The Perfumer's Secret (23 page)

‘You don’t believe me, do you?’ he challenged, rolling me back so he could lean over.

I frowned. I didn’t want to behave like my father and Marguerite. ‘It’s not that. We mustn’t do this again after today.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it
is
wrong.’ He wanted to dispute this but I kept talking over him. ‘It is, Sébastien . . . maybe not in the eyes of the law, or the church, because you and I know the truth, but everyone out there considers me married to Aimery, including him. No, for the sake of reputation we must refrain from being anything but cordial as a brother-in-law and sister-in-law should be.’

‘I doubt I can keep my hands off you.’

‘Well, you’ve only got one that works easily for now, so keep it in your pocket or on the walking stick until we can make a plan and we’ll be able to keep the two family reputations intact.’ He started to say something more but I moved away, swinging my legs out of the bed. ‘I insist. Until we sort this mess out, we mustn’t do this again.’ I walked around my bed, aware of him watching me, and the new bold girl I’d become over these last couple of hours enjoyed seeing his hunger roaming over me. ‘Now, before we dress, teach me more about what this clever mouth of yours can do other than charm me with words.’

He smiled and shifted to let me sit so I could admire him.

‘You’re beautiful, Sébastien.’

He gusted disdain.

‘No, truly, I love looking at you. You’re sculpted. Michelangelo would have been mad for you,’ I teased, a fingertip tracing the muscles that outlined his chest, and I followed the downy line of hair that led me past his belly in line with his pelvis. Brazenly, I let my fingernail track lower still and could feel his tremor of pleasure beneath my touch. I learned something in that moment: I learned that as strong as a man might be physically, women possessed inordinate power through their very presence. What he’d said earlier about surrendering and about how I held the power resonated now. I looked at him, weakening beneath my gaze, his arousal intensifying with each beat of his heart . . . amusing me with the way it was suddenly awoken from exhaustion and demanding fresh attention from me. And all I’d done to achieve this was allowing him to watch me move naked, to touch him lightly with a fingertip, to lick my lips as I was doing now. Such power!

‘What have I created?’ he cheerfully asked the universe as he pulled me towards him.

We had returned to the laboratory, slightly flushed but buttoned back into our clothes, my hair pinned neatly, while his was parted and combed precisely into place. No one was any wiser to our discovery of each other or the ferociously committed bond that had formed and fashioned itself invisibly between us. We were now helplessly manacled through love and longing. We even smelled of each other as we returned to our inventory in readiness for the making of a more visible perfume.

‘So what is it to be?’ Sébastien asked.

I told him about my ideas for a fragrance that could promote the notion of our nation’s courage and determination not to be invaded by another power, greedy for domination in Europe.

He didn’t look convinced.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Well, it’s all rather patriotic and fist-shaking.’

‘What do you expect?’

‘No one wants to be reminded about the war. You might as well create something that prompts visions of twisted metal and charred bodies.’

I could feel my lips thinning with irritation at his disdain.

‘I had something deliciously feminine in mind.’

‘I see. Of Gabrielle maybe?’ He blinked and said nothing but he didn’t have to. I was disgusted that I was prepared to wound the person I had only recently been whispering words of love to. ‘Sébastien, I’m sorry. I will never mention her again.’

‘I shared that with you because —’

‘I know, I know. . .’ I glanced over my shoulder, checking we were alone as I felt we were more vulnerable now in the lab. ‘And I will respect that memory from here on, even though I’m a stupid, desperately jealous woman.’

He watched me for what felt like a long heartbeat. ‘You’re jealous of Gabrielle? Who is now about thirty-five years old and her nipples probably trailing on the ground?’

I laughed helplessly, glad the tension had passed. ‘Yes! You loved her. You loved her first. Whereas I’ve never loved a man as I do you.’

‘You are your mother’s daughter,’ he accused and I felt myself redden at the truth. I was also my father’s daughter in my wanton abandon with him in my bedchamber. What had I been saying about how I would never behave as our parents had? He understood, I think, where my thoughts were ranging. He lifted a shoulder. ‘I can’t help that I made love to women before you, but I can make sure that I never give you cause to love another man ever again. And I promise never to love another woman.’

‘I want you to forgive me.’

He smiled. ‘Love is forgiveness, my mother taught me.’ He stroked my hair. ‘Don’t think on it again.’

I breathed out silently. ‘So, how would you describe
deliciously feminine
?’

‘Easy. I would picture you wild and uninhibited, your hair falling about your shoulders, tickling my skin. I want to be reminded of your soft mouth opening to mine, of our bodies cleaving in ecstasy.’ I blushed to hear it but I was addicted to hearing him speak of me like this. ‘I want to think of the taste of you, to smell the roses of your bedroom, to recall the frost of winter that delivered me to your door and for that coolness to be chased away by the warmth of you, the sweetness of a sunny harvest day in Grasse . . . an experience I have never had previously.’ He kissed me. ‘I want it to be you in a bottle.’

‘Me in a bottle,’ I repeated, transfixed.

He nodded. ‘
Allumeuse
.’

‘You think I’m a tease?’

‘I think you are entirely unaware of your own attraction. It is an endearing quality.’

‘How about
Scandalous
?’ I asked, dampening the mood.

Sébastien refused to bite. ‘How about, then, something that combines both the spirit of you now in this moment and your hope for France?’

I nodded. ‘Yes, perfect. But what is that elusive quality that sums it up?’

‘
Libertine
,’ he said, closing his eyes and then opening them sharply. ‘Yes,
Libertine
!’

I liked it but he was already shaking his head again. ‘That works,’ I urged.

‘Not nearly as good as the one I prefer most.’

‘Which is?’

‘Which is all about flowers, all about being a sensual woman, all about Grasse and love and sunshine.’

‘Say it, then.’

‘There is only one word that sums that up.
Fleurette
.’

I stared at him.

‘Make your perfume. Let it be called
Fleurette
so no one can mistake the perfumer. It will be the first of many but it will be the benchmark by which all of France and indeed Europe will know the exciting new perfumer for the De Lasset brand.’

I swallowed. ‘What do you mean? How can I make perfume for Aimery’s —?’

‘Oh, darling Fleurette. Never forget my surname. Never forget my true birthright. Never forget that France, unlike Britain, has a law of succession that no child can ever be cut out of a will. Aimery knows that. It’s why he wishes me out of his life, away from the business. He was content to keep me at arm’s length, content to pay me whatever my father’s arrangement was while my father was alive. But our mother is dead, and now I no longer care about appearances or what is polite. I shall claim my inheritance.’

‘Half the business?’ I murmured in disbelief. I knew the French law of succession all too well.

He nodded. ‘My due, that is all. So now Aimery can no longer have full say on who is “
le nez
” for our family’s empire. If I want to bring a female perfumer into our organisation, I shall do just that.’

I could barely believe what I was hearing. ‘You would do that for me?’

‘I would insist upon it. It seems rather stupid, if you possess the skills and the creativity, that we wouldn’t take full advantage of it.’

‘I’m a woman!’

‘And you still don’t think I’ve noticed?’ he said with mocking astonishment to make me grin and almost shake with delight at what was unfolding. ‘Man, woman, what does it matter? Isn’t it only the skill that counts?’

‘Well, I think so, but no one in Grasse would agree with you.’

‘Well, I was conceived here but I don’t owe Grasse anything, least of all my support for its short-sighted attitude. Times are changing, Fleurette. Wealthy women can control their own assets these days by law and while Britain leads the way in this across Europe, it will come.’

‘I can’t,’ I admitted.

‘Well, start thinking about what this war is going to do for the causes of women and their demand for more independence. If the war continues, women are going to be running our countries effectively.’

I gave him a look of disbelief.

‘Maybe not in title, but they’ll be keeping our countries going, doing all the jobs previously handled by men.’ He opened his arms expansively. ‘It’s happening right here in Grasse. You told me yourself about the harvest and how amazing all the women of the region were.’

I nodded; it was true.

‘They can harvest, they can even do their own carpentry and make their own enfleurage boards; they can distil, they can be chemists and they can be perfumers.’ He shook my shoulder. ‘Believe it.’

He possessed the ability to fire me up, that was certain, because I was riding his confidence more than my own. I nodded again, purposefully. ‘Then let’s make this perfume.’ I reached for a pencil and paper. I gestured to a seat around a desk and we both settled ourselves. ‘It begins like this. Well, truthfully, it begins here,’ I said, touching my temple, ‘in my imagination. But you’re the one with this vision so tell me the qualities you want and I’ll dream up the notes for it.’

His smile warmed me as effectively as stepping out into a field of jasmine in the middle of July. I wanted to tell him that but he was already muttering, and I touched the lead of my pencil to my tongue and wrote down three headings. This is how Felix and I worked.

‘How do we do this?’ Sébastien asked. ‘Teach me.’

I sighed and frowned at how best to describe this process for someone new to the concept. I sensed that Sébastien was a visual person, good with imagery, so I decided he would learn best if I could paint a picture in his mind of first the architecture of a perfume. ‘Close your eyes for me.’

He did so.

‘Now, imagine, if you will, a gathering of birds. All shapes, all sizes. They’ve all conveniently landed in an imaginary garden. Can you see them?’

He nodded obediently. ‘Yes, elegant flamingoes like ballerinas, squawking parrots, proud peacocks, wise tawny owls staring down disapprovingly at the host of chirruping sparrows . . . um, blackbirds too busy to pause, magpies standing sentinel and watching their feathered companions. I know you want me to stop talking now,’ he finished.

I grinned to his closed eyes, loving his imagery, loving him. ‘Good. Actually, excellent.’

He opened one eye. ‘Have you ever seen a flamingo?’

I shook my head. ‘In books.’

‘I’ve seen so many at once that they covered an entire lake in Africa, turning the whole vista the most glorious pink.’

I sighed. ‘I envy your travels.’

‘We will travel together one day and I’ll take you to Africa and we’ll discover new plants, exotic new fragrances for you to play with. And then we’ll go to India . . . and on to Australia.’

‘Promise me.’

Sébastien put his hand on his heart. ‘I promise you.’

‘That means if you are sent back into the war zone, Sébastien, you can’t die and break that promise.’ It was the first time we’d mentioned the war and his inevitable leaving.

‘I will not break it,’ he assured. He closed his lids and once again silky crescents of dark lashes dipped in the hollow of his eyes above his cheeks. ‘Now, I’ve got this garden brimming with wretched birds, making a terrible racket and leaving droppings all over my carefully tended vegetable allotment,’ he urged.

I laughed. ‘Indeed. So, imagine now that you run outside and clap two cymbals together.’

He opened one eye again, affecting a suspicious expression. ‘And why would I be running into the garden with cymbals?’

I forced myself not to show any amusement at the question. Instead I dug up a glare. ‘Just picture it, would you – do as you’re told.’

‘All right, all right, I just want to be accurate. So, I’m rushing out onto the porch with the most enormous pair of cymbals that I can barely carry and I am clashing them together in a sound that makes my ears bleed.’

I was glad he couldn’t see my face crumpling with delight – he was so reminiscent of Felix. ‘So, now tell me, Sébastien, what is going to happen at the first sound of your clash of cymbals?’

‘Well, I can assure you the first event is that my intolerant neighbours are going to open their windows and —’

‘Sébastien!’

‘Sorry.’ He cleared his throat.

‘Perfume is serious business,’ I admonished with no real heat.

His eyes remain closed but he grinned. ‘I shall be as sombre as the grave from here on. Let me see. I think what you want me to imagine is that the sparrows and the starlings, the iridescent wrens and scarlet-chested robins and their tiny companions are going to be terrified and fly away.’

I breathed out my pleasure silently. ‘That’s exactly what’s going to happen. All the bright, chattering, tiny birds are going to lift into the air and disappear. They’ll look beautiful as they leave and their speed will make them dazzling when they take flight together.’

‘I’m presuming you want me to clash my cymbals again?’

‘I do. What happens next to the birds in your garden?’

‘Well, I suppose the magpies, crows, owls, et al, will put up with me for a while and then tire of my tinny percussion.’

‘Yes, they’ll linger but they won’t stay. They’ll fly too. Heavier, they’ll be longer leaving.’

‘I understand.’

‘Do you?’

‘I believe so. What’s left behind are the more cumbersome birds that don’t necessarily fly unless there’s a purpose. They don’t flap around a lot. They need a bit of run up to get off the ground too.’

I was nodding and he opened his eyes to see me doing so. ‘What are these birds a metaphor for?’ I asked, almost holding my breath.

‘Molecules,’ he answered correctly and I clapped.

‘And so our heaviest birds, or molecules, are the base notes of the perfume.’

‘Nicely done, Fleurette. Base notes being the scent or scents that are left behind when the other molecules have flown away.’

I stood, waved my arms with triumph and made him laugh with the pirouette I performed. ‘Exactly! They’re strong, they amplify and hold all the other smells in place, you could say, on their collective shoulders. And when it’s just these heavier molecules left, they must linger with beauty too so we have to get their mix perfect. They may not be so lovely at first – or indeed in isolation – and they could be masked by the lighter molecules too but together they’ll show their beauty in their lingering as they turn into deeper, richer smells. So we need to get the base notes of our perfume into perfect harmony because they're essentially what boosts the other fragrances but also the lingering scents that remain on the skin or clothes. The heart notes are those middle range of molecules . . . vitally important – the main thrust of the perfume, in fact – and they’re there for a while, mixing beautifully with the base notes. They’re mellow, often quite gentle.’

‘Rose?’

‘Yes, definitely rose! Jasmine too, nutmeg, lavender. Don’t make me list them. We could be here for hours!’

He grinned. ‘And our tiny birds?’

‘Top notes? They’re there for just a short time to dazzle us. They’re bright, springy, busy, sparkly.’ I could see his gaze softening with pleasure to hear me so passionate about the subject closest to my heart. ‘Citrus is a fine example . . . fresh, fruity, sharp.’ I took his hand. ‘Come with me.’

I led my lover to a door that permitted us into a chamber that was not nearly as light-filled, with high windows and a high ceiling, but felt confined. I watched Sébastien’s gaze roam with increasing awe.

‘This is my favourite place in all of Grasse.’ I inhaled, tasting a lifetime of familiar and beautiful scents of nature’s incredible wealth.

‘Better than your Louis Quinze alcove?’ he wondered dryly.

‘Until today I might have said yes, but now I have reason to love that alcove even more.’