Kathleen Tessaro - The Perfume Collector

‘ Yours ? Are you mad?’ Catherine looked at her incredulously. ‘In the first place, little girls don’t wear scent and in the second, I won’t have you running about smeared with beef fat!’

Grace reached out, took her mother’s hand. ‘But I want to smell like flowers. Don’t you?’

Catherine pulled her hand away. ‘Darling, that is not scent. That is a greasy mess! And no, I have no desire to reek like the floor of a cheap florist’s stall – it’s vulgar. Get rid of them, Lena.’ Catherine eyed them both fiercely. ‘And please, restrain yourselves. Teach her French, instead. She doesn’t know a word and at this rate, she never will.’ Catherine ran her hand across her eyes. ‘I have a searing headache today. Have you taken anything in yet to Mr Maudley?’

‘No, ma’am.’

‘Please, Lena,’ Lady Catherine pleaded, ‘I need your help. Just take him some tea. I have the shopping to do and a deadline to meet.’

She heaved a great sigh and picked up her list.

For luncheon they had cheese sandwiches. Eva had a way of making them, of putting them in the top oven so that the cheese melted, forming a gooey crust on top of the bread. Then she cut them into little strips and fanned them out on the plate around thin slices of apple.

Then it was Grace’s nap time. Eva took off her shoes and dress, pulled the curtain across. She sat on the edge of the bed, ran her fingers through the child’s hair.

Grace closed her eyes.

Her breathing slowed to a regular rhythm.

The window was open; soft fingers of wind gathered the gauzy net curtain up then released it, slowly. Outside, a hazy warm stillness settled over the afternoon. There was nowhere to go, nothing to do. Only time, unfolding gracefully from one moment to the next.

Eva pressed her lips to the top of Grace’s head, then went back downstairs to the kitchen and put the kettle on. Arranging a tea tray with milk and a slice of yellow cake, Eva carried it outside to the greenhouse.

She looked up at the sky. The air had suddenly gone still, the sky a flat shade of grey. Rain was coming.

Fry, the dog, wove between her legs, yapping excitedly. ‘What’s wrong?’ She rubbed his head. ‘Calm down! Do you want to play?’

She knocked on the door of the greenhouse.

There was no reply.

After a minute, she pushed the door open with her back. ‘Hello? Sir? Anyone here?’

It was so quiet.

Walking through to the office, she saw his back at the desk.

‘Just leave it, please,’ he said without turning round.

Eva left the tray on the corner of the laboratory table and left. Back in the kitchen, she began slicing vegetables for stew.

The dog was restless, barking at the window.

‘What can you see? A squirrel?’ Eva went over, looked out.

The gate at the bottom of the garden was ajar. The wind was rising; the gate banged against the latch again and again. It led out onto a field of high wild grass and then to some woods.

Eva thought she caught sight of something moving in among the trees, a fleeting shape. But it was gone now.

‘Rest easy boy, there’s nothing there.’

She went back to peeling carrots.

Just after three, she went upstairs to wake Grace.

Pushing open the door, she moved quietly to the side of the bed. ‘Darling? Mon ange ?’

Eva pushed back the mound of covers.

The bed was empty.

‘Grace? Grace! This isn’t funny!’ she called, looking under the beds, inside the laundry hamper, behind the settee.

Eva searched the house, the garden. She even went back through to the greenhouse. The door was unlocked. The tea had been poured, the cup on the desk still warm.

But no one was there.

The clouds darkened. The air was still.

The birds had stopped singing.

Fry was standing by the gate at the end of the garden, barking wildly. He turned to look at her, tail down, ears flat.

Eva followed him into the field and broke into a run.

The sky was a vast rolling sea of navy and black; the temperature had dropped and everything looked unreal, as if it were pasted on a flat grey background and lit from within.

Eva ran through the high grass, lurching and stumbling across the uneven ground. Only the distance seemed to expand rather than contract, as if she were wading through water. Finally, she reached the woods.

It was darker here; light gave way to flickering shadows. She forced her way through the undergrowth, the thick green leaves and low-reaching branches pulling at her hair, thorns scraping her legs, hidden roots pitching her forward. The dry forest floor crunched beneath her feet.

‘Grace!’ she shouted. ‘Grace!’

Her voice seemed to be swallowed up by the thick, heavy air like a vacuum. Every second she couldn’t see her little girl seemed like an hour; her heart pounded so loudly she thought her head would explode.

High above, the wind blew. A flock of ravens, huge and black, swooped down, screeching loudly, before cutting back up across the sky.

Then suddenly she spotted a fluttering bit of white in the distance – thin, filmy cotton.

She ran faster, staggering into a clearing; the clearing of paperwhites.

Grace was in her nightdress, crouched on the ground. She was holding something small, golden. Coming closer, Eva saw that it was a lighter, with a mother-of-pearl inlay. ‘Where have you been?’ She reached out to her. ‘I’ve been searching everywhere!’

Grace stared at Eva blankly, turning the object round and round in her little hands. Then she pointed to something, a few yards away. ‘I can’t wake him up.’

Jonathan Maudley was lying on his back in a ditch. Eyes wide open, motionless; staring unblinkingly at the dark rolling sky.

His lips were tinged a dark, almost navy-blue grey; from the sickly, sweet berries of the belladonna plant.

‘You asked to see me, sir?’ Eva stood in the doorway of the drawing room.

The man by the window turned. He was in his seventies, with very straight military bearing, a meticulously trimmed silver moustache and fierce blue eyes. His features were familiar, the stern template of both his children.

He took a few steps forward, indicating a spot on the settee. ‘Please sit down.’

Eva did as she was told, folding her hands on her lap.

It hadn’t taken long for Catherine’s father, Lord Royce, to take over after Jonathan Maudley’s death. He’d arrived the day afterwards from London, where he’d been convening with the House of Lords; making arrangements, overseeing his son-in-law’s funeral, dictating word for word the obituary that appeared in The Times ; the terrible accidental death of a war hero and promising scientist.

Catherine was naturally distraught. Unable to sleep or eat, she’d barely managed to say two words to Eva since her husband’s body was recovered. During the day, she slept. But Eva could hear her moving about at night, pacing, back and forth in her room, until dawn. The house was cloaked in silence; even the dog was sombre. But Eva had heard the hushed tones of urgent conversations behind closed doors; there were private phone calls and telegrams delivered at odd hours.

And now Lord Royce wished to speak to her.

Looking out the window, Eva watched Grace, playing outside in the front garden. She had two dolls her grandfather had brought her; expensive china dolls with real human hair. She was making beds for them in the leaves underneath the chestnut tree, burying them in dirt. Her face was so intent; so serious. Eva could tell from the way her mouth was moving that she was making up different voices for each of them.

Settling behind the writing desk, Lord Royce took a deep breath. ‘Let me begin by saying, how grateful my daughter is for everything you’ve done to help her through this terrible time. As you know, she is very distressed and unable to manage these affairs. However, she wished me to convey her gratitude.’