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“Has anyone been stopped from using it?”

“Not yet, sir. The man who saw it came back by the upper path. It was barely light.”

“I shall go down. Send somebody to the farther end by the road bridge and keep people off until we have examined it.”

Hammond nodded and went to find a man. Darcy took his coat from the peg. He knew the little crossing well; it shortened the walk from the lower cottages to the gardens, and Mrs. Bell sometimes used it when she came up to the house. There would be people abroad now the rain had stopped, glad to avoid the long way round.

He left word with the butler about his destination and went out on foot.

The morning was cold, with a pale sky beyond the thinning clouds. Water dripped steadily from the branches. Upon the lawn lay twigs so thickly scattered that the grass appeared untended after only one night.

Darcy kept to the upper path until he reached the stream. From there a short turn led down toward the footbridge. Foster stood on the house side of the crossing, pressing the end of a pole into a gap beneath the first plank. Beyond him brown water hurried past, carrying leaves and broken branches.

“Do not step onto it,” Darcy called.

The groundsman turned. “I have not, sir. The near support has shifted.”

He withdrew the pole and came up the sloping approach. Upon the sound, level ground beside a large oak he had left a coil of work-rope and a mallet.

Darcy joined him there. They could see where the bridge met the bank, but the side of the support was concealed by the slope.

“Have you stakes?” Darcy asked.

“In the tool shed, sir. I brought the rope thinking I might secure the rail until the carpenter came. It wants more than that.”

“Bring the stakes. We must close this approach above the slope. Hammond is sending a man to stop people upon the other side.”

Foster laid the pole beside the mallet. “There is a little canvas in the shed, too. They will see that sooner than a rope.”

“Bring it. I shall remain here.”

The groundsman took the upper path toward the gardens. Darcy watched him go, then looked again at the bridge.

The ground upon the left of the approach rose in a grassy shoulder. From its side he could see beneath the displaced planks without setting foot upon them. A mature thorn grew above the water; its roots appeared firmly held in the earth. Darcy walked a few paces toward it, staying well back from the visible edge.

He could now see the bank beneath the bridge. Water had eaten a hollow where soil ought to support the end of a beam. The damage was worse than it had appeared from above.

He stopped. The grass beneath his right boot trembled.

For one stupid instant he thought something had moved in the water and altered the reflection. Then a crack opened in the turf between his feet and the thorn.

He threw his weight backward.

The earth gave way before he reached firm ground. Darcy caught at the thorn, felt its branches tear through his glove, and fell with a weight of wet soil against his legs.

His hip struck stone. He slid, boots plunging into the stream, and flung his left arm across an exposed root.

The water dragged at him. He pulled against the root and found stone beneath one knee. With an effort which left him unable to draw breath, he brought both legs onto the narrow ledge.

For a time he could do nothing except hold fast.

Water swept past scarcely a foot below his boots. The ledge projected from the bank downstream of the bridge, a remnant of harder ground which the collapse had spared. Above him rose wet earth and broken roots. The place where he had stood was gone.

He looked at his right hand. The glove had split across the palm. Blood ran from beneath it and dropped upon his coat.

“Foster!”

The stream swallowed most of the shout. Darcy tried again, louder, and listened.