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Darcy climbed another step. Foster caught his left forearm with both hands and drew him toward the firmer slope. Darcy’s knee came over the top. Elizabeth moved back, taking up the slack rope so that it would not catch his feet.

For one dreadful moment he seemed about to slide again. Foster planted a boot against a root and held him. Darcy brought his other knee beneath him and crawled clear of the broken edge.

Elizabeth sat back upon her heels.

He was up. He lay upon the grass beside Foster, breathing hard, with both boots well away from the stream. She looked at his face, then at the bank, unable quite to trust the difference.

“Miss Bennet.”

His voice brought her to him. She crossed the few feet between them and knelt beside his shoulder.

“I am here.”

“I see that.”

He attempted a smile. It disappeared when Foster helped him sit against the oak.

“Your coat is soaked, sir,” the groundsman said.

“My boots, too.”

Darcy’s teeth struck together upon the last word. Elizabeth unfastened her pelisse. It would not cover him adequately, but it was dry, and she could put it over his shoulders while they waited for the things Sally had gone to fetch.

He began to object.

“Mrs. Mercer will be very pleased to learn that it is useful,” Elizabeth said, laying it over him. “Where is your glove?”

“I dropped it.”

“Then we shall use something else.”

She took out her handkerchief and held out her hand. He hesitated only a moment before placing his injured hand in it.

The cut crossed his palm near the base of the fingers. Blood had dried at his wrist, but fresh blood appeared when he moved. Elizabeth folded the handkerchief and pressed it carefully over the wound.

Foster offered his own handkerchief. She thanked him and folded it over hers, grateful for something useful to do which required no wonder at all.

“Keep that pressed there,” she told Darcy. “Mrs. Reynolds will see it properly when we get home.”

He tried to close his fingers. His whole hand shook.

Elizabeth put one of hers beneath his and the other over the cloth. She thought of the warmth she had felt while tending a drooping stem, of resting her attention upon one small thing without demanding more than she understood.

Warmth gathered in her palms.

It passed into his cold fingers slowly. The shivering did not cease; his clothes were still wet, and she could do nothing about that while they sat beside the path. But his hand grew less rigid within hers.

Darcy looked down at their joined hands.

“That is warmer,” he said quietly.

“Good.”

She did not lift the cloth to see whether the cut had changed. There was blood upon the linen, and pressure was needed to stop it. She had no reason to suppose warmth would mend torn flesh.

Foster went a few paces up the path and shouted for help. An answering call came from the direction of the gardens.

“Sally found me at the shed,” he said when he returned. “She went on to the house. They will be here directly.”