March 26, 1554

I am so excited. This evening there was a small concert held in the grand salon and after the performance I was standing talking with Francis, Mary Seton, and Mary Livingston. René the Florentine, one of the perfumers Queen Catherine brought with her from Italy – and who, I might add, is much more agreeable than Ruggieri and many others she brought along – turned toward us and sniffed the air. “I smell an essence most delectable. Is it campanula and…”

“Harebells, Sir. My mother sent me a handkerchief. Here, I keep it knotted in my sleeve.” I withdrew the handkerchief and carefully untied it. The dried bit of heather and harebells and gorse were revealed.

The signore bent over my hand. He has very large nostrils – cavernous nostrils. I was afraid that he might inhale all the bits. But he didn’t. “Your Majesty,” he said, “let me ask the next courier who goes to Scotland to bring back some of these petals. I shall send proper packing materials so they will arrive fresh. Then let me try to brew an absolue, an essence from them, and therefore you can always keep fresh that memory of Scotland.” He looked now directly into my eyes.

“How kind,” I said. “I would like that very much.”

I held the handkerchief to my nose and breathed in the now faint scent. Each day it has faded away a bit more. How wonderful to have forever a bottle of this scent if indeed René the Florentine could achieve it. What is it about the way a scent works on one’s mind? It erases the boundaries of time and place. I remember just recently at Grandmama’s smelling the calvados brandy she poured for my uncles, and suddenly I was back in Normandy at Château Saint-Germain. I sniffed at the handkerchief once more. There can, however, be something about a scent that bruises the heart. I think of my mother, and the sharpness of missing her is as fresh as on the day when she left France after her visit nearly three years ago.