When her breakfast was served in her trough by a young woman who always smiled and called her ‘Ma Blonde’, the top half of the door was left open and she could stand and look out at the yard, which stabled real horses as far as she could see, and for the few days she had been there, it seemed the weather was permanently sunny. She knew that everyone was speaking French but that knowledge had caused her some discomfort. It had been on the first morning when she had been properly awake. She had woken on her bed in her stall and there had been two people standing over her, one was a smartly dressed man in his mid forties and the other was a dark haired woman in riding clothes, complete with the sort of riding hat and gauze veil that women used to wear to ride side saddle. They had spoken to each other about her and she had recognised the words as French.“She is a magnificent specimen when you see her close up,” the woman said.“She is indeed. We’ll give her a couple of days to recover and then run her and start making arrangements,”
