The Perfumer's Secret (17 page)

I passed one of the fountains where children sipped from its spout, spraying water at each other. I smiled, ruffled the hair of one as he stepped back laughing, no doubt unaware of me or France’s plight. I ruffled his hair. ‘
Bonjour
, Hugo.’

‘Excuse me, Madame De Lasset,’ he coughed out, cutting his friend an embarrassed glance.

‘How is your mother?’

‘She manages, Madame. I am on an errand for her.’

‘Has she heard from your father?’ Hugo’s father was Georges, one of our best rose farmers.

Hugo shook his head. ‘Not in a while. She cries a lot, Madame.’

I knew I had some stray coins in my pocket, which I took out now. ‘Here, Hugo, run your errand and buy something extra for your sisters and brothers . . . perhaps some sweets.’ I palmed off the equivalent of a couple of francs in nickel centimes. It wasn’t a lot to me but it was plenty to Hugo and his family. His eyes widened as he glanced at the coins. I didn’t want to linger over this and I made a shooshing sound. ‘Hurry, don’t keep your mother waiting,’ I urged.

He touched his cap, still a little dazed, I think, and ran off at my nod. I made a mental note to do more for the mothers of larger families. I decided then and there that the Delacroix and De Lasset families could maybe provide some extra basics for these women who were no doubt in a desperate struggle for survival of their youngsters. Bread, milk, cheese . . . some staples. Yes, I would speak to Madame Mouflard later today and we would get some sort of program underway.

I arrived into the bustle of Les Aires Square and realised it had been too long since I’d seen its colourful architecture, painted mainly in orange tones to warm the quadrangle shaded by its tall buildings. Shutters were closed on this cold day but their pastel greens and blues added a sense of whimsy and joy to a wintry scene of barren trees and pinched expressions on the people moving within the frigid shadows below. Today the watery sun just managed to slant lazily off only the uppermost storey of the buildings, turning them a fiery orange. The town square was not nearly as busy as it might normally be if it had its population of men moving around it. The trees were naked, their limbs pointing skyward in an unadorned beseech to the heavens. They stood as stark sentinels around the square, echoing the poignancy of the Front and our men who kept watch against the enemy. Certainly not so many people were seated, sipping beverages: none drinking liquor, of course, or smoking or laughing with deep voices. No doubt it was the absence of younger men that made it so easy to pick him out.

Sébastien shuffled along, looking into shop windows, overly conscious, I surmised, that he was here and not at the Front, although his pronounced limp and his clearly injured arm pointedly answered any questions. He politely lifted his hat to passers-by and finally paused to stand at the fountain to smile at children floating paper boats and a couple of boys pretending to be soldiers shooting at each other. I sighed at the innocence – the idea that war was a game and that a winner would eventuate and everyone would cheer. That France would go back to its routine probably seemed feasible in their minds. The adults around them, however, were already counting the cost of lives in sons, brothers, fathers . . . lovers. I admonished myself at that last thought. Would I ever have a lover? Someone whose touch or even the thought of his touch would excite me? My gaze was lingering on Sébastien, whom I surreptitiously watched from the doorway of a draper’s shop, and experienced the sensation that I was pilfering . . . as though by not announcing myself I was stealing something from him. A customer cut me a glance of irritation at having to push by me to enter but then realised whom she was glaring at and dipped her eyes. I had to look away from the dark stranger who was occupying far too much space in my mind and do the right thing by the lady before me.

‘
Pardon
,’ she murmured. ‘Good afternoon, Madame De Lasset.’

‘And to you, Madame Raineri. Forgive me, I was just wishing our square was populated by our men,’ I explained, affecting a wince of sorrow. ‘It strikes me sadly that for every man who has left us, there is at least one woman, potentially several, who grieves at his departure to war . . . mothers, wives, sisters, daughters, nieces, granddaughters . . .’ I sighed.

‘Monsieur De Lasset and your fine brothers will return as heroes, Madame, I am sure of it,’ she confided, with a much kinder expression.

‘Let’s hope all the men of Grasse keep safe, including Monsieur Raineri,’ I said. We both knew our hopes were wishful as news of the fighting intensified. We’d heard yesterday that one of Pierre’s sons was gravely wounded, lying in a hospital somewhere helpless and likely dying, and there had been at least another dozen deaths that Jeanne knew about from the town. But we shared an understanding smile as she entered the drapery and I felt obliged to leave the doorway. My attention returned to Sébastien, who had shifted position and was now in the centre of the square, about to attempt a wobbling kick of a football to a trio of boys, impressed that he was joining in.

He laughed with them and I hadn’t seen that open expression from him previously; it was as though, just briefly, he was one of them – a carefree child again despite his injuries. I imagined his lonely childhood; he must have spent plenty of it wondering about his father, his brother and why he had been ripped away from them. I should have felt a similar pang of regret for Aimery, but my husband did not pay sufficient heed when I’d told him that I didn’t forget anything. It was a gift as much as a curse and unfortunately for Aimery I would not forget – or forgive – his viciousness on our wedding night.

Now that I had broken cover and Sébastien was facing my way, I could hardly pretend not to be aware of him, especially as he had just seen me. I felt a drift of annoyance with myself that his noticing me won a pang of pleasure. I lifted a gloved hand and smiled indulgently. He bade his playmates farewell and half limped, half skipped towards me.

‘Be careful. What are you doing here when you should be resting?’ I warned and then I saw his bandages oozing afresh. ‘Oh, Sébastien.’

He looked embarrassed by the stain. ‘Sorry,’ he murmured.

‘What for? Wasn’t it re-dressed?’

He shrugged.

‘Clearly not very well. Come on,’ I said, now sounding like a wearied mother. ‘My father always said to me if you want something done properly, do it yourself.’

‘A wise man, but don’t let me keep you from your tasks.’

‘I was just on my way to the post office, beating the delivery.’

‘Well, let me walk you to it. There may be some news.’

‘I’m hoping for something from Felix. What about your hand, though?’

‘Dear Fleurette, this is nothing in comparison to what is going on in the north-east to all our soldiers – I’m truly the luckiest of all of them.’

Something in his glance told me he was conveying more than his bare words said. ‘But you were sent here to convalesce, so the least we can do is take the best care we can with you.’

He nodded as if to say ‘Touché’. ‘I’d offer an arm if I could,’ he said, looking politely towards his elbow.

‘I know.’

‘And I’d enjoy walking with you on my arm.’

I cleared my throat and smiled. There was no easy or suitable response to that so I said nothing.

We strolled companionably without touching but still I was aware we were drawing undisguised interest from the women of the town. I found myself introducing Sébastien to many: some had heard already that my brother-in-law had finally come home, others were shocked to hear it. All were titillated by who he was, of course. The younger women were instantly interested because he was single, obviously rich and his surname was De Lasset. It was like unearthing gold bullion. Neither of us revelled in the notoriety and I couldn’t get into the post office fast enough.

‘Yes, Madame, there is a letter for you from Monsieur Delacroix.’

I couldn’t help the small clap of glee I gave.

‘I knew you’d be delighted to hear it,’ the ageing and much-beloved postmaster assured with an indulgent grin. ‘If he can write, he’s safe,’ he whispered as he patted my hand. He’d known me since I was a baby in my mother’s arms. I wondered what the postmaster believed about my mother’s death. I tried to imagine my father convincing everyone of complications after birth, which meant the physician was implicated in the lies . . . I would have marched straight to his clinic and demanded the truth had he not died last year. Did anyone know that my father was writing letters to my mother’s best friend and that her best friend’s son was his, not Monsieur De Lasset’s? I felt the anger building again.

Nevertheless, I took the scruffy letter as if it was the most precious item in the world and felt the mood pass because I was too pleased to have news from my brother. I glanced at Sébastien, waving it.

‘I’m so pleased for you,’ he said, smiling.

‘Thank you, Monsieur,’ I called over my shoulder, kissing the letter to show the postmaster how much it meant to receive, and felt the previous irritation passing.

The letter from Felix felt as though it was burning a hole in my pocket but I was determined that we first stop Sébastien’s bleeding. On our way home I gave some centimes to one of the town children and asked him to take a message to our family doctor to call on the house tomorrow.

‘Repeat the message, please, Louis,’ I urged.

He dutifully said aloud what I’d asked. Sébastien’s face twisted in soft vexation. ‘I shall be fine, Fleurette, please . . .’

‘No. Blood loss is dangerous in so many ways – as a chemist you know this. Anyway, I want someone professional to look at your wound again. But he’s probably out on calls now so let me at least change those bandages and keep the wound clean.’

We continued in silence up the hill, back to the villa, and I felt an unexpected sense of ease to be walking with Sébastien. I don’t know why I had the feeling I did but conversation didn’t feel necessary. Our quiet was an entirely comfortable one.

As we cleared the town and found ourselves walking into slightly more open vistas, he sighed. ‘I can only imagine how beautiful Grasse looks in summer.’

‘You must see it to believe it,’ I remarked. ‘This year was one of our best harvests.’

‘What will you do with the product?’

I shrugged. ‘I’m a woman, in case you hadn’t noticed,’ I said archly.

‘As a matter of fact I had,’ he replied in an understated tone.

I couldn’t help but grin back. ‘I don’t do anything with it without a man’s say so.’

He blinked at me with consternation. ‘You’re also a Delacroix at heart and a De Lasset in name. That alone takes you into a new status.’

‘A new breed of woman?’ I offered, trying for more levity.

He stopped moving, his expression intent. ‘You have the Nose. You have the skill that most only dream of possessing. A perfumer, Fleurette, is what you are.’

I snorted. ‘Tell that to Henri or, better still, try having a conversation about me being anywhere near the factory with Aimery. I’ve been effectively forbidden and the chemists at the De Lasset laboratory look upon me as an intruder they must bear but not permit any knowledge being shared with.’

‘Then change it,’ he urged.

I gasped. ‘I’d like to see you try.’

‘All right.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, one good turn deserves another. You change my bandages and I’ll change the world you live in.’

‘I don’t understand.’ I frowned.

‘Let’s make a perfume.’

‘What?’ I realised we must look ridiculous perched roadside, looking down the valley, frowning at each other. Tongues would be wagging, surely. We were hardly hidden. Somehow, I didn’t care. Sébastien’s words were lighting something beneath me that had only ever needed one spark of agreement from a man.

‘You heard. I don’t know how long I’m here but perhaps a week or two, so let’s not be idle, let’s work on something. You must have ideas?’

‘Ideas? They’re pulsing through me.’

‘Then share one. What’s going on at the moment . . . in the factory, I mean?’

‘Not a lot. In winter it’s mostly about cleaning and repair of equipment. But I think Henri managed to get through a shipment from the Far East before the world went mad.’

‘What did he bring in?’

‘Oh, the usual,’ I said airily. It felt reassuring to be talking about my favourite subject with someone interested. He was listening attentively too, not at all distracted by the old couple approaching, to whom I flicked a hurried glance. When I looked back at Sébastien his attention hadn’t wavered; his gaze had a disarming way of navigating a path to effortlessly close all distance between us. It didn’t matter that we stood suitably apart with room for two others to stand shoulder to shoulder in that polite gap; we might as well have been pressed up against each other for the way my increasingly focused awareness of him made me feel. I was risking being rude and allowing the elderly pair to pass me by and I caught myself just in time to look away from Sébastien and find a bright salutation. They murmured theirs back and continued their shuffling, arm in arm, leaning against each other, dressed immaculately as they tottered into town.

‘Aren’t they marvellous.’ Sébastien glanced with admiration at their backs.

‘Monsieur and Madame Vence. She’s in her early seventies but he’s eighty-one. Used to refer to my father as the “Delacroix boy” when they spoke.’ I smiled at the memory. ‘He, and now his sons, are the best growers of violets in the region, although perhaps you could guess that.’

There it was again. That flower. It haunted me.

‘Why should I guess it?’ A gentle but quizzical smile puckered his cheeks.

I gave a soft shrug of embarrassment. ‘I shouldn’t presume everyone smells the aromas that I do.’

‘No, Fleurette.’ He chuckled. ‘You should not. It’s winter and you’re smelling spring violets off that man?’

I pushed an invisible strand of hair behind my ear in a nervous gesture I was aware of whenever I felt caught out. But his tone was awed and that made me sigh a laugh. ‘To tell you the truth, I’m likely smelling years of past springs on his clothes.’

‘You’re amazing,’ he said, shaking his head. It was spoken beneath his breath and I only just caught it before the gentle breeze on the exposed position we’d paused at caught his words and buffeted them away into the valley. Our gazes met, held, and it felt as though a new link was made . . . a forbidden connection. I had the vivid image in my mind of Sébastien’s battle-scarred fingers of his good hand intertwining with my pale, unblemished fingers. The mental picture spread a bright warmth that flashed in my face, I was sure, but far more dangerously low between my hips, and that only made me blush deeper.

‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t speak so openly,’ he quickly followed.

‘No, no, it’s lovely. I mean . . . it’s charming that you . . .’ I didn’t really know what I was trying to say.

He helped me out by returning us to safer ground. ‘I meant what I said about making a perfume together. It will give me something to occupy myself, help offset the discomfort from this,’ he said, looking dejectedly at his bandaged hand. ‘We’ve got two laboratories at our disposal and any amount of raw product, I’m guessing. And I’m your chemist and I am happy to take your instructions. Let’s put your talent to use and stop you moping around a house that anyone can see you don’t enjoy and get you doing something that helps Grasse, helps keep the spirits of the men up who are struggling to remember what home felt like.’

I stared at him now with a sense of wonder, unable to respond.

‘I won’t try to explain what the soldiers are enduring. This is not the polite war of yesteryear where leaders shared parleys. This is brutal and bloody. Death is swift and scores of men are cut down at once. Too many will die from time-poor doctors and surgeons who can’t attend to the injured fast enough rather than from the wounds themselves. Men will die alone in feverish states in filthy trenches from disease rather than the glory of the battlefield. Snipers will cowardly take aim and slaughter men invisibly rather than face each other as our forebears did across an open field. This is ruthless, soulless, unimaginable suffering.’

I swallowed, watching his surge of emotion come at me, like an inexorable tide pushing to shore.

‘And when the men of Grasse return, you won’t recognise them. Apart from how they may have changed outwardly, they are going to be different in here.’ He touched his chest and I found that gesture profoundly moving because in my heart I knew he spoke the truth.

‘Let us make a perfume, then, that speaks to our brave men, and women can proudly wear it in their honour.’

He reined the passion back and the silvering glitter in his eyes dulled and he was quiet Sébastien again. He finally let me go from that hold and our invisible fingers unfurled. ‘You will make your family proud and the men of Grasse will have their spirits uplifted to learn that all the women are tackling new skills and, yes, even down to making perfume.’ Now he shocked me by suddenly gripping me by the shoulder. ‘The world is ruled by men, Fleurette, who make stupid decisions to go to war and ruin the lives of those they are supposed to represent. But if this war does anything, it’s going to prove to the world that women are casting off the shackles that men have put around them. Are you familiar with Emmeline Pankhurst in England?’

I glanced at his hand on my shoulder and he immediately let it fall away. I didn’t mean it to be an admonishing look, I just wasn’t sure such a display was seemly in public . . . or indeed anywhere. Nevertheless, I missed the weight of his touch as soon as it left and he reached to take his cane again, which he’d supported against his thigh. He leaned heavily on it as though bearing a new strain. I could swear I still felt the warmth of his palm against my overcoat, seeping through its thick wool, reaching through the lighter wool of my dress to touch my skin in a private, intimate scald. It was this notion that sent my mind foggy momentarily and I realised I was stammering a response. ‘I . . . barely . . . yes, well, I know she is involved in political disturbance,’ I admitted, trying to regain some ground.

‘Oh, she’s so much more than that. Her union will, I suspect, bring massive change not just to the women’s movement in Britain but beyond, I’m sure. And whether you love or loathe her, she’s fighting for the rights of women to be recognised.’

‘I’m not sure what you want . . .’ I began but trailed off, searching his face.

‘I want you.’ He said these words so urgently and emphatically that I froze. He saw the consternation – perhaps even fear – register in my face, no doubt, because I watched him run a hand through that ever-disintegrating parting in his hair as he hurried to explain. ‘By that, of course, I mean that I want you to grasp that the people of this town look to their leading families. And if those leading families only consist of women at this stage, then the burden of responsibility falls to them.’

I blinked.

‘Lead the way,’ he urged. ‘Your perfumer has gone to the Front. So you should step into his shoes.’

‘Don’t think I don’t dream often on that.’ I shook my head. ‘But I can’t follow through because when Felix —’

‘When your brother returns, the world will be different. I know people can’t imagine this but anyone who has been at the Front knows it. When Felix comes home, you may find him a willing ally in having a second perfumer at this side. The fact that you’re a woman may cause less of a furore than you think. Women are already taking on much of the burden of keeping France going right now and I suspect Britain will follow in her footsteps once conscription starts happening . . . and it surely will next year.’

‘Me . . . that has always been my private intention,’ I breathed, as though a door was opening on my greatest dream.

It would have been hard for him to avoid hearing the wistfulness in my tone in the same way that I had clearly heard him say something else just moments previously. He’d covered it well with a blustering explanation but we’d both been astonished, appalled by what I suspected I was right in believing was a reveal.

‘Is that a yes?’

With his wide-eyed, smiling encouragement it seemed so easy to cross the threshold. ‘It is.’ I knew by entering through that door I was walking onto life’s quicksand – I could picture Henri’s horror, Aimery’s anger, probably, and no doubt Felix would feel only amusement. But I suspected even Felix might wonder about the brave and new vision that Sébastien was talking about for women in this future world he seemed able to imagine.

__________

Back in my room, I sat on the bed, still in my coat. Only now, many minutes since lowering myself to the soft mattress, was I even beginning to pull at the fingers of my gloves to ease them off my hand. But I was doing this by rote, not concentrating, because all of me was focused on two topics – both of them unrelated, you could say, and both so deeply intertwined I couldn’t separate them. And most disconcerting of all, both had flung my normally alert mind into a fractured state. Everything looked precisely how I’d left it. Jeanne worked hard to keep my surrounds ordered given that I was interminably messy, which no doubt stemmed from the lack of a mother in my life coupled with an indulgent father. What no one could see or touch, however, was my tidy mind. I was one of those people who could compartmentalise her life. Presumably this was a reflection of my vault-like ability to store information and particularly memories, but most especially smells, of course.