The Perfumer's Secret (12 page)

I stared at my pathetic attempt. I was past the initial salutation, my gush of admiration for the bravery and steadfastness of the Chasseurs. Perhaps I could plunge into telling him about how Monsieur Planque and I were on good terms, that the yield for De Lasset might well eclipse previous years – although I wasn’t privy to those historical details – and that I was especially looking forward to keeping on top of the supervision of the violet and rose fields as they developed through late autumn. Soon the fields would sleep as winter spread its frosty chill across our landscape. But these exquisite spring flowers would be readying themselves for their explosion into colourful bloom as the thaw arrived: first the violets at the end of April, then the roses would come in.

I could conjure the scent of both in my imagination by just picturing them. I knew the exact fragrance on the wind of a field of our spring violets and I had just closed my eyes and lifted my chin to reach for the perfume of our roses when a knock sounded at my salon door.

My lids flicked open and I cleared my throat, picking up my ink pen again. ‘Come,’ I said, pretending to be busy at my letter writing.

One of the maids entered and curtsied, glancing at my bureau scattered with pages. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Madame,’ she began in a tremulous voice.

I know I was frowning, which I’m sure wasn’t terribly reassuring. ‘Where’s Jeanne? Madame Mouflard?’ She looked intimidated by my query. ‘Oh, never mind, they’re obviously running errands. What is it?’ I welcomed the intrusion, to be truthful.

‘I am Elise, Madame.’

I did recognise her now.

‘M – Monsieur De Lasset is returned from the Front,’ she stammered. ‘People are very excited. He’s been followed by some in the town up to the house. He looks exhausted.’

I dropped my pen in surprise. ‘What? Why didn’t you say earlier?’ I admonished, leaping up as if stung. It was a stupid query; she’d hardly taken her time but the expression came by rote in my alarm. ‘Quick! Help me out of this,’ I commanded, tearing at my working clothes. Aimery home? Why wasn’t he striding upstairs, calling orders? Elise had said he was exhausted. Perhaps he was too weary to move from the fireplace? He would surely want to see me looking less dreary than this, even though I preferred to move around in a simple navy day dress that was far more forgiving than the more delicate fabrics of my other garments and infinitely more comfortable. I suppose appearing prettily groomed was the least I could do for him. Appearances were everything in a household such as this one. My mind was scattering. Within a minute I had been hastily buttoned into a simple outfit of long mauve-grey skirt and short, plum-coloured bolero jacket over a fine lace high-necked blouse that was more cheerfully befitting of a wife greeting her husband back from war. I reached for the long strand of pearls that cinched with a diamante clasp just above my waist – a touching wedding gift from Henri.

‘You look wonderful, Madame,’ my companion breathed.

‘Thank you, Elise. Forgive my abruptness but I’m rather shocked that he’s back so soon.’ A fresh, worrying notion occurred to me. ‘Is he hurt?’ I suddenly asked my helper, glancing at the mirror as I tucked away a stray curl of hair. I pinched my cheeks for good measure.

‘He is, Madame.’

I swung around to fix her with a startled glare. ‘How badly?’

‘He breathes with difficulty. And his hand – it’s bandaged. He’s bleeding still.’

Ah, that would explain his reluctance to come and find me himself. ‘Right,’ I said, and hated myself for instantly feeling relief that he was presumably in no shape to demand his conjugal rights. His brother’s unresolved warning, which just moments ago was no immediate threat, now loomed largely in my mind.

Sébastien’s letter!
I turned back and locked my bureau, tucking the key I had taken to wearing on a chain from my belt safely into deep pockets.

‘All right, let’s go. Where is Monsieur De Lasset?’

‘The morning room, Madame Fleurette.’

In my urgency I all but ran past Elise and swept into the morning room, bursting through the double doors. ‘Aimery!’

A stranger swung around from where he’d been standing by the window looking out onto Grasse falling away down the hillside.

My mouth opened, then closed, and I think opened again in consternation at the dark-haired, dark-eyed man who surely stood a head taller than my husband. How could anyone have confused the pair? It would be like comparing aromatic lavender to sweetly spiced orange blossom, they were so different. Aimery was light-haired, squarely built. This man was lean-hipped, tall, his thick hair looked to be forced against its inclinations into a neat wave across the top of his head from the parting I was sure would be lost by day’s end. I must have appeared as a fish gasping to be back in water.

‘Madame,’ the man said, turning in obvious physical pain but finding a smile that cut through the shock to warm my heart.

‘Who are you?’ I murmured. ‘I was told Monsieur De Lasset was home.’

‘He is,’ he said softly. ‘Well, I suppose this isn’t really home, although a lawyer might say it is.’

‘Sébastien?’

He nodded.

I turned at the shuffling at the doors behind me. ‘Elise, er . . . this is my husband’s brother.’ I returned my gaze to our guest. ‘I’m sorry, it must have been like excited Chinese whispers up the hill. We were under the impression that Aimery had returned.’

He gave a nod of understanding. ‘Yes, I should have been more specific. The whispers travelled faster than I could, I’m afraid.’

‘You’re most welcome here,’ I said as magnanimously as I could so he didn’t feel any more awkward than he already did. ‘Let’s organise some refreshment after your journeying. Can I offer you some coffee?’

‘I don’t suppose you have any tea, do you, Madame?’ he wondered with enthusiasm.

I smiled. ‘We’re family. Please call me Fleurette. And I’m sure we can offer tea.’ I glanced at Elise, who gave a slight nod that we had plenty. ‘Personally, I like gunpowder tea,’ I said. ‘How about you, Sébastien?’ I presumed he did not wish me to remain formal about how I addressed him.

‘Black tea with milk would be quite simply extraordinary, Fleurette, as it’s thin on the ground where I’ve come from,’ he said. His French was just short of perfect. I detected the odd lilt that I couldn’t place but it struck me as though his French was learned rather than owned.

I nodded at Elise, whispering for her to hurry. She curtsied, closed the doors and presumably scurried off to do my bidding. I hadn’t moved and now felt ridiculous standing so rigidly at the door.

‘Forgive me,’ he began, taking the responsibility away from me for leading the conversation. He shrugged. ‘I had no choice, though. I had to nominate somewhere to come. Look, do you mind if I sit, or I may just pass out?’

I finally gathered my wits and my manners. ‘Oh, I am sorry.’ I gestured to the sofa.

‘For what? You are the most beautiful sight in a long time. I already feel healed.’

I surely blushed. ‘Do you need help?’ I wondered aloud, transfixed by the enormous bandaging around one hand.

Sébastien grinned. ‘Just a seat and the tea is fine for now, thank you.’ I noticed though that he grimaced as he limped to the sofa, using a walking stick to support himself. ‘Please forgive the poor shape I present myself in.’ He still didn’t sit.

‘I’m glad you came here.’ I walked over and kissed both his cheeks, feeling the rasp of his scraggly beard. He smelled of soap and yet his uniform had an unpleasant hum; I was assaulted by smells of blood, earth, gunpowder and disinfectant. But haunting my taste, beneath all those less pleasant tangs, I smelled one lovely note. I focused on that. ‘You smell of lavender.’

‘Thank heavens. I thought I must smell as bad as I look, although I have bathed, I promise, but my uniform . . .’

‘Please don’t worry. I’m glad you’re safe.’

‘It’s the . . . the antiseptic.’ He gestured with his bandaged hand. ‘The lavender oil is good for the skin burns we suffer. I meant to buy some fresh clothes, but . . .’

I clasped his unbandaged hand and gave him the best convivial smile I could. ‘Family,’ I said, to stop him worrying. ‘We meet at last. Welcome . . . or should I say welcome back?’

While we had moved apart from each other I noted he didn’t let my hand fall. ‘I don’t believe so. I have never been here other than in my mother’s womb, I gather.’

We both smiled sadly at that. The letter hung between us, our linked hands the bridge I knew I must walk across shortly, but I needed to get the preliminaries out of the way.

‘Have you heard from your mother?’

He lowered himself gingerly into the armchair, breathing hard. ‘From her niece. My mother died soon after I left for France.’

‘Oh, no,’ I bleated, hoping to stop another apology escaping but too late. I would just have to sound annoyingly repetitive. ‘I’m sorry for you.’

‘Don’t. She was ailing. I also believe that with me departed to war and the world gone mad, she was more than happy to limp off this plane.’

I nodded, understanding.

‘Speaking of limping, I’m embarrassed to arrive on your doorstep like this. It’s not my legs, actually, but a chest wound I’m recovering from.’

‘Oh, my, I can hear you struggling to breathe. How recent is the injury?’

‘Ah, well, there’s a date I won’t forget. It happened on 31 October. I was working at the Hooge Château, just to the east of Ypres. Both 1st and 2nd Divisions’ commanders were using it as joint headquarters.’

I nodded, fascinated by all the strange names. ‘That’s Belgium?’

He nodded. ‘Generals Lomax and Monro were involved in a conference. It was about one o’clock, not long after, anyway, that the German artillery began shelling and scored direct hits.’

I visibly breathed in; this was both macabre and exciting – my first real glimpse of the fighting, as Felix protected me from reality, sharing only amusing snippets in his letters. How he found humour in war is beyond me, but he managed to make me smile and cry at the same time. Henri meanwhile had only written once, mainly to ask for some extra socks and to answer a couple of questions about business queries I’d posed.

‘Did you say both generals died?’

‘No, both were injured and I’m not convinced General Lomax will recover, to be honest. Lots of us were wounded, a few killed.’

‘What were you doing there?’

He gave a sheepish grin. ‘Bit of a long tale.’

‘I’d like to hear it while we wait for the tea.’

‘All right, but you’ll have to forgive my raspy breath.’ Before I could protest against him straining himself, he was continuing. ‘I was on my way here, in fact, to see you and Aimery.’

I nodded – who could forget – and I was sure we would come to the letter shortly; it would be impolite to jump in now.

‘War was declared by France and I found myself trapped in Paris. I was travelling on English documents, but of course my French background could be proven. I offered myself at the town hall but I hadn’t done my two years’ obligatory training. Frankly, I don’t think I was French enough for them.’ He smiled. ‘I considered the French Foreign Legion but I thought they might laugh at a chemist trying to join up.’

My heart leapt at that. ‘How intriguing that you are involved in what your father’s side of the family does.’ Something in his gaze told me this was not coincidental.

‘I was in touch with the embassy, of course, and it was while dining at the ambassador’s residence that I received the telegram of my mother’s death. From that moment life felt to me as though it was all out of control. There was no point in heading back to England, knowing our army would likely be mobilising. Besides, it would have been impossible, I suspect. It was pandemonium in Paris. Britain declared war on the fourth, and then it was on for young and old. It was the ambassador, via another friend who worked at the embassy, who proposed me as a linguist.’

‘Inspired.’

‘Well, it didn’t require military training; my credentials were solid and I guess it helped I was so well connected, and my family name . . .’ He lifted a shoulder.

‘Spoke for itself?’ I offered in a wry tone.

He smiled. ‘Having a bluish enough tinge to my blood meant I could get through on the most rudimentary security check. There really was no point in going home when I could get on with my war immediately and be of some use.’

‘So they threw you straight into Belgium?’

‘Heavens, no! Nothing as exciting. I was sent to Boulogne-sur-Mer for a few months. Port work, helping all the Brits who were coming through to make sense of the French they were dealing with.’

I laughed. ‘That bad?’

‘Well, I think the army that was flowing through mainly from Folkestone needed as many interpreters as it could lay hands on. Anyway, to cut this story short, I had a chance meeting with a second cousin of my mother’s family. He was a senior officer on his way to the Front and I bleated about the tedium of my work and he got me assigned to a higher formation, as they call it. Before I could blink I was on my way east with more action than most would hope for. On the day I was injured I was working as a translator; it was mainly French troops in Ypres but the Brits were there, plus men from around the empire were answering the call to arms, so my job would have expanded quickly to Australians, New Zealanders, Canadians, Indians, Africans . . .’ His sentence petered out into a small coughing fit.

‘Australians . . . how far they have travelled to fight for their king. And I’m not sure I even know where New Zealand is,’ I admitted.

He laughed and that provoked another raft of coughing. ‘Nearer to Australia than us, you could say.’

‘Other side of the world, then,’ I said, not fully hiding the longing in my voice to see these faraway places that I knew Sébastien had.

‘Wonderful people, frighteningly tough men who seem to laugh a lot . . . at each other, particularly. I recall I was relaying a British message in French when the shell hit.’

‘And so you’ve been hospitalised since then?’

‘Yes, I was at a French Military Hospital just outside a place called Poperinghe, alongside the railway line and railhead. The chest injury wasn’t severe enough to require me to be repatriated, but it’s enough that I’m no good to anyone for a while. Plus I caught an infection, and when it turned out that I had reduced lung capacity, needed to breathe some fresh air and stop holding up doctors, nurses and a much-needed bed, they took my offer. You see, I’d taken the great liberty of suggesting that I might recuperate in France with my family in the south.’