Scent of Triumph (10 page)

Max’s mission remained foremost in her mind. Seeds of hope began to supplant her misery and she clung to the thought that each day brought them closer to reunion.

But after just one week, Danielle decided to shorten her visit to Paris. For years, her parents had talked of extensive renovations to the home. This year her father had made the decision, seemingly in protest to the chaos that threatened Europe. Construction on the living and dining rooms had been underway since spring. Their bedrooms were next.

“The renovation will be much easier without us living in the house,” Marie said in her melodic, lilting voice.

Danielle sat in a Louis XV gilded chair in her mother’s drafty boudoir, construction dust already layering the fine antiques.

Marie patted her silvery blond hair and smoothed her trim suit over her shapely figure. Danielle smiled, admiring her mother, Marie, her dear
maman
, who always seemed to handle everything in her life with grace and ease.

Now Marie was directing her maid as to which clothes to put into the trunks. “And remember to dust and cover the furniture, Beatrice, and pack the rest of the clothes for storage. You may go now.”

Marie turned to regard Danielle, hands on her hips. “Just look at yourself,” she said. “Your skin is pale, your eyes are dull, even your beautiful auburn hair has lost its luster.” She shook her head. “My darling, I wish you’d join us at the Hôtel Ritz. I feel like I’m turning you out of our home, just when you need us most. If only Edouard hadn’t insisted on the renovation now. Silly of him, if you ask me.” She arched her finely drawn brows. “But he didn’t. You know your papa.”

“And you know I can’t, Maman. Max would have a fit if he knew Papa paid for a hotel room for me. You remember his pride.”

Marie rolled her eyes. “I still can’t believe you sold the pearl necklace I gave you. Those were beautiful pearls. You know I would have wired traveling money to you.”

“Max hates any assistance. Charity, he calls it.”

“Ridiculous. He’s still trying to regain his father’s honor.” Marie threw up her hands. “Sometimes I don’t understand men. Your father included. Such pride, such misplaced pride.”

Marie ran her manicured hands over Danielle’s long auburn hair and drew her from her chair, kissing her on both cheeks. “I forgive you for the pearls, there will be other pearl necklaces. I’m just glad you returned to France, however you managed to get here. It’s where you belong. And I know you love the perfumery and your uncle, Philippe, but I wish you’d stay in Paris. Why, we haven’t even shopped for clothing for you.”

Danielle sank into her mother’s warm embrace.
I have missed her so much,
she realized. “I love seeing you and Papa, but I feel so useless. I need to work again. I need to visit Grasse.” For weeks she’d been feeling the pull to Grasse, her creative sanctuary, where she could soothe her soul with her work. Though it seemed indulgent, it was the only thing she knew to do. Living one day at a time, waiting for news that seldom came, was tortuous.

“That’s exactly what I thought you would say.” Marie shook her head. “Well, I can’t blame you, you need something to do. It won’t hurt to refresh your nose in the laboratory. My brother can certainly use your help. Since his assistant enlisted, he’s been doing everything himself.” She inclined her head. “But business has slowed. I hope you don’t find yourself just as bored there.”

Danielle grinned. “I’m never bored in the laboratory, Maman.”

“No, I think you are most happy when you are creating.” Marie hugged her. “Do you know how proud I am of you? Imagine,
my daughter
! You’ve earned your place among the rarefied clique of the world’s top perfumers: Ernest Beaux, who blended Chanel No. 5, Jacques Guerlain of the Guerlain dynasty, Ernest Daltroff, who created Nuit de Noël for Caron, and the prolific François Coty. And now, my daughter, Danielle Bretancourt, for La Maison de Bretancourt and Parfums Bretancourt.” Marie smiled with obvious pride.

Danielle felt her mother’s kiss on her forehead before she released her. She truly appreciated her mother’s recognition, for her mother was also a leader in the field. “You’re a force, too, Maman. You’ve solidified the reputation of Parfums Bretancourt around the world. So, do you have any new clients for me, Maman?” Marie handled clients out of Paris, while her brother Philippe oversaw production. Their clients included scores of wealthy patrons and members of royal houses across Europe, and even as far away as Shanghai and Buenos Aires.

Marie sighed. “Only one or two. The war, you know. Right now, people have other things on their mind.”

Danielle winced, thinking of her son and Sofia.
Where are they?
“How well I know.”

Marie took her hand. “I know you’re thinking about Nicky. But I’m sure Max will bring him to you soon. In the meantime, Grasse will be good for you. You’ve always loved it. I suppose because I was born there at the chateau, I couldn’t wait to leave for the excitement of Paris. And the fresh air will be good for you in your condition.” Marie frowned. “I hope you’re not leaving because of how your papa feels about Max.”

“Actually, I think Max would agree with him. Max is quite hard on himself, and he can’t forgive himself for what’s happened to Nicky. He won’t, not until—” Danielle blinked and looked away. She couldn’t help thinking,
What if Max doesn’t find them?

“Don’t upset yourself again, my dear. You’ve told me that Max is going to persuade the government to release his mother and Nicky.”

Danielle swallowed hard. The way she had told her parents, she made it sound as if their release was practically agreed upon. But Danielle hadn’t told her parents everything.
Why worry them?

Danielle glanced at a tall standing clock and started for the door. “We should go soon. My train leaves in an hour.”

“We’ll be there in plenty of time.” The melodic lilt returned to Marie’s voice; Danielle knew it was to mask her own worry. “And remember, even if I can’t convince your papa to visit, I’ll be there in a few weeks. I want to finish closing the chateau for the season, and of course I want to be there when this new baby arrives.” She wagged a finger at Danielle. “Besides, who will keep you and Philippe out of trouble?”

Marie strode to the door, her high heels clicking sharply on the floor. “Come now, let’s have a
café
before we meet the train.”

* * *

Danielle stepped off the train at the small Grasse station, her nose twitching, thirstily drinking in the rustic aromas of the countryside. The sun felt warm on her shoulders, melting the tenseness she’d felt in Paris. Grasse was her muse.

She spied her uncle, a wiry, bespectacled white-haired man standing on the platform. “Philippe,” she called happily, waving.

“My Danielle, how good it is to see you.” Philippe had the weathered face of a Gallic farmer, and it creased into a warm, genuine smile. He kissed her on both cheeks, and as he did, she warmed to the remembrance of his familiar aroma, a subtle veil of the natural perfume oils he worked with everyday, the aromatic emblem of his artistry.

“I’ve missed you,” she said. “How is everything at the farm?”

“Needing a woman’s touch. I’m glad you decided to come.”

“I couldn’t wait. How was the flower harvest?”

“It went very well this year, so we have a surplus of essential oils. Unfortunately, the perfume business is slow due to this damned war on the continent. But I’m already planning for next year. We’ll be in excellent shape if we have a quick end to the war.” He stooped to pick up her small suitcase.

“I’ll get that,
mon oncle
.”

“Nonsense, I’m still strong as an ox. Is this all you have?”

She nodded sadly. “All I have in the world.”

“No, my little one,” he said, his ivy green eyes twinkling behind his wire-rimmed glasses. “All you have is within you, and that is all you will ever need.”

Suddenly, her reserve shattered, and she flung her arms around Philippe, tears welling in her eyes, her words tumbling out. “Oh, Philippe, how I need to be here with you. I can’t sit and do nothing, I’ll go mad if I do. That’s why I left Paris. There was nothing for me to do but worry and wait.”

“I gleaned as much from your telegram.” Philippe put an arm around her and pulled her close. “There’s plenty here to keep you busy.”

Arm in arm they walked to Philippe’s truck, a battered vehicle used on the farm. He cranked the engine and it sputtered to life.

They wound through Grasse on narrow cobblestone streets lined with lace-curtained shops. As they drove, the sights and smells of her childhood comforted her.
How I have missed it here
, she thought, welcoming it all into her psyche.

The aroma of garlic and saffron wafted through the air from a corner
café
. Men passed puffing on
Gauloises
, and when they approached the
boulangerie
, Danielle detected the sweet scent of
calissons d’Aix
, the almond cookies she had loved as a girl. Tension flowed from her as she savored the beloved scents.

“We need provisions.” Philippe parked the truck, and they went into the bakery. He bought several fresh breads, including
brioche
and Danielle’s favorite,
fougassette
, a flat bread made with orange blossom water. “And a
navette
for each of us,” he told the shop girl.

“Two for me,” Danielle added, grinning at her uncle, and thinking of her baby. She loved the orange blossom-flavored cookies, too.

Next, they visited a shop for wine, and another for cheese. Laden with their purchases, they returned to the truck.

“I feel better already,” Danielle said, munching on her cookies.

Philippe nodded. “A soul can be at peace here, amid the flowers and bounty of nature. These are your roots.”

They drove through the foothills, and when they neared Philippe’s farmhouse and factory, Danielle spied with delight the lavender fields she’d once traversed on horseback. When she mentioned it to Philippe, he smiled.

“How about a ride this afternoon?” he asked.

“I can’t ride now. Don’t you know?”

“What?”

“I’m pregnant.”

“Really? Marie never tells me anything. Or perhaps I forgot. Anyway, that’s wonderful news. Well, if you can’t ride, you’ll have to learn to drive.”

She beamed. “Would you teach me? Max never thought it important for me to learn.”

“You’re a modern woman, Danielle. Someday all of this will be yours.” He waved his hand. “Believe me, it’s easier to oversee the operation by truck than on horseback. Especially with my old bones.”

Danielle gazed out the window. She shook her hair in the cool breeze and inhaled, the scents of lavender and rose and jasmine sweet in the lucent air. To her, these were the aromas of creativity, of freedom, where she’d always been happiest. They passed fields where delicately scented
rosa centifolia
bushes grew. “How was the rose crop this year?”

“Excellent. We had a mild spring and a generous rainfall. We had twenty to twenty-five blossoms on every branch. Our rose was indeed the ‘queen of the flowers’ this year, to quote Sappho, the Greek poet.” He lifted his chin and peered at her down his nose. “Our
rose de mai
is expensive, Danielle, but it is far superior to others.”

Laughter bubbled in her throat. “Your Gallic pride is showing, Philippe.”

He expressed a puff of air between pursed lips. “Bulgaria? Morocco? You can’t tell me their roses are better than mine.”

“Just different,” she said with patience. “Moroccan roses have a rich perfume, and Bulgaria’s Valley of the Roses produces lovely
damascena
roses scented with a brilliant tinge of pear.” She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “But you know that, you’re just testing me.”

Philippe returned her sidelong glance with a grin. “I see you haven’t forgotten my training.”

“I had the best teacher, didn’t I?” She gazed out over a rowed field, dormant after harvest, undulating like ribbons over the hillside. “And the jasmine?”

“A very good crop, too, and we got a good price for it.” He shrugged. “But for those clients who wish to curtail their costs, I’ve discovered some nice jasmine from India, near Virapandi, as well as some from Morocco, near the village of El Kelâa des M’Gouna. In fact, I’d just returned from Morocco when I received your telegram.”

Danielle nodded, filing the information in her mind. She stifled a yawn.

“Tired? Why don’t rest your eyes?”

“Hmm. Think I will.” Leaning her head back, she closed her eyes, half-dozing while they continued the drive. She loved every aspect of this business, and realized with a pang how much she’d missed it. The perfumery was in her blood.

Her grandfather had founded the business after apprenticing with Pierre-François-Pascal Guerlain at Guerlain’s Rue de la Paix shop in Paris. Like the Guerlain family perfume dynasty, Danielle’s family was also steeped in the tradition of perfumery. They were primarily suppliers. They had their fields and factory, but they also functioned as perfumers, supplying completed perfumes to a select group of private clients and couturiers, a relatively new trend popularized by Paul Poiret and Gabrielle Chanel, who augmented their fashion business with
parfum
.

Her uncle had taught her to love the land and honor the artistry of creation. Danielle knew someday the business would be her responsibility, a fact that often escaped Max’s notice. For some reason, Max assumed that she would sell the business once it passed to her. “How could you possibly manage it?” Max had once said.

“We’ll talk about it when the time comes,” she responded, not wanting to provoke him. The Bretancourt family chateau would go to Jean-Claude as the eldest son, but Marie had planned to bequeath the perfumery and the flower farm in Grasse to her. And in her heart, she wanted to preserve this heritage for Nicky.
And his siblings
, she thought, rubbing her stomach.
I will never part with the perfumery
.

A few minutes later, Danielle opened her eyes, refreshed. The road curved, and they passed the stately Bretancourt family chateau, where as a child she and her family had spent summers, with their father visiting on weekends from Paris and taking holiday for the entire month of August. Philippe preferred the two-story cottage on the grounds, claiming the chateau was far too large for just one person.