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 f
riend 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.
She stopped… ran her finger along the sharp, delicately serrated metal edge.
Eva put the cutter down on the counter and pressed her palm into it, hard.
The sensation was exquisite and excruciating. Feeling flooded in. And the pressure valve in her head loosened, easing just the tiniest bit.
She closed her eyes.
There was a whole vocabulary of suffering, eloquent in its wordlessness, which gave voice to all the things she couldn’t do or say.
Opening her eyes, she forced her hand into a fist, stretching out her fingers again and again. Then she turned to get the milk.
Jonathan Maudley was standing, watching in the doorway.
He leaned awkwardly against the door frame.
Tall and very thin it was clear that at one time he’d been handsome. With large blue eyes, a high, intelligent forehead and a firm jaw, he might have been the very model of well-bred English manhood. Only now his eyes were ringed with deep bluey circles, the result of years of nightmares and fragmented sleep; his sandy blond hair had thinned, his cheeks were hollowed and his lips drawn. His large hands were expressive and elegant. They should have been the hands of a gentleman or a diplomat, only now the long tapered fingers were stained with nicotine from too many cheap roll-ups, a habit he’d acquired in the trenches and failed to give up, and the fingernails rimmed with black soil.
Upstairs the front door closed; Catherine and Grace had left.
Down here, the low ceiling of the kitchen pressed in on them, trapping the heat of the oven, the air warm and moist. A cloud passed over the sun; the room fell into shadow.
The Perfume Collector Page 29