In the twinkling of an eye, the four genteel young women were sufficiently comfortable with one another to use first names, chat, and laugh as though they had been friends of some longevity rather than mere acquaintances of an afternoon’s duration. When the beauty and fragrance of the estate’s gardens had been enjoyed to everyone’s satisfaction, they decided to take a leisurely stroll around Pemberley’s manicured lawn toward the river. As they walked, they twirled their parasols and giggled at the antics of Pug-Nacious and Dust Bunny.

Five miles in the distance at the grand estate’s boundary, four overheated young men arrived earlier than expected on horseback and in a cloud of dust. They had been riding hard since mid-morning from the Fleming estate farther north in Derbyshire and, as a result, were uncomfortably sweaty and grimy. Mounts were reined from a canter to a walk upon entering the park, making repartee easier for the chaps.

When the blue-eyed, fair-haired Bingley realized they would soon reach the spot where the house came into view, he exclaimed, “I say, Darcy, I am quite looking forward to soon being able to slake my thirst with several pints of Derbyshire’s finest ale. In fact, I daresay Pemberley’s brewer can attest to producing the best in the kingdom.”

“Really, Bingley? I know your fondness for our barley and hops; all the same, can you honestly boast of having sampled enough brews across the land to be an expert and make such a claim?”

Fitzwilliam, the eldest of the four, spoke up. “Sample is certainly all Bingley can handle, cousin. The chap is entirely in his cups before a third serving.”

Charles Bingley came to his own defense. “Aye, I am not such a seasoned old elbow-crooking imbiber as you, Fitz. I have only ever been half-sprung and, unlike you, certainly never as drunk as a wheelbarrow. Nevertheless, I would always prefer to have good quality ale in my cup before quaffing enough to get me in my cups. I could not abide the swill I am certain you, as a military man, are forced to guzzle. Your love of drink, my friend, is an ale-ment.”

“Enough talk of ale, gentlemen, for my throat is positively parched. Blast this insufferable, sweltering heat!” Ellis Fleming wrenched at his neckcloth and continued, “How much farther until we finally reach your home, Darcy? I am afraid I shall appear at your illustrious parents’ doorstep a sopping dishrag if we have to travel much longer. I had much rather make a good first impression and sincerely hope my accoutrements have preceded me to Pemberley. A good washing-up and fresh clothing are very appealing right now.”

“I am sure your valet has your belongings awaiting you in a guest room, my friend; and you have, in fact, been on Pemberley’s grounds for some time now. My parents are presently not in residence, so you only have to worry about impressing my impressionable younger sisters. But I share your discomfort, Fleming. Hell, ’tis hotter than Hades today.” Fitzwilliam Darcy doffed his hat, wiped his brow with his handkerchief, and gave his cousin, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, a challenging look. “Too bad we are no longer carefree youths, for the pond is but another ten minutes afar.”

“Youth is a relative term, Darcy; and I am not yet eight and twenty. As for being carefree, are we not all gentlemen of leisure, or at least on holiday or leave?”

“To the pond, then?”

“To the pond. Charge!”

Pemberley’s heir and his army-officer cousin left their friends in the dust as they galloped off. Bingley and Fleming exchanged grins before urging their horses to follow the others around the bend. The four then veered off and, at a trot, followed a narrow path through the woods; within minutes they emerged into a grassy clearing edging a small lake.

If the gentlemen expected to behold pristine, fresh water, they were certainly disappointed. The lake was partially covered with a film of slimy pea-green scum. Dragonflies and a variety of other insects droned, dipped, and danced above the putrid soup. The four dismayed gentlemen dismounted, saw to the comfort of their horses, and gazed in disgust at the stagnant pond.

“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.