gusts of laughter, made her feel as if she was a guest at a party. The savoury aroma of cooking emanated from the café, laced with wine and garlic, and everyone seemed to be smoking the exotic-smelling tobacco, even the women. Nettie felt as though she had entered another world.
‘I think I might like it here,’ she said, smiling. ‘Maybe we could discover something about your mother’s family, Byron.’ She turned to her father, who was already on his second glass of wine. ‘Did you know that Byron’s mother came from Paris?’
‘Really?’ Robert sipped his drink. ‘I wondered how you came to learn the lingo.’
‘Will you try to find your family?’ Nettie asked eagerly.
‘I doubt if I’ll have much luck,’ Byron said slowly. ‘They were what are commonly known as water gypsies – never in one place for very long. I know very little about them.’
‘That’s even more of a reason to look for them.’ Nettie rarely drank alcohol and now she felt pleasantly relaxed, and perhaps she understood a little why her father enjoyed a glass or two of wine. ‘We could make enquiries, Byron. What was your mother’s maiden name?’
‘She was called Lisette, but I never knew her maiden name. It wasn’t mentioned.’
‘Maybe we can find someone who remembers the family.’
‘It was a long time ago, nearly a quarter of a century. My grandparents might be dead, for all I know.’
‘Ah! That smells good.’ Robert brightened up as the waiter appeared with their order. ‘Let’s eat and enjoy our meal. Forget relatives, forget London.’ Robert raised his glass. ‘Here’s to Paris, and a new beginning.’
Nettie joined in the toast, but even under the mellowing influence of the wine, she had a feeling that starting afresh in a foreign country was not going to be easy.
Nettie’s fears grew as the days passed and her father earned very little money despite his efforts to promote himself. He was not the only artist attempting to make a living by touting for business in the square or on the steps of the great cathedral, and those who were there before him were not particularly welcoming. The fact that he could not speak a word of French also went against him, and the only people who paid to have their likenesses executed in charcoal were English visitors to the city, who were delighted to find someone with whom they could carry on a conversation. Nettie accompanied her father for the first few days, posing as an enthusiastic subject while he sketched her portrait, but even that failed to draw in an adequate number of clients eager to part with their money.
Byron went out daily, seeking work and returning each evening with very little to show for his efforts. They dined at the café each evening, but now they chose the cheapest food and wine, and during the day they ate almost nothing. Robert continued to be optimistic, but Nettie knew in her heart that they could not afford to live in Paris. At the end of the first week, with the rent due, she was tempted to go to the address that Duke had given her and ask for his help. After all, he was responsible for their being in this dire state, and he might be able to offer some good advice. He owed them that at least.
After a particularly bad day, when a sudden downpour soaked them to the skin and ruined a pad of expensive paper, Robert retreated to the café and ordered a glass of brandy and a pot of coffee. He had been quick to learn the French for what he considered to be the necessities in life. Nettie stood beside him with rainwater dripping off her straw bonnet, which was almost certainly beyond saving, and her wet clothing was causing her to shiver even though the day was relatively warm.
‘Did you have to do that, Pa?’ she demanded crossly.
‘I need something stronger than coffee. Where would you be if I sickened and died?’
For a brief moment Nettie was tempted to tell him that she would be far better off without him, but she knew that was not true. Despite his faults she loved her father and she would do her best to protect him from a world that was proving indifferent to his undoubted talent. ‘We have to be careful with money, Pa,’ she said, making an effort to be reasonable.
‘I should remind you that it is my money, Nettie. I have to look after myself. I have a great talent that must be nurtured. They’ll acknowledge it here, eventually.’
Nettie could see that she was getting nowhere. ‘I’m going back to the room to change into something dry. Perhaps you should do the same.’
‘That’s it, run along, my love.’ Robert greeted the waiter with a smile. ‘Merci.’ He grabbed the glass of brandy and sipped it with obvious pleasure. ‘I’ll be quite all right, Nettie. I’ll see you later – and bring a fresh supply of paper, please. We’ll try again this afternoon.’
Nettie hurried back to their rooms, narrowly avoiding Madame, who was standing outside a door on the fourth floor, hammering on it with both fists. She was shouting volubly and she neither heard nor saw Nettie, making it possible for her to slip past and race up the narrow staircase to the attics. Safely inside, she stripped off her wet garments and hung them over a rope that Byron had stretched from one side of the room to the other, which served as a clothes line. When the sun shone the rooms beneath the sloping roof were like an oven, but at night the temperature dropped noticeably, and Nettie could barely imagine how cold it must be in midwinter.
She dressed quickly, choosing her best gown and mantle and her only other bonnet. Assuming that Byron had not found any work that would earn him a few centimes, there was only one path open to them now. She opened the door and tiptoed downstairs. They had one more day in which to find next week’s rent, and she was ready to sup with the devil, if necessary.
The address that Duke had given her proved to be an elegant town house, set back from the street with a small paved front garden. It looked surprisingly respectable for a man who earned his living by fraud. She tugged at the doorbell and heard its peal echoing around what she imagined to be a large entrance hall, probably marble-tiled with a sweeping staircase and elegant furniture. She was expecting a uniformed maidservant, or even a smartly dressed butler to answer her knock, but to her surprise it was a young woman who opened the door. Her fair hair was taken back from her oval face and piled high on the top of her head, cascading around her shoulders in silky curls, and her striped dimity gown was the height of fashion.
Nettie had not been prepared to meet the lady of the house, or perhaps this was the daughter, judging by this person’s youthful appearance. Had it been a servant, Nettie would have shown them the visiting card and indicated that she wished to see Monsieur Gaillard, but now she was at a loss. She took the visiting card from her reticule, holding it up for the young woman to see. ‘Monsieur Gaillard?’
‘You are English?’ The young woman spoke with a charming French accent.
Nettie could have cried with relief. ‘Yes, I am. A gentleman I know gave me this visiting card and told me to contact him if I needed his assistance.’
‘You’d better come in.’
Nettie stepped over the threshold and found herself in an entrance hall not unlike the one she had imagined. ‘My name is Nettie Carroll,’ she began shyly.
‘I’m Constance Gaillard. Perhaps I can help.’
Nettie stared at her in disbelief. ‘You have the same surname as
