The Perfume Collector

West Challow, Oxfordshire, England, 1935

It was an unusually warm afternoon in early March.

Grace had been playing in the back garden with the dog, Fry.

The back door to the kitchen was propped open. The smell of roasting chicken, rich and savoury, wafted out into the garden, making her mouth water, drawing her in.

Grace walked into the kitchen. Everything was clean, organized; pots boiled on the stove, the floor was freshly scrubbed; it felt good, right.

Lena was sitting at the kitchen table in her apron, with a pen and paper. Her head was bent down.

‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m writing a letter, darling,’ Lena answered, without looking up. But Grace knew that even ordinary things became special with Lena.

‘May I watch?’ Grace asked.

Lena looked up at her, smiled. ‘Watch me write a letter?’

Grace nodded.

Then she dared to ask something she would never have asked of her mother; had never asked of anyone before. ‘May I sit on your lap, please?’

Lena’s smile widened. ‘Of course!’

Pushing her chair back, Lena held out her arms and Grace climbed onto her lap. She leaned her head against Lena’s chest, could feel her heart beating softly underneath her dress. She smelled so different from anyone else in the world; it was a fresh, earthy smell, a smell that promised safety. ‘Who are you writing to?’

Lena smoothed Grace’s hair down, kissed her forehead. ‘A friend of mine. In Paris.’

‘Is he your husband?’

‘No. I don’t have a husband.’

‘Why not?’

‘Oh, sometimes that’s just the way things work out.’

‘Yes,’ Grace agreed solemnly, although she didn’t really understand. ‘I suppose so.’ She snuggled deeper. ‘Where’s Mummy?’

‘She’s not home yet. Now, you must be quiet or I shall not be able to write.’

‘But she will be home soon?’ (In truth, Grace didn’t care when her mother came back. She just wanted to stay on Lena’s lap. But she’d never done it before; didn’t know what was expected. So she talked about what she always talked about, which was her mother, so that Lena would let her stay.)

‘Yes, she will be home soon. And then there’s roast chicken for supper and you shall have the wishbone. What do you think of that?’

Grace smiled, looking up at Lena, hoping she would kiss her forehead again. ‘I shall wish a husband for you,’ she promised, tugging gently at Lena’s long hair.

Lena picked up the pen, pausing a moment, her brow creasing. Finally, she began.

Dear Andre,

Please forgive me for not writing sooner. I know we parted on poor terms, for which I am truly sorry. I should not have left so suddenly. As you can tell from the postmark, I have gone to England after all. I know you believe my actions are folly, however, I have met with success. I have been hired as a cook and housemaid in the very same home where my darling one lives. She is with me now, in fact, on my knee as I write.

At first she was shy. You can imagine how difficult it was not to gather her up in my arms and hold her close, but soon her courage grew. After a week, we were fast friends. And she is so clever and delightful!

If you could see me now, I know you would understand. I finally feel as if I can walk with my head held high and I am happy – yes, even scrubbing dishes and sweeping floors! My only regret is that you and I…

Lena stopped again. Her frown deepened.

Then she folded the letter in half and slipped it into her apron pocket. ‘I will finish this later. Come on, darling. What shall we do now?’

Grace shrugged, snuggling in closer to her chest.

Everything Lena did was fascinating to Grace.

She brought order and peace; called her ‘darling’ and ‘dear’. Grace liked to follow her around and see what she was up to next. Sometimes she would find her changing the bed sheets or dusting; one day she’d discovered Lena outside with one of the hallway carpets flung over two chairs, holding a broom.

‘What are you doing with that?’

‘I’m beating the carpets, dear. Here,’ Lena handed her the broom. ‘Would you like to try?’

Grace had liked that. She walloped the carpet with all her might and a big cloud of dust came out.

‘Look at how strong you are!’ Lena laughed and Grace had taken another swing and another, just to prove she was right.

Or after supper she could be found washing the dishes. Lena showed Grace how to press a fork deep into the soap and blow bubbles by dipping it into a glass of water. Soon the kitchen was filled with glassy bubbles. The dog had gone mad trying to chase them, barking hysterically.

Later on they played cards together. Lena knew a game that no one else could work out. But Grace was quick to learn.

‘You’re a very clever girl, do you know that?’ Lena stroked Grace’s cheek softly. ‘You must never forget that. Now, what would you do here? Think before you answer.’

Grace concentrated hard. She wanted to please Lena. And the game was both fun and difficult, which made it the best sort of game.

Sometimes, Lena and Grace went for a walk in the woods at the back of the house to gather petals. There was, in a small, sheltered grove, an unexpected patch of wild narcissus, or paperwhites as the English called them. Tiny, delicate white blooms, they gave off an intensely sweet fragrance.

Together, they harvested the freshest flowers and, back in the kitchen, Lena showed Grace how to make perfume from them. Taking two old panes of glass from the conservatory, she washed them clean and spread a thin layer of rendered tallow on each one. Then they laid out the blossoms one by one on the first pane, carefully placing the other pane of glass on top. Afterwards they stored them high on a shelf in the cool, dark pantry.

‘It’s called enfleurage,’ Lena explained. ‘We will gently extract the perfume oil from the blooms by pressing them into the tallow. But we must change the petals regularly and add new ones. Then we can make it into a pomade.’

‘Did your mummy teach you this?’

‘No. A friend taught me.’

They found a few more glass panes and experimented with different types of foliage – moss, grass, mint leaves from the herb garden.

One day they bought a lemon in the village. At home, Lena gleefully put together yet another glass press, making the most remarkable, fresh scent from only a few slices. (The rest they had with their fish that night.)

‘Can you make perfume from anything?’ Grace asked.

‘Anything!’ Lena asserted.

‘What about wood?’ Grace challenged. ‘Or a piece of wool,’ she giggled.

‘Well, let’s try.’

That afternoon they searched for the richest, dampest piece of tree bark they could find. It was difficult to shave it down to bits that could be effectively pressed but eventually they were able to extract a very subtle hint of wood. As part of the same experiment, Lena unravelled the sleeve of one of Grace’s old cardigans and pressed the wool as well.

‘This one is very tricky,’ she conceded, with a frown. ‘It’s not a strong smell to begin with.’

‘Why did you have to undo one of my cardies?’ Grace complained, examining the unravelled sleeve. Even though it was too small, she still liked it.

‘Because part of the smell of the wool is your smell too. They mix. And I, for one, want both – though, to be honest,’ she sighed, ‘we may end up pressing this old wool for months before we get anything.’ She caught Grace’s eye and grinned. ‘You know what I would like to try? A bit of your hair.’

‘My hair!’ Grace thought this was hysterical. ‘Hair perfume!’ she cried, dancing around the room with excitement. ‘That’s mad!’

However, the paperwhites were easily Grace’s favourite. She loved wandering through the grove gathering their blooms, piling them into Lena’s basket. They were, after all, her favourite flower.

‘You may have this perfume when we’ve finished. It shall be your birthday present,’ Lena promised.

But today Lena had another idea. ‘I know,’ she suggested after a moment, ‘would you like to help me make some biscuits?’

Grace looked up from her lap. ‘What kind of biscuits?’

‘Black.’ Lena gave her a squeeze.

‘Black biscuits?’ Grace sat up.

‘That’s right. Made with charcoal, for your father.’

Grace made a face. ‘Why does Daddy eat charcoal? Do I have to eat charcoal?’

‘No, mon ange. Daddy needs it because his tummy is unwell. In the war, they sprayed a gas into the air that made all the soldiers sick. Your father has a pain in his tummy but these black biscuits help.’

‘Does the pain ever go away?’

‘I’m not sure.’

Grace took this in. ‘Is that why he’s cross?’

‘Cross?’

‘Yes. He’s angry with me.’

Lena stroked Grace’s hair again. ‘Your father is not cross, darling. But he is…’ she stopped, searching for the right words, ‘he is not comfortable.’

Grace looked down at her feet, dangling in the air. She wondered if she should tell Lena the truth; that her father had never liked her, that she’d clearly done something to upset him, although she couldn’t think what it was. That was why he didn’t speak to her; why he scowled all the time.

But if she said it out loud, Lena might not like her any more either.

Grace gnawed nervously at her thumbnail.

‘So,’ Lena put Grace down and stood up. ‘Shall we start baking?’

‘Yes, please.’

‘Then let’s get you an apron.’ Lena took a spare off the hook by the back door.

‘Hello? Hello!’ Catherine Maudley strode into the front hallway upstairs, her heels clicking against the wooden floorboards. ‘Hello! Grace? Lena?’

Instantly Eva felt her back go rigid.

Catherine was walking downstairs now; she strode into the kitchen, hat in hand, pulling off her white gloves. ‘There you two are.’

Instinctively, Eva averted her eyes, focusing instead on tying the apron around Grace’s waist.

Lady Catherine was an attractive woman, older than Eva, with a natural hauteur and authority. Her voice was slightly breathy, giving her a rather harried, uncertain energy, and her accent snapped with the crisp consonants and flatly drawled vowels of the upper classes. Her fine auburn hair was styled away from her face and her features echoed Lambert’s with disarming accuracy; her brother’s ghost could be seen in the same wide forehead and startling azure eyes.

‘What a journey! The station was packed,’ Catherine complained. ‘What are you doing?’

‘We’re making black biscuits for Daddy,’ Grace announced.

‘Black biscuits!’ Catherine tossed an evening edition of the newspaper down on the table, along with her gloves. ‘Is this a joke?’

She looked over at Eva, who forced the corners of her mouth up into a smile. ‘No, ma’am. They have a small amount charcoal in them, which aids digestion and gives them their colour. They are very popular in France.’

‘Oh dear!’ Catherine shook her head. ‘What will they think of next?’ She reached out and stroked the head of the family dog, Fry, a mixed breed of wolfhound and retriever. ‘And where is your father?’

‘Daddy’s in the greenhouse, of course,’ Grace offered, as Lena pulled up a stool for her to stand on.

‘Yes, of course,’ Catherine sighed.

Jonathan Maudley was, in fact, rarely out of the greenhouse. Though it was nearly the size of the main house already, he’d built an extension onto it recently which housed a laboratory and office, from which he conducted his research for a major pharmaceutical company. It was one of the reasons they didn’t live in the Great Hall. He could be found there, often before sunrise until late in the evening, deeply involved in experiments, piled in notes. His considerable collection of plant specimens were fastidiously attended to by him alone and kept under lock and key. It was his private domain, strictly off limits.

‘I wonder why I bother asking,’ Catherine added, wandering over to the back door and looking out of the window. ‘Lena, don’t let that washing sit too long on the line. I don’t want my blue dress bleached out by the sun.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

She turned. ‘I take it we’re having chicken for supper?’

Eva nodded.

‘Lovely. Can you make ordinary boiled potatoes, please? That last dish you made…’ she paused, searching for the name.

‘Le gratin?’

‘Yes. Very nice but I swear, Lena, it had garlic in it.’ Catherine shot her a reproachful look. ‘One cannot go about in public places smelling like a foreign sailor. I was mortified in case someone sat next to me on the train or in the library. Has the post arrived? I’m waiting for a letter from a publisher.’

‘It’s on the table in the front hallway, ma’am.’

‘Good. Well, my darling,’ she turned to Grace, ‘I was going to ask you if you wanted to walk the dog with me.’

Grace hesitated.

‘Darling,’ Lady Catherine’s smile faded, ‘you don’t want me to go by myself, do you?’

‘No, Mummy. It’s just—’

‘Lena can make the biscuits.’ She held out her hand. ‘God knows, you’ve spent all day together!’ She snapped her fingers impatiently. ‘Now, come along!’

Climbing off the stool, Grace tugged at the apron ties; it slid down to the floor.

‘Of course, Mummy,’ she took her mother’s hand.

‘Lena, have a look at those gloves, please, will you? The fingertips are quite filthy from the train. White gloves really ought to be white, don’t you think?’ Catherine gave her daughter’s palm a squeeze. ‘Let’s run some fat off this old boy, shall we? We’ll be back before supper,’ she called as they climbed the stairs, Fry at their heels.

Eva stood, very still, in the empty kitchen.

Then she picked up the apron from the floor and hung it back again on the hook by the back door.

Moving mechanically, she took out the flour and sugar from the pantry; butter, salt, a mixing bowl.

She tossed some flour onto the counter and spread it smooth, took out the rolling pin.

Reaching deep into one of the kitchen drawers for a biscuit cutter, she found one in the shape of a small oval, made of tin.

She stopped… ran her finger along the sharp, delicately serrated metal edge.

Eva put the cutter down on the counter and pressed her palm into it, hard.

The sensation was exquisite and excruciating. Feeling flooded in. And the pressure valve in her head loosened, easing just the tiniest bit.

She closed her eyes.

There was a whole vocabulary of suffering, eloquent in its wordlessness, which gave voice to all the things she couldn’t do or say.

Opening her eyes, she forced her hand into a fist, stretching out her fingers again and again. Then she turned to get the milk.

Jonathan Maudley was standing, watching in the doorway.

He leaned awkwardly against the door frame.

Tall and very thin it was clear that at one time he’d been handsome. With large blue eyes, a high, intelligent forehead and a firm jaw, he might have been the very model of well-bred English manhood. Only now his eyes were ringed with deep bluey circles, the result of years of nightmares and fragmented sleep; his sandy blond hair had thinned, his cheeks were hollowed and his lips drawn. His large hands were expressive and elegant. They should have been the hands of a gentleman or a diplomat, only now the long tapered fingers were stained with nicotine from too many cheap roll-ups, a habit he’d acquired in the trenches and failed to give up, and the fingernails rimmed with black soil.

Upstairs the front door closed; Catherine and Grace had left.

Down here, the low ceiling of the kitchen pressed in on them, trapping the heat of the oven, the air warm and moist. A cloud passed over the sun; the room fell into shadow.

Eva reached for the milk. The pain that a minute ago had been a release was now an obstacle. She poured a little into the bowl, mixing the ingredients together, methodically.

She felt his eyes following her movements.

‘You’ve hurt yourself,’ he said.

Eva looked up.

The veil dropped from his features; gone was the public face of a distracted intellectual. Suddenly she saw in him a comprehension of loss that was terrible to behold.

Unnerved, she turned away.

When next she looked round, he was gone.

There had been no plan. The idea had begun with a simple wish; just to see her daughter.

Three years earlier, after Lambert’s death, a letter had arrived. And for the first time, Eva knew where her daughter lived; knew her name.

But when she looked up the address Lambert had given her, her hopes plummeted. The Great Hall, West Challow, Oxfordshire was no ordinary home. In fact, she found an etching of it in a library book entitled The Stately Homes of England. Her child was living on an estate, surrounded by thousands of acres, the legal daughter of landed aristocracy. Eva wouldn’t be able to even gain access to the grounds, let alone her little girl.

Still, she paid a considerable amount to see a well-known lawyer, hoping he could offer advice. Instead, he dismissed her claim completely. ‘You have no proof,’ he interrupted her, halfway through her explanation. ‘If you are the child’s mother,’ he gave her a look that made it clear he seriously doubted it, ‘then why would you remove her from a life of privilege and opportunity? From what you’ve told me, she’ll have a social position, possibly an inheritance… . am I mistaken? What kind of parent would wish to destroy their child’s chances in this world simply to satisfy their curiosity?’

Folding his hands in front of him on the desk, he waited for her to respond. When Eva didn’t, he shook his head. ‘What did you say your position was again?’

‘I’m a manageress, that is, a clerk. A sales girl in a store,’ she answered, meekly.

‘No,’ he corrected her. ‘You’re an unmarried sales girl. Let me be frank, mademoiselle. Do you honestly believe that your daughter would want to even know that you exist? Consider this carefully,’ he cautioned. ‘Once the information, such as it is, is revealed, she can never return to her former ignorance. You will have tainted her by your history and your inferior circumstances.’ He looked at her hard. ‘In my professional opinion, you would be stealing from her a life of infinitely greater possibility. And you would have nothing to offer in its stead.’

Her attempts to convince Andre fared no better. He’d taken the news of her child badly. Now he wanted to pretend she didn’t exist.

‘You see, I have the address now,’ she explained over supper one day to him. ‘Perhaps we might go together to visit the village. It’s of a reasonable size – right near Oxford. Anyone might go there as a tourist!’ she added excitedly.

He put his fork down. ‘What are you going to do when you arrive – knock on the front door? Hide in the bushes until she appears?’

His sarcasm stung her. ‘This isn’t a joke Andre.’

‘And I’m not treating it as one.’ He pushed his plate away. ‘You have a life. Your place is here with me. Our work is what matters. That… that girl is fine without you.’

‘You don’t understand.’

Sighing, he leaned back in his chair. ‘Then explain it to me.’

He waited, crossed his legs, smoothing down the wool fabric of his trousers with his hand. He was savvy now, having fully adopted the character she’d created for him – the avant-guarde virtuoso of scent. He was taking Paris by storm, while she stood by him, beautifully dressed, endlessly encouraging.

Explain what? she thought. What could be more obvious than the desire to see your own child?

Still, Eva tried. ‘Andre, she’s the only person in this world connected to me, who is truly mine.’

‘I’m connected to you. Doesn’t that matter?’ He ran his hand over his eyes. ‘Eva, who is to say that seeing her might not be worse than never seeing her? You cannot simply run up and grab her! This is a dream. An illusion. You must wake up now.’

She’d imagined that he would come with her, as her husband, perhaps accompanying her to the authorities to advocate her case. But instead he thought her deluded, capable of hiding in bushes and snatching the child like a madwoman.

Andre reached for her hand. ‘I need you. Your place is here. You need to face the truth; you were never meant to be a mother. You haven’t got it in you. That child is better off without you.’

She pulled away. ‘How do you know? Who’s to say I haven’t got it in me? And what does that leave me with, Andre? A job as your sales girl? A life with a man who will not touch me?’

He looked away.

He’d ceased to be her lover a while ago, a rejection they never spoke of, that left her embarrassed and confused. Talk of an engagement had faded too. More and more the relationship assumed a purely business-like focus. His business. His focus.

‘Is that all that matters to you?’ he asked. ‘Do you think that’s all love is? A crude groping in the dark?’

‘You tell me what love is, Andre!’ she shot back.

He picked up a teaspoon and twirled it impatiently in his fingers, glaring down at the table.

Eva hadn’t forgotten the body in his bed in New York or the new friends, attractive young men, who occupied his evenings now.

‘So, you think you’re just a sales girl?’ he surmised quietly, shaking his head. ‘That if I’m not grabbing at you and thrusting, you have no place in my life?’

‘What place do I have? What do you need me for?’ The floor seemed to disappear beneath Eva’s feet. The world she’d invested in was false, built on little more than wishful thinking. She was falling now, into an unseen abyss. ‘What place do I really have anywhere?’

Across from her, Andre sat silently, spinning the spoon round and round.

He wouldn’t even look at her.

‘You don’t love me.’ Pushing her chair back from the table, she stood up. Her head was reeling; the very tips of her fingers throbbed, so acute was her sense of betrayal. ‘In fact, I don’t think you’re capable of love!’

He didn’t stop her as she walked away.

That was the last time they ever spoke about it.

But in spite of these disappointments or perhaps because of them, a foolish improbable dream took hold, rooting itself deep in Eva’s heart. She refused to believe that there was no way to make contact with her child without compromising her; she obsessed, turning the problem round in her head, gnawing round its edges day and night. She enjoyed a life of independence and excitement. Almost every evening she was out, as part of a set of bohemian artists, designers, and thinkers – dining in cafés, going to the theatre, dancing in the many nightclubs that made Paris famous. But even then or when she was overseeing a client in the perfumery, her mind never stopped. How could she penetrate the invisible barrier that separated her from her child? In what way might she slip through the fence posts of breeding and class to gain even the smallest glimpse of her little girl?

She cradled this hope, nurtured it, fed it for three years.

And then one day, quite accidently, the answer came to her.

It was an autumn afternoon. A woman entered the shop, accompanied by a small boy. It was clear from her dress that she was in service and when she addressed Eva, she stumbled and started, unused to being in such an exclusive establishment.

‘I’m sorry, madam, pardon me. But I am here…’ she opened her pocketbook, took out a piece of paper, which she passed across the counter to Eva, ‘I am here to collect an order for my mistress.’

‘Certainly.’ Eva collected the parcel from the black Chinese cabinet and looked across to where the little boy was climbing on top of the leopard ottoman.

‘Charles, get down!’ the woman hissed, grabbing his arm and yanking him off.

‘That’s all right,’ Eva smiled.

‘I apologize,’ the woman said stiffly, putting the package into a basket on her arm. ‘We have been given some errands to do and he’s not yet been to the park. But I can assure you, his mother will hear of this when we return home.’

With that, she took the little boy’s hand and dragged him out of the shop.

Eva leaned her elbows of the counter, watching as they rounded the corner and disappeared from view.

The girl was the child’s nanny.

A domestic servant, who spent more hours of the day with her charge than the mother did.

Suddenly the puzzle cracked wide open.

A week later, Eva visited a pawn shop in Montmartre and sold anything she had of value. Instead, she purchased simple, functional clothes – shapeless cotton dresses, a pair of sturdy second-hand shoes. Off came the dark red nail varnish and matching lipstick; she combed her hair back from her face, arranged it in a heavy net. Any spare money she stitched into the lining of her brassiere. She exchanged her luggage for an inexpensive travel case, her reputation for forged references.

And then she left, without telling anyone

Her first stop in West Challow, Oxfordshire, was at the local church. She was an experienced, diligent girl, looking for employment, willing to do anything… could they help? Did they know of anyone? Her English was good and she could cook.

The Revd Johns thought she might try the Hall – he knew the housekeeper, Mrs Dunnan. He would be happy to put in a good word. Also, he thought there might be some work to be had at Ivy House. It was part of the estate… they were a young couple and needed an extra hand.

Of course, Eva already knew the Hall and, more importantly, Ivy House – the red-brick Queen Anne house, set back on the grounds, behind a high garden wall covered in ivy and moss. She’d walked past it a dozen times since her arrival, hoping against hope for a glimpse of her little girl.

The interview at Ivy House had been terrifying; exhilarating. Catherine Maudley had fallen upon her like a starving man at a banquet. ‘At last! I can really work!’ she declared, barely glancing at the references in front of her. ‘When can you start?’

Now, as Eva pressed her head to her pillow at night, with her cheek against the cool linen, she listened, waiting until the house fell quiet. Then she got out of bed, crept soundlessly down the steps from her room in the attic and stole, undetected, into the nursery.

Crouching down by the side of her bed, she watched as Grace’s chest rose and fell in an even, sighing rhythm.

Sometimes she stayed there half the night.

Leaning over, she inhaled the fragrance of Grace’s matted hair; an intoxicating blend of warm sweat and tender, young skin. It was a smell that went to her very core; feeding a hunger that could never be satisfied.

Reaching out, Eva ran her fingers gently along the curve of Grace’s round little cheek.

Whatever her sins were, God must have forgiven them.

Here was heaven; here was redemption.

Here was her place on earth.

Folding the morning paper, Catherine Maudley took another sip of her tea, then held out her cup for Eva to refill. ‘Take Mr Maudley something to eat, Lena, will you?’ She stirred some milk into her cup. ‘He’s been up half the night and has locked himself away in that office of his again.’

Eva hesitated. The greenhouse was normally off limits. ‘What shall I take him, ma’am?’

‘Tea and toast,’ Catherine decided, opening one of her many notebooks and slipping on her reading glasses. ‘Or whatever. I shouldn’t think it matters. I don’t suppose he’ll actually eat it, but one tries, doesn’t one?’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ Eva nodded, heading back down into the kitchen. She wasn’t keen to go on her own.

Grace was sitting at the table, making a drawing with some colouring pencils, swinging her feet to and fro.

‘Darling,’ Eva turned to her, ‘would you like to give your father some of those black biscuits?’

Grace slid off her chair. ‘Yes, please!’

Eva arranged a tray with a pot of tea, a jug of milk, and some sliced apple and cheese, along with the charcoal biscuits on a pretty little plate. (No one wanted to eat cold toast.) She gave the plate to Grace to carry and together they walked over to the greenhouse and knocked on the door.

After a while, Jonathan Maudley unlocked the door, dressed in a laboratory coat. He looked from one to the other. ‘What’s this?’

‘We brought you something to eat.’ Grace held up the plate eagerly. ‘These will help your tummy! We made them, only Lena made them mostly…’ she corrected herself.

‘They have charcoal in them, sir. But only a small amount. They aid the digestion,’ Eva explained quietly.

‘Do they?’ He gave an uncertain smile, then took a step back. ‘Well, then, you’d better come in.’

They followed him through the main body of the greenhouse, past the laboratory and into his office at the back. Plants were lined and labelled in meticulous rows; the air was humid, thick with the damp ripe scent of greenery mixed with rich, black soil. There were pots and troughs, and neatly arranged species in various stages of growth; the laboratory was lined with small glass Petri dishes and vials, a large microscope, charts and notebooks. The office itself was small, housing mostly a large writing desk and an old settee, pushed up against one wall. It was clear from the way the pillows were arranged at one end that it often served as a bed.

Eva placed the tray down on the desk.

Grace stood tightly clutching the plate of biscuits. The thrill of being a guest of her father’s was almost too overwhelming.

Eva was about to go when Jonathan Maudley crouched down in front of Grace. ‘May I?’ he asked, taking one of the biscuits.

Grace’s eyes widened. ‘Yes, Daddy.’ She held the plate up higher.

He took one and bit into it. ‘Not bad,’ he decided. ‘I think I feel better already.’

‘Really?’ Grace stepped forward, the biscuits sliding perilously close to the edge of the plate.

‘Careful, mon ange,’ Eva intervened, steadying her hand.

Jonathan Maudley was looking at her, at the mark on her palm.

She let go. ‘We should let your father get back to his work,’ she said briskly, laying a hand gently on Grace’s shoulder. ‘He is a busy man.’

But Grace didn’t want to leave. She’d never been allowed inside the greenhouse before. ‘What are you doing, Daddy? May I watch?’

Jonathan hesitated. Then he took the plate from her and set it on the desk. ‘Come with me.’ He held out his hand and she slipped her palm into his. It was large and warm and calloused.

He led her into the laboratory where almost a dozen small plants were lined up in identical pots, each numbered and labelled.

‘I am studying this common plant, called belladonna,’ he explained. ‘It grows wild all around Great Britain and has many possible medicinal properties but it’s also highly toxic.’

Grace stared at him.

‘It can be made into medicine,’ Eva interjected gently, ‘only it is also very poisonous.’

‘But how can poison be medicine?’ Grace asked. Jonathan smiled. ‘That’s a clever question. Many medicines can be helpful in small doses but if you have too much, they will make you extremely ill.’

‘Like sugar,’ Grace added, eager to prove she understood what he meant.

‘A little like sugar,’ he agreed, ‘only much more serious. For example aspirin, which you take when you have a fever, is made from willow bark. If you were ill and didn’t have any aspirin, you could brew yourself some willow bark tea instead. Nature is miraculous that way. But you can’t do that with belladonna.’ He pointed to the row of tiny plants. ‘My job is to see if I can breed a form of this species that has the good qualities without the harmful ones. But, in the wild, you must remember that they have terribly poisonous berries and you must never eat them. Promise?’

Grace nodded solemnly. ‘I won’t ever!’

Eva looked around her, at the fragrant heat and greenery. It reminded her of Andre’s workshop – the long wooden table lined with notebooks, the various vials; a private world of creation.

‘We should leave your father now.’ Again, she tried to move Grace towards the door.

Grace pulled away. ‘But we haven’t finished yet, have we?’

‘We shall see your father at supper,’ Eva reminded her. ‘But we must allow him time to work.’

Jonathan reached out, laid his hand gently upon the top of Grace’s head. ‘Perhaps another time.’

‘But supper’s ages away!’ All of sudden Grace felt panicked. She’d only just arrived; who knew when she would have another chance?

She wrapped her arms around her father’s legs, tight. ‘Don’t make me go, please! Let me stay with you. I promise I’ll be good, please, Daddy. Please!’

Jonathan Maudley went rigid.

‘Please, Daddy. Let me, please!’

‘Grace!’ The look on Jonathan’s face was one of blank horror.

‘Please, Daddy!’ Her voice rose to a hysterical pitch. ‘Please! Please!’

‘Don’t, Grace… you must stop!’ He tried to pull her hands off but she held on even tighter, pressing into him. ‘I cannot…’ He looked desperately at Eva. ‘Take her, damn it! Just take her away!’

Prising Grace’s fingers off, Eva hauled the screaming child up over her shoulder.

She carried her out of the greenhouse, just as Catherine Maudley came running down the path.

‘What is going on here?’ she demanded furiously. ‘Grace! Stop that at once!’

But Grace couldn’t stop. ‘I want to go back, please, Mummy! Please!’

Eva put her down and before she could do anything to settle Grace, Catherine had grabbed her by the shoulders. ‘Just stop it now!’ She turned to Eva. ‘What in God’s name were you doing in there anyway?’

‘We… we just took him his tea.’

‘I told you to take it to him. What were you thinking of ? Stop it!’ She shook the child. ‘Stop it! Do you hear me? No more of that noise! Your father must have quiet. Do you understand? You’re hurting him!’ She slapped Grace across the face, hard. ‘Do you want to hurt him?’

Grace stopped, too shocked and frightened to make another sound.

Catherine stood up. ‘I won’t have this sort of thing, do you understand, Lena? The greenhouse is off limits for a reason. Don’t take her there again.’

Turning abruptly on her heel, she marched back to the house.

Jonathan Maudley sat at his desk, staring into nothingness. Outside, the cool spring day softened. But he was far away, in another time and place.

Please don’t make me go! Please!

Help me! Please!

He closed his eyes. But the voices persisted.

Opening his desk drawer, he reached for a bottle of whisky. Struggled to get the top off. Tipping his head back, he took a long swallow. Then he pulled a roll-up from his shirt pocket and lit it.

He inhaled hard, holding on to the lighter, pressing it into the palm of hand. He ran his thumb along the inscription. Always and Evermore, it read – a gift from Catherine when he’d joined up. But still the memories unfolded like an unstoppable newsreel in his head.

Here was an open field, a gentle green hillock. The expanse of brilliant blue sky above. Dawn had risen over the valley of the Somme as gently, gracefully as on a page from Genesis, unfolding into a beautiful morning, cloudless, hot.

And young men, passing cigarettes and flasks, joking; laughing at their own nerves.

Then it began, out of nowhere.

Someone shouted an order; others followed.

Shells whistled through the air… there were the cartwheels – horizontal, with machine guns… swinging round, a belt of fire on the hill, filling the air with black smoke and noise.

Jonathan took another swig.

Here were the faces he didn’t want to see.

Men twisting, dancing, arms outstretched – body parts exploding in mid-air, showering down in sprays of guts, sinew and bone. The ground beneath them turned greasy, slippery with blood

And the roar. The unholy, ceaseless sound of terror.

‘Please! Please!’

The dying dangled in the sea of barbed wire, caught mid-air. Like men praying, falling to their knees, only the wire wouldn’t let them.

They just hung there.

‘Please! Please, sir! Don’t leave me, please!’

Jonathan staggered past them, half-blind, deafened; his right arm shattered open.

‘Help me, sir! Please!’

Half a man’s face was gone, an eye swinging from its socket, yet his mouth still moved.

Jonathan shot him with trembling hands. His own man.

The boy slumped forward, a marionette, strings cut.

‘Fall back! Move! Move, you bastard! Move!’

Someone was waving, shouting; hauling him up by the collar of his jacket.

Looking over his shoulder, he saw the long lines of Germans sweeping along the brow of the hillock, four hundred yards away. They were marching slowly, shoulder to shoulder; a solid grey wall of men and ammunition.

He managed to make it back to the third line and there, in a state of delirium, manned one of the machine guns until he fell unconscious from loss of blood.

So many years had passed now.

But that day would never end.

It was late, almost ten in the evening, when Eva went back to collect the tea tray from Jonathan Maudley’s desk. He hadn’t come in to supper, as she’d promised Grace. Instead, Grace had eaten alone with her mother. Some time after seven, Eva had heard the sound of the motor starting, heading down the drive. Probably to the pub. And not long afterwards, Catherine retired to her bedroom for the night.

The greenhouse had no electricity. So Eva took a lantern with her, illuminated by a stubby, low candle. Pulling her cardigan around her against the cold, she made her way down the garden path. The moon was bright and high; shadows shifted in the darkness, wind rustling through the leaves. She knocked on the door. No reply.

Pushing it open, she went through to the office.

There, on his desk, untouched, was the tea tray. But as she went to lift it, she noticed there were also a number of papers that hadn’t been there before, a small collection of old newspaper clippings.

Lifting the lamp higher, Eva picked one up.

Local Hero to be Honoured in Memorial Ceremony, it read.

Another one contained a photograph of him in uniform, Capt Maudley Receives Military Cross for Bravery.

Suddenly she heard the crunch of gravel under the wheels of a car. Putting the clippings back where she had found them, Eva picked up the tray and, moving as quickly as possible, made her way out of the greenhouse.

From the safety of the kitchen, she could just make out the outline of a figure, staggering and reeling towards the house.

That night, in bed, Eva thought about how handsome and young he had looked in the newspaper clippings.

And how different, unrecognizable, he was now.

Grace was lying on her stomach on the floor, stacking wooden blocks into a precarious structure with great concentration. Her little brow was knit, her tongue pressed hard into the corner of her mouth.

Eva sat down on the chair near the fireplace. ‘What are you building?’

‘A fortress,’ she answered, without looking up.

‘You never like to play with dolls, do you?’ Eva noted.

Grace shook her head. ‘I’m going to make things. Like Daddy.’

‘Not a mummy with a baby?’

‘A mummy with a baby and a maker,’ she determined, balancing another block.

‘Lena!’ Catherine was calling from the kitchen. ‘Lena! Come here, please.’

Both of them hurried downstairs. Catherine was standing in the kitchen, arms folded in front of her. Her face was serious.

‘I’d like an explanation, Lena.’ She pointed to the greasy panes of glass, with bits of dead flowers smashed between them, lined up on the kitchen counter top. ‘I went into the pantry to compile a shopping list and I found these.’ Her upper lip curled in disgust. ‘What are they? Please don’t say that we’re meant to eat them!’

‘They are flowers presses, ma’am. To make perfume.’

‘Perfume?’ Catherine was at a loss. ‘But why?’

‘Well, I… it’s just…’ Eva blinked. ‘I thought it would be something to do, ma’am. As a project for Grace.’

‘Little girls don’t need projects. And if they do, you can teach them how to knit or sew – something useful!’ Gingerly she picked at the side of one of the glass panes, recoiling from the greasy edge. ‘What is that anyway? Lard?’

‘Tallow, ma’am.’

‘Good God!’ Catherine shuddered, wiping her fingertips off on a tea towel. ‘And what’s this?’ She pointed to another.

Eva looked down at the floor. ‘Hair, ma’am. And a bit of wool.’

‘I have honestly never seen anything so disgusting in my life! And in the kitchen of all places! Really, Lena. I don’t understand – you’re normally so clean. Get rid of them. It’s bound to be rancid by now.’

‘But it isn’t, Mummy,’ Grace interjected. ‘And this one,’ she pointed out the panes with the paperwhites, ‘this one is going to be mine when it’s ready!’

‘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.’

‘Thank you, your lordship.’

‘Naturally, this event has meant that changes have to be made. Now is a time when my daughter needs the support of her family. This little experiment,’ he looked around at the modest drawing room, ‘in independence is over. She will be moving back to the main house with all possible speed.’

Eva swallowed. ‘I should be pleased to continue to serve them and you, sir, wherever they go.’

‘How accommodating. However, all my kitchen and cleaning staff requirements are already met. I’m sure you understand.’

He slid an envelope out from behind the blotter on the desk. ‘I think you will find my daughter has been extremely generous in both her severance and her letter of recommendation.’

He held the envelope out.

Eva stared at it.

‘I would be happy to work in any capacity. For example, I have looked after little Grace for some months now. I would be so… so very pleased to continue…’

The look on his face was a mixture of both irritation and disdain.

‘My granddaughter will, of course, have a proper nanny,’ he clarified pointedly. ‘A professional qualified to educate a young lady of her class.’ Rising, he held the envelope out again. ‘Arrangements have already been made. Your services are no longer required.’

Eva took the envelope. She could neither see nor hear clearly.

‘I can do anything, your lordship,’ her voice was just above a whisper, ‘anything, at all… I will work in the kitchens or laundry…’

‘Why?’ His expression changed. He came closer.

Eva looked up. ‘I’m sorry, sir?’

‘Why?’ he repeated. ‘You have money, references. Oxford has many opportunities. Why do want to stay here so badly?’

‘You… you misunderstand me, sir.’

‘Do I?’ His voice was icy. ‘Your eyes are a very unusual colour.

‘Sir?’

‘I’ve only seen eyes like that once before. They are almost exactly the same colour as Grace’s.’

Eva felt her body go rigid. She tried to say something but her mouth just opened, gaping soundlessly.

‘You’re not who you pretend to be, are you?’ His face hardened. ‘I always knew that some day there’d be trouble. I expected blackmail. But I didn’t expect anything like this.’

Again, Eva tried to swallow, her throat tightening like a fist, but made no reply.

‘If I were to ring the Home Office, I believe I should have no difficulty in verifying your true identity. What is it you call yourself? Celine? Do you realize the seriousness of traveling on forged papers? You could be arrested as a spy, or simply deported.’

‘I… I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir,’ she managed.

‘Don’t you? Would you care to bring your papers to me for examination?’

Tears stung the backs of her eyes; Eva bit her lower lip hard, to hold them back, and shook her head ‘no’.

‘I didn’t think so. You have two days to leave this country. After that, I shall notify the authorities. And please don’t misunderstand me, there are no lengths I won’t go to remove you if you defy me.’

He moved towards the window again, his back to her, watching Grace playing on the front lawn.

There was a movement just outside the drawing room door. Then the faint sound of footfall on the stairs.

‘I had a son once.’ He spat the words out, edged with bitterness and hatred. ‘He died too. Of drunkenness, debauchery and disease. The only decent thing he ever did was for his sister. Do you really think that I’m going to allow some cheap French tart to destroy my daughter’s last remaining happiness?’