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Sebastian tossed the rope tied around his waist out of his way and knelt down beside Mr. Dawson. “How bad is it?” he asked.

The head groom straightened his leg. Blood soaked his breeches, but he shook his head. “I’ve seen enough horses with fractured legs in my time to know that it’s not broken.” He raised his leg and lowered it again. “The splintered wood cut the skin, but it’s nothin’ that one of Mrs. Frost’s salves can’t fix.”

Sebastian’s expression was grim. “I certainly hope so.” He glanced at the men standing closest to him. “You’ve now all witnessed how dangerous it is to attempt to cross this bridge, but we must do all in our power to rescue Mrs. Tucker. I am loath to ask, but is there anyone else willing to give it a try?”

“It must be me.” Rosalind stepped forward.

Sebastian was on his feet in an instant. “Rosalind! What are you doing here?”

Shock, followed by displeasure, and then alarm flitted across Sebastian’s drawn face before he settled on deep concern.

“It must be me,” she repeated. “I realized it as soon as Vickers informed me of Mrs. Tucker’s small stature. The only hope you have of reaching her without any more of the bridge disintegrating is for someone of similar weight to attempt it.”

“You cannot be serious.” If possible, Sebastian’s face had become even more haggard.

“Completely.” She pointed to the heavy rope at his feet. “Tie that around me. Not only will I be less weight on the rotting boards, but I will be easier for your men to pull in should the need arise.”

Sebastian shook his head. “I cannot allow this, Rosalind.”

She took his wet hand. “You are an engineer, so you know this is our best chance of reaching Mrs. Tucker before it is too late.”

The burly gardener stepped up. “Let me anchor the duchess, Your Grace. I’ll not let her fall.”

“Help me! Please help me!” Mrs. Tucker’s faint plea was like an echo in the wind.

“There is no time to debate the matter, Sebastian,” Rosalind said. “Tell me what I must do.”

Chapter 27

Rosalind set one foot on the plank before her and pressed down. It held. She shifted her weight, repeating the now-familiar procedure with her other foot before pausing again. She was so close. Three more steps would take her to the edge of the gaping hole. She glanced over her shoulder. Sebastian was standing about ten paces behind her, straddling two boards so as to disperse his weight. He’d insisted on following after her until they reached the broken boards.

“Now, Rosalind,” he shouted.

She nodded. Drawing one of the two ropes tied around her waist over her head, she lowered herself to her hands and knees. She clutched the wet rope in one hand and crawled forward until she was close enough to the hole to look down upon the raging river below. Dropping to her stomach, she squirmed closer to the edge. A board creaked. She froze. “Mrs. Tucker?”

“Here! I’m down here!” The older lady’s answer ended with a sob.

Grasping the ragged end of the nearest board, Rosalind shifted to her right, and Mrs. Tucker came into view. She was perched on the narrow lip of the pier cap, her arms wrapped around the pillar. Her bonnet, held on by the ribbons around her neck, lay against her shoulders. A corner of her shawl was pinched between her body and the pier; the remaining portion was flapping wildly in the wind. And no matter the partial covering of the bridge overhead, she was wet and shivering with cold.

“I have a rope,” Rosalind called down to her. “There are men on shore ready to pull you up.”

“If I let go, I shall fall,” Mrs. Tucker cried.

“One hand, Mrs. Tucker. That is all you need to seize the rope.” Rosalind began feeding the thick cord through the hole.

“I cannot . . . I cannot . . .” Mrs. Tucker was openly weeping now.

Lowering her arms into the opening, Rosalind swung the rope toward the pier. It hit the wooden pillar. Mrs. Tucker cried out, and the rope fell back.

“Try again, Mrs. Tucker!”

The older lady pressed her cheek to the pier, clinging to it as her shoulders shook with sobs. The rope swung past her arm before the wind caught it and tossed it aside. Rosalind tried once more. Still, Mrs. Tucker did not reach for the rope.

Disappointment and desperation swelled within Rosalind. Her arms ached. Jagged edges of the planks pressed against her skin, and she was beginning to shiver from the cold. She lowered her forehead to the deck and took two deep breaths. She could do this. Mrs. Tucker could do this. They could not have come this far only to fail.

Raindrops trickled down Rosalind’s face. She raised her head and squirmed a little closer to the opening, then began swinging the rope again.

“Listen to my counting, Mrs. Tucker,” she yelled. “When I reach five, I want you to let go of the pier with one hand and catch the rope. That’s all. Just grab it out of the air.”