Servants in red, blue, and black livery jockeyed for position, waiting for packages to be brought out from a backroom. Women in shimmering silk gowns and delicate lace wafted from one counter to another, lifting a pair of perfumed kid gloves here, a bottle of eau de toilette there.
Becca eyed the storm of activity that buffeted this jewel box of a perfume shop on the rue du Roule. How could Jude Fenimore possibly have hidden in a place like this?
A portly man with light brown hair sprinkled with gray applied face powder and dabs of rouge to a woman standing before him as if her face were a painted canvas. “This color would make you look ill at Versailles. It is meant only for the quality of light found in a garden.” He shook his head. “I will not sell it to you.”
A woman behind the counter held out her index finger to display a small black circle of taffeta to a customer who bent over the artificial beauty mark as if it held the secret to happiness. “Place this at the corner of your mouth, and the men will know you would like a kiss,” the saleswoman instructed. “Or here by your eye if you merely wish to flirt.”
Floor-to-ceiling mahogany shelves were filled with pomades, potions, and powders. The walls of the perfume shop were lacquered a luminous, pale blue that reminded Becca of the sky at first light.
She had no doubt that Jude had fled toward this store in particular when he ran from the Cathedral of Notre Dame. But the shopkeepers certainly would have barred his way if he’d attempted to enter this place. His clothes had been wet once he climbed back over the bridge and began to run. Where else could he have hidden? What drew him here?
She exhaled a frustrated breath. “I might as well be invisible,” she said to Hannah and Augusta. No one, neither customer nor this shopkeeper, had looked at them in the half-hour or more since they’d arrived. She still needed to talk to the shopkeepers. “We could return when they are less busy.”
“It won’t make a difference when we arrive,” Augusta answered. “They have decided we are not worthy.”
“Worthy?” Hannah sputtered.
“Worth their attention. We are neither fashionable nor wealthy enough, it seems.” Augusta raised her chin.
Becca swept her hand along the side of her day gown. It was four years old, practically new, and the finest dress she owned, even if its flower-and-stripe print seemed outdated compared to the complex, winding flower patterns the customers wore. Their bodices were much lower than hers, too. It was a miracle their breasts didn’t spill out of their gowns whenever they leaned forward.
Becca hated the idea of making a scene. She hated even more making herself the center of attention. But she didn’t see an alternative. “We may not be fashionable or wealthy, but we have one thing every French woman seems to want this year.”
“What on earth is that?” Augusta asked.
“We have Benjamin Franklin,” she turned to Hannah. “I know I promised not to call attention to ourselves. Do I have your permission?”
Hannah nodded cautiously.
Becca lifted her chin and spoke loudly enough to be heard throughout the room. “Dr. Benjamin Franklin assured us that this was the finest perfumery in Paris. I will be sorry to disabuse him of that notion.”
Hannah translated softly to Lady Augusta.
The buzz of voices faded, and the whispers began. Dr. Franklin’s name echoed throughout the room. The man who painted women’s faces and the middle-aged woman behind the counter smiled at the Americans as if they hadn’t ignored them for the last half hour. Customers stared with curiosity at the trio of American women.
“Well done. Now turn as if we’re leaving,” Augusta said.
Becca pivoted so quickly that she stepped on her hem.
Augusta took one of Becca’s arms and Hannah the other, although whether their gesture was intended to ensure that she didn’t fall on her face before reaching the door or to comfort her, Becca would never be certain.
The two shopkeepers materialized, blocking the path to the door. “It would be an honor to assist you today. I am Monsieur Fargeon and this is my wife.” He bowed, still holding a cosmetic brush in one hand.
“We meant only to give you time to enjoy the wares before asking to assist you.” Madame Fargeon curtsied. Her face was powdered a translucent white, and her hair was covered by a white mobcap with a red ribbon. She smelled of violets.
Becca, Hannah, and Augusta introduced themselves.
“Do you wish me to prepare something for Dr. Franklin?” Monsieur Fargeon asked.
“However did you guess?” Augusta asked.
Hannah coughed to suppress a grin.
“Is there a place we may talk privately?” Becca asked.
The Fargeons exchanged a look, the type of silent conversation long-married couples share, and madam nodded. “Émil and Renée can watch the store. I shall call them.”
Moments later, the couple gestured the three Americans toward a narrow door at the rear of the store.
Bitter orange. Soft violet. Dignified rose. Calming lavender. Base notes of musk. A wall of scent embraced Becca as she crossed into the storeroom. She gagged. Augusta lifted a lacy handkerchief to her nose. Hannah gasped with delight.
“We have the finest scents in France,” Madame Fargeon said.
The right side of the storeroom was lined with narrow worktables featuring bowls, pots, potions, funnels, bottles, and a rainbow of flower petals. Hannah swept past them, heading for the tables. The left side of the room held unpainted pine shelves overflowing with large and small boxes, gloves, fabric squares, and more bottles.
This was where monsieur created his perfumes, Becca surmised.
“What matter requires such privacy? Does Dr. Franklin wish me to create a perfume for him?” Fargeon’s tone was light, but lines of concern crossed his forehead. He seemed to know that a request for a new perfume would not come in this manner.
His wife’s gaze followed Hannah, who was inspecting every pot and bowl displayed on the tables along the wall. She lifted her head from a glass bowl, holding damp cotton balls and delicate white flower petals. “How did you find jasmine so early in the season? The petals open only at six p.m. and must be picked immediately.”
“You know of it? It is delicate work.” Fargeon’s face lit with pleasure, or was it relief at the change in subject?
“Who does not know the jasmine that grows in your country?” Hannah lifted her hand to her heart. “It is remarkable.”
“Do not flirt with my husband, madam, not while I stand before you.” Madame Fargeon snarled.
Becca’s hands twisted into fists. “Flirting? My mother is not….”
“My apologies.” Hannah interrupted, dipping a small curtsy.
Had she been flirting? Becca studied her mother.
“I should have directed my flattery at both of you. What you have created is miraculous.” Hannah shook her head in wonder. “I have never seen the like. You have hundreds of flowers and herbs. They are my business, too. I am a healer.”
“There are times I also consider our perfumery a miracle. It is unmatched in France, which means it is unmatched in the world.” Fargeon’s chest expanded with pride.
Hannah lifted her face, her attention captured by other ingredients along the wall. “I smell apple, but not apple. What is it?” She peered into a reddish-brown clay pot and lifted a knob of some dark root. Her winged eyebrows rose. “Mandrake root? You use that in your perfumes?”
The Fargeons’ attention was entirely on Hannah now. Becca scanned the workshop space. Jude could have slipped in through the door along the back wall. It led to an alley or a yard, she guessed. There was another door on the wall to her right. It was half open, and she spied stairs. They probably led to the couple’s apartment. Would Jude have had the nerve to invade the Fargeons’ home? If they were friends, he might have.
Monsieur Fargeon nodded. “But of course. The root lends a green freshness to a scent. Add some birch root, a bit of citrus bergamot….”
Madam interrupted, looking fondly at her husband. “You would share all our secrets to anyone who’ll listen. And we must get back to our customers. The nobility is not known for patience.” She pursed her lips into a tight smile.
Becca would thank Hannah later. Her interruption had relaxed the shopkeepers. Conversation would come easy now. She would start by assuming that Jude had stopped here. If he had, the couple might think she knew more than she actually did. “We are hoping you can tell us about Jude Fenimore and how you came to know him.”
“Who is this Mr. Fenimore? We don’t know anyone by that name, do we?” He spoke to his wife.
She shook her head.