Nettie’s Secret

Nettie took his place and guided the distraught woman into the parlour. Mademoiselle Menjou sank down on the sofa, raising a tear-stained face to Byron. She spoke volubly, gesticulating to emphasise her words.

‘What’s she saying?’ Nettie demanded. ‘What’s happened, Byron?’

‘She says that Dexter turned up late last night and the next thing she knew Constance was throwing things into a valise, and Dexter paid off most of the servants. She is to remain here and keep house with the minimum of help.’

‘Tell her we’ll take care of things,’ Robert said eagerly. ‘We could stay here until something better turns up.’

Byron shook his head. ‘She mentioned the gendarmerie, Robert. The police are involved. It seems as if they’ve been here, making enquiries about Duke’s whereabouts.’

Nettie gave Mademoiselle Menjou an encouraging smile. ‘Tell her I’m sorry, Byron, and ask her if Constance left a message for me.’

In answer to his question Mademoiselle shook her head, and her eyes brimmed with tears. She buried her head in her hands and her plump shoulders shook.

‘The police might be watching the house even now,’ Nettie said urgently. ‘I think we should get away from here as quickly as possible.’

Just as they were about to leave, Mademoiselle Menjou caught hold of Nettie’s arm. ‘Château Gaillard,’ she whispered. ‘Beauaire-en-Seine.’ She scuttled off before Nettie had a chance to ask Byron to question her further.

Nettie turned to him. ‘Did you hear what she said?’

Byron nodded. ‘I think she was trying to tell you where Duke had taken Constance. If I remember my geography lessons at school, Beauaire is a small river-side town, north of Paris.’

Chapter Five (#u927bd60e-443d-5d9c-b74f-fa197a2d0d32)

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 thefamily 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.’