Free The Rainbow Bridge by Aubrey Flegg Page A

for Madame Brouchard, by way of a reason for going.
    Lucien saw Margot coming from a distance and stepped back into the cavernous dark of the grain-hoist above the door to watch her approach. She had a basket, so she must have some errand to do with the family below. As he had hoped, she didn’t raise her eyes. He felt an unaccustomedpang of conscience. He thought of Bernadette – she of the two handprints – but that wasn’t his fault. All he had done was smile at her, and if he hadn’t held her she might have fallen over backwards. He sighed; his recent night-time expedition had been a disappointment, perhaps he should settle down. He watched Margot leave, her backside swinging defiantly, with something more than regret. She didn’t look back. He had to find out why she had called, so he took a fistful of the flour flowing from under the spinning millstone and backed down the ladder to talk about it with his employer. When he opened the door of the office he saw that M. Morteau from the winery was there.
    ‘I must go at once,’ the vigneron was saying. ‘Why on earth would the girl leave us? Do you think it was anything to do with the trouble yesterday? Perhaps she is still on the farm; she sometimes goes out to pick mulberries, I will look there.’
    Lucien stepped aside to let M. Morteau leave. He guessed who they were talking about, but if he told M. Morteau what he had seen, news of his wandering would be up at the winery before he could say ‘knife’. And that would be the last he’d see of Margot.

    ‘I don’t understand you, Lucien. Why didn’t you tell me before, when M. Morteau was here? And what the devil were you doing on that road at six in the morning?’ M. Brouchard looked angrily at his employee and saw that he was actually blushing under his dusting of flour. The older man groaned, ‘No, no, please don’t tell me, I don’t want to know.’ He ran his hands through his hair, raising a cloud of white about his head. ‘Where could she be going?’
    ‘Where is her old home?’ Lucien asked. Monsieur Brouchard looked up, impressed. The lad was showing more intelligence than he expected. He wondered if he dare tell Lucien who young Colette was?
    ‘Now, understand Lucien, what I am about to tell you is a secret, one that could endanger that child’s life if it ever got out. She is one of the de Valenods … the last of them, I suspect. You’ve probably seen their chateau; it’s about fifteen miles from here, in the direction in which you saw her walking. I think you may well be right – she is heading home.’
    ‘But hasn’t the chateau been–’
    ‘Yes, but the question is, does the girl know?’ M. Brouchard leaned back in his high chair and looked at the ceiling, the draped and dusty cobwebs hung above him as if they had been caught in an early frost. He knew very little about this girl; the Morteaus had, understandably, kept quiet about her presence. He wondered what would it be like for her up there? Madame Morteau had no daughter of her own; she would like having a girl in the house, but what status would she have: aristocrat or Cinderella? Then there was young Gaston; he had seen how the child looked at him after he had sung his song yesterday. He shook himself. There was no point in speculating.
    ‘Lucien, go and harness the horse, she can clip on at a good pace, and I daresay the girl is not that used to walking; I will catch up with her soon enough.’
    ‘I’ll go!’ Lucien said eagerly, suddenly seeing himself in the role of the saviour of a maiden in distress.
    ‘No, Lucien! I would as soon send a wolf to rescue a lamb. But I will take the almost equal risk of leaving you in charge of the mill till I get back.’

    Colette shaded her eyes and looked ahead to where the road climbed steeply. The midday sun beat down on the top of her head and set the road a-shimmer. Oh, if only she had brought a hat. She singled out a clump of brilliant red poppies as her next rest stop