A Family For Christmas (19 page)

‘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.

‘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.'

‘And there'll be pain aplenty if we
don't get to our rooms before Bertram locks the door.'

‘Why …?' Eliza began, but
everyone was too busy clearing the table to take any notice of her. Seeing someone had already
taken her dish away, she made her way to her room.

Eliza lay in bed, thoughts going round her head
faster than the wheels on a carriage. Had Monsieur really taken
money from Fay under false pretences? Perhaps she should ask him.
But then if she did, and Mrs Symms had got it wrong, he might send Eliza home. The housekeeper
might be in trouble for letting out his secret. And why did everyone have to be in their rooms
by eight o'clock? Stranger still, why was the door to the main house locked at night? This
was certainly a weird place.