The Perfumer's Secret by Fiona McIntosh

meant anyone might interrupt me; instead her disapproval confirmed that Felix had been right. This was a time to embrace the notion that I must behave as a highborn woman of the town, with certain protocols now forbidding me to act in the carefree, almost childish way I always had. This was surely what Aimery had been getting around to discussing earlier. I nodded. ‘I understand. I shall take Jeanne with me.’
    Madame Mouflard’s bearing changed. Her shoulders relaxed and her lips loosened. ‘Very good, Madame. I shall send Jeanne up to you now.’
    Upstairs, I changed hurriedly into similarly sombre clothes as our housekeeper’s. I was head to foot attired in simple charcoal and made my way to the chamber of our wedding night. There I found a different man in the bedroom where less than an hour earlier had been prepared for a night of lust. Guilt at shaking myself free from Aimery’s hook crowded low in my throat. I knew resounding in my mind were cheers of happiness that I’d escaped my great fear of his body pressed against mine, in mine. But at what cost? I could hardly blame myself for war but the fact I was inwardly celebrating at the perfect timing of mobilisation of French villages was sickening me. A nervous laugh warbled just above the guilt.
    ‘Pardon, Madame?’ the valet said, his moustache drawn thinly across his lip.
    I cleared my throat. ‘I was wondering if there was anything I could do to help? It’s Monsieur Blanc, isn’t it?’
    He clicked his heels and gave a brief nod. ‘Yes, Madame. I am Monsieur De Lasset’s valet. I have been in his employ now for ten years and three months.’
    I nodded, impressed.
    ‘It is best I pack his clothes.’
    ‘Of course,’ I murmured, understanding his need to freeze me out of not only the world of men but his territory.
    I walked around the bedpost to stand opposite, noting that the valet had swept all the rose petals of our wedding bed to the floor. I was treading on them, could smell their sweet perfume being released. There was something symbolic about us stomping over the rituals of marriage. Another press of guilt clogged my throat.
    I touched the shiny buttons on Aimery’s blue serge cape. It looked new, had seen no action, of course. I looked up at the squeak of leather being rolled up and noted the cumbersome belt and pochette that Monsieur Blanc was packing. He was frowning in concentration and I could tell from his demeanour that he willed me gone.
    ‘Monsieur Blanc, I wish to put something into my husband’s belongings.’ I deliberately didn’t phrase it as a question. He glanced at me and I saw the flash of irritation disguised quickly as he cleared his throat.
    ‘Of course, Madame.’
    I smiled to thank him. ‘Excellent. I shall be back shortly.’ I fled, picking my way back to my suite of rooms where presumably Madame Mouflard had already been earlier that week to unpack my trunks of garments and belongings. I walked from wardrobe to dressing table, trying to imagine what might be meaningful. There was a photo of me but it was taken with Felix. Hardly romantic and romantic was what I was reaching for, even if it didn’t apply to him; I needed Aimery to understand what it was that drove me. I looked for the romance in everything, whether it was the pretty picture of a laundry maid hanging out washing against the backdrop of flowered terraces or the rush of joy at smelling the year’s first harvest of violets. Violets. Yes. My wedding perfume.
    I would send him with that. Not my grandmother’s vial. But Felix had made up some bottles of violette toilet water that I could scent my boudoir with, my linens, my personal belongings from pillowslips to handkerchiefs. It was a gently sweet smell . . . a favourite of childhood. I knew it didn’t summarise me and that wasn’t the intent, but it did prompt a romantic notion and perhaps that would be the companionship Aimery, new husband, denied his wedding night, might appreciate.
    I