Cherry Ames Boxed Set 9-12

by Helen Wells

  THE PERFUME EXPERIMENT WAS AT A STANDSTILL UNTIL Cherry had an idea. She thought of it as she woke up one morning, and hastened to tell Lisette about it at breakfast time.

  “I have a notion of where our experiment went wrong! Aren’t those garden flowers we distilled pretty-old, neglected plants? Pierre’s garden hasn’t had any adequate care for years and years. Well, then, maybe the flowers we used have lost their vitality and lost most of their true scent.”

  Lisette’s eyes glinted with new hope. “You mean Great grandfather worked with healthier, more fragrant flowers than we did? That just might be it!”

  Cherry also had another idea, a fairly obvious one. She thought her and Lisette’s knowledge of chemistry was not too expert and affected their experiment.

  “This time,” said Lisette, agreeing, “let’s try to have lots more help from Alan. He likes you so much, Cherry, he’d do it for you.”

  “He’d do it out of interest in the perfume,” Cherry countered.

  “He does like you, Cherry. Haven’t you noticed?”

  Cherry flushed. She had noticed. As for her own feelings, the longer she knew Alan Wilcox, the better she liked him.

  “We were discussing the perfume,” Cherry said firmly. “Yes, I will ask Dr. Alan to give us more help, especially with the chemistry part. But it’s your perfume formula, Lisette. It’s up to you to decide what’s the next step.”

  “Well, the conclusion you just came to sounds to me like the—like the—”

  “The McCoy, to coin a phrase. You mean Pierre’s neglected flowers have lost most of their vitality and true scent?”

  The two girls thought it over all day, and that evening they decided that this was the cause of their failure in recreating his formula. Possibly there were other factors, too, but worn out plants were the chief shortcoming. Then the problem became: where to find silver lace and Provence, fawn, and China roses which were as healthy and vividly fragrant as Pierre’s originally had been.

  “The minister raises a few of those flowers in his garden,” Lisette remembered. “Even if we had the courage to ask him, there’s nothing growing in his garden in November.”

  “Has he a conservatory?”

  “No. I inquired. He hasn’t, and neither have other people around here. Only summer gardens.”

  “There must be somebody around who has a conservatory or hothouse,” Cherry mused. “Of course we might send away to a commercial florist or seed house, but that’s not exactly on the right track, is it?”

  “I’m afraid not. Great grandfather’s flowers were started from seeds from France, and what he grew was grown locally. No, we’ll find his flowers right around here or not at all.”

  “Wait! I think I have it!” Cherry’s whole face began to sparkle. “Remember when you and I were stalled in the taxi—that first, hot day we met? Remember the farm woman who came by with a horse and a wagon full of flowers? She had a nursery.”

  “You’re right. Molly Something. Molly Miller. We bought a bouquet from her. It had some silver lace in it, only we didn’t know what it was at the time.”

  Cherry said excitedly, “Remember she invited us to come and see her flowers. Remember? We’re going! I don’t remember where she lives, but Alan will tell us.”

  Alan did more than that. He drove Cherry over to Rivers’ Crossing. Lisette was unable to go along because of classes. Cherry’s duties were waived for her for a few hours through the kindness of Mrs. Harrison.

  It was one of those crystal clear days with a sky so bright that the bare, blowing branches seemed to be etched against it. Alan had a call to make along the route. That made Cherry feel better about their driving so deep into the country. Today was their first chance in some time to visit together.

  “I hope you don’t mind Lena being present even though three’s a crowd,” said Alan. His car was a perfectly real personality to him, though Cherry suspected he did not admit it to very many people.

  “I’m almost as fond of Leaping Lena as you are,” Cherry said. “I’d recognize her coughs and grunts even if she waked me out of a sound sleep.”

  “Lena and Cherry, my two favorite girls,” Alan joked. “That’s no mean compliment. Dad’s car is a dowager, elderly, but he gets where he’s going. Speaking of going places, Cherry—”

  She thought Alan was about to tease her again about those dates they rarely could manage, but the serious side of him came out. It never failed to impress Cherry.

  “I undertook an errand on your and Lisette’s behalf the other day, on my own hook. Hope I didn’t do anything I shouldn’t have. When I was in St. Louis it occurred to me to look in the classified telephone directory and see whether there wasn’t a perfume manufacturer or wholesaler or distributor or something in St. Louis. Well, I located a perfume manufacturer, a Mr. Clary, and I went to see him.”

  “Why, Alan! How very kind of you! Clary. Is that a French name?”

  “Right. He’s of French descent. An awfully nice man. And you know what? I talked to him about old Pierre’s formula and he’s interested. He wants us to bring him a sample of it, when we’re satisfied with how it turns out.”

  “Alan! You’re as good as Santa Claus. I could kiss you!”

  “Any time.” He turned to grin at her. “Darn it, we’re already at Molly Miller’s. You owe me a kiss.”

  “On account of Mr. Clary.”

  “On account of me!” Alan retorted, as he swung the car off the road and into a dirt driveway.

  They parked beside a farmhouse surrounded by immense oaks. A friendly old dog came to meet them, but no one else was in sight.

  “Mrs. Miller and her kids must be working in the hothouses. Come around here, Cherry.”

  Alan led her around the side of the house. From here she could see glistening rows of long, low, glass roofs. When she had met Molly Miller in her wagon that day, Cherry had not realized the woman owned an extensive nursery. To reach the first hothouse, she and Alan walked through a half acre of what must be flower beds in summer. Alan remarked that he had known Molly Miller all his life, like everyone for miles around, although he had not been down to Rivers’ Crossing in a very long time.

  Molly Miller heard them coming. She hopped out of a low doorway to wave a trowel at them.

  “Alan Wilcox! I declare, how you’ve grown! How’s the doctor?”

  “My father’s fine, thanks. I’m a physician these days, too. How are you?”

  “Never better. How these young ones do grow up! Now I swan, I know this young lady from some place. Couldn’t very well forget her rosy cheeks.” When Cherry reminded her, Molly Miller seized her hand and shook it heartily.

  “I’m always pleased to show folks my place. Step right in.”

  They stooped and went through the low door into the warm, moist air of the first hothouse. Flowers bloomed here in orderly profusion. Some young people working at the other end looked up and waved. Mrs. Miller showed them rows of chrysanthemums and gerardia, and described her methods. Cherry was only mildly interested. She did glimpse roses in the next hothouse, but they did not seem to be the species which she and Lisette needed.

  “Mrs. Miller, we’re here today on a special errand. Maybe I’m asking for the impossible, but—”

  “Nothing’s impossible to an experienced gardener, Miss Cherry. You name it and I’ll bet we grow it.”

  “Well, these particular flowers date back a long time.”

  “So do I.” Molly Miller laughed.

  ‘These are really special local flowers, Mrs. Miller. Do you happen to have any fawn or China or Provence roses?” The farm woman stared at her. “Then there’s one other flower I want, which you had in a bouquet you sold us. It’s a whitish silver spray—the only name I know for it is silver lace, but that may not be right.”

  “Silver lace! I haven’t heard that name in years! Where on earth did you hear it? And who told you about such a variety as fawn roses?”

  Molly Miller was so surprised that she sat down,
stood up, and sat down on a box again. Alan grinned, but he was as impressed as Cherry was.

  “Upon my soul, young lady, the last person who honestly knew about silver lace and your special roses was old Pierre Gauthier, who started the original plants.”

  “You knew him!” Cherry exclaimed.

  “Yes, I met the old gentleman a few times, but mostly I knew of him. Ah, me! You’re almost making me see ghosts.”

  “Care to tell us a ghost story?” Alan asked her. “Seriously, I think Cherry would appreciate hearing about him and his flowers.”

  “Sit down, sit down, and I’ll tell you. Some said old Mr. Gauthier made perfume out of his flowers, those last years of his life—you know, when he was retired. Poor old gentleman, he wasn’t strong and Ma said he seemed mighty lonesome at the chateau. His son and daughter in law didn’t pay much attention to him. Meant well, but—I don’t know about that perfume tale. What I do know is his exquisite flowers.”

  When Pierre Gauthier’s first flowers bloomed, from seeds he had brought from France, neighbors flocked to the chateau to admire and marvel. None of them had seen the odd silver lace before, nor the rare fawn and China roses. His Provence roses, too, though akin to the American cabbage rose, were handsomer. The best roses in the world come from Provence. Molly Miller’s mother had first seen his garden when she was a young girl, and recalled how generous Pierre Gauthier had been with his cuttings. No neighbor went away without prized flowers and shoots to transplant in his own garden. The silver lace was the most prized of all, for its delicate, delicious fragrance.

  “’Course,” said Molly Miller, “it’s one thing to grow flowers in any old fashion, and another thing to grow ’em right. You can’t just transplant French flowers into American soil and climate. What Mr. Gauthier did as long as he was alive—and what Ma and me always did—was nourish those French flowers with extra care. Don’t know as any other folks ever bothered. Neglect stunts ’em. We used extra rich soil, a little more moisture, wrapped the bushes with burlap against cold, and I found a soil chemical that makes ’em—Well, I can rightfully say that my silver lace and French roses are equal to the ones the old gentleman grew.” She proudly paused for breath.

  Cherry was so excited she stuttered. Alan laughed and she started over.

  “Mrs. Miller, have you silver lace and the French roses now? Can I purchase some, now, today, please?”

  “Easy as pie,” said Molly Miller. “How many would you like? Just a few of each, or two, three, four dozen?”

  When Cherry arrived back at the school that afternoon with her arms full of the beautiful flowers, all the girls ohed and ahed and wanted to follow her and Alan into the infirmary.

  Lisette came running. “So that’s what Greatgrandfather’s flowers should look like and smell like when they’re in a healthy state!” she said. “Mm, gorgeous! Oh, Cherry, Dr. Alan, I don’t know how to thank you enough.”

  “Think nothing of it,” said Alan. “Our nurse has informed me that I’m elected to help you two young ladies compound the perfume. It’ll have to be in the evenings, but otherwise I’m your man. When do we start?”

  Cherry and Lisette started immediately, for the freshly cut flowers could not wait. They did not need to detain the busy young doctor for the distillation of the natural flower oils. This second try went faster and easier than the first one. By eight that evening the girls had a precious sealed bottle of essential oils in the infirmary’s refrigerator. As they washed and put away the kettle, saucepans, and tubing, Cherry and Lisette congratulated each other. This time the scent of the natural oils was the flowers’ true scent.

  Toward dusk the next afternoon, Alan arrived. He brought with him certain synthetics used by perfumers, notably, a rosy smelling phenyl ethyl alcohol, which was an improvement and a short cut on the substances the great grandfather had used. Mr. Clary had sent these. Mostly Alan brought with him a knowledge of chemistry which, added to Cherry’s, should bring them closer to success. Lisette was relied upon to supply Pierre’s notes and imagination as they began, that raw autumn afternoon, to recapture in scent the loveliness of a summer garden.

  Step by step, they cautiously felt their way. Their base for the perfume was Pierre’s flowers. Each time they added a drop of chemical to a drop of the natural flower oil, they tried the result on a clean blotter and sniffed. “Too sharp,” Lisette would say, or Cherry’s verdict, “Not clear cut.” Alan would walk around the room, every few moments, sniffing the blotter again. “I don’t like it.” Another drop of synthetic bergamot, with its orangey lemony fragrance of tart sweetness. Two drops more of ninety per cent alcohol. “No, the silver lace is drowned out now.” They were trying hard to follow Pierre’s notes exactly, but a hard and fast formula never yet created a distinctive perfume. They must rely on their own senses and judgment as well. A perfumer has to be both scientist and artist.

  “Add a little ilang-ilang. Yes, that’s better. I think we’re beginning to put an odor together. Pierre’s formula calls for a touch of vanillin, don’t forget.”

  The three young people were fascinated by the drop by drop transformation. It was like an artist adding a touch of blue to his purple, then a dot of yellow, studying the mixture, and touching it ever so slightly with pink, to reach the shade he is seeking. They noted down each exact addition.

  “It’s shaping up, but it still doesn’t blend.”

  “That’s right, the Provence rose dominates too much. What does the textbook advise?”

  “That silver lace makes your heart skip a beat, doesn’t it? I thought only music could stir me that much,” Alan admitted.

  Absorbed, they forgot about suppertime. Mrs. Harrison sent up a tray of sandwiches and milk, and presently came in herself to visit.

  “Oh! Rapturous!” She took a deep breath of the fragrant air. “Is your finished perfume going to smell like this?”

  “That’s the question none of us can answer, Aunt Alicia,” said Lisette. “Will you be awfully disappointed if—well—”

  “Dear Lisette, I’ve never ceased to be skeptical. But I most certainly am interested! You’re fortunate in having two laboratory trained friends to work with you.”

  “I don’t know when I’ve had so much fun,” Cherry said, and meant it.

  Alan merely looked embarrassed and made a suggestion. Acting on it, they added to the by now intricate compound a good deal more of the natural flower oil.

  What happened was encouraging. Something had been lacking in the perfume, the three of them had felt all along. The perfume did not “ring true.” Now the additional quantity of natural oils provided the missing link. The perfume grew at once more distinctive and more delicate. The note of silver lace was like a silver bell against the background of blended roses.

  “I’m afraid to say it—” Cherry started.

  “I think we have it!” Lisette muttered. “Don’t you, Aunt Alicia?”

  “I like this,” said Alan. “Agreed? Well, then.” He pulled a small package out of his pocket. “I took the liberty of—ah—buying a better fixative than you girls may have used last time.”

  The fixative, besides retarding evaporation, also had to blend and harmonize the other ingredients. Cherry and Lisette were delighted with Alan’s gift. Mrs. Harrison’s sympathies had been growing as she watched.

  “Did you know that when Catherine de Medici came from Italy to France to marry Henry II, she brought her own perfumer with her? His name was René, I think. This queen urged the cultivation of French flowers for perfume, and it’s thanks to her that the French perfume industry came into existence.”

  Cherry, Lisette, and Alan were not really listening. They were trying to screw up courage to take the final, and possibly fatal, step—to add the fixative. Cherry realized suddenly that she was tired. It must be late.

  Just then someone rapped at the door and Dr. Horton Wilcox came in.

  “Good evening, Alicia, young ladies, Alan. I came over to talk with you, Alicia, about a fundra
ising benefit we are planning for the hospital.” The elder doctor’s nose wrinkled and twitched. “All the balms of Paradise, eh?”

  Mrs. Harrison invited Dr. Wilcox to sit down and asked if he would like some coffee.

  “No, thank you, Alicia, very kind. What is going on here? This room smells like it used to when old Grandpa Gauthier occupied it.”

  Mrs. Harrison smiled. “Does it really smell the same? I’ve been trying to remember, but you always were observant and scientific minded.”

  “Yes, very similar. I can still see old Pierre, in my mind’s eye, puttering around this room, with vases and jars full of roses and dentelle d’argent, brewing his fragrances—”

  “Dentelle d’argent translates into silver lace!” Lisette exclaimed. “We did get the name right. And we are on the right track, aren’t we, Dr. Wilcox?” She named the flowers they were using. “You’re an old settler, you’d know.”

  Dr. Wilcox laughed his restrained laugh. “Yes, I suppose I’m an old settler, old enough anyway to remember Pierre giving away flower cuttings. We children heard that he used his silver flower and his choicest roses for creating a perfume. Unfortunately, no one took him seriously. I’ve often thought—”

  “We take him seriously,” Lisette burst out. “I beg your pardon, I shouldn’t have interrupted.”

  “Not at all, Lisette. I’m glad all of you do take his perfume seriously, because something quite fine may have been ignored or lost.” The physician quoted Keats, “‘A thing of beauty is a joy forever. Its loveliness increases; it will never pass into nothingness.’”

  “That settles it,” Alan said. “With all this encouragement, let’s go ahead and put in the fixative. Dad, do you want to wait for me or not?”

  Mrs. Harrison laughed. “Your father can’t tear himself away any more than I can. But I think we’d be wise to bow out.”

  They all exchanged good nights.

  Alan brought out the fixative. With the utmost discretion a minute amount was added to the perfume in the making. Cherry held her breath, for too strong a fixative could destroy the more delicate perfumes. Alan and Lisette seemed satisfied, though. Sniffing, they gradually increased the proportion of fixative until they obtained the desired balance.