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.
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
