Michel tugged at her hand. “I’ll show you.” He led her across the long shed to a table where a row of stoneware crocks brimming with the thick mixture had been set. “This is the pomade. Smell.”
Catherine bent her head and breathed deeply. Bois de roses, alive again, fragrant with the same scent they had borne in the fields.
“You see?”
He seemed so full of anxiety that Catherine quickly nodded and smiled. “I see.”
He looked relieved. “Now, you can sit over there and watch me work. You don’t want to do this, do you?”
She shook her head as she sat down on a low stool by the window. She could accept the need for the maceration but she had no desire to change those fresh, lovely blossoms into bleached, wilted corpses.
All the windows were thrown wide, but it was still suffocatingly hot in the long work shed. Four separate caldrons steamed over wood fires in the room. Beside every caldron lay a huge pile of blossoms, and each pot was attended by a man or a woman with a wooden spatula.
“What is that soupy mixture?” she asked Michel as he shoveled more blossoms into the caldron.
“Melted beef tallow and pork lard. Monsieur Philippe buys only the finest quality fat.”
In spite of her initial repulsion, she found she soon became fascinated by the process. This work, too, had its own rhythm, and the more blossoms poured into the creamy oil, the more fragrant the oil became. When the soupy oil became too thick, it was strained swiftly through a sieve, freeing it of the blossoms that had already yielded their perfume and making room for the fresh blossoms. The refuse was then steeped in boiling water and put through a screw press to wring out the last drops and then a new flood of blossoms fluttered down into the greasy soup in the caldron.
“How long does this go on?”
“Days sometimes. Until the oil can absorb no more scent.” Michel poured more rose blossoms into the caldron. “Then it’s strained one more time and goes into the stoneware crocks. They’re sealed and put down in the cellar.”
“Is the pomade what Monsieur Augustine works with to make his perfume?”
He shook his head. “No, that’s an essence absolue.”
“What’s the difference?”
“I’ll show you later.” His brow furrowed with concentration as he looked down into the fat in the caldron. “It has to go through the sieve again.”
Michel was always showing her something, she thought with tender amusement. The way to the sea, how to pluck the blossoms, the rhythm of the pickers in the fields. He never spoke when he could demonstrate. He never told her anything she could learn by herself.
But in future this maceration was one part of the duties of governing Vasaro she would gladly leave to Philippe.
“I’m worried about Juliette, Philippe.” Catherine lifted her goblet of wine to her lips. “Haven’t you heard anything from Paris?”
“I sent word to Jean Marc when we first arrived, but I haven’t received a reply. You shouldn’t be anxious about Juliette. You know Jean Marc will keep her safe.”
But Catherine had thought the Abbaye de la Reine was impregnable from harm too. She shivered and set the crystal goblet down on the table. “We should never have left her in Paris. I should have made her come with us.”
Philippe chuckled. “Force Juliette?”
“She’s not entirely immovable.” Catherine wrinkled her nose. “One must be very stubborn and keep at her. I don’t know why I didn’t go after her when she jumped out of the carriage.”
“You weren’t well yourself.”
Catherine looked down into the depths of her wine. It was difficult to realize she was the same hurt, shattered woman who had left Paris almost a month earlier. She was not that woman now, nor was she the uncertain girl who had been ravished at the abbey. Vasaro had changed her into someone else entirely. “Yes, I remember.” She looked up with a smile. “But now I’m quite well and we must think of Juliette. Will you write to Jean Marc and tell him he must send Juliette to us at once?”
“And what if she refuses to come?”
“Then I’ll have to return to Paris to fetch her,” Catherine said quietly. “Juliette’s in danger in Paris. I won’t have that, Philippe.”
He smiled and raised his glass in a silent toast. “I’ll write to Jean Marc tomorrow. I refuse to do without your presence at Vasaro now that I’ve become accustomed to it.”
A familiar warmth fluttered within her as he smiled at her across the table. His blue eyes shimmered in the candlelight, reflecting all that sung of sweetness, gaiety, and beauty. She had become accustomed to him, too, her worship gradually deepening into something more comfortable, yet that tremulous uncertainty remained whenever he smiled at her.
She swiftly lowered her gaze to veil her eyes but her hand shook as she once more lifted the goblet to her lips. “I’ve been thinking about asking the priest to come to Vasaro one day a week and teach some of the pickers’ children their letters.”
“He won’t come. He says teaching the peasants makes them discontent with their lot,” Philippe said. “And I agree, Catherine. What use will they have for it?”
“There’s always use for knowledge.”
He shook his head. “It’s a mistake.”
“Then it’s one I intend to make.” Catherine saw him frown and went on quickly. “I do value your opinion, Philippe. I’m sorry if I distressed you.”
Philippe’s expression softened. “The priest will refuse to come. You’ll have to find someone else to teach them.”
“It doesn’t have to be right away. We’ll find someone.”
“As long as you don’t give the task to me.” Philippe grimaced. “I have no head for learning, much less for teaching.”
All was well between them again, Catherine thought, relieved. “One cannot do everything perfectly. You manage Vasaro superbly.”
“Because I love it here.” His gaze met hers. “As you do, Catherine. I never knew how much I missed sharing how I felt about Vasaro until you came.”
She nodded, glowing with warmth. Vasaro and Philippe. She was learning new and wonderful things about both of them every day.
“Essence absolue.” Michel smiled triumphantly at Catherine across Monsieur Augustine’s small laboratory.
At Monsieur Augustine’s request Michel had fetched a jar of jasmine pomade from the cellar, warmed it in a covered dish, diluted it with recycled spirits, and stirred and washed the pomade. Then he had returned it to the cellar to cool, and when the alcohol separated from the oil of the pomade, he drained it into a tiny bottle. “Smell.” He thrust the bottle under her nose. “Perfume!”
The fragrance was pungent, acrid, no longer sweet. “That’s not perfume.”
“It’s the essence. Like Vasaro is the essence.” He filtered the perfumed alcohol through a gauze, then distilled it in a copper alembic over a slow flame. What remained was an even tinier quantity of light-colored liquid whose odor was even more incredibly strong and unpleasant.
“Terrible,” Catherine said, making a face.
“Ah, but wait.” Michel carefully poured a single drop into a crock containing a quart of alcohol and gently stirred it.
“Jasmine!” Suddenly the entire room was swimming with the scent of jasmine. Not just one flower, but an entire field of jasmine.
“You see, it’s a circle. The scent of the earth, the blossoms, the scent of the blossoms, the essence, the scent again.”
“With Vasaro as the essence absolue.”
Michel nodded. “And you don’t feel so sad about the maceration now that you know the scent is born again? The hurt only made it stronger than ever.” His worried gaze was on her face. “You understand, Catherine?”
She smiled. “I understand, Michel. Stronger than ever.” She affectionately watched him as he sealed the tiny vial and carried it carefully over to Monsieur Augustine’s long table to set it beside the other similar vials in readiness for the master perfumer.
The sea wa
s deep blue today and the mountains looked so close Catherine felt she could reach out and scoop up a handful of the snow crowning them. She leaned back against a huge rock on the cliff and sighed with contentment. Beauty like this was also essence absolue, spreading in magical circles to touch everyone who gazed at it.
“Why did you stop going to the priest for lessons, Michel?”
He shrugged. “I didn’t like him.”
“Learning is good. You should have kept going to him anyway as long as Monsieur Philippe was willing to pay.”
“He kept saying I was a child of sin and my mother was a whore.”
Catherine felt a surge of anger. “You didn’t believe him?”
“No, I knew my mother was a flower picker and I have no more sin than anyone else. But it made me unhappy.”
She said impulsively, “Will you let me teach you? I’m not as wise as a priest but—”
“You’re much wiser, because you understand the flowers.” Michel thought for a moment before an eager smile lit his face. “It would help me to know how to write. Then I could put down the mixes for the perfumes and not have to rely on Monsieur Augustine. He’s a kind man but he thinks only of his own perfumes.”
“Tomorrow night come to the manor and we’ll begin.”
A flush of pleasure tinted Michel’s tanned cheeks. “You’re sure Monsieur Philippe will let you?”
“Why should he mind? He told me himself your nose would someday be valuable to Vasaro.”
He glanced away from her and said in a low voice, “He doesn’t like you to spend time with me, you know.”
“Nonsense.”
He shook his head. “He doesn’t like—” He was silent a moment and then continued. “I think he finds me … unpleasant.”
She stared at him in astonishment. “You’re mistaken.” Yet she had a sudden memory of Philippe’s expression of uneasiness that first morning he’d been discussing Michel. “Perhaps he needs to get to know you. Come to the house at six tomorrow evening.”
A radiant smile banished Michel’s frown. “Will you teach me to read the books on perfume in Monsieur Augustine’s cabinet?”
“Of course, and any I can find at the manor. I’m sure your interest will help—” She broke off as her gaze fell on the small thatched cottage under the lime trees. “Look, that’s Philippe’s horse!” The chestnut was tied to the tree beside the door of the cottage Michel had called the Maisonette des Fleurs. “He must be inside. Let’s go see him.” She started running down the steep hill toward the cottage. “Come along, Michel, we’ll just wish him a good day.”
“No!” Michel’s voice was sharp, but she paid no attention. Michel was always worried about offending Philippe, but even if he was busy he wouldn’t mind them stopping by for a moment.
“Catherine, no! He won’t like it!”
She knocked and then threw open the door. “Philippe, why didn’t you tell me you were—”
She stopped in shock.
Naked. Philippe was crouching naked on a flower-strewn pallet, his hips moving in a sickeningly familiar manner.
She heard Philippe mutter a curse as he looked up and saw her.
The young woman beneath him cried out, her hips surging upward. Lenore. The woman’s name was Lenore. Catherine had often seen her picking in the fields and thought what pretty brown hair she had. Now Philippe’s hands were wound in Lenore’s hair, his legs around her naked body.
“Philippe,” Catherine whispered.
The tomb!
The thrust of hips. Pain. Shame.
“No!” She turned and bolted from the room.
“Catherine, come back!” Philippe shouted.
She scarcely saw Michel as she ran past him and up the hill. The tears were running unheeded down her cheeks. Philippe. The tomb. No faces.
Not here. Not at Vasaro.
She heard Michel calling her name, but she didn’t stop. Sobs shuddered through her and she could no longer see where she was going.
The tomb!
She was falling.
Pain sliced through her temple!
Michel was screaming.
Or was she the one who was screaming?
Warm liquid trickled down her thighs.
Blood.
Blackness.
SIXTEEN
Green eyes, glittering fiercely.
Catherine knew those eyes, she knew that fierceness, knew the arms holding her.
She stirred and a fiery pain jolted through her head.
“Lie still,” François said, looking down at her.
“You’re angry with me again.”
“Not with you,” he said thickly. “Not this time. Try to rest. Jean Marc’s ridden to Grasse for a physician.”
“Jean Marc …” But Jean Marc was in Paris, wasn’t he? He was in Paris protecting Juliette. He mustn’t leave Juliette.
“No, François, he mustn’t—”
The thought slipped away from her as blackness returned.
Catherine’s lids slowly rose to see sparkling brown eyes, blessedly familiar.
“Juliette?” she whispered.
“Of course.” Juliette smiled down at Catherine as she dipped a cloth in a basin resting on the table beside the bed and gently bathed Catherine’s temple with cool water. “It’s about time you woke up. It’s been two days and we were beginning to worry.”
“You’re here.” Catherine reached out to clasp Juliette’s hand. She frowned in puzzlement as she looked up at her. “Something’s different. Your hair … have you had the fever?”
“No, it just got in my way so I cut it off. You’re the one who has been ill.”
“Have I? I’m so glad you’re here. It’s beautiful here. You can paint the sea.…”
“Presently. First, I have to get you well.”
“That’s right, you said I’d been ill.” Catherine was suddenly aware of an excruciating soreness in the small of her back and shoulders and memory flooded back to her. “I was bleeding.…”
Juliette’s lips tightened. “You slipped on the stones and rolled down the hill.” She paused. “You lost the child.”
Catherine froze. “Child?”
“You hadn’t realized yet?” Juliette paused. “You were with child, Catherine.”
Catherine closed her eyes as shock rolled over her. The tomb. A child from that tomb tearing itself from her body as those men had torn into it. “I … suppose I should have guessed. I didn’t think about it,” she whispered. “Or perhaps I didn’t want to acknowledge it could happen to me.” Her eyes opened. “You knew, Juliette? That’s why you made me marry François?”
Juliette nodded.
“You all knew. I should have been told.”
“You were ill. We did what we thought was best for you.”
“It was my body, my life. I should have had a choice.” She paused. “Philippe knew too …”
Juliette muttered an oath. “I wanted to kill Philippe when we saw you on that wagon.”
“Wagon?”
“Philippe was afraid to move you on his horse so he came back to the manor and got a wagon to carry you back to the house. Jean Marc, François, and I had arrived only moments before he drove the wagon up to the front door of the house.”
Green eyes glittering with anger staring down at her.
“I remember François.”
“He carried you upstairs while Jean Marc and Philippe rode for the doctor.”
“But why is François here?”
“It’s a long tale.” Juliette grimaced. “And one with which Jean Marc isn’t at all pleased. We’ll discuss it later.”
“Very well.” Anything that displeased Jean Marc was too much for Catherine to cope with at the moment. Her strength seemed to be ebbing away with each word. “Where’s Jean Marc now?”
“He and François went to Cannes to see if Jean Marc’s ship had arrived from Marseilles. He sent a message to his shipping agent before we left Paris telling him to send …” Juliette tra
iled off and shook her head. “You’re falling asleep again. The doctor said you might want to sleep a great deal in the next few days. I’ll go and let you rest.” She hesitated. “Philippe wants to see you, Catherine.
Catherine stiffened. “Not now.”
Juliette nodded with satisfaction. “Good, the rutting idiot doesn’t deserve to see you anyway.”
“You know?”
“Oh, yes, Philippe was blubbering like a child when he brought you back to the house. He may be a womanizing peacock, but he’s an honest one.” Juliette squeezed her hand. “But there’s a child you’d best see as soon as you wake. He’s been curled up outside in the hall and Philippe seems upset about tripping over him all the time.”
“Michel.” A surge of warmth chased out a bit of the cold from within Catherine. “Yes, I do want to see Michel.”
Her eyes fluttered closed and she fell deeply asleep again.
She slept unstirring until the pearl-gray hour before dawn, but as soon as she woke she was aware that someone was in the room. She tensed, her gaze searching the darkness. “Juliette?”
“Me.” Michel was sitting cross-legged on the Aubusson carpet in the middle of the room. “She let me come in to wait when I told her I wouldn’t go away.” He stared at her accusingly. “You frightened me. I thought you were dying.”
“I’m sorry. I have no intention of dying.” She smiled. “I’m very glad to see you, but you should be sleeping now.”
He crept closer to the bed, folded his arms on the counterpane, and laid his chin on top of them. “I shouldn’t have taken you there. I just wanted you to see the sea when it was beautiful.”
“And it was beautiful.” Her hand reached out to stroke his black curls. “It wasn’t your fault I had the accident. I saw something that—” She paused. “That upset me.”
“Monsieur Philippe and Lenore fornicating.”
Catherine’s gaze flew to his face. “You knew they’d be doing …” She shivered with distaste. “That?”