Scent of Triumph (12 page)

She plucked a
petit four
from the tray, nibbling the dainty treat, then glanced at a photo of her son and his wife on the table. She thought Hélène an excellent match for Jean-Claude. A pretty, well-mannered blond, Hélène proved a marvelous homemaker and wife to her son, and mother to Liliana. And Marie genuinely liked Hélène, even if she was a little naïve. In time, she’d learn. Perhaps this holiday would bring a spark back into their marriage. Marie licked dark chocolate from her fingers. After all, she wouldn’t mind another grandchild.

There, she thought, happily surveying the room.
All is ready. New Year’s Eve will be perfect, as long as the men behave themselves.

In the lobby downstairs, Christmas decorations of golden swags and brilliant red poinsettias adorned the foyer with fairy tale festivity. Strains of orchestral holiday music beckoned from the ballroom. Jean-Claude and Hélène crossed to the elevator with four-year-old Liliana dancing between them.

Liliana wore her red velvet holiday dress, while her mother wore a long, creamy satin dress that accentuated her blond hair. Liliana gazed up at her mother. “You look like a princess in my story book.”

Hélène smiled down at her daughter.

Handsome men in French military uniforms were at every turn, and on their arms were perfumed ladies in cascading evening dresses. The elegant women swished past them, with their lush furs and sparkling jewels and gay laughter.

“Come along, Liliana.” Hélène gently reprimanded her daughter, who stared saucer-eyed, her wide green eyes fixed on a grand lady. Hélène herded her daughter into the elevator and they began their ascent.

The elevator attendant opened the ornate bronze doors.

“This way, my little princess.” Jean-Claude exited, then hoisted his daughter to his broad shoulders.

Liliana screamed with glee. “But Papa, Maman’s the princess tonight.”

“No, my love, Maman is the queen, and you’re my little princess.” Jean-Claude kissed Hélène on the cheek.

When he knocked on the door to his parents’ suite, Marie opened it. They hugged and exchanged kisses on both cheeks.

“Marie, you look marvelous,” Hélène said. “You certainly don’t look like a grandmother.”

“But I am, and I love it. How are you, my little one?” Marie took Liliana from her son, laughing and cooing over the child who so favored her aunt Danielle. “We’re going to have such fun this evening.”

“May I play with your perfumes?”

Marie knew that Liliana loved the family business. “But of course.” She turned to Jean-Claude. “I hope you and Hélène have a marvelous time tonight. You deserve a relaxing evening.” She noted the fatigue that clouded her son’s dark eyes like a dull haze. “Won’t you come in for a moment? Perhaps you’d like a
canapé
. And you can say a friendly hello to your father.”

Jean-Claude threw a glance at Hélène. “No, we haven’t time, Maman.”

Hélène shot him a reprimanding look.

“Maybe when we pick up Liliana tomorrow,” he muttered.

Just then, Edouard’s voice boomed from the next room. “Jean-Claude, is that you and Hélène?”

Hélène quickly answered, “Yes, Papa Edouard, we’re here with your granddaughter.”

Marie pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows in warning to her son. “Be nice to him,” she whispered.

Edouard entered the room, his frame filling the doorway. Tall and commanding, he moved with the assurance of a general. He hugged Hélène and Liliana, then turned to his son. “Jean-Claude.” He reached for his son’s hand and leaned toward him to kiss him on the cheeks.

Jean-Claude shoved his hands in his pockets and acknowledged him with a curt nod. “Papa.” He held his head high, his contempt evident.

Hélène hissed in his ear, “For your mother’s sake, be civil.”

“No, not for my benefit. For your father’s.”

Sullen-faced, Jean-Claude jutted out his chin, but made no reply.

Marie rolled her eyes and disappointment settled heavily on her shoulders.
There goes a lovely evening.

“I’ve heard you’ve been busy, son,” Edouard said evenly. “I’d like to speak with you.” He turned to Marie and Hélène. “Will you excuse us for a moment?”

Hélène took Liliana into the bedroom and Marie followed, but left the door cracked open. She wanted to hear what Edouard had to say.

Edouard cleared his throat. “Jean-Claude, I’ve heard that some of your friends are underground activists, supplying false papers and passports to Jews and ‘undesirables’ in Germany and her new territories, smuggling out citizens, undermining the reigning government. Is this true?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

A chill ran down Marie’s spine like a serpent’s tongue, while Hélène looked terror stricken. Marie touched her hand.

“Jean-Claude, why would you become so entangled, what with your family responsibilities and a bright future before you? These are dangerous, irresponsible activities.”

Jean-Claude’s voice rose in resentment. “My responsibility is to humanity, Papa, and I am not alone in my beliefs. You, too, could make a difference. You could use your position and power at the bank to benefit mankind. Call the loans, turn off the financial spigot.”

“No, I will not,” Edouard replied firmly. “It is not the way we conduct business.”

“But Papa, if men like you were to take a stand, we could halt the progression of Hitler’s war.”

Marie strained to listen, motioning to Liliana with one finger to be quiet. A long silence ensued. Edouard had survived childhood poverty, the Great War, and near financial ruin during the depression. She knew he would not endanger his family’s financial stability. But concern gripped her chest. After listening to Jean-Claude, she began to wonder about her husband’s business activities.

Something slammed, startling Marie.
Probably Jean-Claude’s fist on the desk,
she surmised.

“Then think of your family, Papa. For God’s sake, look what’s happening to Danielle.”

“She should never have left France,” Edouard stormed. “I never approved of her marriage to Maximillian von Hoffman. But this I can promise, Jews in France will never be harmed.”

“If you believe that,” Jean-Claude roared, “you’re delusional! Paris is the prize that Nazis covet above all others.”

Marie flung open the door, incensed. “Keep your voices down. You’re scaring Liliana.”

“It’s all right, Maman. I have nothing left to say to him.” Jean-Claude pivoted hard on his heel and called to his wife. “Hélène, let’s go. We’re late for dinner.”

Hélène emerged, murmured her apologies to Marie and Edouard, kissed Liliana, and followed her husband out the door.

Marie folded her arms. “Well, I’m glad the two of you tried to make up.”

Edouard huffed from the room.

Marie held Liliana and the little girl clung to her, her sweet face saddened by the angry exchange between her father and grandfather. “They mean no harm,” Marie whispered, rocking her granddaughter.
And that
, she knew,
was the tragedy of it all
.

Danielle glanced outside the laboratory window. Beyond the bougainvillea’s ruby flush, she could see the season’s first wisteria, which had bloomed early this year, and was laden with violet-hued blossoms. Like the wisteria, she had also grown heavy with the springtime promise of new life. According to her calculations, the baby was due in four weeks.

The farm was in full operation and Philippe rose early every morning to oversee work. Danielle had accompanied her uncle until her seventh month, intent on learning every aspect of the business. By keeping busy, she had something other than her omnipresent thoughts of Max and Nicky and Sofia—and sometimes, even Jon—on her mind. But now, she preferred to spend her time in the lab.

Her work on her own new perfume had progressed well. On this sunny morning, with birds chirping outside the open window, she was particularly excited. She sat at her perfumer’s workbench and scribbled furiously in her journal, checking numbers. Waving a strip of blotter paper under her nose, she reveled in its magical aroma, hardly daring to believe she’d done it.

She’d finally found it—an incredible, intoxicating blend of rose, tuberose, and jasmine, sandalwood and an amber blend. She inhaled, shivers dancing down her back. The romantic scent conjured feelings of deep joy and remembrance, and a physical sensation that was alarmingly akin to orgasmic pleasure.

The final connection had come to her in a dream, the melding of sandalwood and patchouli with amber notes of vanillin and labdanum absolute in a manner that was nothing short of exquisite. The essence spoke to her soul and grounded her in a spiritual acceptance of all that was graceful and loving and pure.

Her masterpiece, Chimère, was complete.

And it was just as she’d imagined it to be. Once again, her intuitive knowledge had guided her.

Danielle had gone on to create several perfumes, each of which shared similar notes with Chimère. In her heart, she knew they were all destined for success, and would be loved by many perfume aficionados.

“I’ve deconstructed the formula,” she explained excitedly to Philippe when he checked on her. “By changing just a few ingredients, I’ve developed seasonal variations on the main theme, rearranging the formula like a cubist painting. This one reminds me of Christmas, while this one is as light as spring. And here, what do you think of this one?”

“Autumn, of course.
Oui
, you’ve progressed remarkably well,” he responded, then left Danielle to work.

Danielle put her pen down, rubbed her eyes, and stretched. As she did, her baby turned and kicked. She smiled and traced a circle on her stomach. Won’t Max be thrilled with the new baby? But her smile faded as doubt crept into her mind. She hadn’t heard from Max lately. Not a single letter from him. Jon wrote to reassure her when he had news of Max, but his letters had become infrequent. Jean-Claude had assured her that she had nothing to worry about, that Nicky and Sofia would soon be joining her. How she hoped it was true.

Just then, Philippe walked into the laboratory again.

Danielle looked up, eager to tell him of her success, but her heart sank at the sight of him. His eyes seemed anguished, his hands clasped over his heart. Alarmed, she rose from her chair and went to him, put her arm around him. “What is it, Philippe? Don’t you feel well?”

“I’m fine, Danielle.” He paused, strangely awkward. “A British gentleman is here to see you.”

“Who?”

“Jonathan Newell-Grey.”

Danielle smiled with surprise. “Why, he’s a great friend of ours. You must remember him, Philippe, I told you all about him.” Her nerves coursed with excitement at seeing Jon. She untied her smock, slipped it off, and smoothed her hair. “Is he in the living room?”

“Yes, but, Danielle—”

“I’m so glad he’s come.” She bustled through the door, eager to greet Jon.

She stepped into the living room. “Jon, how nice of you to visit.” She kissed him on both cheeks, warming to the familiar, spicy scent that lingered on his neck.

“Danielle.” His voice was grave, his eyes troubled. “Please sit down.”

Perplexed, she took a step back. He seemed leaner, older. She didn’t remember the grey hair that glistened at his temples. “What is it?”

Jon frowned and sat on the sofa.

“Jon?” Her heart fluttered as she joined him.

He dropped his eyes and seemed at a loss for words.

Heat gathered on Danielle’s neck. “Is it Max?”

He nodded and clenched his jaw.

And then she knew, though her mind refused to accept it. Her breathing accelerated in short, sharp breaths. “No, oh, no—”

Jon took her hands, rubbed his thumbs alongside hers. “I’m here on behalf on His Majesty’s government.” His voice sounded thick with emotion. “And as your friend.”

Danielle tried to pull away, to distance herself from the inevitable. “No, not Max.”

He held her hands steady and gazed into her eyes. “I’m so sorry, Danielle. Max is dead.”

Panic seized her chest. The room seemed to close in on her.
Had she heard him correctly?
“No,” she whispered.

Jon wrapped his arms around her. “He’s gone, Danielle.”

She began to shake and tears sprang to her eyes.
It couldn’t be
. Her blood pounded in her ears. The room swirled and she collapsed against him.

Jon pressed her close to him. He rocked her as she moaned, low and deep like a wounded animal.

After several minutes, she leaned back, her grief momentarily spent. Her mouth felt dry, her tongue thick. She tried her voice and heard it come to her, eerily flat. “When?”

“Last week.” Jon handed her his handkerchief.

She wiped her eyes. “How?”

“Danielle, you should get some rest.” His voice sounded gentle.

“How did they do it?” Her heart burned with ferocity.

Jon smoothed his knuckles across her cheek. “Is it really important?”

“Tell me, Jon.”

He hesitated, his eyes welling. “He was shot. I’m told it was probably very quick.”

She tasted bile rising in her throat. “Go on.”

“Please, Danielle. You need to rest.”

Her pulse roared in her ears. “Damn it, Jon, I want to know everything.”

Philippe appeared at the doorway. Jon glanced at him. Philippe nodded and said, “She should know.”

Jon pushed a hand through his hair. “First, he did his job well, Danielle. He was brave, and he acquired information for England that our operatives couldn’t have. His actions saved many people. And then, he went into occupied Poland.”

“And?”

Philippe pushed his glasses up on his nose. “Continue, son. Tell her everything.”

“Yes, sir.” Jon drew a hand over his forehead. “We believe Max discovered the whereabouts of his mother and your son.”

Danielle gasped. “Did you hear that, Philippe? He found them!”

Jon stole another look at Philippe. “We don’t think he actually saw them, but we have reason to believe they’re still alive. However, something happened before he could reach them.”

Her heart sank. “What?”

“He spoke to his cousin.”

“Heinrich?” A chill overtook her.