by Linda Finlay
‘They look lovely. Do come in,’ she said to them both, opening the door wide.
As she eased off her scuffed ones, Mimi perched on the bed, lovingly fingering the different materials on the skirt.
‘Oh, you look so smart,’ she exclaimed, as Eliza walked across the room in her new footwear. ‘And you’re hardly limping either,’ she said. Then, worried she’d spoken out of turn her hand flew to her mouth.
‘I must agree, they make walking much easier,’ Eliza said.
‘Well, them old things were much too small and you was literally on your uppers, so you should find these are better,’ Mr Leatherjacket pointed out. He bent down and felt along Eliza’s feet, pressing down on the toes, before straightening and giving a grunt of satisfaction.
‘Are they comfortable, miss?’ he asked.
‘Indeed they are,’ she assured him. ‘Thank you so much, Mr Leatherjacket.’
‘My pleasure, I’m sure,’ he said, pulling his old cap out of his pocket and heading for the door. Mimi hurried after him, clutching the skirt as if her life depended upon it.
Eliza took a last look in the mirror before returning to her meal and the notes Monsieur Farrant have given her. Never before had she worn such fine clothes and she hoped he would approve of her attire. She would write to Fay and thank her. It would be nice to tell her what she had learned so far, except that didn’t seem to be much. She didn’t want to upset the woman so perhaps she’d wait until she actually had something to tell her. Eliza couldn’t help wondering if she’d have learned more if she’d stayed with Fay. But that hadn’t been an option, had it?
As she glanced down at her new clothes, excitement bubbled up inside her. She couldn’t wait for breakfast time when she’d be able to show her friends in the dining room her new things.
22
Eliza felt as if she was walking on air as she made her way to breakfast the next morning. However, her appearance was met with stunned silence.
‘I think you’ll find this is the staff dining room, my lady,’ Bertram sniffed.
Eliza giggled, thinking he was joking. As she took her usual seat, the housekeeper stared at her and frowned.
‘My, aren’t we all dressed up like a dog’s dinner?’ she commented, looking so surly Eliza felt obliged to respond.
‘I was not aware dogs wore their dinners, Mrs Symms. Still, at least I don’t feel the need to hide behind a big hat.’ The housekeeper sniffed and turned her attention back to her food.
‘Well, you looks right dandy to me,’ Dawkins said, winking at Eliza across the table. ‘Now let’s finish our meal before Monsieur comes in and finds us gossiping.’
‘In that case, we’ve got all morning,’ Mrs Symms muttered, eyeing Eliza’s outfit with what could only have been a covetous look.
Eliza helped herself to stewed fruit and bread and butter, and while she ignored the sour yogurt stuff, she couldn’t help comparing it to the housekeeper’s demeanour. The atmosphere round the table was frosty and Eliza ate as quickly as she could. Then, excusing herself, she hurried out of the room.
Making her way to the laboratory, as Monsieur Farrant had told her to call it, she couldn’t help wondering why her new clothes should have caused that much of a stir. As she opened the door, Amos looked up and whistled.
‘Well, that’s a sight for sore eyes. You look absolutely stunning, Eliza.’
‘Thank you, Amos,’ she said, her confidence restored. Then she noticed he was wiping the floor and her hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh, no, in all the excitement of being fitted for my new things I forgot to come back and do the cleaning. I’m really sorry.’
‘Don’t worry. Grab that cloth and wipe the counter tops while I finish this. I’ve used a dry one, in case Monsieur arrives. Luckily, it’s brought up the shine, for you know what a stickler he is for appearances.’
‘It’s kind of you to do this, Amos. I would have been in real trouble if Monsieur had seen the place dirty. You’ll have to let me know what I can do to repay you.’
‘With you looking like that, my working days will be much brighter,’ he said, eyeing her appreciatively. For a moment their gaze held and something sparked between them. Then he turned his attention back to the floor, muttering, ‘Better get this cleared up.’
Eliza noticed the red flush creeping up his cheek and she began polishing the worktops furiously.
Soon the room was spotless and Amos, having recovered his composure, put the cleaning cloths away, then perched on his stool.
‘So have you been studying the notes ready for Monsieur’s exam?’ he asked.
Eliza stared at him in dismay. ‘You mean he’ll expect me to know the answers already?’
‘Most of them. He’s quite a stickler. Want me to test you?’
Eliza gulped. ‘I suppose so, but I’ve only had the notes a couple of days.’
‘That won’t worry him,’ he said, raising his eyebrows in the way Monsieur did. ‘Now, he usually begins with chemistry, so do you know where does the word come from?’
‘It’s from the Greek word chemia, meaning plant juice,’ she answered.
‘Good. And where is the best place to harvest the plants for making perfume?’
She closed her eyes, trying to remember what was on the notes. ‘Where they grow best,’ she said.
‘Correct. What used to be our prime sense?’
‘Smell, until the time we got colour vision.’
‘There, not so difficult, is it?’ he asked, grinning. ‘Now I’d better get on with this blending before Monsieur arrives. Want to watch?’
‘Yes, please. What are you doing exactly?’ she asked as he took a pipette and began counting out drops from the array of bottles in front of him.
‘Making up a perfume for one of his clients,’ Amos said, furrowing his brow in concentration. As he began stirring the concoction in the glass beaker before him, she bent over and inhaled deeply.
‘That smells pungent,’ she cried, wrinkling her nose. ‘Almost sort of animally, if that makes sense.’
‘Très bon, Eliza, you are quite right. Amongst the ingredients in here, we have the musk, but where does it come from, eh?’ he asked, waving his hands around theatrically like Monsieur Farrant did when he was in full flow. She giggled. ‘You don’t know, hmm? Well, I will tell you, Mademoiselle, it is from the civet.’
‘You are only partly right, Amos. What you are using comes from the male musk deer,’ Monsieur Farrant announced, having crept into the room without them hearing. ‘Before you presume to elevate your status to that of tutor, Amos, kindly make sure your facts are right. Now, if you have time for the chatting then I assume you have finished making up the perfume for my client’s mistr— er, lady,’ he asked, green eyes glittering.
‘Bonjour, Monsieur,’ Eliza greeted him, jumping to her feet and smiling sweetly. ‘I’m afraid I’m to blame for keeping Amos from his work. Being anxious to please, I asked him to test me on my notes.’
‘Ah, bon,’ he said, his eyes sweeping over her. ‘Mademoiselle, may I say how delightful it is to see you suitably attired. It is a great improvement, non? The length of the skirt, it hides a multitude of sins, yes? You also have the jacket to match?’
‘Mrs Buttons has nearly finished it,’ she answered, crossing her fingers and hoping it was true. The last thing she wanted was to get the helpful woman into trouble.
‘Once it is made, then you may assist me in the perfumery. So Amos has been testing you, has he? Well, Mademoiselle, you will probably find my way more difficult, for I like to st
art at the beginning with chemistry. Tell me, where does the word come from?’ he asked, arching his eyebrow.
‘From the Greek word chemia, meaning plant juice,’ she repeated.
‘Bon, I am teaching you well, oui?’
Eliza could see Amos grinning behind his back and tried to keep her face deadpan as she answered. ‘Indeed, Monsieur, you are the finest teacher.’
He nodded and preened his moustache with a manicured hand.
‘That is true. Now to business. We are heading towards Christmas, which is one of our busiest times of the year. From now on it is all hands to the perfume bottles,’ he said, grinning at his perceived joke. ‘Until you have your jacket, you must remain working in here, Mademoiselle. Now, this is your writing, non?’ he asked, holding up her bottle of rose perfume and pointing to the label.
‘Yes, I wrote out all the labels for Fay’s …’ she began, but he cut her off.
‘Yes, yes. Now, the man who usually pens for me has gone and died, which is most inconvenient,’ he said, throwing up his hands as though the unfortunate being had done it on purpose. ‘As you have elegant script, I wish for you to write out the ones for my festive fragrances,’ he said, placing a pile of labels, ink and a quill in front of her.
She stared at them in dismay. When was she going to start making perfume?
‘Here are the names for you to copy. Underneath each title you write “Fine Fragrance by Monsieur Farrant”.’ Eliza gulped, wondering how on earth she would manage to get all that written in such a small space, but already he had turned his attention to Amos. ‘You will have to work in the perfumery with me today.’
‘Of course, Monsieur,’ he answered, starting to take off his tabard though by the time he had shrugged on his jacket, the man had disappeared.
Seeing Eliza grimacing at the labels, Amos placed a hand sympathetically on her shoulder. ‘You practise on some scrap paper first, eh, Mademoiselle?’ he suggested, waving his hands in the air.
She laughed at his imitation and immediately the task seemed less daunting.
‘Good idea,’ she agreed, picking up the quill. It was long and white, reminding her of the goose feather Fay had given her to clean the hobble. How she missed the woman, and Duncan too, although she was still cross with him. Sighing, she dipped the plume into the ink and began practising the names Monsieur had written out for her.
Gold Etoile, Frankinscent and Myrrh Maid. Oh, please! When she had her own perfumery she would certainly think up more imaginative names than that. She shook her head, wondering where that ambition had sprung from. Forcing herself to concentrate, she mastered the words and painstakingly set about her task.
A fortnight later and her matching jacket was ready. Proudly, Eliza made her way towards the laboratory. Mindful of the way the staff had treated her the morning she’d appeared in her new dress, she decided to give the dining room a miss for that day. Although they’d resumed their friendly manner, she wasn’t taking any chances. Besides, Amos had taken to sharing his noon piece with her and she enjoyed the easy friendship that had developed between them. He was happy to teach her what he knew and in Monsieur Farrant’s frequent absences, she’d learned a lot from him.
‘Excuse me, your highness, you surely have strayed into the wrong place, for this is the workhouse, you know,’ Amos joked when she appeared beside him. She thumped him playfully on the arm, then sighed when she saw the stack of labels still waiting to be written.
‘I swear blind Monsieur adds more to that pile each evening.’
‘Well, it’s your fault for having such elegant script. One of his clients was admiring it the other day and Monsieur told him he prided himself on training us in calligraphy as well.’
‘Calli what?’ she asked. ‘I tell you, Amos, I’ve never heard so many fancy words in my life. What magic potion are you brewing today?’ She pointed to the bottles in front of him, which were of far more interest.
‘This is a blend of patchouli, bergamot and rose,’ he explained.
She leaned forward and inhaled deeply. ‘It’s quite nice but too overpowering for me,’ she said, winkling her nose.
‘So what perfume does my lady desire? What are your favourite smells?’ he asked, watching her keenly.
‘I’d like to smell light and fresh, like the heather on the moors, the moss in the woods, the sweat peas in Fay’s garden,’ she enthused, hugging her arms around her.
‘A blend like that could work,’ he agreed, jotting down a few notes.
‘Bonjour, mes enfants. With all the tasks I have set you, I am surprised you have time to think, let alone chat,’ announced Monsieur Farrant, his green eyes glittering with something Eliza hadn’t seen before. It was gone in a flash and he was all smiles again. ‘I see Mrs Buttons has at last finished your jacket, Mademoiselle, so today you may work alongside me in the perfumery.’
‘If you really think I will be of help, Monsieur,’ she cried, her heart skipping a beat.
‘Indeed. All the scent bottles need dusting and the shelves restocking from the storeroom, ready for our Christmas rush,’ he said, rubbing his hands together. ‘Amos, when you have finished what you are doing, here is another receipt for you to make up. I need it for this evening, so none of your dallying and dillying,’ he said, reminding Eliza of the song her mother used to sing about lavender.
‘Of course, Monsieur Farrant,’ he answered seriously, giving Eliza an outrageous wink behind the man’s back.
Stifling a giggle, she followed Monsieur from the laboratory and down a passageway until they came to the hallway beside the front door. She stared in wonder at the crystal chandelier twinkling above the grand staircase that led to the upper floor.
‘They’re your quarters up there, aren’t they?’ she asked.
Immediately, his back stiffened and, as he turned to face her, she saw he was glowering.
‘The rooms upstairs are private. You are never, ever to go up there, understand?’ he snapped, for a moment forgetting his French accent.
‘Of course, Monsieur,’ she said, smiling sweetly at him.
‘Now we find the perfumery,’ he said, tugging down his jacket and leading the way along another passage. This one was thickly carpeted and although the walls were hung with yet more pictures of perfume bottles and amphorae, these were more elaborately adorned than the ones she’d seen before. Then they came to a painted wall and she gasped.
‘It is magnifique, n’est-ce pas?’ Monsieur asked, stopping to admire the nubile maiden being anointed with oil by the handsome youth. At least she assumed it was the maiden’s glistening body he was admiring. From the way he was staring, she couldn’t be sure.
Taking a key from his pocket with a flourish, Monsieur Farrant unlocked the door. At once Eliza’s senses were assailed by the intoxicating scent of roses.
‘It is wonderfully aromatic, yes?’ Monsieur beamed. ‘The fragrance of the Bulgarian rose is second to none. Now your rose from the moors pales into insignificance, yes?’
‘Actually, I like the freshness that rose invokes, Monsieur. It is like … oh, I don’t know, the smell of innocence,’ she said, remembering the look of wonder on her young brothers’ faces when she’d taken them out to smell the wild flowers. To her chagrin, he roared with laughter.
‘Oh, Mademoiselle, you have much to learn. Do you really think the rich men who grace my establishment wish to pay for the smell of innocence? Non, they want the exotic, the exciting aroma of experience. Now, you will begin your duties by polishing those scent bottles until you see your face in the amber
crystals, oui?’
Hurt by his dismissive attitude, she snatched up a cloth and walked over to the glass cabinet where all the bottles were displayed. To her eye, they already gleamed like gold, but not wishing to be taken for a fool again she duly began to polish them. They were quite exquisite, all in differing shapes and sizes. As her fingers traced their elegant lines, she found herself imagining them filled with different coloured perfumes.
‘Why are they all in this dark colour, Monsieur?’ she couldn’t help asking.
‘What colour would you suggest, hmm?’ he asked, looking up from the ledger he was studying.
‘Well, if the glass was clear, people would be able to see the exciting liquids inside,’ she said, her voice rising with enthusiasm.
Monsieur Farrant winced. ‘We do not speak loudly in here, Mademoiselle. The perfumery, it is a sanctuary, an oasis of calm with fragrance carried on the air.’
The bouquet in the room was indeed wonderful but as he stood there waving his arms around, Eliza sincerely hoped his own peculiar scent wouldn’t be wafted her way.
‘And as for clear bottles? Non, non, non,’ he continued, wagging his finger at her. ‘We use the dark glass for a very good reason, Mademoiselle. It is so that the fragrance lasts. In the clear bottle it would evaporate, non?’
‘Oh,’ she said, feeling stupid. Vowing not to ask any more questions, she turned back to the bottles, imagining how her labels would look on them. Suddenly she had an idea.
‘Monsieur?’
‘Oui, Mademoiselle?’ he sighed, barely able to conceal his exasperation.
‘Wouldn’t the labels for the Christmas perfumes look more festive if the script was in colour rather than black?’
He gave a loud sigh. ‘Please do not concern yourself with such detail, Mademoiselle. It takes years of expertise to understand what the client wants. Perhaps you could concentrate on the job you are suited to, like the dusting, non?’ he snapped.