Nettie’s Secret

‘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 …

Chapter Six (#ulink_58a99a17-12c2-5bc4-ae5c-27dc317294f0)

Aristide stood with open arms as the crowd burst from the darkness into the bright sunshine, their costumes ablaze with colour, curls flying, hands clapping in time to a fiddler and the beat of a drum.

‘What on earth is going on?’ Nettie whispered into her father’s ear. ‘Where did all these people come from?’

Robert grasped her hand. ‘I’ve no idea, but Aristide seems to know them. Smile, Nettie. Stop looking scared.’

She bared her teeth in an attempt at a grin. ‘I’m not frightened, Pa. I’m amazed to think that these people knew we were here, but I don’t understand why they are so pleased to see us.’

‘It’s Aristide they love,’ Robert said in a low voice. ‘We’d best keep out of the way.’ He stepped aside as the crowd of men, women and children converged on the river bank.

Aristide was at the front, holding up his hands for silence. Then, with a surprisingly athletic move for a man of his age and build, he leaped on board, and, in answer to their names being called, the onlookers stepped onto the barge, laying their contributions on the deck in return for a large bag of grain and as many bottles of wine as they could carry.

Nettie watched in awe as the gifts of bread, vegetables, meat, fruit, cheese and milk piled up on deck, and then the party began. Bottles were uncorked and Nettie found herself being offered a drink by a burly, bewhiskered French farmer. She refused at first, but realising that she had offended him, she took the bottle and held it to her lips, sipping just enough to be sociable. This seemed to be the sign that she was willing to dance with him and he whirled her around in time to the music. Soon everyone was dancing, even the small children, and the older men and women sat round chatting like old friends who had not seen each other for some considerable time.

Byron had come ashore and Nettie made the excuse of being too breathless to keep dancing, miming in a desperate attempt to convince her new beau that she needed to rest. She moved swiftly to Byron’s side, and the frolicking farmer seized another girl round the waist and danced off with her into the wood.

‘What’s going on?’ Nettie had to raise her voice to make herself heard over the noise.

‘Aristide visits here once a month, so he told me. These people come from outlying farms and it’s quite a social event.’

Nettie chuckled and nodded. ‘Yes, I can see that. But I thought he was transporting the wine from a vineyard to a wholesaler. That’s what Pa told me, and the grain is for a distillery in Le Havre.’

‘They’ll get what’s left after Aristide either drinks or barters it away. It seems to be the accepted way of life, or the way he runs things. Right or wrong, they’re all having a wonderful time.’

‘I think that pretty girl with the scarlet blouse is eyeing you, Byron. It looks as though you’ve made a conquest.’

He backed towards the edge of the bank. ‘Maybe I’d better get on board and put some of that food away before it goes off in the heat of the sun.’

‘I thought you’d be flattered,’ Nettie said, chuckling. ‘She is very attractive, Byron.’

‘I’m not a lady’s man,’ he muttered. ‘I’ve never known what to say to women.’

Nettie stared at him in surprise. ‘But you’ve never had a problem with talking to me.’

‘You’re different.’ He lowered himself onto the deck and began scooping up the perishable goods.

Nettie was about follow him when another young man tapped her on the arm. He was a year or so her junior at a guess, but he smiled shyly and she could not disappoint him by refusing to dance. As they galloped around, clapping in time to the beat of the drum, and kicking up their heels, Nettie could see that her father had taken advantage of the situation. He had retrieved his pad and charcoal and was sketching the villagers as they drank, danced and enjoyed themselves. One elderly farmer sat for his portrait and paid for it in tobacco, and another, emboldened by his friend, had his likeness sketched in exchange for his straw hat.

Nettie danced with her young admirer, but the language barrier made communication difficult, and then she was claimed by an older man with straying hands. His breath reeked of garlic and he was very drunk, but she managed to put him in his place without creating a scene, and by that time people had begun to drift away. Nettie took this as her cue to say adieu to the ageing Lothario and she joined Byron on board the barge.

‘That was a surprise,’ she said, chuckling. ‘I wonder if this will happen every time we set ashore.’

Byron picked up a sack of potatoes and slung it over his shoulder. ‘It seems to work for old Aristide, and Robert has got the hat he wanted, even if it is a bit battered.’ Byron sniffed the air as a cloud of blue smoke wafted their way. ‘But that tobacco your father is smoking smells terrible.’

Nettie glanced at her father, who was seated in his favourite place, the straw hat pulled down over his eyes as he smoked his pipe and sipped wine from a bottle. Aristide was still on the river bank, bidding a fond farewell to a voluptuous woman, who was obviously more than a passing acquaintance. With one last, lingering kiss, he released her and backed away, blowing kisses, while a youth, who bore a striking resemblance to Aristide, looked on with a disapproving scowl. Aristide stepped on board the barge, turning to wave as the boy grabbed his mother by the hand and dragged her away.

Nettie’s fertile imagination was hard at work as she tried to imagine a young, handsome Aristide falling in love with the raven-haired country girl. Perhaps their families had opposed the match, like the Capulets and Montagues in Romeo and Juliet, but Nettie abandoned the idea almost immediately. Aristide was not a romantic hero, and, from what she had just witnessed, he was illegally bartering the goods he had been entrusted to deliver. Aristide, she decided, was just as much on the wrong side of the law as Pa, and if the French police were to take an interest in his activities, Pa, Byron and herself would be in even more trouble. She glanced at her father, who looked happier than she had seen him in a long time, and she knew that he would laugh off her worries.

‘We’re leaving now, Nettie.’ Byron stepped ashore to release the mooring rope and he tossed it to her, jumping on board as the barge started to drift towards mid-channel.

Drunk as he was, Aristide took the tiller and Byron went to stoke the boiler. The engine chugged into life and, once again, they were headed downstream.

Nettie picked up the last of the food they had been given and stowed it away safely before starting to prepare the evening meal. The meat and vegetables would make a savoury stew that would cook slowly all afternoon, ready to eat in the cool of the evening. She would have time to find a secluded spot and concentrate on the trials of Belinda, her wilful heroine, and her search for true love.

A routine developed, with each day more or less the same. They all had their duties to perform, even Robert, whose job it was to sweep the deck, which he did in a half-hearted way before retiring to the bows to make even more sketches or snooze in the sunshine, his new hat pulled down over his eyes. In the evenings, when they were moored in a sheltered spot, Aristide and Robert sat and smoked their pipes after supper and drank wine, while Byron gave Nettie lessons in French. When it was fine they went ashore and walked along the river bank, but when it rained they either huddled in the cabin, or sat beneath a tarpaulin that Byron had rigged up over their sleeping area. Nettie was beginning to enjoy life as a bargee, but she could not rid herself of the nagging fear that one day the police would descend upon them and arrest both her father and Aristide.

There had been no repeat of the impromptu party that had caught Nettie by surprise, but Aristide continued to be himself, getting up early to commune with the dawn – stark naked apart from his usual accessories – and working the barge with the expertise gained from a lifetime on the river. They had to put ashore frequently in order to barter for bread and fresh produce from small farms. Aristide knew all the farmers and smallholders by name, and everyone seemed delighted to see him. The women in particular greeted him warmly, and some of the children who came to stare at them might easily be related to the amorous bargee. Nettie wondered how he had managed to survive without a jealous husband or lover taking the law into his own hands, but Aristide seemed to be universally popular. Acting as a go-between, he passed on messages from one family to another, together with titbits of gossip that made the farmers’ wives curl up with laughter or fold their arms across their chests, pursing their lips and shaking their heads. Nettie and Byron always accompanied him on these visits, mainly to help carry whatever produce was on offer, and Nettie was eager to practise the French that Byron had taught her.

Life on the river was slow and leisurely, and the late spring weather seemed to add a touch of magic to the landscape. The sun sparkled on the water and birds sang in the trees, but the undercurrent of worry was never far from Nettie’s mind, and her only escape was getting lost in Belinda’s story. It had changed slightly in content, but her heroine had become like a second self, and the ancient castle where Belinda was held prisoner became Nettie’s retreat from the world. Belinda’s only way of communicating with the man she loved was a tame pigeon that flew in her window at night carrying a message from gallant Sebastian, who was an army officer fighting under the command of the Iron Duke. Nettie had to force herself to write slowly, even as her excitement grew with every twist and turn of the plot, and she tried to avoid crossings out, where possible. There had been vague praise for the novel that had been rejected, but a note in red ink had criticised Nettie’s presentation, and she was determined not the make the same mistake again.

When she finished writing she stowed the notebook and pencil behind the sack of flour they used for cooking, safe in the knowledge that none of the men would think of attempting to make bread – although Aristide did admit to having a go, apparently with disastrous results. Byron was useless in the kitchen and Robert could barely make a pot of tea, let alone attempt anything more ambitious. Nettie had never made bread, but pancakes were her speciality, which she served with the honey that one of the farmers had swapped for two bottles of red wine.

The hours of daylight lengthened, but Aristide showed no sign of urgency in getting his cargo to its destination. He seemed to enjoy having passengers on board, and as long as his belly was full and he had enough tobacco to smoke, and plenty of wine to drink, he did not complain. Robert’s career as creator of faked masterpieces had ended with the departure of Duke Dexter, and the longer he remained free from discovery the more confident Nettie became. Perhaps they had been granted a new start and maybe life on the river was for them. She could not speak for Byron, but she knew that he was still hoping to find his mother’s family and he questioned everyone he met, although with little success. Sometimes his hopes were raised by someone who said they remembered the Joubert family, but their memories were always vague and inconclusive.