Free The Rainbow Bridge by Aubrey Flegg Page B

and tried to measure the distance to that spot. Surely this would be the last rest she’d need before she topped the rise and looked down on her old home. Already the view was laid out in her mind: the road dipping down into the green valley, the glint of the river as it curved around the home pasture, and then the lawns rising to the warm glow of the sandstone walls and turrets of the chateau. As she walked she had been reviving all the nice associations she could conjure up from a lonely childhood there. But she mustn’t take her eyes from the poppies, if she did the road would pitch and sway again. The sun seemed to be boring through the top of her skull. The extra clothes she had put on in the morning had been removed one by one and were now an awkward bundle under her arm. Finally she reached the poppies and their blowsy heads filled her whole vision as she sank down in front of them. She felt the sharp prickles from the roadside verge under her hands, angled stones were pressing on her thigh. She would rest for a little while … just a little while.
    She woke with a start. In the distance she could hear a cart coming up the hill behind her. She felt refreshed from her sleep but when she tried to move, her whole body protested in pain. She might be able to beg a ride on the cart, but first she was determined to get to the top of the hill. That had been her mission – to capture her first view of home by herself, on her own. She heaved herself to her feet, grabbed her bundle, and set off for the crest. Her feetfelt like burning coals.

    Jean Brouchard had been worried that he had seen no sign of the girl; could she really have walked so far? Had he missed her? Perhaps she had got a ride from someone? He had driven hard, his horse was tired, and now there was a clink from a loose shoe on the off side. Better to let it set its own pace. If he remembered rightly, they would see the de Valenod estate from the top of the hill.
But the next minute Jean was on his feet in the cart, slapping the reins down on the horse’s rump, ‘Giddup!’ he urged. A small figure had detached itself from the roadside verge. Surely that was she? He screwed up his eyes and groaned as he saw her stumble and sway to regain her balance. If only he could reach her before she got to the top of the hill. The cart bounced jerkily as the horse broke into a trot, but soon slowed to a steady plod again. Perhaps he should shout? No, that might just frighten the girl. He watched in despair as she climbed to the crest of the hill.

    She had made it, and she had beaten the cart to the top. This was the moment Colette had been waiting for, a moment to be savoured. She looked down into the valley ahead. She shook her head. Had she made some mistake? She searched the landscape for familiar landmarks. There was the valley, the river; even the home pasture seemed to be right, but where …? At last her eyes took in what her heart was denying. Yes, the chateau was there – one of its turrets still stood – but it, and all else, was no more now than a burnt out blackened hulk. Then darkness closed over her.
    Jean watched the small figure as she approached theskyline; he saw her stop to survey the view, and then he saw her drop where she stood, like a shot bird. ‘Damn them!’ he swore, urging his horse into a reluctant trot again, ‘Why didn’t they tell her?’
    He picked the girl up carefully, so light after the sacks of grain he handled daily, and carried her to where he had drawn the cart up in the shade of some hazel bushes. He had to get her away from that dreadful view of her ruined home. He rested her head on the bundle of clothes and fanned at her with his hat. The air stirred the dark swirl of hair that framed her unconscious face. For all that she had lived a life of privilege, she was a plucky little creature. The blood was returning, flushing her cheeks; she had caught the sun and the extra colour became her. He smiled as he saw her eyelids