The Perfumer's Secret (11 page)

‘I don’t think —’

‘No, it’s not appropriate, but I think it’s important. Please, glance through. You have my permission.’

I didn’t want to read it; it felt dangerous to take the envelope that was surely meant to bring harm.

‘A wife should know these things,’ she pressed.

These things?

I reminded myself that if Aimery had only married his Spanish lover, all would be well in his life and mine. Perhaps this meeting could release me from my wifely duties. Maybe this was the start of a process of escape for me? I slipped the letter from the envelope and was aware on the rim of my consciousness that Graciela reached for her port again. She was sipping with studied pleasure as she watched me open the pages. It was dated recently; I read only the opening paragraphs before I folded the pages up and returned them to the envelope.

‘My dear, you are blushing,’ she observed.

‘I’m embarrassed for you, actually, for sharing that with me.’ It was a tart reply and she rightfully grinned at the sourness in it.

‘You’re not jealous, surely?’

I shook my head. ‘Bitter, perhaps, because I must contain the anger at being humiliated. Graciela, you do know I didn’t want to marry him, don’t you?’

‘I do, but I hated that you did all the same. Can you not tell even from the few lines you read how he feels about me?’

‘How could I fail to? I didn’t know Aimery could be so . . . so . . . ’

‘Lascivious?’

I shrugged. ‘Affectionate.’

She tipped back her head and laughed. ‘Affectionate? You’re so proper but I do like you, Fleurette. You’re innocent. I know that your marriage was arranged. I just wish you’d had more spine.’

I turned on her now, flinging down the letter that had opened with lewd and carnal suggestions but with an affectionately witty tone I’d never heard from him in all the years I’d known Aimery. ‘I would give anything not to be married to him. But I was cornered by both families and a long history of duty to the family name.’

‘You’re pathetic!’

‘And you’re despicable.’

‘Why? Because I am not afraid of my sensuality?’

‘No, because you mock me for being polite, welcoming. You’re openly my husband’s lover and I should treat you with the same hostility you treated Jeanne just now and still I accord you respect. You are no match for my name. You have no status in Grasse other than as Aimery De Lasset’s plaything. You may be wealthy but you should not sneer at me, Graciela,’ I warned.

She clapped her hands, delighted. ‘That’s more like it, Fleurette, spitting and snarling like the little cat you are. This is how you should have been. You should not have allowed the men around you to bully you into marrying a man you have no feelings for.’

‘I wish he’d married you!’

‘So do I! Do you know why?’

I shook my head.

‘Because I love him. No, I worship him. I detest how weak he makes me feel and yet I can’t breathe without him in my life.’

I swallowed hard. I’d never heard anyone speak so passionately about another. And I wished I could see what she saw in the man.

‘I become animalistic in Aimery’s presence.’

I blinked with shame for her revelation but she laughed again at me.

‘You see, I will debase myself for him . . . even before his chaste wife. Did he hurt you?’

I stammered, making no sense.

‘When he took you the first time, did he injure you? Aimery has unpredictable moods. You should beware of that. He can be rough, like a lion taking what he believes is his. No man can stir the primitive in me as Aimery does. I have not been with any other man since I met him. I will never love any other from now on.’

‘I hate him,’ I said, my voice small and overawed by her raw admission. ‘He did not bed me.’

That shocked her, her amusement quelled. She stared at me as though searching for guile. ‘Why not? You are young, magnificent.’

I gave a rueful smirk. ‘The bells of war tolled to save me.’

‘So you are still a virgin?’

I opened my mouth, dumbfounded. It was embarrassing to admit and yet I couldn’t deny it.

‘No need to answer,’ she said, waving a hand at me. ‘How interesting.’

‘Happy?’ I snapped, needing to bite back somehow.

She shrugged. ‘Yes. How about you? I suspect you are relieved, no?’ She gave a disarmingly soft smile and it changed her persona to friendly . . . even to the point of making me feel conspiratorial.

‘I would be lying if I denied it.’

Now Graciela laughed genuinely. ‘Oh, Fleurette. Are we not a pitiful couple? You are married to the man I love and you hate him. I feel sorry for both of us.’

‘Do you hate me?’

‘No, I never did. I pity you. He is not an easy man.’

‘And you can still love him?’

‘I told you. I have no free will in this. I am guessing you have never been in love?’

I shook my head, feeling even more pathetic.

‘When you do, you’ll understand how it consumes you. It’s like a fire burning out of control. Each time you think you have it contained, a new spark erupts to burn brightly and reignite all the feelings you thought you had corralled.’

I gave her a nod of approval. ‘I wish I knew that sort of love. I don’t think I ever will.’

‘It shouldn’t be, but just sometimes it can be harmful.’

‘Like yours?’

‘Yes. We suffer for our bond. He loves me but he is not allowed to do so properly, openly. I will only ever be his mistress, never allowed to declare how I feel publicly. When he married you, my world collapsed. I wished you to be barren so he was also touched by the same pain.’

I glanced up, surprised how hurtful her words were.

‘Forgive me. How else could I strike back? I knew he married you simply for an heir. I knew he wanted the pedigree that you offered. He could not have half-Spanish children.’ She sneered. ‘My breeding is not ideal for him. Yours is impeccable.’

I nodded sadly. ‘And we all end up miserable,’ I finished.

‘Perhaps one day you will experience the love I describe but with someone your heart beats faster for.’

‘How can that occur?’

‘By permitting me to remain as Aimery’s mistress.’

It was so direct, it took my breath away.

She held up a finger. ‘Before you leap to an answer, just remember, I can save you a lot of anguish.’

I frowned. ‘And by that you mean?’

‘Aimery has his particular tastes when it comes to sex.’

My attempt to go toe to toe with her candour failed. I blushed at her frank manner.

‘I fulfil all of his needs. Can you?’

I breathed out silently to steady myself. ‘I don’t even want to.’

‘Precisely. Whereas I do, and a man must have his . . . well, shall we say, release?’

Despite hoping I could avoid it, I was clearing my throat with embarrassment before I knew it.

She smiled. ‘I apologise for being forthright. My artlessness is sometimes disarming.’

I liked her use of language, and not using her native tongue only impressed me deeper. Graciela was not only strikingly attractive but she had intelligence and wit to match. I could see how any man could fall in love with her but I wondered about Aimery; I wanted to understand the subject he warned me off.

‘No, I appreciate your honesty,’ I replied as she waited. ‘Though it’s uncomfortable at times.’

She laughed. ‘I have been told this time and again.’

‘By Aimery?’

‘Aimery, yes, especially . . . others too, over the course of my life. It’s why I have no real friends. I don’t enjoy the thrust and parry of social etiquette. I prefer to speak plainly, act transparently.’

I reached for my cup again, to take the final sip or two. ‘And you don’t think sometimes it’s important to protect another’s feelings by treading more carefully?’

She waved a hand airily. ‘The problem is I’m not good at it. At least no one will die wondering what I meant.’

This struck me as witty and she timed her remark as I swallowed. I coughed my amusement back at her.

‘Perhaps we could be friends?’ she wondered, laughing with me.

‘And share Aimery?’

She nodded and I saw her guard drop – there was a held breath of hope in her chest.

‘He’s all yours,’ I said and didn’t mean to sound disparaging. ‘I had no choice in the marriage, as I explained. I will not stand in the way of your relationship so long as it does not publicly humiliate me or my family. You will have to remain pointedly discreet. It is the only way.’

She smiled and I could almost visualise her sincerity reaching across to shake my hand over a deal. There was no guile here.

‘I wish I understood what you see in the man,’ I finished.

She lifted a shoulder. ‘I have learned not to analyse love. This is not something that can be controlled. One can fight it, one can restrain from confronting it, one can avoid it perhaps by leading a solitary existence, but when that one person crosses your path, one cannot ignore the feelings. It’s like a dormant and separate animal that lives within us, Fleurette . . . it is primitive, carnal, never satisfied; it always wants more.’

‘Sounds dangerous,’ I quipped, imagining a snarling beast.

‘Love is dangerous. It’s a drug as addictive as opium and you won’t know what I mean until love snags you in its maw. I don’t know what it is between Aimery and me because love is invisible. I met him six years ago; at twenty-three it was an eligible age for marriage but I convinced myself his reluctance was that I was new, different. And then I came to the understanding that I was not considered good enough for marriage but that enlightenment came too late . . . by then he had become my drug and I had become his. We are dependent on each other. I’ve not had the family affection you’ve experienced in your life . . . in fact, I have run away from Barcelona to escape family and problems I won’t go into. Aimery is all I need and I know I provide what he needs, not just physically but I think I have filled a particular emotional need in him too. We talk, he makes me laugh.’ I couldn’t imagine it as she said this. ‘We make love and pretend we’re married. In my arms he feels safe, can be himself. And if the only way I can enjoy him is as a mistress, then so be it.’

I knew I liked her even more for showing me her vulnerability and I felt genuine sympathy that she admitted to few friends. Her revelation even gave me a grudging empathy for Aimery. It was reassuring to learn that he could feel a tenderness and fondness for someone.

‘Graciela, we are friends from here on and Aimery will never hear from me that we had this conversation. I will also never ask him about you because I am no longer curious – I have no reason to be because you’ve been so honest. I’m sorry you can’t have more but you know how I feel, or rather what I don’t feel, and so you never need fear my presence. We are man and wife out of necessity, you could say – nothing more.’

She stood, picking up hat and gloves. She held out a hand. ‘I hope you will find love one day soon, Fleurette. I think you deserve it.’

My soft snort conveyed how imprisoned I felt, even though I responded politely. ‘Thank you.’

‘Oh, look,’ she said, bending down to stare at the plate that contained her slice of Three Kings Cake, decorated with the candied fruits of Provence. ‘I believe I have the bean,’ she said, pointing with a manicured finger at the untouched cake. ‘In Spain we call this
rosca de reyes
,’ and I enjoyed hearing her native tongue. ‘In Catalonia it is known simply as
tortell
. We use a figurine of the holy child as the trinket.’

I smiled. ‘You have the bean – that makes you royalty for the day.’

‘You’ve made me feel like a queen today, Fleurette, thank you. Who knows, maybe Père Noël will bring love to you this Christmas?’ She arched an eyebrow to make us both laugh.

We kissed farewell as new friends, much to Jeanne’s surprise as she opened the door to Mademoiselle Olivares. Curiously, though, as I watched her carriage leave, I felt lonelier than I thought possible. Even Aimery was taken from me now – I’d handed him over, effectively – and even though I was relieved that this was the case, I had now isolated myself completely, and married life was stretching before me as an unhappy, soulless existence.

29 DECEMBER 1914

Christmas had come and gone quietly. We had attempted our
gros souper
with as much cheer as we could and, as a special treat, I insisted we lay our table in the grand dining room and all the servants were to cook and then break bread together. It was here that Jeanne and I had modestly decorated a small Christmas tree. We lit candles, in keeping with the festival and for the light we knew our men probably ate by most of the time in the trenches. I sat in Aimery’s place as host and the women and few older men around the table, though overawed to be dining in this room, made a good fist of gentle celebration, particularly toasting our loved ones away fighting for France.

The kitchen staff presented a small but delicious supper with the seven courses for the seven sorrows of Mary. The servings were tiny but more than enough by the end. I urged them to enjoy the cod and the snails in garlic butter. Upon my enquiry I was assured by Madame Mouflard that the snails were shelled using a new carpenter’s nail as a reminder of the crucifixion. We had vegetables and salads with the finest
courge violon
I had ever tasted. Pierre shrugged modestly when the staff accused him of growing the best pumpkin in the district for this festive tart. We all clapped when he brought out three small bowls of wheat that had been sown on the fourth day of December for Saint Barbe; these he had dutifully kept moist to germinate and grow in time for our big supper on Christmas Eve so he could place them on the three pristine napkins. As we applauded I think we all felt relief that Pierre’s three bowls, representing the holy trinity, meant we would now have a good harvest for next year. More rose and jasmine and violets . . . the cycle of life made me feel anchored and safe in that moment.

I had been brought back to the present with the smell of the
fougassette
scented with orange blossom. Having been taught in childhood that the seven holes of the flattish bread represented the seven orifices of the face of the holy child, I was careful when given the task by Madame Mouflard to tear the bread apart. I knew that to cut it would bring disaster to us all.

Jeanne had arranged a huge platter of nougat, chocolates twisted in wrappers and some fat prunes and she amused me by explaining that each of the dried fruits represented the colours of the religious orders. We had never done this in our household and I wondered if she had helped with preparations in Graciela’s home, which presented dried figs for the Franciscans, raisins for the Augustinians, almonds for the Dominicans and hazelnuts for the Carmelites. We’d all tossed our clementine peels into a bowl because Madame Mouflard intended it as potpourri for the holy crèche in our hall that Pierre had dutifully assembled.

Some hot waffles and fried beignets completed our sweet courses and with hot, spiced wine we toasted the single empty place left deliberately at the other end of the table. I was never quite sure whether our tradition in France was for an extra place for any welcome visitor or whether it harked back to ancient Roman times to honour one’s ancestors. I did, however, feel certain that our toast this year was every inch dedicated to our absent loved ones and that empty seat represented all of those from Grasse who were not in town to share their family’s suppers.

We’d then headed off to spend hours at the church praying for our men before returning to light the yule log and know that solstice had passed.

I had arrived at the strangely twisted logic that not hearing from either of my brothers meant they were safe. Most would think the opposite but, if I were honest, I didn’t look forward to the post arriving and hearing one had been wounded. I dreaded even more the sign of any official telegram, which would mean so much worse. Curious though it was, my conclusion was to feel blessed by the silence . . . a sort of status quo, although I had heard from Aimery via two letters. Not once over the course of those had he enquired after my state of mind. I forgave him; I suppose this was because I didn’t love him so his lack of care mattered little to me. If it had been Felix not asking after me, I know I would have felt deep injury.

So here I sat, writing a stilted letter to Aimery, desperately trying to convey a sense of affection I didn’t feel. For inspiration I turned to his first letter, dated mid-August, and read through it again, feeling slightly soured from the opening line. I heard it only as condescending in my mind as I couldn’t lose the memory of the night he left, when he made it clear our marriage was strategic. I had no right to feel offended – and didn’t – but I did feel imprisoned.

Fleurette, my dear,

At last I find a moment to pen a few words to you. Of course you will be wondering how I am after all this time and the answer is that I am very well and in high spirits.

So much has happened these past few weeks. I must not bore you dreadfully with our daily life for much of it is tedious and no wife needs to share the mundane world of men.

I had to close my eyes with irritation and take an audible breath. I believe my father, from a previous generation of chauvinists, so loyal to France, was more welcoming to a woman’s point of view than Aimery likely could ever be.

I suspect you keep abreast of news through the newspaper and no doubt all the womenfolk in Grasse will have been heartened to read how our glorious regiments from the south were fanfared from their home towns with bands playing, the townsfolk cheering and the children waving flags.

Sadly our men were required to almost slink out of Grasse with none of that festivity but everybody rallied to the barracks quickly and I don’t think there was a shirker amongst the recruits. The boys look marvellous in their dark-blue attire and everyone is rightly proud of our Chasseur heritage. The colonel gave us a splendid and rousing speech before we embarked on our first short journey towards the frontier. I’m happy to say I led the first rousing chorus of ‘La Marseillaise’ and to sing our anthem made us all feel united and fearless. The Allebosche will rue the day they decided once again to invade our sacred land.

Allebosche. I had not heard this term for the German invaders but it seemed inevitable that nicknames for the enemy would emerge. I wondered what the Germans called us French, but here again my mind was wandering. I continued reading, searching for the right tone of response that a dutiful wife should aim for.

As soon as Italy showed that they were not siding with our enemy we were moved north. Perhaps you cannot imagine how many trains it takes to move our battalion, but again I risk boring you. As I am amongst the officers, we have some comfort but the poor old Chasseurs are mostly consigned to wagons that are supposed to transport horses. But the enthusiasm is not diminished for all that and the lads continue to sing and play cards.

I cannot believe it took us two days of constant travel to reach the Front. It is an enormous boost to morale to note the columns of red trousers at every platform and every station. Truly, France is sending her finest to beat our hated foe.

Women and old men, young lads cheer and clap and offer us all sorts of local delicacies. We shall not want for fine food, I am sure. An old lady offered me a roasted chicken for my journey. As our train pulled out on its slow shuffle north we left joyous people behind wishing us well and crying out, ‘To Berlin!’ Our destination reached, we formed ranks and began our long march.

I noted he didn’t tell me where that destination happened to be, and presumed this was part of the censoring process.

We have had rain and are thus grateful for our capes, which I am certain protect us better than the greatcoats of the
pantalon rouges
. I have a room in a deserted house that I share with one of my brother officers, older than I, called Louis from the Isere. He is a most amiable chap and I feel sure we shall become close friends. He has intimated that if I make my mark in the coming battle, then promotion is always possible in time of war.

I imagine people will be wondering, especially yourself, but there is no leave being granted even in the distant future. I have not the faintest idea of when I shall see you again but I trust you will manage the households in our absence.

Soon we will be going into action, and I am convinced of our success. I may even whistle ‘Au claire de la lune’ as I lead my men triumphantly forward.

Ever yours,

Aimery

I should have felt proud. I should have felt uplifted. But my sentiment was essentially sorrow because I could tell that Aimery was actually enjoying the whole theatre of war. He clearly felt invincible while I suspected he was overplaying how the rest of the soldiers, who would bear the brunt of suffering, might be faring. I wondered how many men might fit into an eight-horse wagon and inexorably began to imagine the smell of such a wagon: what was left behind by its former user and how it now smelled with perhaps a couple score of men crushed into it, with their food and cigarettes adding an arresting medley of odours.

To add to my distraction, while I had been reading Aimery’s prose my gaze had kept helplessly flicking to the violet ink scrawled on the envelope of his brother’s note that I kept in my writing bureau. Only I had the key; the letter still felt explosive and yet I was no closer to discovering the truth than I had been the first time I read it.

For the time being I experienced only curiosity rather than fear; now that Aimery had confirmed no leave was being granted I didn’t have to concern myself about imminent wifely duties in the bedroom. I did need to find out, though – and soon – what Sébastien was hiding. I returned to my letter and tried to make the daily routines in Grasse come alive for Aimery through my writing. I figured even the dullest duties would surely lift his spirits, as I had learned from his most recent letter that he was dug into the mud of winter’s early weeks in a trench.

I unfolded that second letter – surely something in here would help me to construct a bright note back to lift spirits and let him know that we had him in our thoughts – but I was reminded that this was a less spirited note from him. The enemy had been engaged by now and even Aimery’s grandiose manner had been dampened by the realities of war. Harsh though it seemed, I was relieved that he’d been reduced to a more realistic vision of what he and his fellow soldiers were up against. I hoped it would prompt caution.

Fleurette, my dear,

I am as optimistic as one could hope for under the circumstances and your welcome letter helped to cheer. It arrived impressively fast and I must congratulate our French postal system, which is obviously functioning remarkably well on its war footing.

Your questions regarding the business will have to wait and I am cautioning you now to be wary of those who may offer advice. This war will soon be over and I shall be home to make all decisions.

My stomach dipped to read that line again.

Are you keeping up with the news? They are making appalling references about our 15th Corps. The fiends who write such lies should be here at the Front to witness our valiant soldiers as they fall in the line of duty.

Our own battalion underwent their baptism in this war, storming the Boche, who fled before us.

I noted the new nickname for the enemy.

I led my boys forward along a valley towards our objective. I know all in Grasse would have been as proud as I was to watch how they did not flinch in the face of such ferocious enemy gunfire. They would follow me into hell, I am sure of it, certainly determined to follow me wherever I go here at the Front, and I don’t want you to fret on my safety – it is obvious to all that I lead a charmed existence.

I had to put the letter down. Aimery’s self-belief, however, could only be admired and I reminded myself that if this alone kept him brave for his men and free from injury, then I should be grateful, rather than contemptuous.

The Boche’s artillery found our positions after an initial valiant thrust and our cowardly enemy hides in its trenches, behind its guns, and cut us down terribly. Do you recall my fellow officer Louis? I am saddened but proud to say that he is one of the fearless who found glory on the field of honour.

Myself, I have a slight wound to my shoulder but I have waived a visit to the hospital tent. It will heal. My servant makes a fuss and busies himself to ensure my comfort, but I am more concerned with us getting our trenches dug out nearby to the forest so we are less exposed and more able to play the Boche at his own game. Our position does mean we do not want for firewood and can keep warm during these winter months as the early hours have become somewhat chilly.

I shook my head. Was his understatement deliberate or was he unaware of just how unbearably irritating his restraint was sounding? It was as though his deliberate attempt to make the suffering seem trivial would somehow enhance his munificence.

The English shall be arriving soon, to be alongside us as we fervently take back what has been stolen!

My dear Fleurette, I urge you not to believe all that you read in the newspaper. Be assured that your heroic boys hold the line. Their guns may be all powerful but the Boche is no match for a Chasseur.

Ever yours,

Aimery

I was well aware that I was rapidly losing interest in responding today; lacking in inspiration for the right words, my treacherous thoughts were already drifting away from my husband. The jasmine harvest had been successful; the women of the town in particular had found new depths of strength and determination to fill the role their men had previously. I had supervised the production of what might arguably be considered near to our best yield of jasmine absolute, if not the best. I wouldn’t boast; it would not be seemly to do so in the absence of the men to make them feel any less heartened. Nevertheless, I suspected Henri would be thrilled with my news because it was all about the extra francs into the coffers and I’d already written to him and Felix about the Delacroix production for 1915.