Fitz's dive was much less smooth than mine, but he managed to submerge himself and began kicking his way to the bottom. I treaded and watched.

His movements became more and more awkward as he neared the pond floor. I could see the shirt wavering slightly, and Fitz could too, but his face was turning slowly from pink to red to purple. Finally, he appeared to have given up the thought of retrieving the shirt and tried to swim back up for a breath.

Then his face went from purple to blue, his eyes rolled upward, and he sagged, limp.

I could not leave him to die, mostly because Mr. Darcy would certainly kick Father and me out of the estate if I let his precious son drown. Besides, at that tender age of nine, I was actually fond of my playmate Fitz.

I drew in a deep breath and dived again. Fitz wasn't terribly heavy, but he was a dead weight, and only with much heaving and straining did I manage to drag him out of the water and onto the bank where I sat for a moment, breathing heavily, and then pulled Fitz up to a sitting position and clouted him on the back.

Nothing happened, except that he keeled over. I yanked him upright again and tried once more. This time, his eyes opened and he vomited perhaps a third of the lake over me.

"G- G- George?" he finally managed.

Looking back now, it seems incredible that I could feel so much true relief and sympathy for Fitzwilliam Darcy. "Fitz! You are all right?"

It was, perhaps, a mark of how weak he was that he did not protest at the nickname. "Yes... I think so."

Mutually and nonverbally, we decided to cut our swimming expedition short. We retrieved our clothes and began walking slowly back up to the house.

We had just cleared the foyer before we were spotted by a maid with an armful of freshly laundered sheets, which, upon seeing us, were dropped unceremoniously onto the floor.

"Good 'eavens! Master Darcy! Whatever 'as 'appened to you?"

She scooped up a sheet from the floor and began rubbing frantically at Fitz's hair and face. A new maid she was, I noticed, but she took as little notice of me as if I had been a coat rack. She hustled him off, still rubbing madly, leaving me standing there, dripping silently, even yet holding the clothes.

That, I recall, was my first experience of the fact that if you are not a Darcy you are nothing whatsoever.

I dried myself off, and put our clothing in the laundry, then went slowly to the drawing room where Fitz was. He was drinking chocolate and wrapped in so many blankets I could barely see his shape at all. He tried to offer me some, but I declined, and sat instead silently by the fireside, turning over this strange new phenomenon in my mind.

That was, gentle reader, the start of our enmity. Oh, it was barely noticeable at first, but grow it did and grow it did quickly; though what really and still does rankle me is the fact that I had been repaid with nothing. When has Fitz saved my life? He has not! But why should he? I am not a Darcy.

And so, gentle reader- I hope you have enjoyed your port? I have greatly enjoyed your company- I really must bid you farewell. I have business to attend to in Kent. But we must meet some other time. Perhaps I shall have another tale to tell you then...