It was so good to be out of the rain at last! Pierre unsaddled the horses and wrangled the foal and Loulou into a loose box together. Mimi mixed Loulou a hot mash and then made feeds for the rest of the horses and Chantal dug through the tack room to find a small woollen rug to put on the foal.

The storm had worsened by the time we left the stables and fought our way through the rain to reach the house, Pierre carrying me in his arms.

Inside the house, Chantal ran me a hot bath and my skin prickled in anger when it touched the hot water. I had been cold for so long, it seemed wrong to be warm again. I lay in the water and thawed out while Chantal prepared me some clothes. Mimi fussed and bustled in the kitchen so that by the time I was back in my wheelchair, clean and warm and dry with rosy cheeks and a famished hunger, there was an enormous pot of hot bouillabaisse. The rich tomato soup was full of scampi and mussels and there was crusty baguette on the table too. We sat together, and while Pierre told our story to them, I spooned the bouillabaisse to my open mouth, because eating seemed more important than speaking at that point, although at times I would pipe up to correct his version of events, but mostly I ate and I laughed and I thanked my stars I was alive and I was home.

July 23, 1853

It has rained solidly for the past three days. I have spent my time in the shelter of the stables watching the progress of Loulou and the foal. Even though I am only gone for a few hours each night to sleep, when I return again I marvel at the changes that have taken place in him every day. He grows so fast! And no wonder, he drinks very greedily from his maman. Loulou is a good mother and puts up with his demands and his playful antics, but also like a good mare she knows when her son has crossed the line and then she rebukes him, with her ears pinned back, delivering a quick, powerful nip – hard enough for him to feel and know that his mother is displeased and so to behave himself. The nips come quite often because the foal is a very cheeky boy and they are stuck in close quarters here in their stall. Looking back, I think the foal’s refusal to be born was the first sign of what may well be a troublesome nature. It is this miscreant streak that made me come up with his name. He is Sebastian – after my own first pony who was such a mischievous tyke in his own infamous way.