Читать книгу Nettie’s Secret - Dilly Court, Dilly Court - Страница 10

They stood on the bank of the River Seine with their worldly goods piled at their feet. A hurried departure from the lodging house had left them homeless and slightly breathless. Madame had demanded extra money for the inconvenience of having to chase them for the next week’s rent, which Robert refused angrily, but their raised voices had caused a stir amongst the other tenants. They had left the building with abuse being hurled at them, and someone threatening to call a gendarme. It seemed that wherever they went they were to fall foul of the law.

Nettie gazed into the gunmetal waters of the river as it reflected the grey of the clouds that threatened yet another April shower.

‘If only we had a boat,’ she said, sighing. ‘If Duke saw fit to leave town I think that’s what we should do, before we get into any more trouble, and if we could get to Beauaire we might be able to find Constance. It doesn’t sound as if she wanted to leave with Duke.’

‘You ought to abandon me.’ Robert moved to the water’s edge. ‘Perhaps I should fling myself into the river and set you free, Nettie dear.’

‘Don’t be silly, Pa.’ Nettie knew that he was bluffing, but even so she moved closer to him, placing her hand on his shoulder. ‘Perhaps we could find somewhere quiet in the country where no one has heard of you.’ She turned to Byron. ‘But you don’t have to stay with us. You could return to London and no one would be any the wiser.’

Byron grasped her free hand. ‘We’re in this together, and I’m not quitting now just because things are difficult. It’s not totally unselfish, anyway. I want to use this opportunity find my mother’s family.’

Robert eyed him gloomily. ‘You said yourself that it’s more than twenty years since your mother left Paris. I doubt if you’ll find anyone who knew her.’

‘I’ve been asking around and one of the older men remembers a barge called La Belle Lisette and the family were called Joubert. Even if there’s a connection, they could be anywhere after all these years.’

‘We can’t just give up,’ Nettie said firmly. ‘And I, for one, do not intend to sleep in a shop doorway or under a bridge. I’m going to start asking the boat people if they will take us anywhere away from Paris. You two can stay here and guard our things.’ She marched off in the direction of the quay where barges were being unloaded. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw her father slumped down on his case, but Byron had gone off in the opposite direction and she could hear him calling out to a boatman downriver.

She walked for miles, stopping to speak to everyone she met who worked on the river, whether it was bargees, fishermen or the men who unloaded the boats, but all her enquiries, in halting French, were met with negative responses. It seemed that none of the owners of small vessels were able or willing to take passengers. Nettie suspected that some might have been more amenable had there been a generous offer of payment, but that was out of the question.

It was late afternoon when she made her way back to the place where she had left her father, and her clothes were still damp after being caught in several showers with nowhere to shelter. She was cold, hungry and exhausted, but a small flame of hope still burned within her heart. Giving up was not an option, but if they could not find cheap transport to get them away from the city, they would have to set off on foot. Tonight, however, they would need to rest, and already she could feel blisters the size of grapes forming on her heels. When she reached the spot where she had parted from Byron and her father, they were nowhere to be seen, and it had started to rain again.

‘Nettie.’

She turned at the sound of Byron’s voice, saw him emerge from a shack further along the river bank, and she hurried to join him.

‘I was wondering where you’d gone,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Did you have any luck?’

He shook his head. ‘No, unfortunately, but I found your dad in the boatmen’s café, drinking wine with some of the locals. He was sketching their portraits to pay for his food and drink.’

‘How like Pa. Here we are, doing our best to save him from being arrested, and all the time he’s enjoying himself.’

Byron tucked her hand in the crook of his arm. ‘Come on, Nettie. It’s not so bad. As a matter of fact he’s done what we set out to do. He’s been chatting to a bargee who remembers my grandfather and he thinks my family moved north to Beauaire, the town Mademoiselle Menjou mentioned.’

‘That’s marvellous, Byron. But how will we get there?’

‘Monsieur Durand, the bargee, has agreed to let us travel with him, providing we work our passage, and your father will be kept busy making sketches of the old fellow and his precious steam boat. Apparently Robert has met an art lover at last.’

‘Thank goodness for that,’ Nettie said wholeheartedly. ‘I don’t feel as though I can walk another step.’

‘Take my arm. The café is just over there. I’m sure your father can wheedle a cup of coffee for you. He seems well in with all of them, even though he can’t speak much French.’

Arm in arm they made their way to what was little more than a wooden shack, but when Byron opened the door Nettie was enveloped in a warm fug laced with the heady aroma of coffee, wine and the inevitable hint of garlic. Her father was seated at a long table with several others, and she could tell by his expression that he was enjoying himself. His pad of paper, slightly crumpled after its soaking, was propped up before him and he was using charcoal to sketch the proprietor. An empty cup and wineglass suggested that his artistic talents were being appreciated in the most practical way. Nettie moved to his side, greeting him with a tired smile.

‘You look comfortable here, Pa.’

Robert looked up at her, beaming. ‘I’ve made some wonderful friends, and I’ve been treated with the greatest hospitality.’ He signalled to the barman, pointing to Nettie and making a drinking motion with his hand. ‘Café, please, Monsieur. For my daughter.’ He glanced up at Byron. ‘What’s the French for “daughter”?’

Byron went to the counter and translated. He returned to the table moments later bringing a steaming cup of coffee for Nettie.

‘They think you’re very pretty,’ he said, smiling. ‘They show good taste.’

Robert tugged at Nettie’s sleeve. ‘I want you to meet Monsieur Durand, the gentleman who appreciates art and who is going to take us to safety.’ He turned to the man seated on his left. ‘Aristide, my friend, this is Nettie, my daughter.’

Aristide took Nettie’s hand and raised it to his lips. Such a gallant gesture seemed oddly out of place from a man more used to working the river than mixing with polite society. Aristide was dressed, like his fellow bargees, in baggy trousers and a coarse linen shirt, open at the neck. A bright red and white spotted neckerchief added a splash of colour, and a battered peaked cap lay on the bench beside him. He smiled and his shrewd blue eyes twinkled irresistibly beneath shaggy grey eyebrows. Nettie knew at that moment that she was going to like Aristide Durand and she had a feeling that he was a man to be trusted.

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Monsieur,’ she said, smiling.

Later, when Aristide took them to where his vessel was moored, Nettie experienced a frisson of excitement. She had grown up within yards of the River Thames and she was accustomed to seeing vessels of all types, but there was something solid and appealing about the craft that bobbed gently on its moorings, rocking like a baby’s cradle. Aristide boarded first, followed by Robert and then Byron, who held his hand out to steady Nettie as she bundled up her long skirts and stepped onto the deck. The planking was scrubbed to bone whiteness and Aristide showed them round like a proud housewife showing off a much-loved home. The cargo was stowed in the hold beneath vaulted hatch covers on either side of a single funnel, which smoked gently like an old man seated on a park bench with a pipe clenched between his teeth.

Aristide said something to Byron, who nodded and patted him on the back. ‘Monsieur Durand says this was one of the first steam barges on the Seine.’

Robert nodded vaguely. ‘Yes, that’s all very well, but where will we sleep? Ask him that, Byron.’

After a brief conversation Byron translated yet again. ‘The accommodation is very small so we’ll have to sleep on deck.’

Nettie could see that her father was about to protest. ‘That will be exciting,’ Nettie said hurriedly. ‘Please tell Monsieur Durand that we’re very grateful to him.’

‘I need a comfortable bed, but I suppose beggars can’t be choosers,’ Robert said gloomily. ‘I just hope that the fellow doesn’t expect me to swab the decks.’ He wandered off to sit in the bows with his pad and charcoal and began sketching the view.

Nettie shrugged and sighed. It seemed that nothing would ever change her father; he would go through life oblivious to the chaos he caused along the way. Perhaps all creative people were like that. She could only be glad that she had not inherited her father’s artistic temperament, and she thought longingly of the blank pages in her notebook that begged to be filled with her next attempt at the novel. Maybe she would set it in Paris, or it might be a story about life on the river – that was a chapter just waiting to be told. She dragged her thoughts back to the present, wondering what Aristide was saying to Byron. They were having a long conversation, and it was obvious that Byron struggled at times in his attempt to understand Aristide’s rapid French. Then they shook hands and Aristide strolled off to speak to Robert.

‘What did he say?’ Nettie asked eagerly. ‘How are we going to pay our way? We can’t expect him to provide transport and feed us for nothing.’

‘Aristide had a youth who crewed for him, but the boy became ill and he had to send him home to his parents. I told the old man that I know nothing about sailing a barge, but he says he needs someone to stoke the boiler and work the locks. He said we can all help in one way or another.’

‘I’ll be happy to cook or clean, but doing hard physical work is a bit different from sitting in a law office copying dull documents,’ Nettie said, frowning. ‘Do you think you’re up to it?’

‘It’s true that I’ve never done manual labour, but we need to get away from Paris and I want to find my mother’s family, so this seems to be the best solution all round.’

‘I’ll do what I can to help,’ Nettie said, smiling. ‘Pa will do what he always does, which is as little as possible, but I suppose I shouldn’t grumble. It was his gift with people that made Monsieur Durand offer to help us.’

‘And it was your father who got you into this mess in the first place.’

‘Yes, I know, and it’s a shame that you’ve been dragged into our affairs.’

Byron took her hand and held it in a firm grasp. ‘I knew what I was getting into, and I wanted to come to France. It was my choice.’

‘I hope we find your mother’s family, but meeting them for the first time might not be easy. After all, they turned their backs on her.’

‘I’ve thought it through and I want to find out where I came from, whether it’s good or bad. I just need to know.’

‘I understand, or at least I think I do.’

He smiled and squeezed her fingers. ‘We’re in this together, Nettie.’

‘Byron, mon ami.’ Aristide was suddenly active, marching towards them, waving his arms and shouting instructions.

Byron leaped to attention. ‘We’re off, Nettie.’ He caught the mooring line that was thrown to him from one of Aristide’s friends on the river bank. He was attempting to coil the rope when Aristide hurried up to them, and showed him how it was done. He spoke rapidly and Nettie had no idea what he was saying, but it was obvious that she was the subject of the conversation.

‘He wants to show you where he does the cooking,’ Byron said at last. ‘I think you’re to take over.’

‘That’s one thing I can do.’ Nettie nodded to Aristide, who grinned in response and headed off in the direction of the accommodation in the stern of the vessel.

Every effort had been made to use the available space, from the bench seat that pulled down into a bed, to the rows of pots and pans that hung above the tiny stove. Talking volubly and miming with dramatic gestures, Aristide managed to demonstrate what he wanted her to prepare. A large soot-blackened pan was already on the stove and when he lifted the lid the aroma of onions and garlic wafted round the cabin, but when he produced a bucket filled with live eels Nettie had to clamp her hand over her mouth to stifle a cry of horror.

Aristide seemed to find this hilarious and his round belly shook with laughter. He pulled down a flap, which suddenly became a table, and he took a cleaver from the drawer and snatched a wriggling eel from the water.

Nettie backed away, shaking her head. ‘No, Monsieur. No, I can’t do that.’ She reached the door and stepped up onto the deck, gasping for air.

‘What’s the matter?’ Robert hurried towards her. ‘You’ve gone green, girl. Are you ill?’

‘No, Pa. He wants me to kill an eel and cook it.’

‘Is that all? I used to do it all the time when I was a boy. We used to set eel traps in the Thames at night and have fried eel for breakfast next morning.’ Robert pushed past her and stepped down into the accommodation. ‘Hold on, Aristide, my friend. You must forgive my daughter, she’s been brought up to be a lady, but this is something I can do.’

Nettie remained on deck until her father reappeared, wiping his hands on a bloodied cloth. ‘How satisfying. I feel like a man of the river now.’

‘I couldn’t do it, Pa. What’s happened to the eels?’

‘They’re skinned and cut up and stewing nicely in the liquor. If only he had some parsley to add to it and some mashed potato. We’ll have to do with bread. Luckily Aristide bought some fresh this morning. I’ll leave the rest to you, dear.’ He patted her on the cheek and sauntered off, edging past the smoke stack, which was now puffing clouds of black smoke into the atmosphere as the engine creaked and groaned into action. Aristide erupted from the cabin, giving Nettie a cheery wink as he returned to take over the tiller from Byron, who was looking distinctly nervous.

Nettie was equally apprehensive and she returned to the stove, but the debris had been cleared away and the eels were simmering gently in the pan. She had to brace herself in order to taste the liquor for seasoning, but it was surprisingly pleasant and the slimy eels had been transformed into meaty white chunks. She set the table, sliced the bread and waited for the eel stew to finish cooking.

That night Nettie, her father and Byron slept on deck beneath the stars. Aristide supplied them with blankets, pillows and a tarpaulin in case it rained, but Nettie was so tired that it would have taken a violent thunderstorm to rouse her. She awakened next morning to a chorus of birdsong and the gentle plashing of the water against the hull. It had been dark when they tied up for the night, but now in the gentle light of dawn she could see that they had left the city and were in a rural setting. Trees were just bursting into leaf and cattle grazed on lush green grass, while fluffy white lambs frolicked, jumping and leaping as if for joy. Born and bred in the city, Nettie was enchanted to find herself in the countryside with air that smelled fresh and sweet, in complete contrast to the noxious, smoky fumes in the city. She scrambled to her feet, taking care not to disturb her father and Byron, who were still sleeping peacefully. Her gown lay neatly folded on top of a hatch cover and she slipped it over her head. If they were to travel far on the waterways of France they would need to make better sleeping arrangements, especially in the way of cover in case of bad weather. She buttoned her bodice and sat down to put on her boots. If Aristide was up and about she could put the kettle on and make coffee, although she would have loved a cup of tea, and perhaps she could toast what was left of yesterday’s bread. She made her way towards the stern, but came to a sudden halt at the sight of Aristide, naked as the day he was born, apart from his peaked cap, boots and a red and white spotted neckerchief. He was standing on the deck, staring out over the fields with a plume of tobacco smoke rising above his head. He turned to look at her and smiled, taking the pipe from his mouth.

‘Bonjour, Mademoiselle.’

‘Er, good morning, Monsieur Durand.’ Nettie averted her eyes. ‘Breakfast,’ she said tentatively. ‘Coffee.’

He said something in rapid French, laughed and strolled off towards the cabin. Nettie followed at a distance, trying not to look at the vast expanse of pink flesh wobbling along in front of her.

‘Byron,’ she called in a hoarse whisper. ‘Wake up, please.’ But there was no sound from where her father and Byron were sleeping and she had little choice other than to follow Aristide into the accommodation. She hung back as long as possible, and when she eventually set foot in the cabin she was relieved to see that he had pulled on a pair of baggy trousers. He indicated the stove, and she could feel the heat from the doorway. A kettle was bubbling away and he pointed to a coffee grinder and a bag of beans. Nettie knew then what she must do, and she edged past him to make a start on the coffee.

He was talking to her as if she understood what he was saying and, to keep him happy, she nodded in what felt like the right places and shook her head when he paused, eyeing her expectantly. It seemed to work, and he tapped the dottle from his pipe, refilled it from his tobacco pouch and lit it with a spill from the fire. He sauntered out on deck, slipping on his shirt and leaving a trail of smoke in his wake. Nettie heaved a sigh of relief and concentrated on making a pot of coffee, and toasting the bread left over from last night’s supper on the hob. The aroma of toast and coffee must have filtered out on deck as Byron was the first to appear, followed by Robert. Both looked bleary-eyed, but Nettie suspected that it was due to the rough red wine they had consumed rather than a lack of sleep.

Nettie sat on the bench, sipping the strong black coffee. ‘We’ve left Paris and we’re headed north, is that right, Pa?’

Robert bit into a slice of dry toast and pulled a face. ‘I want some butter and marmalade.’

‘You haven’t answered my question.’

‘Yes, dear. You know we had to leave Paris.’

‘Of course, and we’re trying to find Byron’s family as well as making sure that Constance is happy to be with Duke, but what then?’ Nettie looked from one to the other. ‘When we reach Beauaire, where do we go from there? Are we going back to England, or are we going to become water gypsies and go on to Le Havre with Monsieur Durand?’

‘I haven’t quite decided,’ Robert said vaguely. ‘It depends on whether the police have given up the chase. I can’t think that they would waste their time hunting for someone like me. It’s not as if I’ve committed murder or treason.’

‘So we might be going home?’

Robert picked up his cup and drank thirstily. ‘We’ll see.’

‘I’d better go back on deck.’ Byron made a move towards the doorway. ‘According to Aristide, we’re nearing a lock and that’s where I have to leap into action. I haven’t the slightest idea what to do, so it should be interesting.’

Nettie followed him out into the warm spring sunshine. ‘Everything moves so slowly on the river. We might be on this barge for weeks, so will you teach me to speak French? It will make things much easier.’

A slow smile lit Byron’s eyes. ‘Of course I will, and I’m sure that Aristide will co-operate fully. He’s not a bad chap when you get to know him.’

Nettie stifled a giggle. ‘I saw rather more of him that I wanted to this morning. He was standing in the bows, smoking his pipe and staring at the view with nothing on.’

‘You mean he was undressed?’

‘Exactly, although he was wearing his neckerchief and his cap.’

Byron’s lips twitched but his brow was creased in a frown. ‘I should speak to him. It’s not the done thing when there’s a young woman on board.’

‘You can’t tell him what to do on his own barge.’

‘He would be mortified if he knew you’d seen him naked.’

‘He saw me and he wasn’t at all embarrassed. I’ll just try to avoid him tomorrow morning. Anyway, I know now what to do for breakfast, and maybe we might have the opportunity to go ashore at some point. He must buy food from somewhere and there’s precious little in any of the cupboards.’

Nettie was about to return to the cabin when Byron caught her by the hand.

‘You don’t have to trail around after your father. Say the word and I’ll take you back to England. You’re not involved in Robert’s crimes.’

‘He’s my father, Byron. You’ve seen how he is, and heaven knows what would happen to him if I went home. I can’t desert him.’ Nettie withdrew her hand, giving him an apologetic smile. ‘You’re a good friend, Byron. I’m so glad you came with us.’

‘I do care about you, Nettie,’ he said slowly. ‘You must know how I feel about you.’

This time her smile was wholehearted. ‘I do, and it’s wonderful to have such a good friend.’ She stood on tiptoe to brush his cheek with a kiss. ‘Oh, heavens,’ she added, sniffing the air. ‘Someone has burned the toast and we were already low on bread.’ Without giving Byron a chance to respond Nettie returned to the cabin to find her father staring glumly at a slice of charred bread.

‘That’s the last of the bread, Nettie. Remind Aristide to buy some when we go ashore, although heaven knows when that will be. The fellow chatters away, but I haven’t the slightest idea what he’s saying.’ Robert took his pad and tin of charcoal from the shelf where he had placed them the previous evening. ‘I’m going out to sketch the view. Charming countryside – I think I could quite happily live in France for the rest of my days.’ He hesitated in the doorway. ‘I believe Aristide has a consignment of wine in one of the holds, and grain in the other. This is the life, my dear. I might have been born to it.’

He wandered out onto the deck, leaving Nettie to clear away the mess he had created.

Having tidied the cabin, swept the floor and the deck, Nettie found herself with nothing to do other than sit and admire the scenery. Aristide was at the tiller and Byron was kept busy stoking the boiler and cleaning the hatch covers, while Robert sat in the stern, sketching and sometimes dozing in the warm sunshine. Nettie found a secluded spot and took out her notebook. She sat for a while, chewing the end of her pencil as she tried to think of a suitable title for this new novel, and in the end she simply wrote Belinda, which was the name of her wayward heroine. Then she started to write.

Writing about the trials of the beautiful but headstrong young woman, Nettie lost track of time, but was brought back to reality by a sudden jolt as the barge bumped gently against the river bank.

‘This isn’t the time to be writing your diary,’ Robert said impatiently. ‘I’m going ashore with Aristide. Are you coming?’

Nettie tucked her book and pencil down behind a sack filled with grain and jumped to her feet. ‘Yes, Pa.’ She hitched up her skirts and reached out to take Byron’s hand as he leaned over from the top of the river bank. It was muddy and difficult to find a foothold but eventually she reached safety. The heroine of her book, Nettie decided, would break with convention and wear men’s breeches when she travelled by barge. The story would mirror her own experiences and therefore would be much more believable than a gothic fantasy. She was determined to make the publishers sit up and take notice of her. The adventures of Belinda Makepeace would captivate readers, and the public would queue up to buy her books.

‘Where are we?’ Nettie shielded her eyes from the sun, but they seemed to be on the edge of a wood and straight ahead there were fields filled with grazing cattle, stretching as far as she could see. They were in the middle of the country with no sign of habitation. ‘Why have we come ashore here, Pa?’

‘I don’t know.’ Robert scratched his head. ‘I need a straw hat. If we were near a town I could purchase one to protect my head and neck from the sun.’

Nettie turned to Byron. ‘There doesn’t seem to be anything here.’

Byron held up his hand. ‘Listen. That sounds like music.’

‘Music?’ Robert put his head on one side, closing his eyes. ‘Sylvan sounds. It might be fairy folk.’

‘Pa!’ Nettie said, laughing. ‘You’ve been drinking too much of the wine that Aristide hands out so liberally.’

Aristide had been standing a little apart from them, but he became animated, shouting instructions to Byron, who leaped back onto the boat and pulled back the hatch covers.

The music grew louder. Nettie could hear singing and the voices sounded very human. A flight of startled birds erupted from the wood and the music swelled, twigs snapped underfoot, and, one thing was certain – the newcomers were not fairy folk. Nettie waited, barely daring to breathe as the hubbub rose in a crescendo …