Mr. Darcy Takes the Plunge

“You cannot be serious, Darcy! I can certainly believe it of Fitz. But you, Mr. Meticulous, actually swam here?” Ellis Fleming wrinkled his nose in repugnance and exclaimed, “Well, I, for one, absolutely refuse to submerge my body in that!”

Bingley nodded in agreement. “Ugh! Is that unpleasant odour actually emanating from the water?” He bent his head to take a wary sniff beneath his clammy armpit.

Colonel Fitzwilliam told the two youngest men not to be so fastidious and turned to Darcy. “I do not believe this pond has been tended since we used to swim here years ago, cousin. Nevertheless, are you game?”

“Are you daring me, Richard?”

“Last one in is both a chicken and a rotten egg; and no, I do not know which came first, so do not bother to ask.”

The others watched in amazement and disgust as the cousins quickly divested themselves of hats, cravats, coats, waistcoats, and riding boots in preparation for a plunge into Pemberley’s polluted pond.

The meticulous Fitzwilliam Darcy ensured each and every piece of his clothing was neatly folded – or it may simply have been a delaying tactic – so Richard Fitzwilliam was the first to disrobe down to shirt and breeches. The Colonel dashed toward a small, decrepit wooden pier that extended from the bank several yards into and over the murky water hole. The rickety boards creaked and groaned under his weight as he ran; and with a shout and a running leap, he cannonballed into the middle of the pond. When he surfaced, green slime oozed down his head and dripped back into the lake. He grinned and slicked back his sandy hair while he treaded water. His three companions stood at the water’s edge, arms akimbo, and shook their heads.

“I always knew Fitz was a slimy fellow. Absolute pond scum!”

“Slimeball!”

“Scumbucket!”

Colonel Fitzwilliam paddled toward the others and said, “So happy to be of service to you by way of providing such amoozement. I admit this pool could use a good dredging, but you fellows could use a good … drenching!” He launched a dousing spray of water toward Bingley and Fleming and lunged for his cousin. Darcy realized what Fitz was up to just a moment too late; the hand that clutched his ankle suddenly jerked the young man off balance; and, with an ungentlemanly oath, Pemberley’s distinguished heir was yanked into the muck.

The friends on shore were surprised when Darcy proceeded to the deeper middle instead of rejoining them on clean, dry land. Their algae-covered host shouted to them, “Come, you two blokes. I must have you swim. I hate to see you standing about on the bank in that stupid manner. You had much better swim.”

Colonel Fitz added, “For wat-er you waiting? Just jump in, you rotten-egg chickens.”

Bingley and Fleming looked at one another, shrugged their shoulders, and stripped down as far as propriety dared. If the slime-surfaced water met with the persnickety standards of Fitzwilliam Darcy, then it should certainly be acceptable to them. They raced to the dock and enthusiastically launched themselves into the scummy pond. They surfaced, spitting and sputtering, and pointed and laughed at the goop and gunk adhered to each other’s hair and linen shirts. Ellis Fleming started to fuss again about appearing as a slimy and foul-smelling dishrag in front of Darcy’s siblings. Bingley assured him it would not be a problem; but he suddenly stopped and cried out in alarm, “Bloody hell! What was that?” Bingley frantically tried to see, with wide, panicky eyes, below the lime-green surface. “Good God, Fleming! Something vile just latched onto my foot!”

Fleming floated on his back in a clear patch of water and calmly said, “Probably just vile Fitz again, kicking up a lark.”

“No. Fitzwilliam and Darcy are on the other side, wisely climbing out of this godforsaken hole.”

“Then probably just vile leeches feasting on your blood and sucking you dry.”

“Very funny, Mr. Phlegm-ing.”

“Well, Bingley, duck underwater and detach the nefarious sucker.”

“Swim underwater in this turbid … phlegm? Do not hold your breath, Fleming. Fiend seize it! There it is again!” Bingley began to thrash about and pant. “I am not staying another second in this foul murky soup! Who knows what sinister denizens of the deep reside beneath this scum!” He splashed toward the shore, slipped and slid in the mud, and scrambled up the bank to safety with an anxious Ellis Fleming close on his heels. Firmly entwined around Bingley’s right ankle and trailing behind were several strands of slimy aquatic grass.

The friends spent a few moments drying themselves out in the sun and ribbing Bingley, who insisted he quite easily might have drowned. The four then donned their boots, gathered their belongings and mounts, and squished and squelched their way, on foot, the short distance toward the manor. Two stable boys met them at the edge of the meadow and took the horses. With algae-tinted hair and clinging, revealing shirts and breeches, the sodden, malodorous gentlemen continued across the lawn, on a direct trajectory to four genteel and unsuspecting young ladies.

The gentlemen, for they were still worthy of that distinction even though they did not appear to deserve it at that moment, strode onward, four abreast, and continued to tease Bingley about his hair-raising encounter. The victim, an easy-going chap, took it all in stride. Fleming suggested they should search the shelves of Pemberley’s library for information on plant life so they could identify the lank specimen from the abyss that had latched onto their friend.

Darcy’s smirk belied his serious tone when he said, “I do not believe we would succeed in finding such books, for our family has not recently botany.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam added, “That is a shame, for Bingley will be unable to weed ’em and reap. Fortunately, our friend has his feet firmly planted on the ground and, like a mushroom, he is a fungi.”

The good-natured Charles Bingley shot back, “Fitz, unlike you, grass grows up; and with fronds like you, who needs anemones. I think you should make like a tree and leave.”

“Oh, for pity’s sake,” groaned Ellis Fleming, “enough already!”

“Yes,” Darcy agreed. “Incorrigible punsters should never be incorriged.”

“Darcy, I swear you are behaving just as badly as Fitz and Bingley today. You are, you know, quite a different fellow in public settings, always so perfect and proper and notoriously picksome, with a stiff upper lip and all. I am still trying to recover from the awful shock of seeing you in your current unkempt state. I sincerely hope we can all avoid detection until we have had an opportunity to put our appearances to rights. It would simply not do to be observed as we are now.”

From behind a seven-foot neatly trimmed hedgerow, four very elegant and pretty young women suddenly appeared before the four creatures from the green lagoon. The ladies had their backs to the men while they searched the bushes for the puppies and did not initially notice the swamp savages.

“Bloody hell! Look,” whispered Richard Fitzwilliam as he grabbed his cousin’s arm to halt forward momentum and pointed in the direction of the females.

Darcy glanced toward the hedge and the colour drained from his face. Nonplussed, he frantically swung his head around looking for a place to hide but saw no options for concealment and was brought to point non plus. “Oh God,” he groaned. “They cannot possibly be allowed to see us like this,” he hissed, “and who are those ladies with my sisters?”

The other two men froze in their tracks and Charles Bingley muttered out of the side of his mouth to Ellis Fleming, “Perhaps if we stand absolutely still, they will not even notice us.”

“Bingley, sometimes you are as thick as two short planks. We are obviously quite highly visible out here in the middle of the lawn, I foresee no possible way to salvage this unacceptable encounter and my chance of making a good first impression is now certainly dashed.” Fleming spoke in a quiet undertone, not wanting to draw the ladies’ attention.

“By golly, your mention of pieces of wood and ‘dashed’ has just given me an excellent idea, Fleming. I shall gather some twigs, toss them behind the bushes and while the ladies investigate the sound, we shall all make a mad dash for cover.”

Fleming looked at Charles Bingley as if he had grown a second head. “Mad is right, my friend; for you are certainly as mad as a March hare. Egad, man, I have always suspected you were dicked in the nob!”

Bingley picked up two projectiles and quite precisely lobbed them over the hedge. To his friend’s amazement, the ruse actually worked, for the young women disappeared behind the bushes. Fleming hissed and frantically gestured, “Psst, Darcy! Fitz! Make haste! Bingley has created a diversion so we can run and hide. Come,