Epilogue Ten Years #2
“The Great Longbourn Tug-of-War between the Bennet Griffins and the Darcy Spaniels. I am officiating. Charlotte has the stopwatch. Your mother-in-law has the medals. And Mr. Bennet has the betting book, which I believe now contains wagers from half the county.”
“The Lucases have put ten shillings on the Spaniels,” Mr. Bennet called. “Sir William claims it is a strategic investment. I believe he enjoys contradicting me.”
Mary looked up from her book. “Must I participate in this?”
“You must observe,” Mrs. Bennet said firmly. “In the event of a tie, you shall cast the deciding vote.”
“I do not wish to cast the deciding vote. I wish to finish my chapter.”
“Mary.” The Reverend Ellsworth closed his own book with gentle finality. “Your mother has asked. And I believe the children would benefit from the presence of an impartial moral authority.”
“You are only saying that because you wagered on the Griffins.”
“I wagered on family harmony. It seemed the safest investment.”
Richard offered his arm to Charlotte. “Come, my dear. We must inspect the rope for structural integrity. I will not have this competition decided by equipment failure.”
They strolled toward the lawn, where the children were assembling with varying degrees of enthusiasm.
Thomas had emerged from the orchard, his sulk apparently forgotten in the face of impending competition.
He was currently instructing his siblings in proper rope-grip technique while Caractacus sat beside him, enormous and patient, her grey head level with his shoulder.
Across the appointed battle line, Bingley attempted to marshal the Spaniel team with rather less success.
Young Charles strove to impose order; Bing paid him no heed; Margaret wandered off in pursuit of daisies; Rose wept as her sash was trampled; and Mathilda sat squarely in the middle of the lawn, issuing emphatic refusals to every suggestion.
Meanwhile, Russet had discovered a duck near the ornamental pond—a recent Longbourn embellishment, courtesy of Pemberley, and populated with waterfowl famed for their decorative serenity.
This particular duck, however, had strayed too near the field of battle, a miscalculation Russet, brimming with spaniel optimism, considered an irresistible invitation.
“Russet, no!” Jane’s warning was too late. The spaniel bounded toward the pond, startling the duck into a squawking flight directly across the lawn. It sailed past the assembled children and shot into Darcy’s path just as he had risen to assist with positioning the rope.
What happened next would be debated in Bennet and Darcy family lore for generations.
Attempting to evade the duck, Darcy stepped backward, his foot catching on the suddenly taut rope.
Anchored by Thomas and Charles Junior on either end, the rope held fast. Caractacus, interpreting the sudden movement as the start of competition, lunged forward with six stone of wolfhound enthusiasm.
Russet, still pursuing the duck, cannoned into Darcy’s knees from the opposite direction.
And Fitzwilliam Darcy—master of Pemberley, heir to nothing, patriarch of the Bennet Griffins—plunged face-first into the ornamental pond.
The splash was truly spectacular, and the children jumped for the rope, with the two-year-old Mathilda grabbing Caractacus’s tail in place of the rope.
Thomas, nine years old and possessed of his mother’s impeccable wit, shouted, “Papa, you are covered in mud again.”
Elizabeth, doubled over with laughter, could scarcely hold the baby. Jane had both hands pressed to her mouth, her eyes wide. Bingley emitted a sound halfway between a wheeze and an indignant honk. And beneath the rose arbor, Mr. Bennet raised his glass in a solemn salute.
“Ten years!” His voice was rich with amusement, “and the man still cannot stay upright in Hertfordshire. I believe this confirms my theory about aristocratic balance.”
Darcy sat up in the shallows, pond water streaming from his hair, a lily pad draped across one shoulder, and looked at Elizabeth with an expression of profound resignation.
“The first time,” he said, “you laughed at me for falling in mud. I should have known then that my dignity would never recover.”
“Your dignity,” Elizabeth managed, wiping tears from her eyes, “was forfeit the moment you moved into the steward’s cottage. You did not realize it.”
“Papa!” George, five years old and fearless, broke from the Griffin formation and hurled himself toward the pond. “Papa is swimming!”
“George, no—” But it was too late. The rest of the children dropped the line, leaving the youngest, Rose, still hanging with the rope in one hand and her muddy thumb in her mouth.
Like spaniel puppies, rather than regal griffins, George splashed in after his father, followed by Catherine, who was not about to let her younger brother have an adventure without her.
William wavered on the bank for approximately three seconds before Thomas pushed him in.
“Thomas!” Elizabeth shouted.
“He was going to jump anyway. I merely expedited the process.”
On the Spaniel side, Bing looked at Charles Junior.
Charles Junior looked at Bing. And then, with the wordless communication of brothers, they dropped their rope and launched themselves into the pond, sending a wave of muddy water over Margaret, who had just arrived to see what the fuss was about.
Margaret, offended, pushed Rose in. Rose grabbed Mathilda.
Mathilda said “no” one final time, and then she was underwater too.
“My precious grandchildren!” Mrs. Bennet shrieked from the terrace. “They are drowning! Perishing before our very eyes. Mr. Bennet, do something. Save them.”
“They are in eighteen inches of water, Mrs. Bennet. They are not drowning. They are becoming interesting.” Mr. Bennet took a sip of his claret. “This is the finest entertainment I have witnessed since Darcy first fell in our pond. History, it seems, repeats itself.”
Darcy struggled to extricate himself while fending off the children’s attempts to imbibe pond water.
Caractacus, convinced a rescue was required, plunged in after the Griffins, sending waves to swamp the Spaniels.
Russet, not to be outdone, followed suit, while the instigating duck—the true architect of disaster—had retreated to the garden shed roof, quacking indignantly at the spectacle below.
Elizabeth carefully handed the baby to Jane and walked to the pond’s edge.
“Fitzwilliam,” she said, looking down at her mud-covered husband, who was now holding George under one arm and Catherine under the other while William clung to his back like a very wet barnacle. “You appear to have acquired a rather extended brood of pond creatures.”
“They are your children too,” he pointed out, dripping.
“At the moment, they are pond creatures. I claim no relation to pond creatures.”
Darcy looked up. Water slicked his dark hair to his brow; his shirt, now transparent, displayed a tadpole making determined progress across his shoulder. His eyes, once so carefully guarded, now shone with the helpless laughter of a man entirely undone.
“Assistance,” he requested.
“I think not. You look very comfortable.”
“Elizabeth.”
“The children are clearly enjoying themselves. Cara has joined you. Russet appears to be attempting to befriend the lily pads. Really, I see no reason to intervene.”
“Elizabeth, I am begging you.”
Sighing, she reached down and offered her hand.
He clasped it. “Thank you, dear,” and then he pulled… hard.
Elizabeth hit the water with a shriek that startled the duck off the roof, sent Caractacus into paroxysms of protective barking, and caused Mrs. Bennet to clutch her chest and declare that she was having palpitations and would someone please fetch the smelling salts.
“You! You are…” Elizabeth spluttered, wiping mud from her face.
“Incorrigible?” Darcy suggested, grinning.