The Perfumer's Secret (3 page)

‘You have never looked more gorgeous,’ he whispered. ‘If I were Aimery, I would consider myself the luckiest man on earth.’

I looked into his earnest expression and saw no guile. Poor Henri. He truly believed this was for the best. In which case, I should do the same. Accept my lot now and get on with it. I could hardly complain that I wanted for much.

I braced, took a slow, deep breath and found a smile for my brother. ‘Walk me down the aisle, Henri.’

__________

Women sighed, thrilled at the sight of the first Delacroix bride of the new generation to step out, ready to take her wedding vows at the cathedral of Notre-Dame du Puy. Others, mainly boys, hung from windows, whistling and vying for my attention – a little smile, a sideways glance, perhaps. I gave nothing but hoped they’d all forgive me, imagine me a nervous bride, desperate not to trip or stumble. I began to understand, feeling their collective surge of pleasure. How impossible it must have seemed to my brother and his partner in this transaction, to consider cancellation or postponement.

These might be the last smiles for a long time and although war had yet to be officially declared and we prayed it might still be averted, I think we could all feel its press. This wedding was needed to keep everyone optimistic for the future.

Henri and Aimery had forgone the age-old tradition of the man calling at the house of his bride and then walking with her to the church, gathering a long procession of townsfolk behind them. Henri considered it beneath us and it troubled me that he saw us as different from the townsfolk in anything but privilege. Each of us children had been born and raised in this town and our father had come here from Paris as a boy. We were locals. Perhaps the word Henri didn’t utter but heard in his mind was ‘peasants’. Either way, I had to forgo what might have been the only fun of the day for me, to walk with the people I loved and perhaps channel their joy into mine. It seemed they’d all proceeded to the church anyway, just without the main couple.

I noted their sense of celebration had not been dampened and they were determined I still follow some of the ritual. Each stair to the cathedral was flanked by two children who belonged to the workers of our fields – I knew each by name. Between each pair they’d stretched a white ribbon. Normally, I would have been required to cut those ribbons intermittently on my journey from my home to the altar, but they seemed happy enough to make me cut the ribbons on the stairs. The first boy, Pierre, son of one of the violet growers, solemnly handed me some tailor’s scissors that looked cumbersome in his small hands.

‘Mademoiselle Fleurette,’ he said, bowing sweetly.

I could hardly refuse. ‘
Merci
, Pierre,’ I whispered, touching his curly head, before I cut his ribbon and the crowd cheered.

I lifted the hem of my gown, which was made of transparent embroidered silk covering the palest ecru satin. The elbow-length, gently ruffled sleeves of sheer Flanders lace had been fashioned from my grandmother’s bridal gown. We were a superstitious lot, we Delacroix. The overall colour effect seemed to match the marble of the shallow exterior stairs of the cathedral we were ascending, and I wondered how many happy brides – like my mother – had wanted to run up this short flight towards their intended. I had walked these smoothly worn stairs most Sundays of my life and never dreaded them as I did now. From within the womb of the cathedral’s stone walls I could hear the echoing sounds of people restless in their pews – coughs and the drone of men’s voices, the light laughter of women – before the organ’s soft background hum became louder, turned into official wedding music, and hushed those tones.

The pain had left me. I was no longer whole, though. I genuinely believed in this moment that part of me had escaped and now observed my other. I reminded myself that when Henri let go of my arm, my twin would be standing alongside the groom to keep me strong, get me through the trial of agreeing to be Aimery’s wife without shouting my true feelings. Felix had already disappeared into the cathedral, no doubt quieting anyone who hadn’t realised I’d arrived at the gateway to misery. I imagined his crooked smile with that glint of mischief in his eye, urging me to be strong.

The thought encouraged me and I turned once, reaching deep to find a glimmer of a smile for the still applauding townsfolk outside. They loved the old families, loved what we did for the town; they especially loved my father for how he looked after everyone who worked for the firm of Delacroix. It didn’t matter whether they picked the flowers, worked on the factory floor in the distillation process or drove the carts that would make deliveries – they were all viewed as vital, valuable and worthy of his smile, his care, his kindness at all times.

We were the European chieftains of this industry. We were the royalty of Grasse, beloved old families of France.

We are the Perfumers to the World.

Perhaps it was this thought that warmed up my expression as I turned to lift a hand of appreciation to the townsfolk for their welcome when I helplessly locked on to the searing gaze of Graciela Olivares. She seemed to be standing on a low wall, for her shoulders were easily visible above even the tallest townsfolk. This gave her a clear pathway of sight to burn her fury towards me. I wanted to assure her I was as helpless in this event as a tethered lamb. It had never occurred to me that she wouldn’t be Aimery’s wife. If only I could explain that the talks between the two heads of household happened in private and were announced without me having any say in the agreement, that my pain matched hers . . . but Henri was dragging me into the shadows of the cathedral porch, where the heat of day and Graciela’s fire were instantly chased away by the cool.

I took one long last draught of freedom and on the air I tasted my beloved Grasse, picking out its flavours with ease as though I was pointing to each on a store shelf. They were imprinted on my memory and I could select them as I chose, and yet when they reached me fresh of a morning it was as though I smelled them for the first time.

The sun-coaxed honeyed lusciousness of rose came first, tumbling on the soft thermals rising from the valley to the summit where I stood, soon to take holy vows. I reached for the waft of violet . . . there it was, syrupy and haunting, before it was pushed aside by woody, camphorous rosemary and the earthy yet elegant thyme that was never far away. They were using essential oils we’d distilled months earlier. Right now we were approaching jasmine harvest but the sensual jasmine would come into its own tonight. Even so, more flavours crowded; I wished I could linger to pick out more, but Henri was guiding me into the shadow of the vestibule.

People were clearing throats, glancing around, standing. Children were staring. I couldn’t bear to meet the glance of anyone; instead I fixed my gaze on the dark stone of the church walls ahead.

Henri touched my fingertips, which clasped his arm loosely. ‘Ready to do battle?’ he whispered in the strange language of our mother’s tongue.

It seemed timely given what Europe was facing but it was an old jest from childhood and nearly undid me. However, I embraced the affection he’d hoped he could elicit with that question.

‘Tally ho,’ I whispered, using the familiar yet odd response that none of us children had ever understood.

He grinned and I saw her in him and a fleeting echo of our father’s smile. And then we were walking, our steps matched to the solemn music; underfoot I crushed fresh rose petals, dropped by the small child chosen as flower girl for the ceremony. Blanche was the daughter of one of our staff. I wondered if she was imagining her own wedding day. I wished Blanche a happier union as the fragrance of roses once again lifted and cradled me in its familiar scent, which I had known throughout my life. It reassured, and I held myself straighter to the organ’s sombre music, which Henri had also chosen.

Eight hundred years of memory and knowledge embraced me. I knew this former cathedral, now simply called our church, almost as well as I knew my own home with its crooked stone pillars soaring to the vault of the gothic ceiling and strengthened by iron girders. Simple, grey marble tiles underfoot echoed its inherent modesty. Cold stone surrounded me and for now suited my heart. I noted some crumbling in the dark grey walls.

‘We should contribute some money to restore our church,’ I whispered. It was inappropriate – a useless comment – but I needed to have a reason to talk to Henri or I would be forced to acknowledge the beaming audience come to bear witness. Maybe that was the bribe offered to coerce our priest into overlooking the necessary paperwork. He was a sweet, elderly man, no doubt intimidated by both the Delacroix and De Lasset chieftains.

‘It’s fine,’ Henri said, patting my hand as he might an obedient pet. He surely knew what I was thinking.

I shifted my gaze from my hem towards the high windows near the ceiling. It had always intrigued me that all but one of the windows had clear glass. Perhaps Henri was right to leave the cathedral be. The sobriety made that single, richly stained glass window all the more beautiful for its presence.

We were nearly there and I finally had to look ahead to the cluster of men awaiting me: priest, husband-to-be, twin. Felix glanced over his shoulder, flashed me a devil-be-damned grin and whispered something to the man he stood next to. But the groom did not turn; he stood patiently, as he had waited all of his life for me to grow up and be old enough for him to steal me from my family.

Henri and I drew alongside. I stood nearly shoulder to shoulder with Aimery but he would never see me as his equal, never recognise me as my own person; from today my role was to support his every need and, above all, deliver him the heir he now required . . . and perhaps a few as spares.

Only months ago I’d listened to the men talking about war, but the conversation had a distant quality as though even they believed it couldn’t ever happen. The news filtering through newspapers and various reports suggested the shared royal blood of Queen Victoria’s grandchildren may not be enough to save Europe from dragging itself into all-out war because of the troubles between Austria–Hungary and Serbia.

I’d switched off from the conversation. Our father had been too old to be physically involved in the Franco–Prussian war and my brothers yet to be born. Germany’s hostility remained buried in alliances. I knew only what I’d learned at school and, despite being fed a regular diet of war propaganda, politics interested me only marginally more than marrying Aimery. My inspiration, the reason I would wake and smile for the day ahead, was to help my father and Felix to make perfume. The rest of the world held little interest for me other than where we might discover new plants, new elements.

Although I could demonstrate the gift, I was not permitted to be known as ‘
le nez
’ but my advice was sought, indulged; I was part of the family apparatus that had delivered the exquisite and popular
Minuit
. I had even chosen the name of midnight. More recently our
Coeur de Printemps
had created an avalanche of orders and to achieve that sense of spring’s heartbeat we had combined a dazzling eleven notes so finely balanced that I remember how we argued down to the last minuscule drop of vetiver. We had hotly debated whether to include anise or leave its broody presence out and whether iris stayed plush enough after the first joyous whiff had dried away. Felix and I had disagreed about lavender, sat on opposite ends of the table over grapefruit, suffered angst over the inclusion of ambergris.

My mind was always full of combinations. I felt I had no room for the drama of when the Kaiser had offended Russia, and Germany’s neighbours had suddenly unified against it in shared resentment of Berlin. Britain – my mother’s homeland and a naval titan – had become alarmed at Germany’s build-up of its seafaring might. I had the awareness that Europe was suddenly divided into two opposers – ourselves with the Entente, Germany with its allies – that we identified as the Central Powers but it was not truly impacting on me yet. I can remember my father talking to that same doctor, Monsieur Bertrand, that war across Europe seemed inevitable.

Aimery apparently agreed and this was why he had pressed for the marriage – to get his line established, get sons born to carry the family name and business forward, no matter what. And as I stood there, staring at the single stained-glass window that radiated colour around me like divine ornamentation on a neutral scene below, I had a moment of dawning that Henri would be next. He would marry urgently now to achieve the same aim. He had no intention of risking leaving the Delacroix future in the hands of a woman, even one with the sublime talent he knew I possessed. He was so rigid, he would rather risk birthing a male heir without the skill so long as the family had a Delacroix man at its head. And there was always Felix . . . the family ‘nose’ was intact through him – he could guide the new heir as he grew.

I gave our priest a look of accusation and he had the grace to avert his gaze, filled with guilty remorse. We were all too far down this path to turn back now and I knew this lovely man would have been outnumbered, outmuscled by the heads of the foremost families of the community he served. I hoped that he had at least put up a good fight for me on moral grounds. The priest asked a question and I heard Henri answer formally and yet couldn’t determine the words for the sudden alarm in my mind that things were moving fast now – I had only moments of Delacroix freedom remaining to savour. Every ounce of my body was denying progress but duty was the lead in my feet. Contrastingly light of heart, Henri was beaming as he nodded at Aimery, delighted to unload the burden of the spinster sister. I didn’t want Henri to leave me – a rare feeling – but he was unclasping us and handing me over to the new owner of his property.

Only now Aimery turned. He blinked. I saw satisfaction in his expression and I had to look away for fear of picking up my skirt hem again and bolting from the church.

With the haunt of our grandmother’s favourite plain violette essential oil that I had worn scenting the air around me, I was married to Aimery, and became Madame De Lasset. By the time the cathedral bells gave their triumphant clangour and we moved from the depths of the nave into the sunshine of uproarious cheering, I noticed Graciela had left.

I couldn’t blame her. I would not linger to see the man I had believed myself partnered with married to another. Aimery’s elbow was crooked around mine as rice and barley were flung into the air to offer us fertility and prosperity throughout our married life.

I moved through the later celebrations at home as if in a trance, smiling, accepting the compliments and the kind wishes, thanking guests for gifts that were so plentiful they were being stored in a separate series of chambers in our house to be catalogued and properly acknowledged later. I could see days ahead spent writing letters, finding new and creative ways to express the same sentiment so that each recipient felt valued.

In the meantime I had to publicly be seen eating the five white dragées, softly scented with violet, in another symbolism of health, wealth, happiness, longevity and, of course, fertility. My ability to produce a De Lasset heir was on everyone’s minds, especially Aimery, who kept glancing my way with a wolfish look.

People had gathered to watch us cut our cake and just as we all took appreciative sips of effervescing champagne to toast, an ominous sound rang loud through the clear summer evening. People gasped, looking around at each other, alarmed. Champagne flutes remained suspended halfway to open mouths, shocked expressions changed to concern and a murmuring of ‘War . . .’ erupted but was muted rather than loud. Earlier in the day the bells had pealed joyous celebration of marriage but now the sound was a mournful tolling; it was the tocsin that would mobilise the men of our town to go to war.

A frigid hush fell across us all. I noticed Henri’s valet whispering to him, but it was hardly necessary as we all knew what the ringing meant. Aimery and Felix joined them and they spoke for just a few seconds. The valet bowed and retired. The thought shuddered through my mind that surely they would stop the wedding feast, but it would mean Aimery taking me ‘home’ all the sooner.

Aimery was the first of the trio of men to move, raising a hand of calm, the other still holding his fizzing champagne.

‘Friends, I am assured that the President has ordered the army to mobilise so it seems that this could be our last night together for a while.’ Our guests began to murmur again but he hushed them with a soothing sound. ‘We don’t know what the future will bring, but I am sure I speak for all of us here when I say that the thought of war against Germany is not going to dampen my spirits. Somebody get me my sword and a fresh bottle of champagne – I need to start practising my swing, it seems!’

His jest provoked a roar of applause and cheering. I wanted to escape but Aimery fixed me with a stare to ensure his adoring bride waited nearby to watch his next playful trick as he performed the ritual of sabrage.

I didn’t think he would be able to wield a sabre so adeptly but I’d misjudged him. After brandishing the weapon in a casually arrogant manner, swiping at the air to the gasping appreciation of the women in his audience, he had accepted the new bottle of champagne to be popped. I was invited to stand nearby as his adoring bride.

‘For you, my beautiful wife,’ he announced.

Balancing the bottle expertly against his long, outstretched fingers, his thumb buried in its dimple at the bottom, I watched him swipe the blade the length of the glass and I admit to feeling as surprised as Felix looked when the glass collar flew off the bottle while still attached to the cork.

This act won loud applause, especially as the spuming liquor exploded in orgasmic style from the shaft. There was another symbolic message there, which I know everyone comprehended but I chose to appear ignorant of. The real act was going to be frightening enough without buying into this theatrical build-up.

As though threat of war was momentarily forgotten, Aimery poured some of the fizzing nectar into one of our family goblets to represent
le coupe de mariage
to toast our union. It was Catherine who stepped up with the tiny cube of toasted brioche and dropped it into the cup.

‘Let us toast to a healthy life together,’ Aimery announced. Flutes were raised in response as he insisted we sip together from the goblet to appreciative oohs and aahs from his worshipping audience.

As soon as I could I excused myself and fled. Older people smiled with that indulgent glimmer of knowing. Was I as nervous of my wedding night as they believed I should be? Of course I was. The solemn vows in our family’s sacred place had been an emotional challenge, but the one ahead was all physical and I was responding with a fresh bout of nausea. Apart from the fear of ignorance, the very thought of Aimery’s clammy hands on my skin . . . private areas . . . was making my heart drum a powerful new rhythm of fear that clubbed so loudly in my chest I wondered if I might need to retch soon. Best to distance myself.

I had managed so far to lock away tightly that it would be smug Aimery who had the pleasure of taking my virginity, but as the time closed in on me, the horrible thought escaped my internal jail. Like Dr Bertrand’s smoke, it moved wraith-like through me, prodding here, nagging there, reminding me the last hour or so was ticking down. If only there was another man I had loved romantically . . . even an older man I had a crush on, I might have given up my virtue to deny Aimery the main jewel of his transaction. But I had even failed there.

‘How are you, Ettie?’ Felix had found me at last; I knew when I fled the ballroom it would only be a matter of time before he left our guests, wandered through the small gate at the far side of the property and followed the winding path to the playhouse our father had built for our fifth birthday.

I gazed down from our cliff-top perch, which jutted from the side of the hill at the top of Grasse. It had always felt like the box our family took at the ballet, from where we and similarly affluent families looked down upon the less wealthy . . . and, of course, at each other. I couldn’t see Aimery’s house, soon to be my prison, from here. I considered this for the best. For maybe just one more hour I could still call this home, and so cherished this opportunity to look down into the picturesque valley of our homeland.

I didn’t answer my brother immediately. My gaze was fixed rigidly on the terraced gardens, all of them crowded with centifolia rose bushes, down to the patchwork of fields below where other scented flowers stood in neat rows. The rose bushes were bare of blooms because we’d stripped them during spring, but summer was at its zenith right now, showing off its power, boasting of the regeneration it could coax from the previously frozen ground of winter. This year some of our precious rose bushes had been left resplendent in their deep pink of petals, richly golden at the centre of the flower so that they could be included in my bouquet and on the feast tables. The annual generous yield of these fields had paid for the decadent celebration of my marriage, which I was sitting here in the twilight feeling so ungrateful for.

And in spite of the glorious rose, integral to our family’s wealth and success, its importance, its lifeblood, it was in this cool of evening that I could detect the note of muguet clinging to the terraces beneath the trees. Our mother called this lily-of-the-valley, which I always thought was a far prettier name. It gave up its narcotic-like notes to steal upwards, find me and calm me. Such a poisonous little plant and yet so dainty, with its sweet white bells, that I had carried it in my bridal bouquet because of the clear beauty it brought to scent. How would I describe it? Demure, I think. To me it represented a delicate woman of taste, of perfect manner and sophisticated dress. In perfume terms, if the royal line-up was rose as queen and muguet as princess, then the king was, without doubt, jasmine. This headily scented flower was like a pillow of opulent velvet – it was all about night and sensuality. My mind was wandering.

‘Ettie?’

‘How do you think I am?’ I finally replied, lazily coming back to attention. We both hated it when someone answered a question with a question and made a point of using that ploy to niggle at each other. He was better at it than I was, but only because Felix knew how to amuse with his pettiness, rather than irritate.

Except Felix didn’t react in his usual manner. Instead he glanced sideways with a look of sympathy. I wished he didn’t feel sorry for me, but maybe it wasn’t regret; maybe it was pity. Felix never took offence and forgave me every gruff comment over our two decades together. Best friends do that.

‘I, of all people, understand why you’re here but apart from avoiding wellwishers, how are you justifying your absence from your guests?’

‘Scent waits for no man . . . or woman. I’m busy gathering a new perfume in my mind,’ I said, trying to sound lofty. ‘You just walked in and ruined the middle notes.’

‘Well, I’ll allow that creativity doesn’t work to schedules. So, for my benefit, describe its fragrance in a word.’ Felix smiled. I knew he was indulging me but I was in no mood this evening to be managed by my brother’s knowing way.

‘Sorrowful,’ I replied.

‘Oh, Ett—’

I shrugged. ‘It’s true. The scent is sad; jasmine will be my foundation.’

He played along. ‘Enlighten me, so I can smell it.’

This was a game we played. It had always fascinated my father the way one could give clues in words and our other half would close his or her eyes and be able to smell the fragrance, taste its individual parts and then, like a symphony, play all those notes to form the music of perfume. I don’t know if it was because we were twins or simply because we had both inherited a sublime talent, but we were good. No, we were wizards at it.

‘Jasmine for the dormant sensuality, not ready to be broken into.’ I watched his lips purse; it was not Felix I wanted to hurt with my dark thoughts. ‘And a hint of sandalwood and clove.’

‘Exotic.’

‘More like night,’ I suggested and saw him nod as the sky darkened from its tender blush, as though the angels had just splashed a pipette of ink into its ocean. Soon it would be as though a tap had been turned on, this time flowing with darker ink – that English blue-black that I learned my mother had liked to write with – to flood the dome of night and herald my fate.

‘Go on,’ he urged, as though he knew what I was thinking and was trying to distract me.

‘Over the jasmine comes black pepper, juniper, lavender, geranium.’

His eyes snapped open. ‘Aggressive,’ he noted.

‘Because I’m angry.’

He gave me another sad smile. ‘Finish it.’

‘I don’t know yet,’ I replied, looking back over Grasse, the fields now in deep shadow. ‘My mind tells me this perfume would need some gentle sweetness, that rose should have wandered into its base, but my heart wants no tenderness in this scent. Maybe clementine and some lime?’

‘Fresh,’ he remarked with surprise.

‘Like a slap,’ I said, and he gave a gust of a laugh and I helplessly joined him.

‘What would you call it?’

‘
Morne
.’ At his haunted expression I lifted a shoulder of regret. ‘Mournful is how I feel.’

‘Listen, Ettie.’ He shifted closer and covered my hand with his large, dry palm. ‘The spectacle of the townsfolk showering you with rose petals was not only mesmerising but a poignant symbol. In that moment, as I watched their joy, and even though I know you don’t want to hear this, I believe Henri made the right decision.’ I swung around but he held a hand up. ‘Perhaps not for you, darling sister, but for the whole town . . . This is your moment to find the grace our father always spoke of.’

I swallowed as he echoed what I’d been hearing in my mind. Graciousness was missing from me today and it was time to stop putting myself ahead of what was expected of me.

As if he needed to lance the boil, let all the poison flow out, Felix continued, cutting into the gloom, adding more pain but it was necessary, no doubt, to cleanse the toxic mood. ‘As to the legality, mere paperwork that will be fully signed tomorrow, hopefully before —’

‘Is the mayor returned from Nice?’

‘He’s not up at the house, if that’s what you mean.’

I grimaced.

‘The point is, no one really cares at this tense time because they want this marriage more than they want to prevent it over a piece of paper. Threat of war changes everything. From the people’s perspective, you are the most beautiful bride they’ve ever seen and they are all deliriously happy that two great families have come together.’

I knew it and still I needed reminding. I stayed silent and let him say it all; given that I couldn’t take the advice of my own sensibilities, and that I refused to pay attention to Henri’s, there was only one person left who might get through.

‘Make it work with Aimery. He has looked me in the eye and promised me he will revere you.’

‘Do you trust him?’

‘He was a vile child but boarding school and Paris were good for him, I think. Surely he has told you about his travels?’

‘Yes. I envied him. What about his brother?’ I frowned. ‘We never hear anything of him.’

He shrugged. ‘We were far too young when his mother left. I don’t even know if Sébastien was born then.’

‘Why did she go?’

‘I don’t really know. Unhappy, probably. I heard that the people of Grasse were told she was returning home to England to have her second child, and then, to recover her health, was going on that grand tour. She took him with her by all accounts and I suppose never returned. I’m sure I heard through Father that they visited some exotic ports in Africa, India . . . I think Sébastien sent back santal from Australia to Aimery.’

‘Australia. I wish I could see it for myself. He lives in England now, is that right?’

‘Father told me a couple of years ago that he’s more English than French, as that’s been their home for the past two decades. Although I really rather hoped he might return for the wedding, you know, bury the hatchet; not that the two brothers know one another to have a genuine grudge.’