by Dilly Court
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.
Then, suddenly, everything changed when they reached Beauaire, a charming small town set beneath high chalky cliffs. Nettie was eager to go ashore and make enquiries about the château, which was clearly visible from the river, and Robert wanted to purchase more sketching pads and charcoal. Always on the lookout to earn money, he said he hoped to sell a few portraits. Nettie suspected that this would entail her father taking residence outside a convenient café so that he could drink wine while touting for business, and no doubt Aristide would join him. They made an odd couple, as different from each other as it was possible to be, and yet they had become good friends. They managed to converse using a mixture of sign language and odd words and phrases in French and English. To an onlooker it might appear like a comic double act, but Nettie knew that her father had found someone with whom he was completely at ease. Where they differed most was their attitude to women: Aristide was a philanderer, but Nettie had never known her father to show more than a professional interest in his female clients. She had realised as a child that he had suffered greatly when her mother died and had never looked to find a replacement for his lost love. For all his failings, Nettie would have loved him if only for his devotion to her dead mother, and to herself. Selfish, self-opinionated and easily led, Robert Carroll had a faithful heart, and to Nettie that meant everything. She knew she could never love a man who played her false.
Going ashore felt like a holiday, and, true to character, Aristide and Robert chose to take a seat outside the first café they came across in the marketplace. This left Nettie and Byron to explore the narrow cobbled streets, lined with half-timbered buildings, nestling beneath a turreted castle. Nettie felt as though she had gone back in time or had landed in the middle of a fairy tale. She would not have been surprised to see characters from much-loved children’s stories roaming freely amongst the burghers and their well-dressed wives, but what was even more astonishing was the small cobbler’s shop they discovered in a back street with the name JEAN JOUBERT in bold black letters above the door.
Nettie clutched Byron’s arm. ‘Do you think Monsieur Joubert is one of your relatives?’
‘There’s only one way to find out.’ Byron braced his shoulders and his knuckles whitened as he grasped the door handle.
‘Fingers crossed,’ Nettie whispered as she followed him into the dark interior. The smell of leather and glue was the first thing she noticed as she peered into the gloom, and then she saw a middle-aged man bent over a shoemaker’s last. He looked up, peering at them over the top of steel-rimmed spectacles.
Nettie held her breath while Byron tried to make himself understood. The older man seemed to be a little hard of hearing, and perhaps Byron’s accent was unfamiliar, but eventually the conversation became more animated, and Nettie was able to grasp a few words. It was only when the cobbler lifted the hatch in the counter and emerged to throw his arms around Byron that she was convinced that they had come to the right place.
Byron turned to her with tears in his eyes. ‘Nettie, this is my uncle Jean – my mother’s elder brother.’
Nettie bobbed a curtsey, which felt like the right thing to do in this town where dreams seemed to come true. ‘Bonjour, Monsieur.’ The words had barely left her lips when she found herself hugged against a leather apron, with Jean Joubert talking so fast that she could not keep up with the flow of rapid French.
He released her and hurried back behind the counter, where he opened a door and beckoned to them. Byron went first and Nettie followed him into a small parlour, which was crammed with furniture and bric-a-brac on every surface, reminding her forcibly of the cabin on Aristide’s barge. A kettle simmered on a small black-leaded range and Jean chattered volubly while he ground beans to make a pot of coffee.
‘What is he saying?’ Nettie asked in a low voice, during one of Jean’s rare pauses to catch his breath.
‘He is the only member of the family living in this town. He had to leave the river due to ill health.’ Byron’s eyes misted with emotion. ‘He’s been telling me about my mother, and why she left the barge and went to live in the city.’
Nettie thanked Jean as he handed her a steaming bowl of coffee. It was dark and bitter and she would have liked to ask for sugar, but she didn’t want to appear rude, and she sat quietly sipping the hot beverage. Byron and Jean were deep in conversation and she waited until there was a brief pause.
‘I think I should leave you to get to know your uncle,’ she said in a low voice. ‘You don’t need me here.’
‘I’m sorry, Nettie. We’ve been ignoring you.’
She rose to her feet, smiling apologetically at Jean. ‘Not at all. I think it’s wonderful that you’ve found your uncle. I’ll explore the town and I’ll meet you at the café where we left Pa and Aristide.’
‘Are you sure you’ll be all right on you own?’ Byron asked anxiously. ‘You’ve never been here before and you might lose your way.’
‘I’m sure I can manage without too much difficulty, and I need to find a haberdashery where I can buy needles and thread.’
‘All right,’ Byron said reluctantly. ‘But take care.’
‘I will. Don’t worry about me.’ Nettie smiled and leaned over to kiss his tanned cheek. She turned to Jean. ‘Au revoir, Monsieur.’ He responded in kind and Nettie made her way through the shop and let herself out into the street.
After the stuffy atmosphere of the parlour and the musty darkness of the shop, it was a pleasure to step into the sunshine and take deep breaths of fresh air.
Nettie set off in search of a shop that would stock what she needed, as her limited wardrobe had suffered during her time on board the barge, and now she had several tears to mend. In a sudden burst of generosity her father had given her some of the
money that he had received for his sketches, and she might even treat herself to a ribbon or two. The prospect of shopping, even for something so simple, was exciting in itself, and as Nettie roamed the backstreets in the shadow of the great castle, she could imagine her novel’s heroine, Belinda, gazing out from one of the towers, unable to enjoy such freedom. Eventually she found a shop that sold what she wanted and she managed to make herself understood with the smattering of French that Byron had taught her. When she left the shop the tempting smell of hot bread wafted from a nearby bakery, making her mouth water, and, as she returned to the square she came across market stalls laden with fresh produce. It was midday and she was hungry. She quickened her pace as she headed for the café where she had left her father.
As she had expected, Robert was surrounded by curious townsfolk, who were watching intently as he completed a sketch of a plump, well-dressed matron. He held it up for the woman to see and she put her head on one side, squinting short-sightedly at the drawing. For a moment Nettie thought the subject of the portrait was going to criticise Robert’s efforts, but even at this distance Nettie could see that her father had flattered the sitter. Gone were the wrinkles around her thin lips, which he had made fuller, and he had erased the double chin. The woman in the portrait had a gentler, more pleasing and much younger appearance, and one of the onlookers began to clap, the others joining in. Madame rose majestically to her feet and took a purse from her reticule. She paid, if rather grudgingly, and marched off, clutching the likeness of herself as she might have looked a decade earlier.
Nettie made her way through the crowd and took a seat next to Aristide, who was smoking a cigarillo. On the table in front of him was a bottle of red wine and two glasses, one full and the other almost empty. He leaned forward to refill his glass, squinting through a spiral of tobacco smoke, but at that particular moment Robert leaped to his feet, tilting the table and sending the bottle crashing onto the cobblestones. A puddle of red wine spread from the broken glass like a pool of blood, and Aristide uttered a string of words that were not in Nettie’s vocabulary, although she did not need an interpreter to tell her that he was extremely displeased. But it was her father’s startled expression that made her turn her head, and she stood up, hardly able to believe her eyes.
Robert rushed towards the familiar figure who had emerged from the crowd. ‘Duke. You’re the last person I expected to see here.’
Aristide looked up at Nettie, eyebrows raised, but she was lost for words in English or French, and even more so when she saw the young woman who walked a few paces behind Duke.
‘Constance!’ Nettie hurried towards her, arms outstretched.
‘Nettie. I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.’ Constance grasped Nettie’s hands, her lips quivering with emotion.
‘Come and sit down. You’re white as a ghost. Why did you leave Paris without telling me?’
‘It happened so suddenly.’ Constance cast a wary look at Duke, who had his arm around Robert’s shoulders, hugging him as if he were a long-lost friend instead of the business associate he had abandoned and left to take the blame for his crimes.
‘Nettie, my dear girl,’ Duke said, smiling. ‘I can’t tell you how delighted I am to see you and your father. What an amazing stroke of luck.’
‘What are you doing here, Duke?’ Robert’s smile faded into a frown. ‘You disappeared when I needed your help the most.’
Aristide rose to his feet, his bushy eyebrows drawn together over the bridge of his nose. He spoke rapidly to Robert, but it was Duke who stepped forward, holding out his hand and smiling as he answered in fluent French.
Aristide sank back on his chair, eyeing Duke warily.
‘I don’t know who your friend is, Robert, but he has a colourful vocabulary.’ Duke summoned a waiter with an imperious flick of his fingers.
‘Aristide Durand is a bargee who saved us from destitution in Paris after you abandoned us.’ Robert’s smile was replaced by a frown. ‘You have a lot to answer for, Duke.’
Seemingly unabashed, Duke grasped Aristide’s hand and shook it, speaking to him in a conciliatory tone, which seemed to have a calming effect, and even more so when Duke gave the waiter an order that brought a smile to Aristide’s face.
Duke turned his attention to Constance. ‘You look unwell, my dear. Would you like to go back to the château and wait for me there?’
She shook her head. ‘No, thank you. I want to talk to Nettie.’
‘I’ve ordered coffee and those pancakes with chocolate that you like so much.’ Duke patted her on the shoulder as if he were humouring a child. ‘Look after her for me, Miss Carroll, while I talk to your father and his new friend. We have business to discuss.’
Nettie glared at him. She had suffered greatly, thanks in part to Duke Dexter, and she was not going to let him off so easily. ‘Whatever you say to my pa concerns me, too, Duke. You left us to fend for ourselves in London and again in Paris. We were lucky that Monsieur Durand allowed us to travel with him, but where we go next is anybody’s guess.’
‘Leave us to talk this through, Nettie,’ Robert said hastily. ‘I need to have words with Duke in private.’
‘Just remember that whatever you decide will involve me, too.’ Nettie met Duke’s amused gaze with a steady look. ‘Don’t try to involve my father in your schemes, because I won’t stand for it.’
He shrugged. ‘I’ll be sure to ask you for your advice before I plan my next move, Miss Carroll.’
Nettie turned her back on him. At this moment she hated Duke Dexter and all he stood for. Life with her father before he had become embroiled in Duke’s schemes had been far from perfect, and times had been hard, but now they were homeless and on the run from the police – and all thanks to the man who had greeted Pa like a long-lost friend.
She turned to Constance with a conciliatory smile. ‘Let’s sit down and we can talk.’
Constance moved to another table and a waiter brought the food that Duke had ordered. Nettie would have liked to refuse to eat it, but she was hungry and the aroma of warm chocolate and crisp pancakes was too tempting. She took a seat next to Constance, turning her back on Duke and her father. Aristide had not been taken in by Duke’s seemingly effortless charm; she could only hope that he would provide a voice of reason if Duke suggested another nefarious scheme involving her father.
Constance picked at her food. ‘I’m sorry that we left Paris without telling you, Nettie.’
‘What happened? Why did you go with Duke?’
‘He’s my guardian. I didn’t have much choice.’
‘But Paris is your home. Duke spends most of his time in London.’
Constance pushed her plate away. ‘I’m not hungry. Perhaps you could eat it for me.’
‘No, thank you. It was delicious, but I’ve had enough.’ Nettie leaned towards Constance, lowering her voice. ‘Why did Duke have to leave Paris in such a hurry?’
‘I don’t know, Nettie. He doesn’t tell me everything.’
Nettie glanced over her shoulder and saw her father and Duke with their heads together while Aristide looked on, glowering. ‘He’s up to something,’ Nettie said slowly. ‘And it concerns Pa. I don’t want him to get involved in crime again.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Are you so naïve that you don’t know how Duke makes his money?’
‘He’s an art dealer,’ Constance said slowly. ‘He buys and sells fine paintings.’
‘Yes, he does, and he also sells forgeries. That’s where my father comes in. He makes copies of paintings that even experts find it difficult to tell apart from the originals.’
‘You must be mistaken,’ Constance said in a whisper. ‘Duke is a respected businessman.’
‘If you take my advice you’ll leave him and return to Paris. You don’t want someone like Duke as your guardian.’
‘You’re wrong about Duke, Nettie. You don’t know him like I do.’
‘What are you keeping from me, Constance?
’
‘It has nothing to do with you, so please don’t ask.’
‘Why not?’
Constance was about to answer when Duke appeared suddenly at her side. ‘We have to leave now.’
‘Why?’ Nettie demanded. ‘What are you doing, Duke?’
He eyed her coldly. ‘You’d better come with us. If you don’t believe me, just look round.’
Nettie turned her head, but the sight that met her eyes made her leap to her feet. Aristide and Robert were being led away by two gendarmes.
‘Pa!’ Nettie was about to run after them, but Duke caught her round the waist and dragged her into the crowd.
Chapter Seven
Despite her protests, Nettie was hurried through the marketplace and into a narrow, cobbled street that wound its way up the hill, ending abruptly at a postern gate set in a high stone wall. Duke opened it and ushered them inside.
‘What’s happening?’ Nettie demanded breathlessly. ‘Why were my father and Aristide arrested?’
‘You’d better ask them that, if and when you next see them,’ Duke said tersely. ‘Be thankful that I was there to save you from the indignity of being taken by the gendarmes.’
‘If they’ve traced Pa here, why are you still a free man?’
‘You’re upset,’ Constance said gently. ‘Come to the house and we can talk about it in comfort.’
‘I should be with my father. What good can I do him here?’
‘Constance is right. Asking questions I cannot answer will get you nowhere, Nettie. You’re free to go if that’s what you wish, but giving yourself up to the police won’t help Robert. We’re in a foreign country and we need to go about this with tact and diplomacy.’ Duke strode off along a path set between flowering cherry trees. His boots crunched on the gravel, shattering the silence that had suddenly fallen upon the neatly ordered gardens surrounding the château.