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 anyonemore 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 namePopkins.”
“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 owncheek. “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.”
