by Linda Finlay
Eliza served herself a portion of the stewed fruit and what looked like cream from the dishes set down the middle of the table. Cream at breakfast? She helped herself to a generous portion then grimaced at the sour taste.
‘Whatever is this?’
‘’Tis called yogurt, apparently. We’ve had to suffer it since his lordship came back from France,’ Dawkins said mournfully. ‘Afore that we always had a good healthy fried breakfast.’
Eliza ate her fruit then spread the ghastly yogurt stuff around her dish before putting down her spoon. She hoped she didn’t have to eat this every morning. Remembering how she’d moaned about Fay’s venison, she sighed. What she wouldn’t give to have a dish of red meat now. She jumped as Dawkins patted her arm.
‘I think young Amos is trying to attract your attention,’ he whispered, nodding his head towards the door. She looked up to see a young man with a flop of sandy hair smiling at her.
‘Who is he?’
‘The other apprentice. He’s a good un, is Amos. Stick by him an’ you’ll be all right,’ the man advised.
Eliza smiled her thanks. Getting to her feet, she noticed the housekeeper was watching her. Although the woman looked quickly away, Eliza couldn’t help thinking she’d seen her somewhere before.
‘Hello, you must be Eliza,’ the young man said, giving her another warm smile. ‘I’m Amos, Monsieur Farrant’s apprentice. Regrettably, he has been delayed and asked me to show you where you will be working.’ Eliza smiled back, taking to the man immediately. She saw that he was wearing a short tabard over his shirt and trousers, all of which were in the same mustard-coloured material Mrs Buttons had measured her for the previous day. Obviously, it was some kind of uniform.
‘Ghastly colour, isn’t it?’ he said, giving a rueful grin. ‘First thing I do when I get back to my lodgings of an evening is change my clothes. My landlady thinks it’s a hoot.’
‘You don’t stay here, then?’ Eliza asked as he led her along another corridor hung with pictures of perfume amphorae, atomizers and cut-glass bottles all in amber.
‘Not likely.’ He grimaced and threw open a door. ‘Here we are, the workhouse,’ he announced. This room was cooler than the rest of the house and she peered around, taking in the copper stills, various tubes and jars on the worktops, the rows of amber-coloured perfume bottles lining the shelves that ran the length of the walls. Amos walked around, pointing out what all the various equipment was and its uses.
‘I thought it would smell of perfume,’ Eliza said.
‘It does when we’re making it. Monsieur has just perfected his special Christmas ones and it will be our job to bottle and label them ready to be sold to his special clients.’
‘But it’s only autumn,’ she said.
‘The very time he begins his little “spreading the word” campaign. It’s his busiest and most profitable time of year. The more we help him sell, the larger our Christmas box will be.’
‘What is this Christmas box?’ Eliza asked.
‘You really are green, aren’t you?’ Amos chuckled, not unkindly. ‘It’s money we’re given in the spirit of the season of goodwill. Now do you have an apron or something to protect your frock?’
She shook her head. ‘Mrs Buttons is making me one in that colour,’ she said, pointing to his clothes.
‘Mais naturellement,’ Amos intoned, throwing up his arms in a fair imitation of their boss.
‘I am glad to find my two apprentices getting on so well,’ Monsieur Farrant declared, making them jump as he strode into the room. ‘It would be even better to find them working, non?’
‘Sorry, Monsieur, I was just helping Eliza settle in. Alas she has no apron at the moment and I would not like her to spill anything on her frock,’ Amos answered so innocently, that Monsieur Farrant smiled.
‘That is très considerate, Amos. If you will continue with what you were doing yesterday, I shall begin by taking Mademoiselle through some theory.’
‘Of course, Monsieur,’ Amos said, hurrying over to a workbench at the far side of the room.
‘Now, Eliza,’ Monsieur Farrant said, nodding at her hair with approval, ‘we shall start at the very beginning with smell, for it is the most important of our senses and we need to learn how to use it properly for getting the best effect, oui?’ Monsieur Farrant picked up one of his amber bottles. He unscrewed it, dipped in a thin strip of blotting-like paper and swung it around in a wide circle under Eliza’s nose. Immediately the pleasant smell of rose assailed her senses, reminding her of Fay’s garden.
‘We do this to excite the aroma molecules. By creating a vortex these will be more easily detectable. Now sniff with your right nostril,’ he said, handing her the paper. She inhaled. ‘Now do the same with the left. Good, good, and now with both. Breathe in until you feel it right at the top; like so,’ he said, pointing to the bridge of his nose. ‘Concentrate really hard. You feel the smell now?’ She nodded, trying hard not to sneeze. How could you feel a smell? ‘Now we have a little rest or we will overload the olfactory.’
‘That would be terrible,’ she agreed.
‘Indeed, for in the art of the perfume making one must be able to detect one’s smell clearly, non?’ he said, leaning towards her.
Catching a whiff of his peculiar odour, Eliza wondered if he knew how bad his own smell was.
20
‘Now, Eliza, we shall return to the olfactory,’ Monsieur Farrant continued, oblivious to her thoughts. ‘The olfaction bulbs are housed high up in your nose and the bigger they are, the better you can smell.’
‘Yes, I know. Fay told me,’ she said.
Monsieur Farrant frowned but ignored her. ‘We humans can only detect vapour, yet dogs have noses that stream when they smell something interesting. Do you know why that is?’
Eliza shook her head. What had dogs got to do with making perfume?
‘It is because they still have the verminasory canal, referred to as v.c. by perfumers, which runs down the bridge of the nose. You see, smell used to be our prime sense and it is thought we lost this v.c. around the time man got colour vision or c.v. Can you imagine us as dogs, getting a whiff of something so exciting it sends us running around with our noses streaming?’
Eliza stared at the sleek-haired perfumer. With his glittering eyes, shiny moustache and amber cravat he reminded her of the King Charles spaniel the mine owner’s wife had carried the day she’d graced their charity school with her presence. He’d slipped his lead, then ran around sniffing everything in sight. As a picture of Charles Farrant doing the same popped into her mind she had to bite her lip to stop herself from laughing out loud. Glancing over the man’s shoulder, she saw Amos’s lips twitching and knew he was thinking along similar lines.
Engrossed in his subject and completely oblivious to their amusement, Monsieur Farrant continued, ‘Now, Eliza, what do you know of the notes, eh?’
Notes? She was here to make perfume, not music.
‘By your bemused expression, I can see you have no concept of the way a perfume is structured. Perfumes have three sets of notes that make the scent harmonious, yes?’
‘I see,’ Eliza said, trying to sound as if she understood.
‘These unfold over time. The top note it is revealed first, then the deeper middle note with the base appearing last. Think of it like a triangle, non? Top notes or head notes are what you smell initially. They are made of small, light molecules that evaporate quickly. Middle notes emerge just as the top notes dissipate and are known as the heart or main body of the perfume. Finally, the base notes
materialize as the middle notes disappear, bringing depth to the perfume. These are the deep, rich compounds that take up to thirty minutes to emerge. Then we have the whole symphony, non?’
Eliza nodded vigorously, hoping they could now move on to actually making some perfume. However, Monsieur Farrant was reaching over to pick up the bottle of rose scent she’d made with Fay. He placed it alongside the one he had used earlier and undid the lid.
‘First smell this,’ he said, dipping a pointed stick of paper into her bottle and waving it under her left nostril. ‘Now we do the same with the other scent.’ He dipped another stick in the other bottle and flamboyantly waved it under her other one. ‘What do they smell like?’
‘Very similar,’ she answered.
‘Now try the sticks again,’ he said, repeating the process. ‘And what do you find?’
‘That one seems stronger?’ she said, pointing to the sample from his bottle.
‘Non, Mademoiselle, not stronger, deeper. Now why do we leave them for thirty minutes or so before smelling again?’
‘To let the base notes emerge,’ she said.
‘Bon. That is correct,’ he said, beaming with pleasure.
‘Well, I’m parched after all that smelling so shall I make us a brew while we’re waiting?’ she asked.
‘A brew?’ he asked, his smile vanishing. ‘What is this brew?’
‘A pot of tea,’ Eliza explained.
He shook his head in amazement, his shiny moustache quivering.
Just then a little bell on the wall jangled, interrupting the awkward silence. Monsieur Farrant jumped to his feet.
‘Ah, a client has arrived. Excusez-moi, my presence, it is required in the perfumery.’
‘I’ll come with you, shall I?’ Eliza asked, eagerly. He looked her up and down then held up his hands in horror.
‘When you are more suitably attired, Mademoiselle. My clients, they expect …’ He shrugged, put his nose in the air and strutted from the room, leaving the rest of the sentence hanging in the air.
‘I seem to have put my foot in it,’ she said, walking over to Amos. ‘Oh, are you all right?’ she asked, noticing his shoulders were shaking and that tears streamed down his cheeks.
‘Oh, Eliza, you’re so amusing,’ he answered, wiping his face with his kerchief. ‘You’ve really brightened my morning with your funny questions.’
‘I was only trying to be helpful.’
‘And I must admit a brew would go down a treat,’ he admitted.
‘Monsieur looked at me as though I was mad when I suggested it,’ she sighed.
‘I don’t think he’s ever heard that expression before. Besides, he only drinks Earl Grey.’
‘What’s that?’ she asked.
‘It’s flavoured with bergamot. I suppose you could call it perfumed tea,’ he laughed.
‘Yuk,’ she grimaced. ‘Well, I hope he’s going to show me how to make perfume when he comes back. I wasn’t expecting a morning full of that theory stuff.’
‘There is a lot to learn, Eliza. Making perfume is an art that requires you to know all about chemistry and composition. Then there’s formula and mixing, as well as the blending and bottling. For all his flamboyant ways, Monsieur Farrant is the best in the business and we really are fortunate to have the opportunity to be trained by him.’
‘Yes, I realize that. It’s just that he’s so pompous.’
‘He is egotistical, I’ll grant you. When he returns and asks you which rose sample is the better one, you will know to say his,’ Amos said, giving her a broad wink. ‘Even if you think otherwise, it is always best to stay on the right side of him.’
‘Thanks, I’ll remember that. So what have you been doing then?’ she asked, staring at the array of little bottles and dropper things in front of him.
‘I’ve just finished blending these together, which is the satisfying part of the process. Now, though, I have to clear away,’ he said, grimacing.
‘Non, Eliza will do that,’ Monsieur Farrant said, coming back into the room. ‘I need you to assist in the perfumery, Amos, as I have to leave to attend an important client in the town.’
‘Yes, Monsieur.’
‘From now on, Eliza, it will be your job to clean all the equipment and worktops. Then you will polish the floor until you can see your face clearly in the tiles. When you have finished doing that, you may begin studying these notes I have prepared for you,’ he said, sliding a notepad towards her. ‘The quicker you learn the theory, the faster you make the perfume, oui?’
Before she could answer, he’d gone. Amos grinned apologetically then took off his tabard. As he shrugged into the jacket that matched his trousers, Eliza giggled.
‘I know, I look like a golden eagle,’ he grinned, puffing out his chest. She stared at his lean frame.
‘You’re joking. I’ve seen more meat on a sparrow.’
‘At least spare my pride and make it a sparrowhawk,’ he begged, placing a hand to his chest as if wounded.
‘Wrong colour, Amos,’ she chuckled.
‘Well, I’d better not keep Monsieur waiting. I shall be in the perfumery for the rest of the day so I’ll see you tomorrow.’ And with a last cheeky wink, he hurried out of the door.
Eliza shook her head. Everyone seemed to move so quickly here. She stared around the room and saw the sample sticks on the work counter. Picking them up, she carefully inhaled each one. Monsieur Farrant’s was undoubtedly stronger and more complex and she could detect a hint of something else as well as the rose. Hers was softer and more natural, somehow, reminding her of Fay’s garden on the moors. She must remember to ask Monsieur what his was, she thought, placing them in her pocket. Then she put the bottles back on the shelves and began the task of clearing away and cleaning up.
Determined to do a good job, she scrubbed and polished the tiles on the floor until she could see her reflection. Satisfied, she snatched up the notes and hurried back to her room. She was just making her way out of the main house when she saw Mrs Symms coming towards her. Giving her a bright smile, Eliza was puzzled when the woman averted her gaze and barely nodded. As she hurried past, Eliza caught a whiff of violet and couldn’t help wondering why the smell seemed familiar.
There was a convivial atmosphere in the dining room that evening. All the staff were seated around the long table and as soon as Cook had placed a huge tureen in the middle, with the order to help themselves, everyone tucked in. The woman then took her seat at the end of the table next to Eliza, who was sat opposite Dawkins with Mimi to her right. The butler was next to Dawkins with Mrs Symms at the far end as usual. Something about the way she was gobbling her food tugged at Eliza’s memory but she soon forgot about the woman as she tucked into the tasty chicken casserole.
‘This is delicious,’ she said to Cook, who beamed with pleasure.
‘Thanks, dearie. It’s a pleasure to be able to prepare a good English dish instead of that foreign stuff his lordship insists on these days. Why, I can’t even make faggots no more. It has to be a hazelette, if you please. It’s still pork, just with all manner of spices and herbs added,’ she sighed.
‘He says food has to have alco … alki … all go together,’ Mimi chirped.
‘If you don’t know the proper word, you’d be better off not saying anything at all,’ Bertram the butler sniffed.
‘At least I know what me hands is meant for,’ Mimi muttered. ‘You don’t want to get too close to him. He ain’t known as dirty Bertie for nothing,’ she muttered to Eliza.
‘It’s rude to whisper, child,’
Bertram chided.
‘And it’s rude to …’
‘Well, that were a most tasty drop of stew, Cook,’ Dawkins intervened quickly.
‘I believe the correct term for the meal we have just eaten is casserole,’ announced Bertram, but everyone ignored him.
‘Glad you enjoyed it,’ Cook said. ‘Pass down your dishes and I’ll bring in pudding. Seeing as we’re by ourselves tonight, I’ve made Devonshire cider cake to celebrate and there’s clotted cream too. None of that, er, yogurt stuff.’
Thank heavens, thought Eliza, feeling relaxed for the first time since she’d arrived.
They were enjoying a cup of tea at the end of their meal when a bell on the wall jangled. Sighing heavily, Bertram got to his feet and marched stiff-backed out of the room.
‘Glad he’s gone,’ Mimi muttered. ‘Gives me goose bumps, he does. He acts all prim and proper in front of his lordship when all the time he’s a dirty old man. Mind what I said and watch his hands.’
‘Perhaps it’s the way you wiggle that behind of yours when you walk past him,’ Mrs Symms said. Hearing the woman speak for the first time, Eliza looked up in surprise and found herself staring straight into velvet brown eyes.
‘It’s you, Madame Simmons,’ she gasped. ‘You pretended to be the chaperone my guardian paid for when really you’re Monsieur Farrant’s housekeeper.’
‘Don’t know about any payment, I’m sure,’ the woman sniffed. ‘I was told to sit in the carriage, keep me face covered and me mouth shut. Got a right telling off for pushing me hat back but, as I said to his lordship, how else could I have eaten me meal? That food was the only thing worth doing all that travelling for. And I had to catch up on me chores when we got back as well,’ she said in martyred tones. ‘Still, now you know who I am I’ll be able to talk at the table again. It’s been a right pain having to keep me mouth shut, I can tell you.’