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Nothing answered except the water.

He drew his feet farther from the edge and felt along the bank with his sound hand. There were roots to his left, and a projecting stone a little above his knee. If he could reach the next root—

He tried to rise. His boot slipped upon the wet stone, and the pain in his cut hand made him release the hold he had just found. He dropped back onto the ledge, breathing hard.

Not without a rope.

Darcy looked toward the strip of sky above the broken bank. Foster would return. The tools were only a short walk away. He must remain where he was and keep his feet from the water.

He pulled off the torn glove with his teeth and pressed his hand against the inside of his coat. His fingers had begun to shake. Cold, he told himself. Pain. Both were ordinary and could be endured.

A piece of soil fell beside him. He looked up sharply, then held still until it had passed.

He had imagined death before, chiefly in connection with people whose lives he had been unable to protect. He had not supposed that his own would present itself upon a miserable shelf of stone, while he considered whether a groundsman could find barrier stakes quickly enough.

Anna’s room was still empty.

The thought came without preparation, and hurt more than his hand. He had inspected walls and windows. He had not yet sat with Martha and Thomas and asked what Anna needed from him. If he died here, there would be money, instructions, a cousin who knew the truth. There would also be a child who had never learnt to expect him at breakfast.

“Foster!” he shouted again.

A dog barked above him.

Darcy lifted his head.

The barking came nearer, followed by a woman’s voice calling Sir back from the slope. Darcy knew the voice before she spoke again.

“Mr. Darcy?”

“Here,” he called. “Keep away from the edge.”

Chapter Thirty

ELIZABETH CAUGHT SIR’S collar before he could go down the slope.

“Stay with Sally.”

The dog pulled toward the broken ground. She drew him back and put his collar into the maid’s hand, then went forward only far enough to see below the ragged edge.

Mr. Darcy crouched upon a ledge of stone. The water ran close beneath his feet. His hat was gone, one side of his coat was plastered with mud, and he held his right hand against his breast.

For a moment Elizabeth could not believe that the man below her was the same man who had sat listening to her read the evening before.

“Are you hurt?”

“My hand. The bank will not bear you. Stay where you are.”

She stepped back at once. The grass between them had torn away in a great crescent; pale roots stuck out from the exposed earth.

“There is rope beside the oak,” he called. “Foster has gone for stakes. Send somebody after him.”

Elizabeth turned to Sally.

“Take Sir toward the house. Find Foster, if you can, and send him here. Then fetch more help. Tell them Mr. Darcy has fallen and is wet through. We shall need something dry.”

“Yes, miss.” Sally looked past her, white-faced. “Will you not come away from there?”

“I shall stay beside the tree. Go.”