The Secret Ways of Perfume (29 page)

“They always do this,” Sophie told her. “My dad loves flexing his muscles, but with Cail around there's not much he can do. I've never met such a stubborn man.”

Elena smiled, but she was still worried. What if she was the reason they were arguing?

Sophie seemed to read her mind and gave her a nudge of encouragement. “Dad's so contrary. You know he'll disagree with everything Cail says,” she went on, pouring a glass of wine that smelled of blackberries. “Then, as soon as my brother's back is turned, all he does is brag about his success, his theories. ‘Cail says this, Cail says that.' Do you know that in Paris, at the start of June, there's going to be a competition for new roses at the Parc de Bagatelle?”

Elena nodded.

“We're entering a special rose. Dad's really happy with the work Cail has done. He thinks Cail's rose will win—actually, he's sure it will. But he'll still argue with him about it, come up with other options that Cail just rejects. He's already decided what he's going to show. A new rose, a red rose.”

Elena knew; Cail had often talked to her about the competition. It was one of the most important dates of the season. They were going to go together, and she couldn't wait.

At that moment he caught her eye, smiled at her and raised his glass in her direction.

“Cail doesn't seem bothered by the argument,” she commented.

Sophie looked at her, puzzled. “Why would he be? He's having a whale of a time. Ever since he grew as tall as our dad, when he was about thirteen, fourteen, he's done nothing but hold his own. I used to enjoy watching them argue. You know, Elena, it couldn't have been any other way; our dad's such a strong character.”

Her grandmother was, too, but Elena, like her mother, had always tried to avoid confrontation. Susanna had even left to seek her own path, casting aside anything that could get in her way.

And Elena? Well, she, too, could be pretty stubborn when she wanted to be. Didn't she refuse to follow Lucia's teachings just to prove she had the right to choose? And hadn't she tried to marry a man she didn't love and who, thank God, had cheated on her and got caught? She sniggered. Where had that thought come from? Thank God that she'd caught him at it with Alessia. The betrayal had taken her by surprise, throwing everything into disarray. But in the end, life really was all about perspective. Now she was glad it had happened. It seemed almost absurd, but it was the truth. Matteo's infidelity had triggered a chain reaction that had brought her into Cail's arms and given her a new life, a new Elena.

For the first time in a long time, she could make sense of so many things: she had ambitions, a plan, goals. She looked over at Cail, who was still talking to his father. Sparring. It really was wonderful; she was a lucky woman.

She just had to wait until the baby was born to be absolutely certain.

•   •   •

“Are you sure
this is the castle?”

Elena was still looking at the majestic building that stood proudly on top of a low hill, between a village and a beautiful green valley. They'd set off early, leaving La Damascena at dawn. Cail called in to see a customer on the way, then they arrived at the village of Lourmarin.

“No, but there are a couple of things that made me think it might be.”

Elena carried on gazing at the castle, which still seemed too modern. “I don't know—look at the towers, and then down there. Doesn't it look . . . well, new?” she said, pointing at one wing of the building.

Cail stared at her. “New? Not if we assume it was seriously damaged during the French Revolution. This part might have been restored more recently.”

Yes, that was possible. Elena looked around, trying to find details that would bring her back to the diary, to what Beatrice had written. They were in the village now, the sun reflecting off the bright stone of the houses and medieval turrets, part of whose walls had been incorporated into the subsequent constructions. Tourists wandered around the narrow streets, where lush ivy climbed the walls. All in all, Lourmarin wasn't much different from the other hundreds of small Provençal villages. Solid structures of stone and seasoned wood, squares with shops selling local fabrics in red and turquoise, essences and perfumes bearing the label “natural,” bunches of dried lavender and other herbs. Then all the cafés and restaurants where people stopped to try local dishes. But there was also something special about
Lourmarin, something soothing. It was truly lovely, with a quiet beauty that came from its simplicity.

“Everything will be different nowadays,” Cail said.

“Yes, it's all very pretty, but I can't find anything that reminds me of the descriptions in the diary.”

He pointed to the castle and slowed down, so that Elena didn't wear herself out trying to keep up with him. The effort was starting to show on her face.

“I feel a bit tired,” he said, stretching. “How about we have a rest?”

“Rubbish!” Elena exclaimed. “Shut up and keep walking. I'll tell you when I'm too tired to carry on.”

Cail tutted, then brought the hand he was holding to his lips.

“Now why don't you tell me what convinced you that this might be the castle?” she continued.

“Remember that I told you I'd been here before? I've visited a lot of villages in Provence—my history teacher had a real passion for castles. And there are certain aspects of this castle in Lourmarin that seem very similar to what Beatrice described.”

“What do you mean, exactly?” Elena asked.

There was no need for him to reply, for as soon as the towers and keep appeared, she saw the gargoyle.

“I always thought she was talking about a lion, but I was wrong,” she whispered with her eyes fixed on the sculpture adorning the polygonal tower. “It's more like a wolf.”

“She doesn't say exactly what animal it was, but the diary mentions some sort of mane. And the wolf is the symbol of the Lords of Lourmarin.”

Elena kept staring thoughtfully at the sculpture, her head tilted back. “It does seem like a significant detail. But I don't think we can base our theory on it. After all, gargoyles were one of the most popular decorations of the time.”

“It was functional, too,” Cail added.

Elena looked at him, puzzled. “You know, I've never really understood that. They have them at Notre-Dame, too. But it doesn't seem as if they actually drain water. They seem more like stone guardians.”

They carried on looking at the sculpture for a few minutes but there was no real way of knowing whether it was a lion or the symbol of a wolf. Cail pointed out the entrance. “Come on, let's go inside.”

They went up the stairs, in through the main doors, and found themselves in an internal courtyard, with a pond covered in water lilies. At one end stood a statue of a woman who seemed to be resting. “I don't remember her,” Elena said, referring to the diary.

“Maybe she hadn't been sculpted yet. She might be from after Beatrice's time.”

He had a point. Who knew what had happened since then? Time distorts and hides so many things.

They kept on looking around, moving from the flower beds to the open-air market where men and women in medieval costume were showing typical local products to tourists. Once they were inside the castle, however, everything changed. The air was dense, humid. Centuries of footprints had worn away the steps of the magnificent spiral staircase.

There was no need for words. Elena and Cail exchanged a smile and set off on the visit. She did recognize that splendid staircase. She wondered whether it was the same one the castle's owner took when he visited Beatrice in her room, at the top of the tower.

They moved through one room after another, seeing magnificent furniture, extraordinary antiques—but everything dated from later than the early 1600s, when Beatrice would have been resident there.

“I think it's that time . . . you know, when you say you feel tired and I nod and tell you to have a rest,” Elena whispered.

They separated from the group of visitors and Cail took her into a
small drawing room. They sat down by the window, on a sort of stone bench carved into the thick wall. “It's not very comfortable, but you can see the whole valley,” Cail said. But Elena wasn't listening. She was staring into a corner of the room that was sectioned off by a pretty, decorated screen.

Cail carried on talking, reading out the history of the castle from a book they'd bought when they arrived. “‘Built in the fifteenth century by Foulques D'Agoult on the ruins of a previous fortress, the château had many owners; at the end of the sixteenth century it passed to the Créqui-Lesdiguières family . . .' There you go, I reckon that's the period we're most interested in. It could be him, Charles I of Blanchefort. Listen, it says here he married the daughter of Duke François de Bonne and inherited the duke's estate. But . . . damn! Everything in the castle was lost. They only saved a few pieces of furniture that were hidden in a cellar . . . Elena, are you listening to me?”

She pointed mutely at the screen. Cail noticed that her finger was trembling. “What's wrong?” he said.

Elena stood up, quickly followed by Cail, and went over to the screen. “Look,” she whispered. “It's like my grandmother's.”

She edged closer, scanning through the images. Cail walked around it, checking the wooden frame, then he focused on the scene it depicted.

A knight and a lady were dancing in a garden. On the next panel, he was leading her under an arch of roses. There were three clearly stylized white roses. On a third panel, the woman was leaning over a workbench, and in front of her was an alembic.

“It's a distiller—look!”

Cail came closer and nodded. After she'd stared at the image for a few minutes, Elena went around to the other side of the screen and kept following the production of the perfume—because that's what it was. Roses: three, white. Water and oil. Citrus: lemon and orange. Then gardenia—no, impossible—it must be iris.

Elena took a long look at the first panel, then she moved on. Now the woman in the painting was mixing the essences and pouring them into three vials. Elena hurried to the final panel. And it left her speechless.

“This is the formula, Cail. Do you see?” she said, grabbing him by the arm. “Beatrice set out the formula on this screen. Look, it's not a painting, it's a tapestry!”

Cail looked again at the images. “You're right.” He walked around it: front and back, then again from the beginning. “So, now you know what's in the mysterious perfume?”

Elena shook her head. “No, this is only part of the recipe. Beatrice formulated the perfume exactly as we do today: she didn't simply combine essences, she thought about it. Rose, citrus, iris . . . I've got no idea how many drops, maybe just three, maybe thirty. I'll have to try,” she said. “Then she added water—if that is, in fact, water—and waited three moons. Right?”

“Yes, there are three moons in that sky. What makes you say this is just part of it?”

Elena kept on gazing at the screen. “There should be other ingredients . . . and in Florence, there's a very similar screen in my grandmother's workshop. The structure is identical, but the design is different, although it's in the same style.”

“You think it's got something to do with this one?”

“I'm not sure . . . They were very common items of furniture in those days.” But she hoped so; she really hoped so. There was a good chance. Even if she hadn't determined the formula, maybe the tapestry in Florence would hold some clues. So, two screens: one in the castle where Beatrice had stayed, all those centuries ago, and one where she lived. Yes, there was such a thing as a coincidence, but Elena was convinced that there was a link between the two. Perhaps one was the key to the other?

“If the other piece of the formula really is in Florence, the Rossinis had it under their noses all these years. That's crazy, don't you think?” she mused.

“It depends what it shows. Without this one,” Cail said, pointing toward the screen, “how would you have known that it was part of a formula? Without both the tapestries, no one could have known.”

“It's a truly ridiculous way of recording a perfume composition.”

“Not that ridiculous, if you want to keep it hidden.” He pulled out the camera he'd used to immortalize the gargoyle and started to take photos.

•   •   •

They didn't leave
Lourmarin until the evening, spending the rest of the day looking for other signs of Beatrice's existence, but apart from the screen and the gargoyle with a wolf's head
,
they didn't find anything else significant.

Though perhaps it was a sign that there were so many surnames of Italian origin among the village population. Apparently, there had been mass immigration from Piedmont under the first Lord of Lourmarin, and the Italian settlement had then been boosted by a skilled workforce of silkworm-breeders. The migration encouraged by the first de' Medici queen, Catherine, continued until the second Italian Queen of France, Marie.

Cail and Elena had discovered that almost by chance as they read the guidebook. Then they'd asked in the restaurant where they had lunch, Le Moulin—with two Michelin stars, no less.

They arrived back at La Damascena exhausted. Cail had another meeting the following morning, then in the afternoon they were going back to Paris.

Elizabeth and Angus spent a lot of time with Elena. They were both dying to ask about the baby, but they held back. And she was glad they did, because she wouldn't have known what to tell them. Of
course, she could tell them the truth: that the baby was just hers. But there was too much at stake. She'd cleared up some of their issues, but not all. Cail was always at the forefront of her mind, but she still didn't feel ready to take things any further, and she knew that he wasn't ready either. The strange compromise they'd reached together was their business and no one else's. Sooner or later, things would move on. Or Elena hoped they would . . . with all her heart.