The Perfume Collector (28 page)

Grace pulled her coat on. Even Mallory doubted her. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Where are you going?’ Mallory got up too.

‘I need to be alone.’

‘Wait!’ Mallory took her arm. ‘Did Roger apologize? Tell me, what did he say?’

Mallory’s face was so intent.

Grace stared at her, trying to yank her mind back into focus. But it wouldn’t go. For some reason the whole question of Roger, of what he said or did, didn’t matter as much as something else – something she couldn’t quite define. It hovered just out of reach of her awareness, like a shadow.

Mallory was waiting. Grace’s brain spun. She could hardly remember the details of last night’s conversation; only that Roger had arrived, swallowed up all the air, taken up all the space. And after months of wishing he would touch her, now she was the one pushing him away.

In contrast, the guilty memory of Edouard Tissot’s mouth on hers ricocheted through her entire body.

‘I don’t know. I’m not sure . . . I suppose so.’ Her voice was flat, lifeless. ‘He said everything I wanted to hear. Told me it was all . . . all a lie. Only, now I don’t want to hear it any more.’

She was sitting in the park across the street, with her back to the playground, looking out across the river. Her dog, the ageing terrier with his watery eyes and moulting fur, was crouched in a neat little ball underneath the bench, hiding from the screaming children.

It was easy to spot her – the long black coat, the wool felt turban-style hat. Even from behind, her stiff bearing gave her an imperious air.

Grace didn’t want to be here; with all her heart she didn’t want to speak to Madame Zed ever again. But here she was, just the same.

When she first left the hotel, she’d gone to the Louvre. It was so enormous; her plan was to lose herself in the miles of galleries. Spend the whole day or at least until her head quietened down. But no sooner had she gone inside than the sheer scale of the palace overwhelmed her. The pale marble walls and high columns echoed with voices chattering in half a dozen languages; the incredible opulence of the gilded walls and ceiling of the Apollo Gallery dazzled too brightly; all around her on the canvases, bodies writhed, wars raged, heroic actions prevailed. The grandeur jarred rather than soothed.

So she left; wandered the streets, bought a coffee she didn’t drink. Walking into a bookshop, she stood, staring, unseeing, at the titles on the shelves.

A gentleman in glasses approached. ‘
Comment puis-je vous aider
?’

‘
Pardon
?’

‘
Comment puis-je vous aider
?’ he repeated slowly.

It took Grace a moment to realize she was staring at a row of anatomy journals; this was an academic bookshop.

‘
Non. Non, merci
.’

Soon it became clear that no place would offer the refuge she sought. Her mind stumbled and careered, tripping and falling again and again into the same unanswerable voids. One moment the taste, feel and smell of Edoaurd Tissot seemed to have taken over her body and then, equally as intense, the horrendous truth blinded her – that she could no longer trust herself; that everything she thought she was, was a lie.

Now she was back, on the Left Bank. Searching for the person who had cracked her life open like an egg.

Grace stopped in front of the bench. Hands in her pockets, she gripped her father’s old lighter, holding it tightly in the palm of her hand. ‘You must really hate me.’

Madame Zed looked up at her, surprised. Then, taking in Grace’s expression and demeanour, she shook her head. ‘No, I don’t hate you. I don’t even know you.’ Her lips hardened into a thin, taut line. ‘But I loathed her.’

Grace stared at her in shock. ‘Why?’

‘Why not?’ she shot back, her black eyes fierce. ‘He was mine. I discovered him, I trained him! My money bought him the business. He was my whole world – the child I never bore, the husband I never married, the companion I never found. And then she arrived, out of nowhere!’ She leaned forward. ‘Do you know what was so devastating about her? She truly had a unique talent. She knew how to catch the flavour of the times, how to distil it into the perfect atmosphere. She was good at it. And more than anyone else, she knew how to make him listen.’ She gripped the terrier’s lead tightly, winding it round her boney hand. ‘When I spoke, my voice disappeared like the wind. Eva knew how to bring out the best in him. When she made a suggestion, he took note. It was obviously right. Do you realize how galling that was? I was reduced to an onlooker – an antiquity from another age.’ She stared out across the choppy grey water for some time. When she spoke again, she sounded empty, hollow. ‘Even when she left, he’d become so cocksure, so independent, he didn’t need me any more.’

Grace shook her head. ‘That’s not even true! What about the correspondence I found? The letter with those strange accords you were creating with him – wet wool, hair and so on?’

Madame wound the lead even tighter. ‘That wasn’t Valmont.’

‘Then who was it?’ she demanded. ‘Who else would want your help to create a perfume?’

‘Who indeed.’ She turned, locking Grace in with her unfathomable black gaze. ‘She only made one formula. I cannot believe it, even to this day. To have such success with one’s first real attempt.’ She shook her head, laughing bitterly. ‘Unheard of!’

Grace sat down on the edge of the bench. ‘What are talking about?’

‘The formula she sold Hiver – Eva created it.’

‘But you told me she’d betrayed Valmont! That it was his!’

‘It had his name on it. But no. She’d been working on it for a while, on her own. It was a private obsession.’

‘How could you do that?’ She stared at her in dismay. ‘Did you lie about anything else?’

‘Some day you will have a nemesis,’ Madame warned bitterly. ‘It’s not easy, you know. Someone who has the ability to do everything you wish you could, but with greater ease, style, success.’

Grace folded her arms across her chest. ‘I already have a nemesis, thank you.’

‘You’re too young to understand what it’s like to be dismissed from someone’s life – someone you love.’

Grace glowered at her. ‘I could write a book about it.’

They sat a while.

Then Madame Zed spoke again. ‘I’ve known her so many years, hated her for so long, she’s like a part of me. A limb. When you told me she had died, I actually felt bereft. Sometimes I wonder if we don’t hold our hatreds closer than our loves. Then you, of all people, came to me for answers.’

‘And you saw the chance to get your own back.’

‘No, that wasn’t my intention at all.’ She turned on Grace, suddenly indignant. ‘Do you think I want to be petty? That I’m not repulsed by my own jealousy and resentment? I wanted to be fair.’

‘But you weren’t.’

‘No, no I wasn’t,’ she agreed. For a while, she sat very still. ‘I lost my ability,’ she said at last.

Grace shook her head. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘In India I contracted meningitis. I never fully recovered. Over time, it eroded my sense of smell.’

‘But what about the perfumes you showed me . . .’

‘They were recounted from memory. But I can no longer make anything. I became useless.’

Grace thought back to the spoiled milk, the burning supper.

‘It’s true that I should not have agreed to talk to you.’ Madame admitted. ‘But in the end, I think Eva and I had more in common than I realized. She lost what mattered most to her too.’

‘Lost!’ Grace shook her head in disbelief. ‘You make it sound as though I was misplaced.’

‘Don’t you want to know where you came from?’

‘Is that how you justify it to yourself? That you’re helping me? Explaining to me how my entire life is a fraud?’

Madame Zed kept her eyes trained on the ground between her feet. Deep creases cut across her brow. ‘No. I can’t justify my actions. I suppose I did want you to hate her,’ she said quietly.

‘Well, you’ve succeeded. And all it’s done is tear me to pieces.’ Against her will, there were tears. ‘Made me think less of the entire human race.’

‘Well, now. We can’t have that.’

Madame Zed rose, the little terrier scurrying to his feet too. The afternoon was clouding over, the wind gathering strength. Gusts battered against her thin frame, threatening to topple her. ‘Come with me.’

‘Why?’ Grace looked up at her. ‘Why would I ever come with you again?’

Even when she was wrong, Madame managed a superior tone. ‘Because I have one last perfume to show you.’

Madame Zed picked up the simple chemist’s vial with the peeling label. But before she opened it, she said, ‘Let me tell you what happened.’

‘You’ve already lied to me once. Why should I believe what you say?’

‘Why don’t you hear what I have to say first?’ she countered, evenly.

‘Fine.’

Madame Zed sat down and Grace took a seat opposite her.

‘When Eva was just a young girl, working as a maid in New York, she became pregnant,’ Madame began. ‘Charles Lambert, or Lamb as he was known, brought her with him to England. But it was agreed between them that Eva would pay for her fare and Lamb’s protection by working with him, after the baby was born, in the large gambling casinos of Europe. That’s what he was relying on and why he agreed to help her. She had a rare, extremely rare, gift for numbers.’

Grace was unimpressed. ‘You’ve already told me that.’

Madame Zed took her rudeness in her stride.

‘Eva was fifteen, maybe sixteen when you were born,’ she went on, ‘without friends or family, in a strange country. Lambert convinced her that he should take the child to live with his sister, Catherine. That she would be able to look after you better than anyone else. Catherine was married to a man named Maudley, a soldier who’d been badly injured in France. They never thought they would have children. So when Lambert came to them one day with the baby of an unmarried young girl, it seemed like a godsend.’

Grace’s heart speeded up. ‘You’re talking about my parents.’

Madame Zed nodded.

A memory flashed into Grace’s mind; her mother’s lips pressed to her forehead as she tucked her into to bed at night. ‘Goodnight, my darling girl.’

Instinctively she touched her fingers to her brow.

‘Eva didn’t want to let you go,’ Madame continued. ‘But Lambert insisted. He promised her that when she’d repaid her debt, he would write to his sister and arrange a meeting; that Eva would be able to have you back. Time passed. Eva did everything Lambert asked of her. But it was never enough. He was a raging alcoholic. Even her skill couldn’t prevent him from digging them deeper and deeper into debt.’

‘What was meant to be a temporary solution became a permanent one. Lambert kept his sister’s name and address from Eva. He said she would only ruin things if she tried to contact her on her own, but in truth it gave him power over Eva. However, the night he took his life, Lambert wrote to her, finally giving her the details. He also confessed that his attempts at negotiating the child away from his sister had failed – Catherine had become too attached to the little girl. She wasn’t prepared to give her up without a battle. You see, Lambert had given his sister not just the child but the birth certificate too. Eva had no proof that you were hers.’ Madame looked across at her. ‘But Eva refused to give up.’

Grace felt her insides twist and knot. ‘Go on.’

‘Catherine and her husband didn’t live in the main household of her father’s estate. Instead, they chose one of the smaller private houses on the grounds. They didn’t have much in the way of help. Then one summer,’ Madame continued, ‘Catherine Maudley began writing a book. They decided to hire a nanny. In fact, the girl they employed was initially taken on as a housemaid and cook. She’d appeared quite out of the blue one spring, asking the village pastor if he would help her find a position. But her devotion to the little girl was so instant and touching, that in addition to cooking and cleaning for the Maudleys, she gradually assumed greater responsibilities, taking charge of the child’s entertainment and care while her mother worked. The girl Catherine Maudley hired was French. She was called Céline.’

Grace felt the bottom of her stomach disappear.

The name triggered something. Out of the dark shadows in her memory, a face emerged.

‘Lena,’ she murmured.

The crack opened wide, images tumbling to the fore-front of her consciousness.

Lena had been small, with dark brown hair and a soft, pleasing voice. And for a time, she’d been everywhere, in the kitchen baking, out on the lawn hanging up the washing, up on the landing calling her into her bath . . .

‘Lena! Lena!’ Grace could remember the feeling of her name in her mouth, on her tongue; running in through the back door of the house, calling out, ‘Lena!’ She wasn’t so much a nanny as a playmate, a constant conspirator in fun. ‘Lena!’

And she’d smelled of something familiar, something so natural, so elemental that for ever afterwards and for reasons she could never quite place, Grace would associate the sudden drop in temperature, the darkening of the sky and the low growl of thunder, with peace and comfort.

She’d smelled of rain.

West Challow, Oxfordshire, England, 1935

It was an unusually warm afternoon in early March.

Grace had been playing in the back garden with the dog, Fry.

The back door to the kitchen was propped open. The smell of roasting chicken, rich and savoury, wafted out into the garden, making her mouth water, drawing her in.

Grace walked into the kitchen. Everything was clean, organized; pots boiled on the stove, the floor was freshly scrubbed; it felt good, right.

Lena was sitting at the kitchen table in her apron, with a pen and paper. Her head was bent down.

‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m writing a letter, darling,’ Lena answered, without looking up. But Grace knew that even ordinary things became special with Lena.

‘May I watch?’ Grace asked.

Lena looked up at her, smiled. ‘Watch me write a letter?’

Grace nodded.

Then she dared to ask something she would never have asked of her mother; had never asked of anyone before. ‘May I sit on your lap, please?’

Lena’s smile widened. ‘Of course!’

Pushing her chair back, Lena held out her arms and Grace climbed onto her lap. She leaned her head against Lena’s chest, could feel her heart beating softly underneath her dress. She smelled so different from anyone else in the world; it was a fresh, earthy smell, a smell that promised safety. ‘Who are you writing to?’

Lena smoothed Grace’s hair down, kissed her forehead. ‘A friend of mine. In Paris.’

‘Is he your husband?’

‘No. I don’t have a husband.’

‘Why not?’

‘Oh, sometimes that’s just the way things work out.’

‘Yes,’ Grace agreed solemnly, although she didn’t really understand. ‘I suppose so.’ She snuggled deeper. ‘Where’s Mummy?’

‘She’s not home yet. Now, you must be quiet or I shall not be able to write.’

‘But she will be home soon?’ (In truth, Grace didn’t care when her mother came back. She just wanted to stay on Lena’s lap. But she’d never done it before; didn’t know what was expected. So she talked about what she always talked about, which was her mother, so that Lena would let her stay.)

‘Yes, she will be home soon. And then there’s roast chicken for supper and you shall have the wishbone. What do you think of that?’

Grace smiled, looking up at Lena, hoping she would kiss her forehead again. ‘I shall wish a husband for you,’ she promised, tugging gently at Lena’s long hair.

Lena picked up the pen, pausing a moment, her brow creasing. Finally, she began.

Dear Andre,

Please forgive me for not writing sooner. I know we parted on poor terms, for which I am truly sorry. I should not have left so suddenly. As you can tell from the postmark, I have gone to England after all. I know you believe my actions are folly, however, I have met with success. I have been hired as a cook and housemaid in the very same home where my darling one lives. She is with me now, in fact, on my knee as I write.

At first she was shy. You can imagine how difficult it was not to gather her up in my arms and hold her close, but soon her courage grew. After a week, we were fast friends. And she is so clever and delightful!

If you could see me now, I know you would understand. I finally feel as if I can walk with my head held high and I am happy – yes, even scrubbing dishes and sweeping floors! My only regret is that you and I . . .

Lena stopped again. Her frown deepened.

Then she folded the letter in half and slipped it into her apron pocket. ‘I will finish this later. Come on, darling. What shall we do now?’

Grace shrugged, snuggling in closer to her chest.

Everything Lena did was fascinating to Grace.

She brought order and peace; called her ‘darling’ and ‘dear’. Grace liked to follow her around and see what she was up to next. Sometimes she would find her changing the bed sheets or dusting; one day she’d discovered Lena outside with one of the hallway carpets flung over two chairs, holding a broom.

‘What are you doing with that?’

‘I’m beating the carpets, dear. Here,’ Lena handed her the broom. ‘Would you like to try?’

Grace had liked that. She walloped the carpet with all her might and a big cloud of dust came out.

‘Look at how strong you are!’ Lena laughed and Grace had taken another swing and another, just to prove she was right.

Or after supper she could be found washing the dishes. Lena showed Grace how to press a fork deep into the soap and blow bubbles by dipping it into a glass of water. Soon the kitchen was filled with glassy bubbles. The dog had gone mad trying to chase them, barking hysterically.

Later on they played cards together. Lena knew a game that no one else could work out. But Grace was quick to learn.

‘You’re a very clever girl, do you know that?’ Lena stroked Grace’s cheek softly. ‘You must never forget that. Now, what would you do here? Think before you answer.’

Grace concentrated hard. She wanted to please Lena. And the game was both fun and difficult, which made it the best sort of game.

Sometimes, Lena and Grace went for a walk in the woods at the back of the house to gather petals. There was, in a small, sheltered grove, an unexpected patch of wild narcissus, or paperwhites as the English called them. Tiny, delicate white blooms, they gave off an intensely sweet fragrance.

Together, they harvested the freshest flowers and, back in the kitchen, Lena showed Grace how to make perfume from them. Taking two old panes of glass from the conservatory, she washed them clean and spread a thin layer of rendered tallow on each one. Then they laid out the blossoms one by one on the first pane, carefully placing the other pane of glass on top. Afterwards they stored them high on a shelf in the cool, dark pantry.

‘It’s called
enfleurage
,’ Lena explained. ‘We will gently extract the perfume oil from the blooms by pressing them into the tallow. But we must change the petals regularly and add new ones. Then we can make it into a pomade.’

‘Did your mummy teach you this?’

‘No. A friend taught me.’

They found a few more glass panes and experimented with different types of foliage – moss, grass, mint leaves from the herb garden.

One day they bought a lemon in the village. At home, Lena gleefully put together yet another glass press, making the most remarkable, fresh scent from only a few slices. (The rest they had with their fish that night.)

‘Can you make perfume from anything?’ Grace asked.

‘Anything!’ Lena asserted.

‘What about wood?’ Grace challenged. ‘Or a piece of wool,’ she giggled.

‘Well, let’s try.’

That afternoon they searched for the richest, dampest piece of tree bark they could find. It was difficult to shave it down to bits that could be effectively pressed but eventually they were able to extract a very subtle hint of wood. As part of the same experiment, Lena unravelled the sleeve of one of Grace’s old cardigans and pressed the wool as well.

‘This one is very tricky,’ she conceded, with a frown. ‘It’s not a strong smell to begin with.’

‘Why did you have to undo one of my cardies?’ Grace complained, examining the unravelled sleeve. Even though it was too small, she still liked it.

‘Because part of the smell of the wool is your smell too. They mix. And I, for one, want both – though, to be honest,’ she sighed, ‘we may end up pressing this old wool for months before we get anything.’ She caught Grace’s eye and grinned. ‘You know what I would like to try? A bit of your hair.’

‘My hair!’ Grace thought this was hysterical. ‘Hair perfume!’ she cried, dancing around the room with excitement. ‘That’s mad!’

However, the paperwhites were easily Grace’s favourite. She loved wandering through the grove gathering their blooms, piling them into Lena’s basket. They were, after all, her favourite flower.

‘You may have this perfume when we’ve finished. It shall be your birthday present,’ Lena promised.

But today Lena had another idea. ‘I know,’ she suggested after a moment, ‘would you like to help me make some biscuits?’

Grace looked up from her lap. ‘What kind of biscuits?’

‘Black.’ Lena gave her a squeeze.

‘Black biscuits?’ Grace sat up.

‘That’s right. Made with charcoal, for your father.’

Grace made a face. ‘Why does Daddy eat charcoal? Do I have to eat charcoal?’

‘No,
mon ange
. Daddy needs it because his tummy is unwell. In the war, they sprayed a gas into the air that made all the soldiers sick. Your father has a pain in his tummy but these black biscuits help.’

‘Does the pain ever go away?’

‘I’m not sure.’

Grace took this in. ‘Is that why he’s cross?’

‘Cross?’

‘Yes. He’s angry with me.’

Lena stroked Grace’s hair again. ‘Your father is not cross, darling. But he is . . .’ she stopped, searching for the right words, ‘he is not comfortable.’

Grace looked down at her feet, dangling in the air. She wondered if she should tell Lena the truth; that her father had never liked her, that she’d clearly done something to upset him, although she couldn’t think what it was. That was why he didn’t speak to her; why he scowled all the time.

But if she said it out loud, Lena might not like her any more either.

Grace gnawed nervously at her thumbnail.

‘So,’ Lena put Grace down and stood up. ‘Shall we start baking?’

‘Yes, please.’

‘Then let’s get you an apron.’ Lena took a spare off the hook by the back door.

‘Hello? Hello!’ Catherine Maudley strode into the front hallway upstairs, her heels clicking against the wooden floorboards. ‘Hello! Grace? Lena?’

Instantly Eva felt her back go rigid.

Catherine was walking downstairs now; she strode into the kitchen, hat in hand, pulling off her white gloves. ‘There you two are.’

Instinctively, Eva averted her eyes, focusing instead on tying the apron around Grace’s waist.

Lady Catherine was an attractive woman, older than Eva, with a natural hauteur and authority. Her voice was slightly breathy, giving her a rather harried, uncertain energy, and her accent snapped with the crisp consonants and flatly drawled vowels of the upper classes. Her fine auburn hair was styled away from her face and her features echoed Lambert’s with disarming accuracy; her brother’s ghost could be seen in the same wide forehead and startling azure eyes.

‘What a journey! The station was packed,’ Catherine complained. ‘What are you doing?’

‘We’re making black biscuits for Daddy,’ Grace announced.

‘Black biscuits!’ Catherine tossed an evening edition of the newspaper down on the table, along with her gloves. ‘Is this a joke?’

She looked over at Eva, who forced the corners of her mouth up into a smile. ‘No, ma’am. They have a small amount charcoal in them, which aids digestion and gives them their colour. They are very popular in France.’

‘Oh dear!’ Catherine shook her head. ‘What will they think of next?’ She reached out and stroked the head of the family dog, Fry, a mixed breed of wolfhound and retriever. ‘And where is your father?’

‘Daddy’s in the greenhouse, of course,’ Grace offered, as Lena pulled up a stool for her to stand on.

‘Yes, of course,’ Catherine sighed.

Jonathan Maudley was, in fact, rarely out of the greenhouse. Though it was nearly the size of the main house already, he’d built an extension onto it recently which housed a laboratory and office, from which he conducted his research for a major pharmaceutical company. It was one of the reasons they didn’t live in the Great Hall. He could be found there, often before sunrise until late in the evening, deeply involved in experiments, piled in notes. His considerable collection of plant specimens were fastidiously attended to by him alone and kept under lock and key. It was his private domain, strictly off limits.

‘I wonder why I bother asking,’ Catherine added, wandering over to the back door and looking out of the window. ‘Lena, don’t let that washing sit too long on the line. I don’t want my blue dress bleached out by the sun.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

She turned. ‘I take it we’re having chicken for supper?’

Eva nodded.

‘Lovely. Can you make ordinary boiled potatoes, please? That last dish you made . . .’ she paused, searching for the name.

‘
Le gratin
?’

‘Yes. Very nice but I swear, Lena, it had garlic in it.’ Catherine shot her a reproachful look. ‘One cannot go about in public places smelling like a foreign sailor. I was mortified in case someone sat next to me on the train or in the library. Has the post arrived? I’m waiting for a letter from a publisher.’

‘It’s on the table in the front hallway, ma’am.’

‘Good. Well, my darling,’ she turned to Grace, ‘I was going to ask you if you wanted to walk the dog with me.’

Grace hesitated.

‘Darling,’ Lady Catherine’s smile faded, ‘you don’t want me to go by myself, do you?’

‘No, Mummy. It’s just—’

‘Lena can make the biscuits.’ She held out her hand. ‘God knows, you’ve spent all day together!’ She snapped her fingers impatiently. ‘Now, come along!’

Climbing off the stool, Grace tugged at the apron ties; it slid down to the floor.

‘Of course, Mummy,’ she took her mother’s hand.

‘Lena, have a look at those gloves, please, will you? The fingertips are quite filthy from the train. White gloves really ought to be white, don’t you think?’ Catherine gave her daughter’s palm a squeeze. ‘Let’s run some fat off this old boy, shall we? We’ll be back before supper,’ she called as they climbed the stairs, Fry at their heels.

Eva stood, very still, in the empty kitchen.

Then she picked up the apron from the floor and hung it back again on the hook by the back door.

Moving mechanically, she took out the flour and sugar from the pantry; butter, salt, a mixing bowl.

She tossed some flour onto the counter and spread it smooth, took out the rolling pin.

Reaching deep into one of the kitchen drawers for a biscuit cutter, she found one in the shape of a small oval, made of tin.