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forgotten that she had two other children who needed her. In this new world Dorothy grew up quickly.
    Elizabeth never complained or berated anyone for her misfortune; she accepted her lot with a generosity of spirit that humbled even the most cynical. Sometimes when Dorothy heard Lizzie’s gentle voice, she would forget her sister’s disabilities, until the chair’s creaking on the floorboards reminded her. For Elizabeth’s sake, Dorothy tried to be cheerful in her company, but afterwards she would run to her room, pull the pillow over her head and cry. This was the monotony of their new lives, the tedium of days filled with sickness and grief.

5
    In the years before the accident, Keyt had been a distinguished name. Sir William had every reason to be proud. His tenants respected him, the wider community valued him, and his family considered him a devoted and loving father. Though Sir William eschewed the idea of favourites, in moments of reflection it was usually his little John and Dorothy who occupied his mind. In those days a bond existed between him and his youngest daughter that seemed indestructible. It was not just their mutual love of horses; Dorothy had a bright, indefinable spark that amused and entertained him, and yet managed to trouble him. He sensed another side to her nature, and though her sense of adventure mirrored his own, he hoped it wouldn’t destroy her.
    One morning, when the mist still lingered over the meadows, he summoned his daughter to his study. ‘It’s a perfect day for a ride. Why don’t you ask Lorenzo to saddle your pony, and we shall ride over the Hanging Meadow? If you hurry, you can be back in time for your lessons – your mother need never know.’
    Before he could change his mind she ran from the room, along the corridor, out of the back door until she reached the coach house.
    On this particular morning she ran so fast, she tripped on the stone steps. She looked up to find Lorenzo standing above her.
    ‘Are you hurt, Miss Dorothy?’
    He put out his hand and Dorothy took it.
    ‘Thank you, Lorenzo.’ She brushed the dirt from her dress. ‘Papa wishes to ride with me. Can you saddle Peter?’
    ‘Of course, Miss Dorothy, but will you help me get the lazy cavallino out of bed? He will not move for me.’
    ‘I’ll show you how to do it,’ she said happily, her sore knee forgotten.
    Father and daughter set off together. Sir William, who sat easily on the temperamental Apollo, and Dorothy who cantered behind, her legs kicking the fat grey pony at every stride. When they reached the brow of the hill Sir William turned Apollo’s head.
    ‘Look, Dotty – my favourite view of the estate. We can see Aston below us, and over there, just off our land, is Meon Hill.’ She followed the direction of his hand. On this day there was no distinction between the earth and the sky. As they stood quietly, the horses with their heads down, eating contentedly, she was glad that her father had shared this with her, and had called her by her pet name. As they rode home together through the dappled wood, he told her about the pony he had owned as a child.
    ‘She was thirty-two years old when she finally died. A very good age.’
    ‘I hope Peter will live for ever, Papa.’
    ‘Nothing lives for ever,’ he had said, looking at his daughter’s earnest face. ‘Indeed, one day you will have a bigger horse, and John will have Peter, but you must never forget him, for your first pony will always be special.’
    ‘But he’ll have John to love him.’
    ‘You are right, and fortunately your little brother is proving to have a good seat, just like his sister.’
    The following week, Miss Byrne came to her bedroom. It was early in the morning.
    ‘Your father asked me to wake you. Be quick now.’
    ‘What is it?’
    ‘Nothing, child, you are wanted at the stables. Put on your green dress, the one with the collar. And put this shawl around your shoulders. It’s cold.’
    She met her father at the