The Perfume Collector(110)

‘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.