A Time for Courage by Margaret Graham Page A

dragging him forward, talking, not shouting, to the beast and then watched as the pony walked on, ears back but steady. Watched as his son came back, jumping up over the side of the cart and grinning at him.
    ‘He’s fine now, Father.’
    Yes, he would need another son.

3
    Hannah lay in the bed. There was red behind her lids which meant the sun was up. The blankets were light on her body, the sheet was tangled about her arm which lay above her head. She stretched, and her fingers touched the cool wood of the headboard, feeling the carved surface that had not been noticeable last night in the dim glow from the oil lamp. She rolled over and only then opened her eyes; the sky was blue and high above were white clouds quite still and separate. Quite quiet. Oh yes, the birds were there, chattering and fluttering beneath the eaves but the sky was quiet.
    She missed her mother but she wouldn’t think of that, of leaving the rest of the family together in Eliza’s house, of seeing the lights fading as she was driven away yesterday in the cart to this unfamiliar cottage on the edge of the village of Penbridge, stopping at Eliza’s house only long enough to have a swift supper and separate her luggage from the rest. She would look instead at the window, at the patchwork curtains that splashed colour into the room.
    She would have behaved though and she realised now that the thoughts would have to come or there would be no peace. She had told her Aunt Eliza that she would behave but the dogcart had been brought round anyway. It will make a change, Eliza had said. Mr and Mrs Arness have a son just a little older than you and Mr Arness might improve your water-colour technique; he is a very fine artist, well respected here and in America. He comes from one of the best East Coast families; Mrs Arness is Cornish, of course, though you would never know. It’s the voice, Eliza had said, it changes, you see. She’s a lovely woman and your mother would like you to improve your painting. Hannah had not wanted to hear about painting. She had wanted to stay, to cling to her mother. Hannah shut her eyes and saw the red behind her lids again. No, she must not cry, here in this strange house, because her eyes would be red and everyone would know and her mother might be told. She pushed away the sheet and slipped on to the floor. The well-polished boards were cool and she felt better, more in control. Aunt Eliza looked more like Uncle Simon than her mother, Hannah thought. Her hair was yellow, not brown with streaks of grey. But she must not even think of that because it would bring the tears too.
    There was no carpet at all, just brightly coloured rugs, and her feet left imprints as she walked across to the wardrobe. Again control returned.
    A jug was in the bowl on the marble washstand, blue and white with just one chip on the handle and the water was cold but fresh when she splashed it on her face. The towel was thick and soft.
    There was a picture of marigolds hanging on the white wall above the washstand with petals painted so thick that they stood out from the canvas, generous and warm. She touched them with her fingers, tracing the line of the palette knife, for that was what had been used she now saw. Dried flowers hung from the black beams and, faintly, Hannah caught their scent.
    As she dressed she wished that she did not have to wear the liberty bodice in this heat. Her fingers were clumsy on the suspenders and her stockings slipped over and away from the button so she had to start again. There was a large mirror hanging on the back of the door and in it she could see the whole of herself. The white thigh against the black stocking, her dark hair rich in curls which still hung loose from the night. She saw and felt the blush which rose to her cheeks and turned away, twining her hair up and into a knot, securing it with pins, then looking into the mirror again, quickly, before she left the room. The stairs leading down were narrow and