The Perfumer's Secret (33 page)

To help banish those memories, by the autumn of 1915 I had turned the Delacroix villa into a convalescent home for injured soldiers. There were so many men in need of care it was one of the essential duties that many of the wealthy homeowners with empty houses provided and there were now numerous auxiliary hospitals in Grasse, including mine and Graciela’s. The year 1916 was a terrible one for warfare at sea; I believe the number of allied ships lost was more than four hundred, and I don’t doubt plenty of enemy ships and submarines were lost also. Our two houses seemed to be favoured for men rescued from sea warfare that the Allies, for a long time, seemed incapable of counteracting. And so we had many young men pass through our wards to recuperate; we got to patch them up and send them straight back into the fiery cauldron of war. In theory the role sounded sometimes pointless but the reality was exhausting, challenging and inspiring work that kept our morale high that we were contributing. They were all someone’s brother or son, lover or husband, uncle or nephew. Behind them stretched so many women we felt connected to them all, and determined to help their beloved soldiers.

Each time we sent a man back, Graciela and I would say the words:
Somewhere a mother, a wife or a lover thanks us.

Now and then as I passed through the main salon of the Delacroix villa that now served as a morning room for the patients, I could unhappily conjure the taste of Felix’s blood, as though it were still fresh and glistening on my lips from kissing him goodbye. I needed more time. I needed life to be lively again, with the pall of death lifted from France, I thought, before I could confront banishing all the demons from that house for good.

Besides, I thought Madame Mouflard would not forgive me, should I leave the De Lasset villa. She cosseted me as the grieving widow in the first year and then when I’d cast off my mourning garments and had begun to introduce a touch of colour here and there, she’d make odd remarks that I couldn’t and shouldn’t remain a widow forever. She had begun to hint that the villa needed the sounds of children, of laughter, of life again in the future. She had also cunningly begun to rally her supporters so that other members of staff made similar comments about when the war was over and when the villa might have the squeals of happy children playing in the garden. I let it wash over me but always permitted it to gain momentum. If I let it take its natural course, I hoped that the staff might collectively feel it was their hope, even their idea, that Sébastien be the perfect match . . . to keep the De Lasset bloodline alive and strong in Grasse.

And so by candlelight in my bedroom of the De Lasset mansion that with each passing year had begun to feel more familiar, more like home, I would hear Sébastien’s voice talking to me of love and longing. I yearned for his arms around me too. Watching him depart on that freezing day in January 1915 had been the second-hardest challenge I’d ever encountered. Four years ago I’d have said marrying Aimery was the greatest obstacle I’d faced, but now I knew that nothing would ever demand more of my strength, will, composure and discipline than closing the casket on Felix. After that, not being able to hug or kiss Sébastien openly but to simply accept three affectionate, polite kisses at the station in front of an audience of staff and wellwishers as he left for the battlefields again would be next in line as my worst day.

We’d avoided being alone together too over that fortnight of the New Year. We’d dined with Graciela or other guests. We’d gone to bed at different times, never headed upstairs together, and he had been deliberately accommodated in a separate wing of the villa anyway. If our shoulders touched or hands entwined for a heartbeat, it was in a stolen moment and we both tended to look around guiltily to see if we’d been noticed. And so even the simple passing of a teacup became a tense moment to savour as our skin might touch; salutations became loaded with deeper meaning and permitted us to lean together and to brush our lips against each other’s cheeks lightly. Even laughter became threaded with romantic meaning – an amused look, a smile of pleasure, a throw-back of the head at a jest – each innocent gesture strengthened the bond between us as people moved around us, ignorant of the undertow of the hidden language being exchanged.

Most romantic of all were his letters. His absence and potential injury or death gave them a poignancy that ordinary letters in peacetime couldn’t begin to match. Without touch or sight of each other, his words, the memory of his voice, became everything to me. Every word was gold. I would trace the words on the page with a finger as though I might reach across time and space and imagine that his hand, holding the pen that inked these thoughts, was mine to caress.

I didn’t feel like making perfume in those two weeks he remained awaiting the police enquiry, or even talking about it. I certainly didn’t feel in any mood for romance while grieving for Felix and Henri, so life made sure we were never caught in a situation that compromised our standing within the Grasse community. Still pretending with those perfunctory kisses at the station, not knowing if this was our only remaining touch, the final time we’d look upon each other, the last words we’d physically share, made my mood so brittle I was convinced the effort of stretching a fake smile might shatter the mask of an expression I was managing to hold. It hurt to let him go and still we had to cover the ache, talk and bid each farewell like friends, not lovers.

I recalled now how I’d made it through that afternoon by disappearing into the laboratory and begging off dinner, claiming I was feeling tired. I cried myself to sleep in such turmoil that I could admit to feeling quite demented for several hours as all the horrors of my losses swooped to roost at the end of my bed and stare at me.

But perhaps they did me a favour.

By the next morning, I’d packed my horrors away and as Graciela had once advised I made sure they remained mine, not anyone else’s problem. In confronting them and then finding a private chamber for them in my heart, I alone controlled when they were exposed or scrutinised. I had control. Since that night I had never cried myself to sleep again; I had not, in fact, wept again and had no intention of feeling so weakened ever.

Trench foot, as it had become known, was one of the invisible enemies that stalked our boys along with artillery, wounds, disease and despair. I was busy reading another of Sébastien’s letters to a group of women sitting in our parlour. We were knitting socks for our Chasseurs, still fighting bravely.

‘The soldier is normally standing in a trench that is so awash that frogs live comfortably with them. The feet swell, turn numb,’ Sébastien wrote and I read. ‘I hear from the men that they could stick their bayonets into their feet and not feel anything. Some welcome it, of course, because it often requires amputation and that’s a ticket home. Others who consider themselves unlucky enough to watch the swelling subside know the worst is yet to come with an agony that is hard to put into words.’ I looked up, and watched the small audience collectively sigh.

‘Good job we’re knitting socks, then,’ one of the older women remarked. ‘How’s your young man, Jeanne?’

‘Alive. He had a bout of trench foot and survived and he said the pain after the swelling goes down is like a thousand hungry trench rats gnawing at raw nerves.’

The women shivered.

‘I heard they’re as large as cats,’ someone said.

‘With naked pink tails and evil faces; they dine on the corpses,’ another offered.

Jeanne sighed. ‘My fiancé says he waits for a rat to come crawling onto his legs at night and then he lifts his legs upwards suddenly, sharply flipping the horrible vermin into the air and out of the trench, providing shooting practice for the snipers on watch. It’s the only time he hopes the Boche shoots true.’

We chuckled. The gallows humour always helped. She glanced at me and I indulged her with a ‘keep your spirits up’ smile, knowing she couldn’t possibly know that I desperately worried about the man I loved too, even though I had to pretend otherwise.

Women bear the sorrows of men
. That became my mantra. I would bear up. I would find strength in my own resilience. And so days became weeks that turned into months and ultimately the years ticked past and world events became far more pressing and important than my broken heart.

I was glad that Graciela had decided to stay in Grasse. There was a time when I’d feared my closest friend might return to Spain, although the fighting made it feel as though that journey would be impossible. Still, she often talked about ‘going home’ and I remained grateful she never acted on it. She too was finding a new level of acceptance amongst the community and had admitted to me that she no longer felt like the foreign interloper. Aimery’s death had irrevocably and invisibly changed her status in their minds and her offering up her own grand home and grounds to the Allies for accommodation as much as a small hospital won her lots of hearts. There were occasions when we were both so exhausted that Madame Mouflard would find us slumped over the dinner table, far too tired to eat. Yes, they liked us both more for our frailties as much as our energies to help France’s war effort.

I feared, of course, that one of the men who came into our care heavily bandaged, sedated or in a wheelchair would be Sébastien. I unconsciously scanned the battered and bleeding skeletal faces that came through but the lucky black cat within him kept him from crossing the Delacroix threshold and for that I remained grateful.

That was until his letters suddenly stopped.

MAY 1918

At first I permitted it was simply our postal service – there were such demands on it, we were lucky to get any personal mail. Plus I was so distracted by the demands of our hospital, which was now incredibly busy. Adding to this distraction was the cohort of loud and gregarious Allies now stationed in Grasse for a short while, some enjoying Graciela’s generous hospitality.

Some more than others.

‘Who was that I saw you walking with the other day near the fountain in the square?’

‘Hmm?’ she’d queried, all innocence.

I cut her a wry smile, which she did her best to ignore. ‘Tall fellow, light-haired. I think he’s a captain?’

‘Is he?’ she remarked. ‘I have no idea. I can barely remember yesterday, let alone days ago.’

Now I laughed. ‘Graciela! It
was
yesterday! I’m being deliberately polite. It was that lovely Australian captain. Carrying a picnic basket, clearly for two!’

She shrugged. ‘He has worn me down with his charm. I agreed to try his eggs in aspic that he assures me has no equal, and he was determined to cook me his aunt’s favourite blueberry jam cakes, he called them. He is a guest in our country. I could hardly be rude.’

‘No, of course not. And I suppose the fact that he’s extremely handsome has nothing to do with it.’

She gave me a slightly forlorn look. ‘I must start the journey back to life somewhere.’

I felt embarrassed for making her feel even an iota of guilt. I put my arm around her as we walked, realising we must look comical at times, her so petite and me tall. ‘Yes, you must, and I’m thrilled for you. He seems charming. Which woman wouldn’t be happy to picnic with your dashing Australian?’

‘He makes me laugh,’ she admitted, ‘and I wasn’t sure I could laugh again with a man.’

‘Then keep laughing with him, because it’s been four years of grief.’

‘I’m scared to like him,’ she said.

I nodded. ‘Because he may be hurt?’

She said it for me. ‘Because he could be dead in a month, Fleurette. He’s going back in a few days, as I understand it. To Ypres to rejoin his regiment.’

Sadness washed over me for her. There were quiet moments when I cursed my luck for loving any man right now after four hard years of war.

‘Nevertheless,’ she continued, ‘he is like a bright song, a summer’s day, a swim in the ocean. When I laugh with him I feel alive and, as dangerous as enjoying him is, I don’t want to go without any longer.’

‘Nor should you. Besides, with the arrival of the Americans, I don’t think the battered German army will stand up to the fresh attack.’

‘Let’s hope not,’ she agreed.

The presence of the recuperating men in our region had brought a burst of gaiety that harked back to the good old days of life in Grasse, I had to admit. I too had welcomed their company but unlike Graciela had kept my distance from the helpless charm the smiling men oozed. Even so, in attending their various get-togethers I hadn’t paid sufficient attention recently at the lack of news from Sébastien.

It only struck me today, as we busied ourselves in the makeshift hospitals at the Delacroix and Olivares villas, that we both now spent most of our days and nights in.

It was Graciela who asked. ‘You haven’t told me Sébastien’s latest news,’ she said as we stood on opposing sides of a cot, turning under sheets in a now well-practised manner. We had two more rows to do.

I frowned. ‘That’s because there hasn’t been any.’

‘How long since you’ve heard?’

‘Oh, not so long,’ I said matter-of-factly, but I didn’t hide my darkening expression terribly well, it seemed, as I began to think back to just how many weeks it had been and was anguished at what I totted up.

‘How long?’ she asked again, smoothing the top sheet in a final flourish as her corner of the bed dropped back into place.

I attempted to shrug it away. It didn’t work.

‘Fleurette, it’s May Day. When was the last letter?’

It was five weeks and three days since his last missive. ‘A month, perhaps.’

‘A month?’ she gasped. ‘But you two write to each other most days.’

I said nothing, lingering with my corner, folding it far more carefully and slowly than normal.

‘Have you been writing?’

I nodded. ‘Most days,’ I said, unable now to hide my sadness or my anxiety. ‘Come on, I don’t want to think on it. You promised me he had many lives. He’s going to make it, he’s just found it impossible obviously to write.’

‘Yes, of course,’ she agreed.

But I caught her worried look and I held her gaze with a slightly defiant glare. I didn’t want to be questioned about him any more; it was hard enough with all the demons raging around in my head mocking me that now Sébastien had been stolen from this earth too. All the men I loved died, they assured.

‘We’re done here,’ I said, dropping my corner. ‘I’m heading out into the fields. Are you coming?’

‘As if I’d dare miss May Day.’ Graciela smirked. ‘You’d be unbearable to live around, should I try. However, we shall go via the post office first. Let’s check for news of Sébastien.’

I didn’t want to because I suspected the disappointment would ruin a favourite day – May Day with the fresh woodland smell of lily-of-the-valley scenting Grasse.

When the postmistress shook her head sympathetically at my look of hope, it gave me the flutterings of panic. Surely not . . . surely I wouldn’t be punished in this way? Allowed to believe in his luck for nearly four years and then to have him disappear without any information?

I moved through our modest May Day celebrations like a marionette, as though a puppetmaster had to control my movements. I was polite, friendly, distant, but showed the appropriate delight when the sprig of our beautiful spring flower, muguet, was pinned to my shirt. I would wear it gladly, hoping the lucky charm would deliver. Felix would know this flower as lily-of-the-valley, with its pure white upside-down bells – like tiny scattered pearls – and wide green leaves. I wondered if he knew old lore said it possessed properties to strengthen memory and the heart – I needed it to do both for me now – and yet I also knew that all parts of this plant were poisonous. Wasn’t loving someone like that? Love had the power to bring a ridiculous sense of joy and yet the higher one’s emotions soared with happiness, the harder love could make you fall when she took herself away or felt threatened.

Still, the first day of spring did rally my spirits somewhat because it always meant new life, didn’t it? And I was smelling the promise of life from the woodland surrounding Grasse in the creamy brightness of these tiny cups of spring purity. And their presence meant my favourite time of year was around the corner, when pale-blue skies would be sketched with light cloud and sunshine would be warm and mild, with lengthened days.

And a vow that Grasse would be carpeted in pink on this side of the hill. Vegetable fields would have to wait for us to distil our oil of roses. It was religion.

There was still no word of Sébastien by the May rose harvest another ten days later, and I had fallen into a gloom. But work kept my emotions anchored and I was glad that harvest had finally arrived and I could work until I dropped each morning and then spend from late afternoon through to the evening at the Delacroix hospital. These days we had qualified nurses and a doctor attached to the house so my role was mainly to manage the hospital and pitch in with the manual work. I was happy to do so; it made me feel useful but it especially embedded me in the hearts and minds of the townsfolk. The war had levelled us all out and it no longer mattered that my surname was Delacroix – we’d all lost loved ones or friends, we all needed to help the town survive without its men. I might have been a woman of means but four years of shared hardship had reduced me to another grieving sister of Grasse and, strangely, I was comforted by this notion as another rose harvest rolled relentlessly around, heedless of war, ignorant of our sorrows, uncaring of our losses.

There were roses to pick.

__________

I was awake by three in the quietest hour of the night, pulling on a motley of layered clothes that could be discarded as the hours drew on. Right now before dawn it was chilly but the spring sunshine would ensure it felt like we were in Hades by lunchtime with the hard work we’d be doing. In fact no later than noon we’d need to be in the warehouses with our hundreds of sacks of vivid blooms safely harvested. Women had come from all over the south to earn through the demanding work and I had employed a new raft of women from the roaming workers’ community that had caused a stir through the Grasse townsfolk.

‘I’m not sure this is wise,’ the mayor tried yet again as I strode through the town, symbolically gathering up my flock of labourers.

I was dressed like all the other women in a long, thick cotton skirt, long-sleeved blouse and apron with stout, laced-up boots. I was wearing a woollen shawl to protect against the fresh chill of the dawn but that would soon be cast off as the morning wore on. I clutched a huge straw bonnet as final armour against the sun we loved and needed but which could be such a villain to our work. This was to be the first of a series of exhausting mornings in the field and I welcomed the fatiguing toil; I needed distraction. I didn’t want to think too hard, I simply wanted to work and needed the repetitive, often back-breaking nature of rose picking that would tear up my hands and scratch my arms no matter how carefully I started out. I had begun to lose my faith that he might ever return. I’d seen it in other women around Grasse, comforted them even, as their families were eroded, losing husbands and sons. I was in danger of becoming one of those who dressed in only black, scuttled amongst the shadows, no longer came regularly to church, and who might be seen shaking her fist at the sky or weeping to herself as she walked, not noticing anyone or anything any more.

That couldn’t be my future and yet why not? I was no different. War was not choosy. The rich and entitled fell as easily as the poor. Bullets and bombs were neither caring nor discerning of status. Yet I clung to the notion of Sébastien’s magical ability to dodge those bullets and bombs.

‘Pardon me, Mayor?’ I replied, suddenly aware of his remark that was still hanging between us.

‘The new gypsies. It may not be wise right now, Mademoiselle.’

‘The women prefer to be known as belonging to the Roma folk, sir.’

He blinked with irritation. ‘I mean, Mademoiselle, if you’ll pardon me, that this year I hear we are employing not just the Camargue gitans and some Basques but a new mix of Manouches. These are gypsies of German and Italian origin.’ He whispered the last words as though he feared being struck down.

‘Mayor, these women to whom you refer are simply travelling workers. They are all Romani and for my lifetime it’s these people who have shouldered most of the back-breaking work of our harvest. I am not going to ignore them now.’

‘But German and Italian!’

I sighed inwardly and schooled my expression to open and calm. My word, I’d grown up these last few years. Five years ago I would have shown my impatience. Now I smiled, adopting a kind voice. ‘They are French through and through. Their ancestors may have hailed from Germany and Italy, even Spain, but I know these women – some worked for my father. They all carry the legal booklet that is required of all travellers. My manager is pedantic about checking their paperwork to keep everything legally correct to the law of 1912. None of these women have ever left France to my knowledge and most of their men are conscripted into our own army. At least half-a-dozen have lost their husbands or sons fighting for France.’

The mayor’s lips pursed as my reasonable argument reassured him.

‘They are simply travelling folk who move with the seasons and where the work is. Their men, like ours, bleed red blood.’

He cleared his throat, appropriately sheepish. ‘I didn’t mean —’

‘I know you didn’t,’ I said, giving him a warm smile of friendship. ‘I know your intention is only to protect us, Mayor, and we all thank you for that.’ He puffed his chest up slightly with pride at my words. ‘But there is nothing to fear from these women who will work hard for Grasse. I need help to bring in the harvest. Our town’s women aren’t numerous enough, even if we worked all day and burned ourselves to the colour of toffee. We just don’t have the luxury of the transient workers of Camargue, whom we used to have in abundant supply. These Roma – they actually call themselves
Les Fleurs
, because they have become specialist pickers of roses in particular – will save our harvest, make sure we get it in on time and while the blooms are at their best. Trust me, sir, I have only Grasse’s wellbeing at the forefront of my mind.’

‘Forgive me, Mademoiselle Fleurette, for questioning your business practice.’

‘Nothing to forgive,’ I said brightly, relieved to have navigated us through the problem. ‘Unless we get this harvest in, sir, there will be no enfleurage, no work for the women of Grasse who count on the income. I know you will trust me on this. Besides, I suspect the government likes to keep tabs on the travellers and Delacroix and De Lasset will now have a record of all of their papers, duly dated and stamped.’

‘Yes, of course, that’s true,’ he agreed.

I had already lengthened my stride and was taking the steps two at a time that would lead me up to the church where my life had changed so dramatically. ‘Good day to you, Mayor. Please remind your wife that I’m looking forward to seeing her at the villa for a coffee morning soon. I have really appreciated her help at the hospital,’ I finished with a smile over my shoulder and moved quickly away from him.

I called to a group of those very women we’d been discussing, who were clustered at the top of the stairs to the church, tying on their bonnets. They were dressed in so many colours and I had to admit in the low light they added some much-needed cheer to our sorrowful town.

They raised their hands in salutation and before I was halfway up the stairs more were arriving at the meeting point. The tiny square where we were gathering was overlooked by the town hall, which had once been an episcopal palace, and the grand church itself with its tower of bells was now clanging the message that rose harvest day was dawning.