant acquaintance such as myself might wish to know?”
“Mrs Popkins and Miss Brown now live in a modest cottage in Ealing. It has what she called a “significant” garden, so they are able to grow quite a bit of their food and keep chickens. Her life is modest but quite comfortable.”
“That is welcome news.”
“Also, she met the curate of St Mary’s Church, and he has been calling.”
“A curate.” Mr Darcy let a frown through his impassive mask, but he smoothed it almost instantly and said, “Most curates cannot afford to marry.”
“She wrote that he has a family allowance, but it is my understanding that she has no idea how great or small it is. Of course he hopes to gain a living as vicar in another parish, someday.”
“Naturally. Thank you for the news. Franklin Popkins was several years ahead of me at university, but I did count him as a friend.” Allowing his concern to show, once again, Mr Darcy said, “I am surprised but quite touched that you wept so much for someone you cannot know all that well.”
“I very much respect Mrs Popkins, but I must admit that I did not cry just for her. I cried for all women. We have very little knowledge of and zero power over what the men we love do, the decisions they make, the risks they take—but those men’s actions and decisions and risks impact us just as much—often more—than they impact the men themselves. It is very difficult to be a woman.”