Eight hundred years of memory and knowledge embraced me. I knew this former cathedral, now simply called our church, almost as well as I knew my own home with its crooked stone pillars soaring to the vault of the gothic ceiling and strengthened by iron girders. Simple, grey marble tiles underfoot echoed its inherent modesty. Cold stone surrounded me and for now suited my heart. I noted some crumbling in the dark grey walls.
‘We should contribute some money to restore our church,’ I whispered. It was inappropriate – a useless comment – but I needed to have a reason to talk to Henri or I would be forced to acknowledge the beaming audience come to bear witness. Maybe that was the bribe offered to coerce our priest into overlooking the necessary paperwork. He was a sweet, elderly man, no doubt intimidated by both the Delacroix and De Lasset chieftains.
‘It’s fine,’ Henri said, patting my hand as he might an obedient pet. He surely knew what I was thinking.
I shifted my gaze from my hem towards the high windows near the ceiling. It had always intrigued me that all but one of the windows had clear glass. Perhaps Henri was right to leave the cathedral be. The sobriety made that single, richly stained glass window all the more beautiful for its presence.
We were nearly there and I finally had to look ahead to the cluster of men awaiting me: priest, husband-to-be, twin. Felix glanced over his shoulder, flashed me a devil-be-damned grin and whispered something to the man he stood next to. But the groom did not turn; he stood patiently, as he had waited all of his life for me to grow up and be old enough for him to steal me from my family.
Henri and I drew alongside. I stood nearly shoulder to shoulder with Aimery but he would never see me as his equal, never recognise me as my own person; from today my role was to support his every need and, above all, deliver him the heir he now required . . . and perhaps a few as spares.
Only months ago I’d listened to the men talking about war, but the conversation had a distant quality as though even they believed it couldn’t ever happen. The news filtering through newspapers and various reports suggested the shared royal blood of Queen Victoria’s grandchildren may not be enough to save Europe from dragging itself into all-out war because of the troubles between Austria–Hungary and Serbia.
I’d switched off from the conversation. Our father had been too old to be physically involved in the Franco–Prussian war and my brothers yet to be born. Germany’s hostility remained buried in alliances. I knew only what I’d learned at school and, despite being fed a regular diet of war propaganda, politics interested me only marginally more than marrying Aimery. My inspiration, the reason I would wake and smile for the day ahead, was to help my father and Felix to make perfume. The rest of the world held little interest for me other than where we might discover new plants, new elements.
Although I could demonstrate the gift, I was not permitted to be known as ‘le nez’ but my advice was sought, indulged; I was part of the family apparatus that had delivered the exquisite and popular Minuit. I had even chosen the name of midnight. More recently our Coeur de Printemps had created an avalanche of orders and to achieve that sense of spring’s heartbeat we had combined a dazzling eleven notes so finely balanced that I remember how we argued down to the last minuscule drop of vetiver. We had hotly debated whether to include anise or leave its broody presence out and whether iris stayed plush enough after the first joyous whiff had dried away. Felix and I had disagreed about lavender, sat on opposite ends of the table over grapefruit, suffered angst over the inclusion of ambergris.
My mind was always full of combinations. I felt I had no room for the drama of when the Kaiser had offended Russia, and Germany’s neighbours had suddenly unified against it in shared resentment of Berlin. Britain – my mother’s homeland and a naval titan – had become alarmed at Germany’s build-up of its seafaring might. I had the awareness that Europe was suddenly divided into two opposers – ourselves with the Entente, Germany with its allies – that we identified as the Central Powers but it was not truly impacting on me yet. I can remember my father talking to that same doctor, Monsieur Bertrand, that war across Europe seemed inevitable.
Aimery apparently agreed and this was why he had pressed for the marriage – to get his line established, get sons born to carry the family name and business forward, no matter what. And as I stood there, staring at the single stained-glass window that radiated colour around me like divine ornamentation on a neutral scene below, I had a moment of dawning that Henri would be next. He would marry urgently now to achieve the same aim. He had no intention of risking leaving the Delacroix future in the hands of a woman, even one with the sublime talent he knew I possessed. He was so rigid, he would rather risk birthing a male heir without the skill so long as the family had a Delacroix man at its head. And there was always Felix . . . the family ‘nose’ was intact through him – he could guide the new heir as he grew.
I gave our priest a look of accusation and he had the grace to avert his gaze, filled with guilty remorse. We were all too far down this path to turn back now and I knew this lovely man would have been outnumbered, outmuscled by the heads of the foremost families of the community he served. I hoped that he had at least put up a good fight for me on moral grounds. The priest asked a question and I heard Henri answer formally and yet couldn’t determine the words for the sudden alarm in my mind that things were moving fast now – I had only moments of Delacroix freedom remaining to savour. Every ounce of my body was denying progress but duty was the lead in my feet. Contrastingly light of heart, Henri was beaming as he nodded at Aimery, delighted to unload the burden of the spinster sister. I didn’t want Henri to leave me – a rare feeling – but he was unclasping us and handing me over to the new owner of his property.
Only now Aimery turned. He blinked. I saw satisfaction in his expression and I had to look away for fear of picking up my skirt hem again and bolting from the church.
MICHAEL JOSEPH
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Penguin Books is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies
whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.
First published by Penguin Group (Australia), 2015
Text copyright © Fiona McIntosh 2015
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
Cover design by Laura Thomas © Penguin Group (Australia)
Text design by Samantha Jayaweera © Penguin Group (Australia)
Cover photographs: woman © Eve North/Trevillion Images, background image:
Alamy, dress: Eduardo Jose Bernadino/Getty Images
Colour separation by Splitting Image Colour Studio, Clayton, Victoria
penguin.com.au
ISBN: 978-1-74348-388-6
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The Last Dance Page 43
