The Perfumer's Secret (6 page)

We’d arrived at a storeroom. ‘Forgive me, Madame, for not telling you about this. There really wasn’t an ideal time today.’

‘No, it’s quite all right. I’m glad to be distracted, frankly. Oh, is that a letter with it?’

‘Yes. I signed for this. It is marked for your personal and private attention.’

I picked it up. It was slightly gritty from its journey but the hand that wrote on its front looked firm, the ink scrawled in a flourish of unexpected purple like a missive from the Pope. I recognised it instantly as the expensive ink from J. Herbin in Paris; I’d seen this colour, had been permitted to test it, writing wet and so fresh against a white page. I had visited this shop with my father on the rue des Fosses Saint-Germain. Father had purchased
la Demi Courtine
, a particularly shaped squat bottle with a tiny shelf near its stopper to rest his pen, and within it he’d chosen a single ounce of a deep
rouge caroubier
he favoured for personal letters, and another ounce of the
perle noire
he preferred for formal writing.

I could remember being fascinated by the smells alone in the shop and wondered why Monsieur Herbin had not considered a scented range. I could imagine lavender for the blue pigments, rose for the warmer colours and earthy, forest scents for the greens. I had been convinced that Monsieur Herbin’s dark blue ink should smell salty, as though of the ocean, or was I being fanciful in childhood, having been told Herbin was a former sailor? And now I stared at the darkly sensual purple ink of Sébastien’s. If not for Madame Mouflard’s presence, I might have held the letter to my nose because I so desperately wanted to sniff the handwriting . . . it should be scented with violet, surely?

I smiled, slightly embarrassed, as I realised Madame Mouflard awaited. ‘Forgive me for holding you up. Um, maybe I can look at the contents of the trunk tomorrow and just take the letter for now.’

‘Of course,’ the housekeeper said with a friendly frown of concern. ‘There is no need to rummage through it on your wedding night. We shall bring to you all of the hundreds of wedding gifts gradually and you can deal with them in your own time and with an assistant.’

‘Can Jeanne write?’

‘She can read; I don’t know about her writing . . . er, yes, Jeanne?’ she said, glancing past me.

‘Madame De Lasset?’

I swung around to see Jeanne looking wide-eyed and panicked. ‘What is it?’

‘Your husband is searching for you,’ my new maid stammered.

I shared a brief look of concern with the housekeeper.

‘Thank you, Jeanne,’ I said. ‘Where is he?’ But Madame Mouflard was already moving briskly and I fell into step, pushing the letter into the deep pocket while picking up the hem of my silk gown and hurrying upstairs after the housekeeper, wishing I’d had the forethought to change.

I found Aimery in the front salon. The captain was still present. Muted reintroductions were politely mumbled while I blinked with expectancy, looking between both men, ignoring Aimery’s thunderous glare at my attire; he clearly couldn’t say anything humiliating to me before his superior.

‘So, France is officially mobilising for war?’ I said, deciding to be direct and breaking into the brittle atmosphere.

‘I’m desperately sad to confirm this, yes, Madame De Lasset,’ the captain admitted, clearly with bigger matters on his mind than my inappropriate garments. Just last week he had been full of genial wit, kissing my hand and offering congratulations for our impending wedding. Now he wore an expression like a man going to his execution and although the veins on his nose traversed the journeys through many bottles of champagne in his time, his pallor was grey, draining the cheerful red I recalled.

‘I was called away to the prefecture in Nice today; please forgive me for not being able to attend your celebrations.’

Aimery moved past his focus on my clothes and instead of looking ashen at the news, appeared instead flushed with excitement. ‘I shall leave tonight, sir. Immediately, in fact.’

‘I suspected you would, De Lasset. It sets a good example to the men.’

The mayor arrived now, still flustered and full of apologies and hand waving. The three men shared a tight exchange before the captain departed and I presumed he would go to my brothers next, although he was gone before I could ask.

My thoughts fled to the mundane. ‘Er, what about our marriage certificate?’ I said into the quiet.

‘It will have to wait, dear friends,’ the mayor bleated. ‘I have no idea what Monday will bring. I will likely be called away again.’

Aimery rescued him with a noise of exasperation. ‘Fleurette, half of the councillors are waving off their sons to war, the other half are marching towards it. Stop fretting over trivia. We can sort that out as soon as I have leave.’

I blinked at his public admonishment, which no doubt carried some heat about my defiance, but I was offended by his belief that the legality of our marriage was trivial. I couldn’t wait to see the back of him.

‘Anyone of my age is a Reservist. Most of the men of Grasse will be leaving.’

‘So you’re all leaving tomorrow?’

The mayor nodded, his expression filled with despair. ‘It is already tomorrow, Madame,’ he said, glancing at the watch he pulled from his waistcoat pocket. ‘Those are the orders from the prefecture and those orders come direct from Paris. All of France’s army is on the move; even the Reservists are being mobilised, as your husband notes. Come, look.’ He and Aimery led me to the front door, where I stepped out onto the porch and noted once again that the stillness of the night had gone. It was as though a full working day was in progress. ‘Men are departing now,’ he added.

‘Aimery,’ I breathed, but couldn’t think of anything to say, so I shared what was really on my mind. ‘I must farewell my brothers.’

He nodded, distracted. ‘I could use your help getting my things packed. Our housekeeper and my valet will know what to do.’

‘Yes, of course,’ I agreed, feeling instantly abashed. ‘I’ll find Madame Mouflard.’ I looked to the mayor. ‘Please excuse me. I should change,’ I said, glancing at Aimery, but keeping my expression neutral.

‘Of course. Please excuse
us
, Madame De Lasset, for ruining your happiest day and, er . . . night.’

He looked mortified, lost for what else to say. I couldn’t blame his presumption and rather than make him feel any more awkward, I lowered my gaze, even squeezed Aimery’s arm in a moment of bright sadness. ‘Leave the arrangements with me.’

He nodded, barely paying attention. As I left I heard him excusing himself, muttering about not knowing in whose hands to leave his company, given that all the men who worked for him would be marching alongside him, no doubt.

I closed the door on their farewells, my mind fleeing to Felix and Henri as I spotted the housekeeper hovering in the shadows at the entrance to the main corridor. Madame Mouflard had already removed the small ruff of lace at her neck to leave her uniform of midnight black, stark and sombre, as though already in mourning. Her keys clanked gently on the end of a leather plait that hung from her belt.

‘Ah, Madame De Lasset, there you are,’ she said, hurrying towards me.

I was feeling unhappy with such unfamiliar austere formality; if ever there was a time for us all to cleave more closely and be as unified and friendly as possible, it was now. I would lead the change in this lofty villa, where the divide between upstairs and downstairs was so severely delineated. ‘I’d like you to call me Madame Fleurette when it’s just us. Would that be all right?’

The housekeeper, out of the shadows, her face now looking more ghostly in the lamplight for its pale colour against so much darkness, appeared momentarily unnerved. Then she forgot herself and smiled. ‘Why not? You will surely bring change to this household, Madame. What can I do?’

I explained with haste about Aimery’s possessions.

‘Yes, I have already asked Monsieur Blanc to help. That’s Monsieur Aimery’s valet.’

‘Excellent. Where is he? Should I supervise?’

‘Only if you want to. He is in Monsieur De Lasset’s rooms . . . er, where you . . .’

‘All right, thank you. I know where you mean.’

‘Can you find your way back to your own rooms? Should I send Jeanne up?’

‘Good idea. I want to make sure everything’s in order for my husband and then I’ll be walking down the hill, so I need to change out of this first,’ I said, flicking at the silk.

‘Madame? At this time?’

‘I’ve been running around these streets since I was a child; the dark does not disturb me. However, the threat of not saying goodbye to my brothers does.’ At the fall of her expression I dug up a reassuring smile. They would all be counting on me now. ‘It will feel like harvest with all these men on the move.’

‘Yes, Madame. This is why I feel it is unwise.’

I looked at her, feeling perturbed by what she wasn’t saying. These were the men who worked for our two families, men who had known me with plaits in my hair, who had lifted their caps as I rode by on my bicycle over the years, who revered our name. These were the men of the town I loved . . . my greater family. Her frown deepened and I realised in that moment she hadn’t meant anyone might interrupt me; instead her disapproval confirmed that Felix had been right. This was a time to embrace the notion that I must behave as a highborn woman of the town, with certain protocols now forbidding me to act in the carefree, almost childish way I always had. This was surely what Aimery had been getting around to discussing earlier. I nodded. ‘I understand. I shall take Jeanne with me.’

Madame Mouflard’s bearing changed. Her shoulders relaxed and her lips loosened. ‘Very good, Madame. I shall send Jeanne up to you now.’

Upstairs, I changed hurriedly into similarly sombre clothes as our housekeeper’s. I was head to foot attired in simple charcoal and made my way to the chamber of our wedding night. There I found a different man in the bedroom where less than an hour earlier had been prepared for a night of lust. Guilt at shaking myself free from Aimery’s hook crowded low in my throat. I knew resounding in my mind were cheers of happiness that I’d escaped my great fear of his body pressed against mine, in mine. But at what cost? I could hardly blame myself for war but the fact I was inwardly celebrating at the perfect timing of mobilisation of French villages was sickening me. A nervous laugh warbled just above the guilt.

‘Pardon, Madame?’ the valet said, his moustache drawn thinly across his lip.

I cleared my throat. ‘I was wondering if there was anything I could do to help? It’s Monsieur Blanc, isn’t it?’

He clicked his heels and gave a brief nod. ‘Yes, Madame. I am Monsieur De Lasset’s valet. I have been in his employ now for ten years and three months.’

I nodded, impressed.

‘It is best I pack his clothes.’

‘Of course,’ I murmured, understanding his need to freeze me out of not only the world of men but his territory.

I walked around the bedpost to stand opposite, noting that the valet had swept all the rose petals of our wedding bed to the floor. I was treading on them, could smell their sweet perfume being released. There was something symbolic about us stomping over the rituals of marriage. Another press of guilt clogged my throat.

I touched the shiny buttons on Aimery’s blue serge cape. It looked new, had seen no action, of course. I looked up at the squeak of leather being rolled up and noted the cumbersome belt and pochette that Monsieur Blanc was packing. He was frowning in concentration and I could tell from his demeanour that he willed me gone.

‘Monsieur Blanc, I wish to put something into my husband’s belongings.’ I deliberately didn’t phrase it as a question. He glanced at me and I saw the flash of irritation disguised quickly as he cleared his throat.

‘Of course, Madame.’

I smiled to thank him. ‘Excellent. I shall be back shortly.’ I fled, picking my way back to my suite of rooms where presumably Madame Mouflard had already been earlier that week to unpack my trunks of garments and belongings. I walked from wardrobe to dressing table, trying to imagine what might be meaningful. There was a photo of me but it was taken with Felix. Hardly romantic and romantic was what I was reaching for, even if it didn’t apply to him; I needed Aimery to understand what it was that drove me. I looked for the romance in everything, whether it was the pretty picture of a laundry maid hanging out washing against the backdrop of flowered terraces or the rush of joy at smelling the year’s first harvest of violets. Violets. Yes. My wedding perfume.

I would send him with that. Not my grandmother’s vial. But Felix had made up some bottles of violette toilet water that I could scent my boudoir with, my linens, my personal belongings from pillowslips to handkerchiefs. It was a gently sweet smell . . . a favourite of childhood. I knew it didn’t summarise me and that wasn’t the intent, but it did prompt a romantic notion and perhaps that would be the companionship Aimery, new husband, denied his wedding night, might appreciate.

I found the smallest bottle and scribbled a note to accompany it.

Aimery
. I couldn’t find a single affectionate way in which to start the note so I kept it simple.
I hope this reminds you of me while we are apart. Come home safely. Affectionately, F.

It was with a sense of sinfulness that I wrote this note to him because of the insincerity that was mocking me from the corner of the room. Heaven knew that I quietly worshipped the realisation that we were not to be forced together tonight or any night soon. But that sin came with a wish not to hurt Aimery. I was married to him now. I had given a vow and whether I wanted to be his wife or not, this was my lot and I had to make it work, as Felix had urged. So it felt important at this moment of high tension and deep despair, which would be rippling through all the marriages of France, that I offer affection and support, if not love. What else could any of us women do tonight except hug our brave men farewell, wish them courage and safety, and hope their lives would be blessed?

This resignation didn’t stop me screwing up the note, disgusted with not being true to myself, and writing anew.

Aimery, my husband.

May this remind you of Grasse while you are away from her sweet embrace. Come home safely
.

That felt better. It offered tenderness without me feeling a hollow liar.

As I walked back to Aimery’s rooms at the other end of this hallway, Jeanne met me.

‘Madame?’ she enquired.

‘Fetch us cloaks, Jeanne. We’re on foot to the Delacroix house as soon as I deliver this to Monsieur Blanc.’ I was impressed that I didn’t say
my house
.

She didn’t hesitate, nodding and dashing off to my rooms.

I tapped on the door this time. ‘Monsieur?’

‘Ah, Madame, I was just about to close the locks,’ he gestured.

‘It is only small,’ I said. I’d wrapped the bottle and note in a scented lace handkerchief. He let me tuck it into the trunk. ‘Thank you.’

‘Goodnight, Madame De Lasset.’ He clicked another bow and I felt dismissed. I wondered if he’d read my note. I didn’t care if he did. All I cared about now was getting to Felix and Henri.

It felt like a railway platform in the main lobby of the house. Servants were moving in brisk motion, frowns creasing their expressions, mouths set tight with the tension of getting errands run, duties complete. It was mainly women because the men were no doubt hurriedly digging out their Reservist uniforms. The atmosphere was weighted by fear, as though shadowed monsters crouched in corners, waiting to leap out and trap the unwary. Gazes darted, never settling long enough on anything or anyone. I felt useless.

Jeanne caught up with me. ‘Have you heard, Madame?’

‘What is it?’

‘Even Pierre, Guy, Fabian, they’re all going!’

‘The older men?’

She nodded, looking terrified. ‘All the Territorials have been called up too. We thought it would be only the Reservists but the mayor has confirmed it’s nearly everyone except the very young and very old.’

My life, which at the beginning of this day felt miserable, was now feeling out of control. I had never been consciously aware of what people called ‘the fear of the unknown’ but I believed, in this moment, I was experiencing it. We were all involved and our way of life was now under dark threat. Suddenly, my wedding gloom, my problems, felt minuscule . . . even my life was unimportant as I finally grasped the scale of what was now underway and horribly real. ‘I must speak with my husband,’ I breathed, not waiting for her answer, and scurried away. The man I had wanted to avoid was now the one I searched out. Though curious to confront, I had to admit that in these rushing moments of search my heart was genuinely worried for him. Conflicting emotions raged with the fear; Aimery was now my husband, after all. We’d taken a solemn vow in our church; we’d made oaths before the priest to each other, to our families. My husband, the father to our children; I certainly looked forward to being a mother and that couldn’t happen if my husband was off to war, and might be injured, maimed, killed. He might never be able to father children, which meant I’d be left with him in a dry, barren marriage.