The Perfumer's Secret (10 page)

The De Lasset chemist was an old man: he had to be sixty and his assistant, the only one left that I could see, perhaps a decade younger. They both looked startled to see me arrive in the hallowed chamber of their laboratory. They were surrounded by bottles of all shapes and sizes containing liquid of varying shades of yellow through green to brown. Some bottles were an opaque chocolate colour to house the more fragile oils; the clear-glassed bottles gleamed jewel-like at me. I never failed to be seduced by their potential.

Both men halted in their activity as though they’d been caught in mischief. They had been working near two large chunks of dull grey ambergris. This waxy regurgitation from the digestion of whales had lost its primitive, faecal quality and had aged to offer up its earthy, sweeter aroma. I had never lost my fascination for this vital element of the perfumer’s craft. Since my father had explained its origin, I had come to favour it as an anchor flavour in perfumes. Felix had read somewhere that once expelled – by only the sperm whale, he assured me – it took years to form, floating endlessly on the ocean to wash up on beaches. Its rarity was profound, its price akin to gold. Our guild treated it with enormous respect, used it in tiniest amounts, and yet I felt myself mesmerised by the pair of enormous boulders of this uncommon material.

‘Madame De Lasset!’

‘Oh, do call me Madame Fleurette, please,’ I urged. ‘Good morning, Monsieur Planque. You must be missing your brother,’ I said, proud of my memory. ‘He is surely missed in the warehouse.’

‘Philippe will write when he can to assure us of his whereabouts and safety,’ he said, stiffly. ‘Madame, may I present Monsieur Boucard, who works alongside me.’

‘Monsieur Boucard,’ I repeated and smiled, nodding in polite salutation.

The man looked appalled to see me in the lab and merely bowed, clicking his heels.

‘How are you getting along, sirs?’ I was determined to circumvent all the formality but suspected it would be an uphill task with these gentlemen.

‘I am perfectly well, Madame. And your good self?’

‘As you find me. A bit wearied from the picking but otherwise brightened because of it, given the mood of our town.’

They both stared at me as though I was a new life form.

‘What are you working on, Monsieur?’ I said, trying to get a conversation started.

‘Er . . . it’s a blend for an English perfumery.’

‘Yes? Good, and what is the brief?’

The men shared a glance. ‘Base notes of leather, Madame. It is to be used in a range of toiletries.’

‘I suspect it will be years before that client pays, under the circumstances.’

He nodded, still looking stunned. ‘I expect you are right, Madame.’

There was an awkward pause.

‘How can we help you, Madame De Lasset?’

‘Actually, I came to offer some help, see if I might be of service.’

‘Pardon me, Madame? In what regard might that be?’

I couldn’t tell if he was being deliberately obtuse.

‘Well . . . I am every inch my father’s daughter,’ I tried, hoping to clue him without sounding arrogant. But Monsieur Planque just looked back at me, perplexed. ‘I mean, I have the Nose.’ It sounded so pompous and yet the boast was out and parading between us – the one my father had reminded me as he had died that I was not to air.

‘How can something be boastful if one is only speaking the plain truth?’ I had asked him.

He had given me an indulgent smile. ‘Let those around you discover all your talents for themselves. Someone who needs to impress others is someone suffering insecurity. Do not be that person, darling Fleurette. Be strong but understand you are a woman with a gift that only men believe they should possess and in a time when they will hate you for it.’

‘Then I’m going to change the world’s attitude. I am going to become a leading perfumer.’

‘I hope you do, but you must demonstrate your talent, not talk about it . . . and you must tiptoe this idea into their lives, let stealth be your friend, my girl.’ He’d paused for a coughing fit and when recovered, sucking air as though each breath might be his last, he had continued. ‘They must turn around one day and realise a woman perfumer is in their midst and by then it will be too late to deny you.’ His voice rasped, sounded wheezy. Soon one of these sucking breaths would indeed be his last, I recalled thinking with deepest dismay. ‘But if you show off or push your dream too hard before them, they will resent you and work against you. A man must be permitted his pride, Fleurette, never forget that. The day of the woman perfumer is surely coming and I hope you lead that charge, but you must arrive quietly and not make your male peers feel any less for that arrival.’ My father had died the following day but I could now hear his caution, which I’d ignored.

‘Congratulations, Madame Fleurette; that is a rare and enviable talent. Yes, I had heard of your special prowess.’ He made a good fist of trying to disguise his mocking words.

I had to go forward, though; it was too late to back away. ‘I thought, given that we are living through these unusual times, that I might offer some involvement.’

‘Really? In what way?’ He managed to make himself sound entirely self-effacing and innocent, but this was the type of man my father had referred to . . . and all like him. They came from a previous generation and a previous century because the leap I was trying to make here required him to jump his thinking forward in the most luminary of ways.

Perhaps it was the assistant who cut Planque a sideways glance of amusement that got my ire up. I could feel the very beast that my father had warned against waking up inside. ‘You are aiming to achieve a masculine fragrance, am I right?’

They both nodded. Clearly neither had overlooked the fact that I was their employer’s new wife and they had to indulge me.

‘And you think men want to smell as though they’ve just staggered out of the woods, having wrestled with a bear for hours?’

Monsieur Planque blinked rapidly. ‘I’m not sure I understand what you mean, Madame.’ His tone had eased into polite now. Soon he might even hit charming.

‘How can I make this easier for you to grasp, gentlemen? A man uses scented products to add to his grooming, yes, but essentially he does so to appear attractive to others, especially women. I can assure you that in order to achieve resonance with women, you need to lift your fragrance with some scents that will round out that almost boar-like aroma that you’ve achieved.’

Planque looked as though I’d slapped him. ‘Madame! Surely you don’t mean to —’

‘But I do. Perhaps you forget that I am the reigning figurehead of both families now while our men are away fighting a war, Monsieur Planque.’ The unspoken accusation that he wasn’t there at the Front with them was nonetheless felt. I saw him flinch beneath its sting and although I felt ashamed, I couldn’t stop now. ‘If you are aiming for that horsey, fresh-from-the-barn smell, then it needs to be balanced so that a woman doesn’t simply get the impression of a sweaty rider who has fallen and rolled in the loam or perhaps even a cow pat. Do you understand my direction?’ I didn’t wait for his answer, especially as Planque set off with another series of astonished blinks. ‘Now, I love a scent that brings to mind the picture of a stable: a handsome, powerful man in his long boots and all-weather coat, the creak of leather, hay, rider and horse gently perspiring from an early morning gallop through the mist. Yes, I want it underpinned with the tobacco flower’s absolute. And of course I can smell quite rightly your addition of musk amber, white birch, juniper, oakmoss, patchouli, the woodiest of lavender, but give me a hint of this man’s humour, his romantic side, Monsieur Planque. Give me some bergamot, coumarin, the soft promise of rose . . .’ I gestured behind me in soft exasperation. ‘A shadowing of jasmine will make me helplessly think of a starlit night and its promise in that man’s arms.’

Both men gasped and I felt myself blush.

‘Forgive me.’ I cleared my throat but a fresh wave of indignation came into that silence. ‘The point is,’ I said, desperately hoping I could make one, ‘the point is that blending the more masculine aromas, especially the civet and musk I can smell, with a softening of the feminine does make the perfume more instantly attractive to the very women you’re hoping to impress. She smells the primeval, the hunter, but she knows he will not hurt her,’ I finished, hoping my storytelling was working.

Mercifully, Monsieur Planque nodded and I hoped I wasn’t imagining the brief eruption of respect I noted in his expression. ‘How about some olibanum?’ he said.

‘Perfect, of course. It remains woody but strikes a citrus chord so that freshness will ride through the smokier flavours, and if you do decide to use the fresher bergamot, then the olibanum will modify it. It will of course enter the realm of the exotic with the addition of olibanum resin.’

‘Because it echoes frankincense,’ his colleague offered hopefully, trying to rescue us from the brink we’d been leaning over.

‘Indeed. And I for one can’t wait to smell that fragrance. May I offer some further feminine intuition?’

They nodded helplessly.

‘Perhaps a greener smell with some water hints might also work?’ I breezed, hoping my fresh enthusiasm felt like a blast of orange or lemon into sandalwood. And my new mood worked. Suddenly we were back on the level footing of gushing new bride and the older, indulgent male.

‘Well, thank you, Madame,’ Planque said, infinitely more sincere in his tone than when I’d arrived. ‘You have given me something to think on.’

‘Any time, sir.’ I left it at that, although words backed up behind my closed mouth. I was finally taking some of my father’s well-intended advice.
Say less, listen more
was a favourite adage of his. I looked at my watch. ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen. Thank you for your time. I suppose I should be ensuring all our workers get to their midday meal,’ I said, hoping the reference to more womanly work would appease. ‘I will look forward to smelling your finished perfume, Monsieur Planque.’

They both bowed and Planque’s assistant did another polite click of his heels for my benefit. I hoped I’d climbed back out of the pit I’d dug for myself. Perhaps I would take Aimery’s advice and stay away from his laboratory. I refused, however, to stay away from ours, not now that I’d made a decision to dream up my new perfume. I would defy Henri, and yes, I would even defy my father. Nothing was going to stop me using the envied, inherent skill I possessed. I was going to be a perfumer at any cost.

23 DECEMBER 1914

Months had come and gone, the weather had turned on its wintry chill and the fields would now lie dormant until next spring. The only aspect of our lives that was not quieting were the guns and bombs of the Front. News came sporadically but letters were censored; I think Felix had given up writing because he hated all the regulation and Henri was not one for putting pen to paper unless there was something vital to pass on. I suspected that both of my brothers had made a pact not to frighten their sister with tales of the war.

Aimery had never responded to my letter about Sébastien. I wondered if he had anything to hide, but I couldn’t know any more until I saw him as he was clearly ignoring the query.

There was a knock at the salon door and Jeanne peeped in. I threw a glance across one shoulder and noted she looked unsettled but I didn’t dwell on it.

‘Yes, Jeanne?’ I said, turning back, fully distracted.

I had been busy all morning arranging a swag of holly and herbs over the mantelpiece in a sudden flurry of activity to achieve some sense of the festive season. It had taken me hours of wrestling with the various leaves as well as some hellebores – or winter roses, as we called them – affixing them to the string.

‘Do you think it’s too much?’ I wondered to her, as I stood back to regard my handiwork, gloved hands on hips, staring mainly at the holly. Normally, I loved the architecture of its prickly leaves and the sensual darkness of their waxy, green texture, but the scarlet berries, so jolly, reminded me now of drops of blood – as though suggestive of Grasse’s men and their lives being squandered.

I had intertwined rosemary – symbolic of memory and remembering our men – which we protected in pots in a small greenhouse through the winter. Its resinous, slightly astringent smell was being heated by the fire and I could smell its perfume on my fingers, together with the aromatic clover-type scent of dried thyme that I strung into the wreath. I’d added some tarragon as well because it symbolised strength and no good French household cooked without its anise flavouring. Right now I was tasting a spicy licorice that I knew was coming from those freshly dried leaves, which were warming up in this room. It all served to comfort me when I was most missing my brothers.

‘Oh, no, Madame. That looks magnificent. It brightens the room significantly,’ she admitted.

‘I have a length spare. Perhaps the staff might like a similar swag in the parlour?’

‘I know they would appreciate that. It would help lift the gloom.’

I peeled off my gloves. ‘You wanted me?’

‘Senorita Olivares is here to see you.’

‘Graciela?’ I could have reeled off six dozen names I’d have guessed more likely my visitor might be. She nodded once. Now I understood her pensive manner. ‘Did she say why?’

‘She said she would like to pay her respects.’

‘I see,’ I said hesitantly, wondering immediately about Aimery, whether this constituted mentioning her name and how angry he would be if he knew I was meeting her. This wasn’t my choice, though. ‘Well, she’s certainly early but it would be churlish of me to do anything but welcome her in. Will you send up some coffee and perhaps some petits fours, please? I presume it’s just her?’

‘Yes.’

‘All right,’ I breathed out, relieved. ‘Please show her in.’

Jeanne left and I hurriedly pulled off my apron, aware of my simple sage-green skirt and lacy cream shirt. I wore no jewellery, save my wedding band, as I hadn’t expected any visitors today. I’d counted myself safe in the knowledge that there would likely be a steady stream of local wellwishers who would call by all through tomorrow, Christmas Eve, right up until we all walked up the hill to the cathedral for midnight mass. It would be a lonely affair this year but at least we could all pray for the souls of Grasse together. But Graciela! How awkward this was going to be.

Again the knock at the door and I took a deep breath, nervously smoothing my skirt and straightening the buckle at my waist. ‘Come,’ I said, aiming for a breezy tone.

Jeanne opened the door and beside her stood the petite yet fiery elegance of Graciela Olivares. I probably stood a head taller than she and yet she appeared unfazed by my willowy presence. And why wouldn’t she? By comparison I stood dressed in neutral colours like a church mouse while Graciela was graced loudly in crimson theatrically matched with black accessories of boots, gloves, fur collar and muff. Her hat was fur-rimmed and her lips were painted to match the silk of her garments. She was dazzlingly colourful, heedless of the unspoken sobriety of war that had sent most of us scurrying for darker, sombre colours to wear.

‘Mademoiselle Olivares,’ I gushed with as much welcome as I could infuse into those two words as she crossed the threshold.

She eyed me carefully and we both understood our smiles were affected, not ones of genuine friendship. We went through the motion of kissing each other’s cheeks without actually touching.

‘This is a surprise,’ I admitted, wondering if she’d ever been inside the De Lasset villa before.

‘I wanted to pay my respects, Madame De Lasset,’ she repeated for my benefit in her husky tone. ‘It is usual for me to do this during the festive period, although it is unusual not to be paying my respects to Monsieur De Lasset.’ Ah, so she had visited previously. Her Spanish-inflected French meant that her words came in a storm of syllables, which my mind had to first untangle to understand.

She blinked while my brain caught up. I finally smiled brightly.

‘Of course, and it is most generous that you’ve come. Thank you, Jeanne. Can I offer you some coffee?’

‘You may. I like a sip of port wine with my coffee, Madame.’

I felt a ripple of admiration for her daring. She clearly didn’t care for convention or what others might think of her taking liquor with her coffee like a man. I glanced casually at Jeanne, as though I wasn’t in the least disarmed by such a request, to fetch the nip of port and she curtsied.

‘Here, shall we sit near the fire?’ I gestured to an armchair.

She began to pull off her hat and gloves. Perhaps she hadn’t agreed to do so in the entrance hall because she was unsure of what her welcome might be. I watched her, fascinated to see my husband’s former lover up this close. Dark, thick but perfectly groomed eyebrows crescented above almond-shaped eyes the colour of licorice that were framed by the blackest of lashes and then dramatically heightened by the use of kohl. They flanked the top of a long, straight nose that ended in a pouting mouth of full lips. Her rich, near-black hair was piled up, almost carelessly behind her head but lighter, chocolate-coloured wisps escaped and she didn’t feel the need to tuck them back. It gave her a wanton, sensual look I envied.

Her gaze cut sharply to mine and I felt like a rabbit caught, squirming in a metal trap. Those dark pools for eyes glittered at me with equal fascination. ‘Have I made you feel awkward?’ she asked, her candour unnerving.

I decided only truth would do. ‘Yes, as a matter of fact.’ I cleared my throat softly. ‘You’re a day early for visiting,’ I added disingenuously.

She smiled with soft cunning and her scarlet-painted lips stretched easily to give me a glimpse of small, even teeth. She had a beauty mark, to the right of her top lip. I wondered if Aimery found it attractive. She jangled as she spoke too, with jewellery at her wrists, neck, earlobes, gold gleaming against skin the colour of nutmeg. I found her endlessly watchable.

‘Visiting hours?’ She gave a smoky laugh. ‘Forgive me. I do so hate to be predictable,’ she admitted. ‘So I miss out on seeing your yule log in its glory,’ she said, casually glancing to the hearth where this year’s big log, which would burn until the new year arrived, sat in readiness for tomorrow’s lighting. I wasn’t going to follow that ceremony this year but Madame Mouflard and I decided the German hostility had already taken too much from us. It would not deny us our domestic rituals.

Nevertheless, Graciela’s wry comment struck me as slightly heartless, given that the welcoming of this new year might carry some special hopes of all who dwelt in this household.

‘Never mind,’ I said, matching her tone and ignoring her jest, ‘we have some Three Kings Cake to share.’

She waved a hand carelessly.

‘Oh, no, but you must, or it brings bad luck to the household,’ I lied, ‘and you wouldn’t want that, surely?’

‘Aren’t you cutting that early? Surely it’s a treat for Epiphany?’

I shrugged. ‘Nothing in these days of war is unusual. I felt we needed some early cheer.’

Graciela smiled as though impressed that I would flout the age-old traditions.

Jeanne’s timing was impeccable, arriving at that moment to prevent my guest having to answer.

‘Ah, here we are,’ I said as Jeanne laid down the tray between us.

‘May I, Madame?’ Jeanne asked.

I nodded as Jeanne began to pour out two cups of the brew I favoured.

Graciela gave a smirk, as though impressed. ‘That’s a rich roast, Madame De Lasset.’

‘I like my coffee with deep chocolate flavours,’ I remarked.

‘Your port, Madame,’ Jeanne murmured as she set down the tiny crystal glass. ‘It’s a tawny
porto
,’ she added softly.

Plates of miniature meringues decorated with shards of almonds and petite sponge cakes iced with fondant were placed silently either side of our coffee cups. A small fork accompanied the food.

She picked up the glass and swirled the berry-coloured liquid. ‘My mother was Portuguese,’ she said, by way of explanation, I suppose. She sipped and nodded. I presumed it was acceptable. Our guest hadn’t acknowledged my maid, barely giving her eye contact, and returned her attention to me as I expressed my thanks to Jeanne, surprised by the snub. Perhaps she thought Jeanne might be sharing secrets. The door closed softly and we smiled at each other over the 22-carat-gold-painted rims of the Delacroix Limoges porcelain that I’d had brought up from my family’s home.

‘What charming little cups these are, painted so festively with holly and berries,’ she remarked.

‘They’re my mother’s,’ I admitted. ‘I have had a soft spot for them since childhood because their Christmas theme meant I only glimpsed them a couple of days of each year, and yet they’re so exquisite. I also thought Limoges to be more loyal than using the De Lasset Meissen porcelain.’

She chuckled in that throaty way of hers. ‘Patriotic to a fault.’

I could feel her judgement simmering behind her gentle barb. She considered me sugar-sweet conventional.

‘Do you blame me, with two brothers and a husband at the Front?’

‘I don’t blame you at all,’ she said, watching me carefully.

‘Don’t you?’

How had we arrived at this point so fast? What was I thinking in baiting her so blatantly? I couldn’t take the words back. I couldn’t pretend I had meant something else by them; I wasn’t that adept at hiding my feelings. I watched with escalating tension in my chest as she slowly returned the Limoges cup, with its gilded edges and exquisite rendition of barbed holly that seemed to suit her, into the tiny depression of its saucer. I thought she might sit back, knit her fingers together, but she surprised me by curling her delicate fingers around the stem of the crystal and raising the small glass with its angled sides to best bring out the aroma of port. All of this was done in silence and I held that silence as effectively as I held my breath, waiting for her response. Her lips dipped again into the dark amber syrup and she sat back, closing her eyes momentarily.

‘Nothing matches the wine of the Douro Valley,’ she murmured in a sighing satisfaction at the taste, and I could imagine the memories whirring through her mind of her mother. Few knew better than I the images that taste could provoke. I waited, unsure of whether to make that attempt to correct myself, or to see what my honesty brought out.

Her eyelids snapped open and I was impaled by the dark gaze that was tinged with amusement.

‘I appreciate your bluntness, Madame.’

‘Do you?’

I forced myself not to swallow, desperate though I was to push back my nervousness.

She nodded, looking as relaxed as I was sure I must appear hesitant. ‘I think this Grasse society spends too much time talking around subjects rather than discussing them directly.’

‘Is that what we’re doing?’ I wasn’t sure how to proceed here. I was leaping from question to question rather than providing answers.

She grinned lazily and her teeth gleamed momentarily as she saw right through me. ‘Relax, Fleurette; enjoy your coffee before it cools.’ She now used my first name as though we were long-time friends. ‘I have no fight with you.’

I hated myself for being pathetic enough to feel the river of relief that flowed through my body. Fortunately, I held on to my haughty tone. If I didn’t impose my status, she would trample over me, I was sure of it. ‘Indeed, you should not. I can’t imagine how I am to blame for anything in your life. I barely know you, Graciela,’ I countered, using her name as easily as she had used mine.

She nodded sombrely. ‘This is true, for if you did know me, you would pronounce my name in the Castilian way of my birth. It is
Grathiela
,’ she enunciated. ‘I think you barely know your husband, either . . . but I know him very well.’

I gave myself away by licking my lips; Felix had warned me off this habit but I clearly hadn’t conquered it yet. ‘What would you have me say to such a claim? That I’m aware you were lovers?’

‘Not were, Fleurette,’ she corrected, eyeing me with a dangerous glint.

‘I see. Given that he left on our wedding night, I can’t imagine it can be anything but past tense.’

‘Have you heard from Aimery?’ Even the way she spoke his name was filled with sensuality, putting emphasis on the final consonant, rolling that sound in her throat as though tasting it.

‘I have, of course,’ I replied, sounding vaguely offended by such a question.

‘And what has he told you?’

I frowned. ‘Really, Graciela,’ I said, doing my best impression of the way she wanted her name spoken. ‘That’s a little intimate.’

‘Is it? Here,’ she said, dipping into the small fabric bag that had hung off her wrist on arrival and now sat in her lap. She withdrew an envelope. I recognised it immediately as Aimery’s stationery.