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Sally hurried up the path, half running, with Sir resisting until she called him sharply. His barking moved farther away. Elizabeth was grateful; she could hear Mr. Darcy more clearly without it.

They had set out before breakfast with two dry blankets for Mrs. Bell, carried between them along the upper path. The cottage was warm. Sam had been turning a wooden horse before the fire to dry its painted side, and Elizabeth had laughed at his explanation that it was the horse which had fallen in a puddle. That ordinary visit seemed impossibly far away now, though they had left the cottage only minutes before.

She went to the oak. Foster’s rope lay coiled beside a mallet and a long pole. Elizabeth lifted it with both hands, letting the first loops fall onto the grass. It was heavier than any cord she had practised with.

“Mr. Darcy, can you reach a rope if I lower it?”

“Yes. There are footholds. I need something to keep me against the bank.”

“Then do not try to climb until I tell you.”

“I shall not.”

The assurance steadied her. She did not need to raise his whole weight. She needed to give him a firm hold while he found his way up.

Elizabeth carried one end round the trunk. The oak stood upon higher ground, several yards back from the collapse, its broad roots disappearing beneath undisturbed turf. She pulled enough rope through to leave a long end on either side of the tree, then took both toward the brink.

She stopped where the ground was still level and knelt. One length she laid beside her, intending to fasten it to the other after Mr. Darcy had taken the lowered end. The remaining rope she fed down slowly.

“Can you see it?”

“A little to your left.”

She moved her arm. The rope brushed exposed roots and swung toward him.

“I have it.”

Elizabeth leaned forward enough to see his left hand close about it. His right remained pressed against his coat.

“You must secure it above,” he said. “A turn round the tree will not be enough.”

“I know. Wait a moment.”

She drew back to take up the second end. A small shower of earth fell from the edge, and the rope pulled suddenly through her hands.

Elizabeth seized the working length with both hands.

Below her Mr. Darcy had shifted away from the falling soil. The rope steadied him, but the unsecured end slid across the grass toward the drop. Before Elizabeth could catch it, it slipped over the lip beside the length he held.

“Do not pull,” she cried.

“I am not. My foot slipped.”

The rope tightened. She braced her knees, but she could not hold him if he lost his foothold altogether. The free end hung out of reach beyond the broken ground.

He could let go. She could draw the rope back, begin again, do it properly. Yet when she looked down, his left boot was searching for the stone he had just lost, and the fingers of his injured hand were spread uselessly against the wet bank.

He needed the rope now.

“Hold,” Elizabeth whispered.

Nothing happened. The rough fibres cut into her palms.

She looked at the two lengths disappearing over the edge. One bore the strain of his grip. The other must be brought about it, passed through, drawn close. She knew how a knot was made. She had made knots without meaning to and struggled to release them afterwards. She must do this one thing deliberately.

“Hold.”

The free end rose.