Free The Rainbow Bridge by Aubrey Flegg

would not be a subject of charity! She swung her feet onto the floor. She would go away from here and find work as a servant, or even work in the fields.
But where could she go? She sat on the edge of her bed. Obviously, the village was out of the question. Her family had had friends, but they had mostly fled or were dead. What about relations? None alive that she knew of. Then, almost reluctantly, she remembered her old home. She had locked it away in a hidden corner of her mind, but now she could see it: the tumbling roofs and garrets of the old chateau. She had hated it once, seeing it as one vast prison, but now its seedy grandeur called to her. She knew everyroom, every outhouse and every turret. The property had been confiscated by the Revolution but she would find a way in, and there were people there who had known her – men on the farm, her old nurse – they would see that she got food until she found some means of supporting herself.
    A cock crowed somewhere in the distance. She knew the winery well enough by now to be able to slip out without being seen or heard. She must be dressed and far away before the family stirred. Her teeth chattered with the cold, or perhaps with nervousness, as she pulled on her clothes. She added several extra layers to save her having to carry a bundle, which would only attract attention. She slipped the small amount of money she possessed into her pocket, but left the few jewels her mother had bequeathed her in their box on the dressing table. Madame would look after them. Colette felt bitter about those jewels; Maman could have saved herself by selling them for food, instead of preserving them as a dowry for Colette. When she was established in her new life she would come back and thank Madame; she had no wish to appear ungrateful.
    It was Lucien, on his way back from one of his longer night-time forays, who saw Colette walking purposefully along the road, about a mile south of the village. He didn’t recognise her at first, her slender figure bulked out by the extra clothes. But her pale face attracted his attention; this was no country lass. Over time Lucien had evolved an invariable policy with girls that he might meet; and that was to smile at them all. If they were pretty, he argued, it pleased him, and if they were not, surely it would please them. Colette kept her head down demurely as the young man approached, but there was something about his walk that was familiar, it certainly didn’t seem threatening. She looked up, and found herself bathed in one of Lucien’smost radiant smiles. Disarmed, she smiled back, and then in a pace or two they were past each other. It was only then that Colette realised who the young man was. She ducked her head into her shoulders and hurried on. He must have recognised her, why else had he smiled? He’d tell everyone; she must hurry. She heard him turn, but if he was about to call after her, he thought better of it. What she didn’t know was that Lucien would have no wish to advertise his night-time wanderings by telling where he’d seen her.

    Colette’s departure from the winery was not noticed as early as it might have been. The alarms and excitements of the previous day had knocked them all out of routine. Madame had seen that Colette was upset about something the night before, but didn’t associate this with her son. She assumed it had been caused by the confrontation with the mob. Poor child, God knew what associations that might have brought to mind. It was mid-morning, therefore, before, out of kindness, she sent Margot up to Colette’s room with a cup of coffee, and was nonplussed when she heard that Colette was not there. Perhaps Monsieur Morteau would know, but he had gone down to talk to Brouchard at the mill. Not having been witness to Margot’s confrontation with Lucien the day before, she couldn’t understand why Margot made such a fuss about taking a message to the mill. Eventually Margot went off, carrying some eggs