The Last Dance

by Fiona McIntosh

  My value was now being reduced to the youth of my flesh and I wanted to accuse him of having no knowledge of my prime – or any other potential bride’s prime, come to that – but he lectured on, trampling my thoughts.

  ‘Be grateful for your charmed life, Fleurette. You belong to the second-wealthiest family of Grasse and your marriage into the town’s richest family is surely a rite of passage; the timing is perfect and you know it ensures strength for the town as well – the whole region, in fact.’

  He was so transparent with his manipulation I felt a momentary pity. Henri had always lacked subtlety. It was only I suppose in the last year or two that I’d come to understand Henri so fully, with his odd sense of inferiority. He had so much in his favour simply by being the eldest – that special status of being entitled – but still he envied his siblings, hungered for what we had.

  If my father treated us all with what felt like identical affection I suspect my mother held a special and deeply embedded compassion for Henri. I gathered this from the old nursery maid who helped raise us. Henri was Flora’s firstborn; the celebrated arrival of a son and heir made him her most beloved. It also helped, I’m sure, that he echoed her family with hair the colour of the sunbaked beaches of our childhood. He must have looked like a little angel as an infant; the grainy photos attested to this. Now, though, that once shiny hair was thinning and looked less like straw and more like wispy gold thread. His hairline had receded to reveal wings of shiny scalp that made his forehead seem a little too large. He compensated with a wiry moustache, ostentatiously curled so its tips flew north. And a newly grown beard offered the added benefit of making him seem older – the air of the patriarch he was aiming for. He trimmed his gingery beard to a point, like an exclamation to end a debate and prove he was, at twenty-seven, virile and capable of growing hair.

  Meanwhile, Felix and I were the antithesis of Henri; we were a pair of midnight sentinels to his once angelic gold. Our fluff of infancy darkened quickly and by five we sported the lustrous near-black hair of our father’s ancestors and we knew we would turn first moonlight silver before we became white as our predecessors, while Henri continued the march into bland baldness. The dissimilarities continued. Where Henri was slightly built with sloping shoulders hidden by skilled tailoring, our brother was strapping and I too was long-limbed, wide of shoulder, and both of us glowingly healthy to Henri’s somewhat wan appearance. He routinely took ‘herbal inhalations’, gargled with salt, had taken to the waters at Lourdes for several years in an annual pilgrimage . . . anything to keep the feared infection at bay. He sniffed eucalypt and had rubdowns of tonic of menthol as he worried incessantly that he might contract the same disease as our mother. He would often ungraciously claim that she’d bestowed weak lungs upon him. Perhaps if he gave up smoking his expensive cigars from Cuba, it might help . . . but who was I to question our family’s head any longer? Soon he would no longer be head of my family. I would belong to another man, another head of household, another controlling son who strived to live up to his ancestors.

  Another bully.

  The horses drawing our carriage slowed and paced out a wide circle on the cobbles sprawling in front of the cathedral before we finally lurched to a halt. We’d arrived at the place where one half of me would likely give up on life. The other half would bear witness to that surrender but hopefully remain safe, hidden, alive and dreaming of better luck for us both.

  ‘Marriage, family, duty is everything our father stood for,’ Henri finished, as though wanting to slam the book shut on any further discussion about the suitability of this marriage.

  I insisted on aiming to have the last word, though. ‘Well, as you’re selling me off like a stud horse, Henri, you really should take into account my fine teeth!’ I said, my voice finally breaking as my body felt itself sundered. It seemed as though only a shell now remained inside the carriage, dabbing quickly at her eyes, while the spirit version of me shrank and surely floated outside, finally free, to await on the church steps for the Delacroix bride to emerge from the froth of white inside the closed carriage.

  ‘Do your duty,’ Henri urged in a clipped tone. I watched his face betray the sneer that was close to the surface. Henri had no time for girlish tears. ‘A wise and solid marriage is the only contribution demanded of you . . . that, and some heirs. You can manage that, surely?’

  ‘Duty?’ I heard my voice squeak on the word. ‘Henri, we’re potentially going to war and you’re more troubled by a strategic marriage arrangement and —’

  He made a condescending tutting sound. ‘Hush now, Fleurette. It is not your place to discuss politics.’ I could almost see myself blinking in disgust opposite him. ‘Besides’ – he smirked – ‘this is why young women should not focus on men’s business. You may claim otherwise, Fleurette, but you are as emotionally vulnerable as the next girl. Let me remind you of the shared blood that runs in the veins of the German Kaiser and the Russian Tsar. They are hardly going to prolong any bad feeling against each other. War may well be declared . . . yes, words, but it likely won’t amount to much fighting.’

  I couldn’t be bothered arguing otherwise. Henri’s tactless hint at the next duty of horror I would be required to perform was suddenly crowding me, smacking in my mind as one might swing at a fly with a swat. He was not a deliberately cruel man but I could almost hear the snapping sound in my thoughts, almost feel the sting of his taunt.

  And I replied in a similarly cruel vein, although I was ashamed of myself for stooping this low. ‘You should marry him, Henri. You’ve always had a fondness for Aimery.’

  His glare was ringed by invisible rage. I could feel it wanting to reach out and grab me by the neck as he used to when we were little and he was up against both of us. Because Felix was bigger, stronger, Henri picked on me instead, even if he wanted to fight back against only my brother. I was never a match physically but Felix had schooled me in how to use my wit instead. But I had failed him today. Today my tongue was a blunt instrument, clubbing Henri with the only weapon I had against him.

  His secret had always been safe with us. We were brothers and sister. No matter our differences, we shared the name of Delacroix and nothing stood between that and the rest of the world. Except now. Now the brother I had protected was casting me adrift into a new world I did not want . . . not yet.

  I was his chattel. In that moment I hated him as much as Aimery and if not for Felix’s sympathetic grin from the top of the cathedral stairs as he spotted our arrival, I may have faltered. But the glance from Felix told me to bear up. I looked at the male version of me; we had shared our mother’s womb during the same thirty-nine weeks, emerging within a minute of each other. I was born first and took regular delight in reminding him of this. Everything was shared, often our emotions – especially today – and I knew he was losing his best friend in a way that most couldn’t understand and everyone would underestimate.

  ‘I will forgive you for that insult, Fleurette, though I’m sure I don’t know what you mean by it,’ he lied. ‘Catherine also would not appreciate your sentiment.’

  I might have liked Catherine in any other situation and I would be a welcoming sister to her if she married Henri. However, her family’s driving need for her to be a Delacroix at all costs was surely out-muscling her instincts. If only she’d met Aimery first and they could have married, then I wouldn’t be facing my trauma; maybe I could blame poor Catherine for this dark pathway I now had to walk?

  ‘Fleurette?’ His tone this time was surprisingly gentle.

  Yet I responded as if he’d hit me. ‘Yes!’ I clenched two fists in my lap in a bid to contain my fury. ‘I know, Henri, I know . . .’ I gave one last sniff. ‘Let me gather myself.’

  ‘I want to say something meaningful to you.’

  ‘Don’t,’ I warned. People were hushing around the carriage, and the coachman was waiting as a footman put down a stool for me to step onto.

  Henri held the door closed a few moments longer.
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  ‘Make it work, little sister. This is a match unrivalled in our family history . . . or theirs. It is one made in heaven.’

  ‘Or rather one on paper, using arithmetic with a lot of French franc symbols.’

  ‘Fleurette, you are a beautiful, young woman with an intelligence to match. Learn how to use those gifts amongst the others that have been bestowed upon you to get what you want.’

  The words drove into me like the chilling blast of the mistral blowing ferociously in November, roaring through my mind, taking with them my haughty resentment and perhaps even the arrogance that I should have the right to choose the man I marry. It was not so for any of my friends. Why should I be different? I was a romantic fool. Felix regularly accused me of wanting to script my life when it would be controlled by seniors, or take its own merry path and would likely throw up obstacles to clamber over, or throw down challenges to fight through. A slit of comprehension opened for me like a shaft of dawn’s sunlight breaking over the hills of Grasse.

  Henri’s revolting choice for me would indeed ensure the success and wealth of ongoing generations. ‘Keep it in the family of Grasse’ had been one of my father’s favourite phrases and no doubt that philosophy was one he had wanted to apply to our unions. I couldn’t be selective about when his advice was relevant. It never stopped being relevant. Protecting the industry of Grasse, protecting the family’s interests and its ongoing success, was my job too, and part of my job was to marry strategically.

  Love was irrelevant – a lucky by-product, if it occurred.

  ‘We have to go, Fleurette,’ Henri said, and his tone was even kinder.

  The door to the carriage was opened and the sounds of the people who lined the courtyard and some of the narrower alleys that fed into the cathedral square hurried in. Henri stepped out first to applause that turned wild as I emerged to take his hand with as much grace as I could muster.

  ‘You have never looked more gorgeous,’ he whispered. ‘If I were Aimery, I would consider myself the luckiest man on earth.’

  I looked into his earnest expression and saw no guile. Poor Henri. He truly believed this was for the best. In which case, I should do the same. Accept my lot now and get on with it. I could hardly complain that I wanted for much.

  I braced, took a slow, deep breath and found a smile for my brother. ‘Walk me down the aisle, Henri.’

  __________

  Women sighed, thrilled at the sight of the first Delacroix bride of the new generation to step out, ready to take her wedding vows at the cathedral of Notre-Dame du Puy. Others, mainly boys, hung from windows, whistling and vying for my attention – a little smile, a sideways glance, perhaps. I gave nothing but hoped they’d all forgive me, imagine me a nervous bride, desperate not to trip or stumble. I began to understand, feeling their collective surge of pleasure. How impossible it must have seemed to my brother and his partner in this transaction, to consider cancellation or post-­pone­ment.

  These might be the last smiles for a long time and although war had yet to be officially declared and we prayed it might still be averted, I think we could all feel its press. This wedding was needed to keep everyone optimistic for the future.

  Henri and Aimery had forgone the age-old tradition of the man calling at the house of his bride and then walking with her to the church, gathering a long procession of townsfolk behind them. Henri considered it beneath us and it troubled me that he saw us as different from the townsfolk in anything but privilege. Each of us children had been born and raised in this town and our father had come here from Paris as a boy. We were locals. Perhaps the word Henri didn’t utter but heard in his mind was ‘peasants’. Either way, I had to forgo what might have been the only fun of the day for me, to walk with the people I loved and perhaps channel their joy into mine. It seemed they’d all proceeded to the church anyway, just without the main couple.

  I noted their sense of celebration had not been dampened and they were determined I still follow some of the ritual. Each stair to the cathedral was flanked by two children who belonged to the workers of our fields – I knew each by name. Between each pair they’d stretched a white ribbon. Normally, I would have been required to cut those ribbons intermittently on my journey from my home to the altar, but they seemed happy enough to make me cut the ribbons on the stairs. The first boy, Pierre, son of one of the violet growers, solemnly handed me some tailor’s scissors that looked cumbersome in his small hands.

  ‘Mademoiselle Fleurette,’ he said, bowing sweetly.

  I could hardly refuse. ‘Merci, Pierre,’ I whispered, touching his curly head, before I cut his ribbon and the crowd cheered.

  I lifted the hem of my gown, which was made of transparent embroidered silk covering the palest ecru satin. The elbow-length, gently ruffled sleeves of sheer Flanders lace had been fashioned from my grandmother’s bridal gown. We were a superstitious lot, we Delacroix. The overall colour effect seemed to match the marble of the shallow exterior stairs of the cathedral we were ascending, and I wondered how many happy brides – like my mother – had wanted to run up this short flight towards their intended. I had walked these smoothly worn stairs most Sundays of my life and never dreaded them as I did now. From within the womb of the cathedral’s stone walls I could hear the echoing sounds of people restless in their pews – coughs and the drone of men’s voices, the light laughter of women – before the organ’s soft background hum became louder, turned into official wedding music, and hushed those tones.

  The pain had left me. I was no longer whole, though. I genuinely believed in this moment that part of me had escaped and now observed my other. I reminded myself that when Henri let go of my arm, my twin would be standing alongside the groom to keep me strong, get me through the trial of agreeing to be Aimery’s wife without shouting my true feelings. Felix had already disappeared into the cathedral, no doubt quieting anyone who hadn’t realised I’d arrived at the gateway to misery. I imagined his crooked smile with that glint of mischief in his eye, urging me to be strong.

  The thought encouraged me and I turned once, reaching deep to find a glimmer of a smile for the still applauding townsfolk outside. They loved the old families, loved what we did for the town; they especially loved my father for how he looked after everyone who worked for the firm of Delacroix. It didn’t matter whether they picked the flowers, worked on the factory floor in the distillation process or drove the carts that would make deliveries – they were all viewed as vital, valuable and worthy of his smile, his care, his kindness at all times.

  We were the European chieftains of this industry. We were the royalty of Grasse, beloved old families of France.

  We are the Perfumers to the World.

  Perhaps it was this thought that warmed up my expression as I turned to lift a hand of appreciation to the townsfolk for their welcome when I helplessly locked on to the searing gaze of Graciela Olivares. She seemed to be standing on a low wall, for her shoulders were easily visible above even the tallest townsfolk. This gave her a clear pathway of sight to burn her fury towards me. I wanted to assure her I was as helpless in this event as a tethered lamb. It had never occurred to me that she wouldn’t be Aimery’s wife. If only I could explain that the talks between the two heads of household happened in private and were announced without me having any say in the agreement, that my pain matched hers . . . but Henri was dragging me into the shadows of the cathedral porch, where the heat of day and Graciela’s fire were instantly chased away by the cool.

  I took one long last draught of freedom and on the air I tasted my beloved Grasse, picking out its flavours with ease as though I was pointing to each on a store shelf. They were imprinted on my memory and I could select them as I chose, and yet when they reached me fresh of a morning it was as though I smelled them for the first time.

  The sun-coaxed honeyed lusciousness of rose came first, tumbling on the soft thermals rising from the valley to the summit where I stood, soon to take holy vows. I reached for the waft of violet . . .
there it was, syrupy and haunting, before it was pushed aside by woody, camphorous rosemary and the earthy yet elegant thyme that was never far away. They were using essential oils we’d distilled months earlier. Right now we were approaching jasmine harvest but the sensual jasmine would come into its own tonight. Even so, more flavours crowded; I wished I could linger to pick out more, but Henri was guiding me into the shadow of the vestibule.

  People were clearing throats, glancing around, standing. Children were staring. I couldn’t bear to meet the glance of anyone; instead I fixed my gaze on the dark stone of the church walls ahead.

  Henri touched my fingertips, which clasped his arm loosely. ‘Ready to do battle?’ he whispered in the strange language of our mother’s tongue.

  It seemed timely given what Europe was facing but it was an old jest from childhood and nearly undid me. However, I embraced the affection he’d hoped he could elicit with that question.

  ‘Tally ho,’ I whispered, using the familiar yet odd response that none of us children had ever understood.

  He grinned and I saw her in him and a fleeting echo of our father’s smile. And then we were walking, our steps matched to the solemn music; underfoot I crushed fresh rose petals, dropped by the small child chosen as flower girl for the ceremony. Blanche was the daughter of one of our staff. I wondered if she was imagining her own wedding day. I wished Blanche a happier union as the fragrance of roses once again lifted and cradled me in its familiar scent, which I had known throughout my life. It reassured, and I held myself straighter to the organ’s sombre music, which Henri had also chosen.