The Perfumer's Secret (18 page)

And in spite of that talent and in contrast to the neat and tidy atmosphere of my chamber, my mind was scattering. It felt like I had spilled a box of the ball bearings that were used in the factory. Glimmering thoughts, like those tiny silver balls, were rolling out of reach. The more I grabbed for purchase on the thoughts, the more slippery they became and the more determined they seemed to escape me.

Apparently I had agreed to make a perfume. This was no small commitment. Not only a challenge in itself, but it was as though I was shaking my fist at society and ignoring all the protocols we lived by. I would be throwing a spotlight on myself, something my father would have abhorred, but my sense of loyalty to him was so compromised I could push past that barrier, although there were a dozen more lining up behind it.

Far worse than this was Sébastien’s revealing slip of the tongue. I heard it. So had he. We’d both recoiled from it as one would from a viper spotted in the grass.

‘
I want you
,’ he had said. And there was a full stop at the end of that phrase. It was a full sentence. The inflection as he’d spoken had fallen by the passage of the third word. He had completed what he’d wanted to say – even if it did sound involuntary, almost . . . a reactionary response to my query. And still I had glimpsed the raw honesty of his feeling. He’d quickly regained his composure, instantly adjusting what he’d meant as though he had been following a thought and paused after the third word . . . but our shared embarrassment – and yes, shared guilt – was plain.

My newly awoken awareness of a man and my particularly heightened sensitivity to this one couldn’t have been more ill advised. Of all men to find myself holding my breath over, stealing glances of, eavesdropping from, even thinking about him right now so determinedly . . . he was about as dangerous a choice as one could imagine. My husband’s brother! The brother Aimery cared so little about that he couldn’t even be bothered to wait for his arrival at our wedding. The fact that war had stepped in the way was irrelevant; Aimery simply did not care for or about Sébastien.

But then my ranging fear began to pull itself together. As though by warming it up in my mind and melting all the scattered elements, I was drawing them together into a soup of anxiety. Sébastien was not my husband’s brother, was he? Sébastien was actually my half-brother’s half-brother.

I panicked inwardly. Minutes passed as I stared at the rug, focusing on a single sprawl of flowers at its edge, falling into the childlike game of trying to make out a different shape of the petals . . . a face, a dragon, an angel. Anything but focusing on the fear.

Finally I stood, pulled off my coat and paced. Why was I feeling like this? Why could I accurately picture and describe the feathered curve of Sébastien’s eyelashes, which blinked in a dark swoop of half crescents and framed his smoky eyes with charcoal intensity? How could I do this so easily and yet I couldn’t, in all truth, even picture the true colour of Aimery’s eyes, let alone his more subtle features. Blue? Muddy blue like a dirty fountain, perhaps. Who cares? I suddenly thought with a vicious clarity. Aimery cannot be regarded as my husband. Having thoughts of another man does not betray him, or cuckold him. But even with this surprisingly clear-headed rationale, I felt guilt lining up like an army of soldiers down my gullet, all the way through my gut, and in charge of those soldiers were their captains, horror and shame, yelling loudly in my mind.

I had barely paused as I arrived in the house, lost in my disgrace. I had been in such a hurry to get upstairs and examine what I’d just agreed to, leaving behind a bemused Sébastien and maidservant, I couldn’t imagine what he said to her about my flight. But as he seemed to possess the wit of Felix I’m sure he thought of something immediately appropriate and vaguely amusing to say that would alleviate any potential alarm.

I leaned my back against the door as I unravelled my scarf and tossed it to where my coat and gloves lay on the bed. My mind felt bruised with shameful thoughts of Sébastien, pretending our conversation and time together was innocent. It might have been coincidental to meet but there was certainly nothing naïve about our heightened awareness of each other.

Sébastien’s bandages might have to wait until I calmed. I snatched at Felix’s letter, thrilled to hear from him but equally thrilled to be distracted from my spiralling thoughts that suddenly felt pathetic as I was reminded of where in France this letter hailed from. I couldn’t even wait to slice it open neatly with a letter opener and nearly tore the pages with my haste.

Fleurette!

What a surprise to hear from you again so soon. You must have been reading my mind, for I was thinking of you only this morning as we trudged along yet another muddied road. I am glad that you are so far from the noise of the guns. I played the game we used to as children, trying to guess what the other was thinking, and all I could imagine was the peace that you wake to. I helplessly envy you that but I know you won’t mind. Your morning begins with the chattering of the birds. We, however, are woken by the rip and snarl of the Boche’s guns. Dare I say our seventy-fives are more melodious, even to a tone-deaf oaf such as I?

Anyway, I’m writing to tell you that Aimery is here!

My breath caught at that. All of them together, none of them wise to the knowledge that they shared the same blood through our father? I set the repulsive thought aside and focused on Felix and my intense relief at knowing that he’s alive, he’s safe.

To be truthful, I had no idea that his company was so close until this afternoon when in he strolls while Henri and I were making the most of our meagre meal. He must be finding this war rather agreeable for he looks every inch the dashing officer. I don’t know how he manages to stay so tidy and correct. Well, rest assured that the action and fresh air are doing him no harm at all. I myself am noticing my uniform is suddenly roomy; even podgy Henri has defined cheekbones.

I chuckled, even though I knew he was doing his damnedest to put a happy slant on his situation. I knew just from the smattering that Sébastien had shared that Felix’s days were ugly and frightening.

It’s true my feet are interminably sore after relentless marching. Can you imagine me – someone who rarely walked further than a few kilometres while hunting pheasant – now capable of completing dozens of kilometres in a single day, as well as carrying all of my equipment? Heroic indeed . . . I hope you’re on your feet and cheering.

I smiled again but not for long. He’d set up a cheerful introduction so that talk of fighting might slip by me more easily.

The fighting has been harsh and for a number of days the enemy has had the better of us. We were forced to leave behind our dead on the field of battle without being able to accord them a proper burial, which hurt our hearts more deeply than most of us cared to share. All we could do for our wounded was to offer them some meagre aid but many of them must have fallen into the hands of the enemy.

Yesterday, though, despair was set aside and we not only returned to the offensive but have halted the Kronprinz’s army. From the very moment that we left our positions the enemy’s artillery tried to crush our spirits but we continued onwards, ignoring the crashes and eruptions of the ground before us as shells exploded here and there. The companies followed their orders as though they were on parade for the commander-in-chief. The Boche could not have failed to remark that a few shells could not dampen the ardour of the Chasseur when he is fighting in defence of his beloved country.

These Germans are good soldiers and their NCOs know their trade but once cornered they soon raise their hands and shout ‘
kamerade
’. How do they know I am a comrade? I would rather like to think that I look far too stern in battle. Tomorrow I shall take a mirror with me. As I rush the enemy I shall pause and have a look to see if I am smiling.

I was tearing up helplessly; Felix was working so hard to amuse and I loved him all the more for his desperate need to shield me from the worst.

Oh, dear sister, would you be ashamed of me if I said that I have not bathed in at least a fortnight? I smell something awful. Perhaps that alone might frighten the Germans into surrender? Yesterday we captured an entire German hospital! Poor sods lying pathetically in their cots. We were gentle with the injured. The German doctors assure us that they look after our wounded with no less care than their own, which is heartening after having to leave many behind.

Our hearts go out to the families of those who have fallen. As their officer I have the arduous duty of writing to mothers and wives explaining how Louis or Maximilien met their fate, which is why I know you’ll forgive me for being such a poor correspondent. It is a sad duty but I am sure that these grieving women will be comforted by the knowledge that their loved ones have died so that France might be free from the Kaiser’s yoke.

I regret that it is not just our valiant soldiers that are paying the price of this barbarian invasion. The roads are lined with shuffling destitute citizens from those villages now occupied by the enemy. Their homes have been destroyed, much of their livestock killed and now they haunt the roads carrying their bundles containing whatever few possessions they could carry away.

The smallest of the children must either walk or add to the weight of their already overburdened mothers or elder siblings. I have seen so many of the little ones who have no shoes and what they have to eat will not last them for more than a few days. This desperate state of the innocents is the most heartbreaking sight of all in this ugly war.

Such sights as these only make those of us who defend our beloved country all the more determined to do what must be done. In the meantime my single greatest duty is foot inspection. Yes, indeed, I am the Lord High Lieutenant of Foot Rot! Now I can almost see you laughing, dear sister, but you should be apprised that foot inspection is the highlight of my day and a vital part of an officer’s duty and I take my role so very seriously. As you can tell, I am being equally heroic to Henri and no doubt your strutting husband, for – let’s face it – no one else would get nearly so close to so many feet, humming with filth and infection, as I and my long-suffering fellow feet inspectors!

He had drawn a stick figure of a man holding his nose and falling backwards. Somehow, in that naïve rendition and with a few strokes of his pen, he had managed to capture the comedy of his unenviable duty. While I knew he was deliberately diverting me from the horror, I couldn’t help the explosion of private laughter that dissolved into tears of empathy. I prayed that all the angels that seemed to hover around Felix’s charmed life would continue to protect him, keep him safe, and bring him home to us.

I read his final line with a happy sigh.

Some soap would be a most welcome gift for your horribly grubby brothers.

Both sending our love,

Felix

I folded up the letter, still teary, laughing gently to myself. I wondered if in looking out for each other’s lives, rather than just their livelihoods, Felix and Henri would cleave closer. We both loved Henri – no question of that – but I suppose our being twins made us a happy club of two and his determination to be pompous at every turn fought against every inclination we collectively shared to include him.

Reading between the lines of Felix’s jolly take on his participation was the sobering reality of war and being reassured that both of my brothers – and indeed Aimery – remained safe for now had the welcome effect of pushing away the upheaval in my mind.

I found fresh perspective in the wake of Felix’s letter and was able to remind myself I was a grown woman and in charge of myself and must search for my own solutions to my problems. Sébastien’s attention and my shameful feelings towards a man I had only met this morning felt suddenly ridiculous . . . laughable, even. By tonight around the dinner table I would be in control of those feelings, capable of making sparkling conversation and able to divert his attention as much as my own and perhaps channel it into his idea for us to make perfume. I wasn’t going to let that opportunity go. In fact, spurred on by Felix’s tales of valour, I would make a perfume for the women of France to wear as a salute to their men. It would be proud; it would smell of victory.

I nodded, happy with the image of me triumphantly brandishing a bottle of something called
la Victoire
. It was a terrible name but for now it worked in my mind and I was mentally reaching for the first of the grand base notes that would be the platform for my heroic fragrance. I grinned.

‘Ah,
Héroïque
 . . . that’s what I’ll call it,’ I said aloud into the stillness of my chamber. The title felt right and I could imagine thousands of French women patriotically dabbing the perfume on themselves daily in honour of their men. I frowned in thought. Even
Patriotique
could work. I couldn’t wait to tell Sébastien now; the notion of making our perfume no longer felt gauzy, like a starry nightscape up high . . . untenable, and dreamy. Instead this challenge felt suddenly solid, anchored to the earth with every possibility of nurturing it to fruition, like a rose cutting being planted and cared for all the way to the maturity of its first bud bursting with colour into full bloom and fragrance perfection. Yes, I liked that metaphor.

Excitement glimmered through me to chase away the former guilt that now felt like a momentary girlish crush and nothing to be ashamed of. I would have my composure by dinner and present only the vision of the married woman, enchanted by the attention but not seeking for it to change beyond polite exchanges. My mind was now whirring with possibility for the perfume, and my new relationship with Sébastien feeling as though it could indeed settle into a working partnership, if I could just ignore his presence.