your telegram.”
Danielle nodded, filing the information in her mind. She stifled a yawn.
“Tired? Why don’t rest your eyes?”
“Hmm. Think I will.” Leaning her head back, she closed her eyes, half-dozing while they continued the drive. She loved every aspect of this business, and realized with a pang how much she’d missed it. The perfumery was in her blood.
Her grandfather had founded the business after apprenticing with Pierre-François-Pascal Guerlain at Guerlain’s Rue de la Paix shop in Paris. Like the Guerlain family perfume dynasty, Danielle’s family was also steeped in the tradition of perfumery. They were primarily suppliers. They had their fields and factory, but they also functioned as perfumers, supplying completed perfumes to a select group of private clients and couturiers, a relatively new trend popularized by Paul Poiret and Gabrielle Chanel, who augmented their fashion business with
parfum
.
Her uncle had taught her to love the land and honor the artistry of creation. Danielle knew someday the business would be her responsibility, a fact that often escaped Max’s notice. For some reason, Max assumed that she would sell the business once it passed to her. “How could you possibly manage it?” Max had once said.
“We’ll talk about it when the time comes,” she responded, not wanting to provoke him. The Bretancourt family chateau would go to Jean-Claude as the eldest son, but Marie had planned to bequeath the perfumery and the flower farm in Grasse to her. And in her heart, she wanted to preserve this heritage for Nicky.
And his siblings
, she thought, rubbing her stomach.
I will never part with the perfumery
.
A few minutes later, Danielle opened her eyes, refreshed. The road curved, and they passed the stately Bretancourt family chateau, where as a child she and her family had spent summers, with their father visiting on weekends from Paris and taking holiday for the entire month of August. Philippe preferred the two-story cottage on the grounds, claiming the chateau was far too large for just one person.
Over the rise loomed their factory, where rose and jasmine and lavender were processed after harvest. The building was quiet today, but she could envision in vivid detail the busy summer harvests, when workers began before sunrise to pick and process flowers. Roses were sweetest when picked at dawn, by midday their scent suffered and became less sweet. Jasmine bloomed at night and was at its finest when harvested before dawn, for heat and dew damaged the delicate flowers.
Danielle smiled as she reminisced on the dawn’s rosy blush when she and Philippe used to check progress on horseback. The work was demanding. A good worker could pick twenty-one hundred rose blossoms an hour, about twenty-five kilos. Eight hundred kilos produced just one kilo of absolute, or purified product. Their lavender was harvested by hand using a sickle, then tied into clumps to dry. The process was labor-intensive, but the end result—the perfumer’s alchemy—was pure magic.
When they approached the rambling stone cottage where Philippe lived a rush of joy welled within her. The laboratory had been added onto the rear of the house. There she’d spent many happy days immersed in aromas that danced in her imagination.
“Do you still have my old journal?” she asked, referring to her record of trials and formulations.
“Of course. In fact, I consult it often.”
She laughed. “You can read my writing?”
“It’s not so bad. I thought you might want to look at it again. It’s in your workspace.”
They got out of the truck. Philippe insisted on carrying the groceries. “You should relax, I’ll get your suitcase in a moment.”
Danielle walked through the door. The unique scent of her uncle’s home enveloped her senses. A mélange of aromas permeated the stone walls of the cottage, burnishing it with a scent that was utterly indescribable, and completely original. The smell lay imbedded
Danielle nodded, filing the information in her mind. She stifled a yawn.
“Tired? Why don’t rest your eyes?”
“Hmm. Think I will.” Leaning her head back, she closed her eyes, half-dozing while they continued the drive. She loved every aspect of this business, and realized with a pang how much she’d missed it. The perfumery was in her blood.
Her grandfather had founded the business after apprenticing with Pierre-François-Pascal Guerlain at Guerlain’s Rue de la Paix shop in Paris. Like the Guerlain family perfume dynasty, Danielle’s family was also steeped in the tradition of perfumery. They were primarily suppliers. They had their fields and factory, but they also functioned as perfumers, supplying completed perfumes to a select group of private clients and couturiers, a relatively new trend popularized by Paul Poiret and Gabrielle Chanel, who augmented their fashion business with
parfum
.
Her uncle had taught her to love the land and honor the artistry of creation. Danielle knew someday the business would be her responsibility, a fact that often escaped Max’s notice. For some reason, Max assumed that she would sell the business once it passed to her. “How could you possibly manage it?” Max had once said.
“We’ll talk about it when the time comes,” she responded, not wanting to provoke him. The Bretancourt family chateau would go to Jean-Claude as the eldest son, but Marie had planned to bequeath the perfumery and the flower farm in Grasse to her. And in her heart, she wanted to preserve this heritage for Nicky.
And his siblings
, she thought, rubbing her stomach.
I will never part with the perfumery
.
A few minutes later, Danielle opened her eyes, refreshed. The road curved, and they passed the stately Bretancourt family chateau, where as a child she and her family had spent summers, with their father visiting on weekends from Paris and taking holiday for the entire month of August. Philippe preferred the two-story cottage on the grounds, claiming the chateau was far too large for just one person.
Over the rise loomed their factory, where rose and jasmine and lavender were processed after harvest. The building was quiet today, but she could envision in vivid detail the busy summer harvests, when workers began before sunrise to pick and process flowers. Roses were sweetest when picked at dawn, by midday their scent suffered and became less sweet. Jasmine bloomed at night and was at its finest when harvested before dawn, for heat and dew damaged the delicate flowers.
Danielle smiled as she reminisced on the dawn’s rosy blush when she and Philippe used to check progress on horseback. The work was demanding. A good worker could pick twenty-one hundred rose blossoms an hour, about twenty-five kilos. Eight hundred kilos produced just one kilo of absolute, or purified product. Their lavender was harvested by hand using a sickle, then tied into clumps to dry. The process was labor-intensive, but the end result—the perfumer’s alchemy—was pure magic.
When they approached the rambling stone cottage where Philippe lived a rush of joy welled within her. The laboratory had been added onto the rear of the house. There she’d spent many happy days immersed in aromas that danced in her imagination.
“Do you still have my old journal?” she asked, referring to her record of trials and formulations.
“Of course. In fact, I consult it often.”
She laughed. “You can read my writing?”
“It’s not so bad. I thought you might want to look at it again. It’s in your workspace.”
They got out of the truck. Philippe insisted on carrying the groceries. “You should relax, I’ll get your suitcase in a moment.”
Danielle walked through the door. The unique scent of her uncle’s home enveloped her senses. A mélange of aromas permeated the stone walls of the cottage, burnishing it with a scent that was utterly indescribable, and completely original. The smell lay imbedded
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