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 …
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
