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.
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