Chapter Seventeen #2
As Oliver’s initial relief gave way, a nutty scent, confusion, wove through the beginnings of something like gunpowder.
“Are you angry with me?” I asked as the coach set off. “I wanted to tell you that I was all right, there just wasn’t time
for it.”
“Never,” Oliver said, his hands squeezing mine. “I could never be angry with you.”
“Nominate the man for sainthood,” Foxcourt muttered, plucking another letter up from the pile.
“I was worried,” Oliver continued, ignoring him. “The prison governor apparently left his position, and the new one had no
record of you.”
I resisted the urge to glance over at Foxcourt. He’d claimed my record would be expunged only after the creation of the perfume.
And why in the world would the prison governor have left the prison?
“Well, my freedom came in advance of a pardon,” I said, “which I’ll receive once I’ve completed this perfume.”
“That’s wonderful.” Oliver’s smile tensed. “You weren’t in need of rescue after all.”
I shifted, my remorse as powerful as the scent of the benzoin oil escaping the case at his feet.
I owed him so very much for this—in coin and in goodwill.
Though not rare, the oil had traveled across the world to arrive on Albion’s shores, and the price per ounce reflected its journey from the Far East. I trusted only Oliver’s superior nose when it came to selecting batches of oils I couldn’t make myself.
“Thank you for gathering all of this,” I told him. “I’ll reimburse you, of course.”
“Is it for one of your, ah”—Oliver paused, cutting a quick glance at Foxcourt—“more unusual blends?”
“One of her magic perfumes, yes,” Foxcourt said impatiently. “How curious you should know about it.”
His piercing gaze flicked over to mine, triumphant, as if he’d proven something to the both of us. I gave him an even look
in return, the stabbing behind my eye now throbbing in time with my pulse. I gritted my teeth.
“The King has been generous with his pardon because the perfume is for an important client,” I told Oliver carefully.
Even if Foxcourt had allowed it, I wouldn’t have told him the truth. I couldn’t involve him any further in this.
“I see,” Oliver said carefully. “I didn’t recognize the combination of oils from any of the perfumes in your mother’s journal.
It’s something else, then?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so,” I said, then steered us onto safer ground, where I wouldn’t need to lie to him. “Were you able to find
levant rose absolute of good quality?”
“I thought you already had a bottle of rose oil,” Foxcourt said.
“Levant roses and centifolia roses are completely different,” I told him, irritated by the implication of his words, “and
this perfume calls for both. Each variety has a unique scent—you might discover this yourself if your nose wasn’t constantly
thrust into other people’s business.”
Oliver let out a shocked, strangled laugh, his eyes darting to mine nervously at the utter disrespect. I gritted my teeth
at Foxcourt’s sly smile; all I’d done was entertain him and shock the one gentle soul I’d ever want to be a true lady for.
Hell’s tits—I’d remember my manners once my head ceased to feel like a rotten melon on the verge of bursting open.
“The rose is the queen of all flowers,” Oliver offered awkwardly. “There are as many variations as there are women in the world, all beautiful and beguiling in their own way.” He returned his focus to me. “Is the levant rose in the heart notes of the perfume?”
The House of Rosebourne had developed and taught a new structure of perfume based on how quickly the layers of notes faded:
the top notes, the heart notes that were revealed once the initial impression had faded, and the base notes, which were often
heavier scents that carried longer on the skin and added depth to the perfume.
“Yes, it’s rather interesting,” I told him, grateful to finally have someone to talk to about this. “Looking at the notes,
it feels as though it’s trying to capture a sort of mythic accord—the fantasy of a golden, divine rose. The essence of Venia
herself.”
Oliver leaned in, his eyes widening. “I suppose that’s why you asked for jasmine and orange blossom. I was surprised there’d
be two such animalic notes, but it follows if the aim is to embody the dual aspect of the fairy goddess of love and healing.”
My smile turned genuine. I knew he would understand. “There’s actually very little—”
“Animalic?” Foxcourt interrupted. “What does that mean in this context?”
And with that, the small rush of enjoyment was gone, and my patience was at its end. I turned slowly to him, my head throbbing
with each small movement.
“Carnal,” I said. “Is that clear enough for you, my lord? Many white flowers carry an unusual note, one variously described as the
essence of filth, decay, and the scent of lovers.”
It was one reason my white floral perfumes had found a home in several brothels through Arabella’s connections. There was
something wonderfully, terribly alive about that note within the flowers’ otherwise graceful offerings. The contrast between the beauty and the more indecent element
asked the scenter to return to the fragrance again and again to understand its draw.
Mama had always said it was the truth of life in a drop of oil. A pristine flower was only so a moment before it began to
fade. To seek to understand the duality of that scent was to confront the mystery of our own mortality. Most perfumes were
born of death—flowers were destroyed to make the necessary oils and animals killed for their musk. It was cruel, but truthful.
The most remarkable perfumes brought together the purity of nature and man’s darker and, yes, carnal nature.
Foxcourt stared at me, saying nothing.
“Oliver,” I said, remembering the other point I’d had in meeting him.
“I’m wondering if you know of anyone who might have or be able to procure oils made from fairy flowers and plants.
Perhaps one of the pawnbrokers you’ve become acquainted with has a collection they don’t advertise to their typical customers? ”
Oliver blinked. “Goodness. One hears rumors, of course . . . Is there something in particular you need?”
Foxcourt opened his mouth to interject, but I wasn’t a fool. I trusted Oliver, but that trust didn’t extend to every soul
alive he did business with.
“An assortment, such as . . .” I racked my memory for some of the oils I’d seen listed in the Treasury. If word of this somehow
got back to Glenmoor, he wouldn’t know exactly which we needed. “. . . sweetfeather . . . Queen’s Delight . . . and the nectar of the Afallach tree.”
Perhaps the heat had made him momentarily forget himself, but I could have sworn Foxcourt’s lips curled in a smile.
Oliver repeated the names to himself. “Where should I send word if I find them?”
“Foxcourt House,” the earl said. “Hand deliver it yourself.”
“Or meet with Vernon,” I told Oliver. “Whichever you feel is most discreet. He’ll get word safely to us.”
Oliver’s shocked delight deepened the leather in his essence. “Vernon! Truly? I’ve been meaning to visit with him.”
The coach came to a final, halting stop.
“Look at that, we’ve returned to your father’s shop,” Foxcourt said. “Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Radcliffe. Should
anything else be required, I’ll send word. If you care for Miss Lockwood, you’ll not speak of this meeting to anyone.”
“What does that mean?” Oliver asked me, alarmed. “I was afraid for your reputation if you were staying in a bachelor’s home—are
you telling me that your life is in danger?”
“I’ll be fine,” I assured him. “Thank you again for this—and really, any haste you can give to finding the fairy flower oils—”
“I’ll do everything in my power to find them.” He clasped my hand again, and my stomach turned at the wet fur scent of his
fear. The door opened behind him, allowing a blinding flood of heat and light to invade the darkness.
“I’ll come for you, at any time, anywhere,” Oliver told me in an ardent voice. “My offer still stands. Remember that.”
“Good day, Mr. Radcliffe,” Foxcourt said coldly.
And then, like a fading dream, Oliver was gone.
“You were unbelievably rude,” I managed to get out. “You didn’t have to treat him in such a high-handed manner when he was
trying to help us.”
“In case you’ve forgotten, we are on a rather tight schedule.” He pulled the coach’s curtains shut, sealing us in darkness.
His voice was infuriatingly cool. “You may wax poetic about perfume with Oliver when we’ve found the nectar and Immortal Rose
is complete.”
“Do you always sneer at other people’s pleasure?” I asked him. “Perfume is the meeting of art and science, the sacred and
the profane, and the self and the world. It’s not something frivolous.”
“I never said it was,” he said, in that same remote tone.
He didn’t have to, but it was abundantly clear he didn’t understand that without beauty, without love, without the poetry
of the soul, life was meaningless survival. There was a reason babies were anointed with sacred oil, the scent of which was
so powerful, so beautiful, it drew the eyes of God. And that was to say nothing of holy incense—frankincense, myrrh, oud—all
of which expressed a language so holy it couldn’t be spoken.
“You exist as a man in this world and you have countless ways to define yourself,” I said. “For many young women, whose lives
are restrained and ordered from the moment they are born, perfume is more than a rare choice offered to them—it is a declaration
of how they wish to be perceived. It’s a small measure of control they take back.”
“Is that so?” Foxcourt said as he gathered the stack of correspondence in his lap.
“Scent is the most important sense,” I pressed on. “It keeps us from eating food that has gone off and adds to the enjoyment
of dining. It stirs memory. It locates us in the world. Isn’t there a scent that means something to you? One that you love?”