Nettie’s Secret. Dilly Court
had to clamp her hand over her mouth to stifle a cry of horror.
Aristide seemed to find this hilarious and his round belly shook with laughter. He pulled down a flap, which suddenly became a table, and he took a cleaver from the drawer and snatched a wriggling eel from the water.
Nettie backed away, shaking her head. ‘No, Monsieur. No, I can’t do that.’ She reached the door and stepped up onto the deck, gasping for air.
‘What’s the matter?’ Robert hurried towards her. ‘You’ve gone green, girl. Are you ill?’
‘No, Pa. He wants me to kill an eel and cook it.’
‘Is that all? I used to do it all the time when I was a boy. We used to set eel traps in the Thames at night and have fried eel for breakfast next morning.’ Robert pushed past her and stepped down into the accommodation. ‘Hold on, Aristide, my friend. You must forgive my daughter, she’s been brought up to be a lady, but this is something I can do.’
Nettie remained on deck until her father reappeared, wiping his hands on a bloodied cloth. ‘How satisfying. I feel like a man of the river now.’
‘I couldn’t do it, Pa. What’s happened to the eels?’
‘They’re skinned and cut up and stewing nicely in the liquor. If only he had some parsley to add to it and some mashed potato. We’ll have to do with bread. Luckily Aristide bought some fresh this morning. I’ll leave the rest to you, dear.’ He patted her on the cheek and sauntered off, edging past the smoke stack, which was now puffing clouds of black smoke into the atmosphere as the engine creaked and groaned into action. Aristide erupted from the cabin, giving Nettie a cheery wink as he returned to take over the tiller from Byron, who was looking distinctly nervous.
Nettie was equally apprehensive and she returned to the stove, but the debris had been cleared away and the eels were simmering gently in the pan. She had to brace herself in order to taste the liquor for seasoning, but it was surprisingly pleasant and the slimy eels had been transformed into meaty white chunks. She set the table, sliced the bread and waited for the eel stew to finish cooking.
That night Nettie, her father and Byron slept on deck beneath the stars. Aristide supplied them with blankets, pillows and a tarpaulin in case it rained, but Nettie was so tired that it would have taken a violent thunderstorm to rouse her. She awakened next morning to a chorus of birdsong and the gentle plashing of the water against the hull. It had been dark when they tied up for the night, but now in the gentle light of dawn she could see that they had left the city and were in a rural setting. Trees were just bursting into leaf and cattle grazed on lush green grass, while fluffy white lambs frolicked, jumping and leaping as if for joy. Born and bred in the city, Nettie was enchanted to find herself in the countryside with air that smelled fresh and sweet, in complete contrast to the noxious, smoky fumes in the city. She scrambled to her feet, taking care not to disturb her father and Byron, who were still sleeping peacefully. Her gown lay neatly folded on top of a hatch cover and she slipped it over her head. If they were to travel far on the waterways of France they would need to make better sleeping arrangements, especially in the way of cover in case of bad weather. She buttoned her bodice and sat down to put on her boots. If Aristide was up and about she could put the kettle on and make coffee, although she would have loved a cup of tea, and perhaps she could toast what was left of yesterday’s bread. She made her way towards the stern, but came to a sudden halt at the sight of Aristide, naked as the day he was born, apart from his peaked cap, boots and a red and white spotted neckerchief. He was standing on the deck, staring out over the fields with a plume of tobacco smoke rising above his head. He turned to look at her and smiled, taking the pipe from his mouth.
‘Bonjour, Mademoiselle.’
‘Er, good morning, Monsieur Durand.’ Nettie averted her eyes. ‘Breakfast,’ she said tentatively. ‘Coffee.’
He said something in rapid French, laughed and strolled off towards the cabin. Nettie followed at a distance, trying not to look at the vast expanse of pink flesh wobbling along in front of her.
‘Byron,’ she called in a hoarse whisper. ‘Wake up, please.’ But there was no sound from where her father and Byron were sleeping and she had little choice other than to follow Aristide into the accommodation. She hung back as long as possible, and when she eventually set foot in the cabin she was relieved to see that he had pulled on a pair of baggy trousers. He indicated the stove, and she could feel the heat from the doorway. A kettle was bubbling away and he pointed to a coffee grinder and a bag of beans. Nettie knew then what she must do, and she edged past him to make a start on the coffee.
He was talking to her as if she understood what he was saying and, to keep him happy, she nodded in what felt like the right places and shook her head when he paused, eyeing her expectantly. It seemed to work, and he tapped the dottle from his pipe, refilled it from his tobacco pouch and lit it with a spill from the fire. He sauntered out on deck, slipping on his shirt and leaving a trail of smoke in his wake. Nettie heaved a sigh of relief and concentrated on making a pot of coffee, and toasting the bread left over from last night’s supper on the hob. The aroma of toast and coffee must have filtered out on deck as Byron was the first to appear, followed by Robert. Both looked bleary-eyed, but Nettie suspected that it was due to the rough red wine they had consumed rather than a lack of sleep.
Nettie sat on the bench, sipping the strong black coffee. ‘We’ve left Paris and we’re headed north, is that right, Pa?’
Robert bit into a slice of dry toast and pulled a face. ‘I want some butter and marmalade.’
‘You haven’t answered my question.’
‘Yes, dear. You know we had to leave Paris.’
‘Of course, and we’re trying to find Byron’s family as well as making sure that Constance is happy to be with Duke, but what then?’ Nettie looked from one to the other. ‘When we reach Beauaire, where do we go from there? Are we going back to England, or are we going to become water gypsies and go on to Le Havre with Monsieur Durand?’
‘I haven’t quite decided,’ Robert said vaguely. ‘It depends on whether the police have given up the chase. I can’t think that they would waste their time hunting for someone like me. It’s not as if I’ve committed murder or treason.’
‘So we might be going home?’
Robert picked up his cup and drank thirstily. ‘We’ll see.’
‘I’d better go back on deck.’ Byron made a move towards the doorway. ‘According to Aristide, we’re nearing a lock and that’s where I have to leap into action. I haven’t the slightest idea what to do, so it should be interesting.’
Nettie followed him out into the warm spring sunshine. ‘Everything moves so slowly on the river. We might be on this barge for weeks, so will you teach me to speak French? It will make things much easier.’
A slow smile lit Byron’s eyes. ‘Of course I will, and I’m sure that Aristide will co-operate fully. He’s not a bad chap when you get to know him.’
Nettie stifled a giggle. ‘I saw rather more of him that I wanted to this morning. He was standing in the bows, smoking his pipe and staring at the view with nothing on.’
‘You mean he was undressed?’
‘Exactly, although he was wearing his neckerchief and his cap.’
Byron’s lips twitched but his brow was creased in a frown. ‘I should speak to him. It’s not the done thing when there’s a young woman on board.’
‘You can’t tell him what to do on his own barge.’
‘He would be mortified if he knew you’d seen him naked.’
‘He saw me and he wasn’t at all embarrassed. I’ll just try to avoid him tomorrow morning. Anyway, I know now what to do for breakfast, and maybe we might have the opportunity to go ashore at some point. He must buy food from somewhere and there’s precious little in any of the cupboards.’
Nettie