Scent of Triumph
Page 1
Table of Contents
Praise
Also by Jan Moran
About the Author
Dedication
Part I - Europe Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Part II - America Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Part III - Europe Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Epilogue
Author's Notes
Acknowledgements
Questions for Book Clubs
Scent of Triumph
A Novel by
Jan Moran
Copyright © 2012 by Jan Moran
Crescent House Publishing / Briarcliffe Press
P.O. Box 230348
Encinitas, CA 92023
760.431.8800
www.briarcliffepress.com
www.janmoran.com
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Disclaimer: In Scent of Triumph we have relied on information provided by third parties and have performed reasonable verification of facts. We assume no responsibility or liability for the accuracy of information contained in this book. No representations or warranties, expressed or implied, as to the accuracy or completeness of this book or its contents are made. The information in this book is intended for entertainment purposes only, and the characters are entirely fictional. Every effort has been made to locate the copyright holders of materials used in this book. Should there be any errors or omissions, we shall be pleased to make acknowledgements in future editions.
Cover design by Sherri Yu, Wonder Studio.
Cover images copyright 123RF.
ISBN: 978-0-963906-57-1
Praise for Jan Moran
&
SCENT OF TRIUMPH
“Jan Moran is the new queen of the epic romance.”
— USA Today Bestselling Author Rebecca Forster
“Scent of Triumph is a rich tapestry that weaves fragrance into an already compelling story of love and perseverance during WWII. Jan's skillful writing, combined with her wealth of olfactory knowledge, makes this a great read for all, but especially the perfume enthusiast.”
— Karen Adams, Sniffapalooza
“If the idea of a novel about a perfumer brings to mind images of sterile laboratories or serene fields of flowers, think again. Scent of Triumph offers action, suspense and romance aplenty as it follows its intrepid heroine through the turbulent years of World War II, from the depths of tragedy to the heights of success. Fragrance lovers will especially enjoy the skillful way in which scent is woven into the story, not only through references to classic perfumes but also in the way the heroine’s experiences are filtered through her highly refined sense of smell.”
— Nancy Arnott, A&E Television Networks
"In “Scent of Triumph will appeal to anyone who enjoys historical romance. Filled with love, loss, struggle, triumph. Moran writes in such a way that you will feel as if you were transported back to the era. Her characters are interesting and well developed. Very unique, an enjoyable read.”
— Rebecca’s Reads Review
“Scent of Triumph [is a] World War II epic.”
— Denise Hamilton, Los Angeles Times, author of Damage Control
“In Scent of Triumph, Jan Moran has created a resilient, talented, yet relatable character in Danielle. Her story will resonate with any woman who has faced the challenges of parenting, loving, and working to build a future for herself—as well as those who are looking for a good read, and a satisfying ending.”
— Kelly James-Enger, Author of White Bikini Panties and The Honesty Index
“Jan is an exceedingly articulate and vivacious authority on her area of specialty: fragrance. She is also a charismatic and elegant presence who knows her business, lives it and loves it.”
— Stephanie Stephens, Host & Executive Producer of MindYourBody.tv
Also by Jan Moran
Praise for Fabulous Fragrances
“Fragrances by the book...everything a fragrance connoisseur wants to know about shopping for a scent.”
— Women’s Wear Daily
“A primer on women’s fragrances—what’s in them, how to make them last, how to buy them.”
— Orange County Register
“Fabulous Fragrances provides an inside view of the international fragrance world. It gives the reader a broad understanding of just how special fragrance truly is!”
— Bijan, Fashion Designer
“I met Jan through her book, Fabulous Fragrances, a must-have for anyone in the fragrance industry (or a fragrance lover).”
— George Zaharoff, Creative Director/Chairman,
Basiliea Zaharoff
Praise for Scentsa®
“This fragrance fan positively drooled over the sheer amount of information available.”
— Robin Krug, Editor, Now Smell This
“I feel like a kid in the candy store seeing names of my favorite fragrances under a neat drop down menu. Jan Moran’s writing is an important part of the fragrance entries, often including various stories about a fragrance as well as descriptions. Jan’s beautiful review of Yatagan made me want to reach for my bottle immediately.”
— Victoria Frolova, Editor, Bois de Jasmin
More by Jan Moran
Fabulous Fragrances II: A Guide to Prestige Perfumes for Women and Men
Fabulous Fragrances: How to Select Your Perfume Wardrobe – The Women’s Guide to Prestige Perfumes
Creator of:
Scentsa®
Scentsa® Beauty
Jan Moran is a writer and entrepreneur
living in San Diego, California.
Visit www.janmoran.com
Dedication
For my mother, Jeanne Hollenbeck, who contributed her memories of life during World War II, and instilled a love of perfume and all things beautiful in me. My deep appreciation and love.
Part I - Europe
September 3, 1939
1
Danielle Bretancourt von Hoffman braced herself against the gleaming mahogany-paneled stateroom wall, striving for balance as she flung open a brass porthole. A damp kelp-scented wind whistled through the cabin, assaulting her nose with its raw intensity.
She kept her eyes focused on the horizon as the Newell-Grey Explorer slanted upward, slicing through the peak of a cresting wave. The sleek new 80,000 ton super liner creaked and pitched as it heaved through the turbulent grey waters of the icy Atlantic on its voyage from New York to England. Silently, Danielle urged it onward, anxious to return home.
A veil of salty spray prickled Danielle’s fevered brow, and her usually sturdy stomach churned in r
hythm with the sea. Was it morning sickness, or the ravaging motion of the sea? Probably both, she thought, her hand cradling her gently curved abdomen. She gnawed her lip, the metallic taste of blood spreading on her tongue, thinking about the last few days.
Dabbing her mouth with the back of her hand, she blinked against the stiff breeze, her mind reeling. Had it been just two days since she’d heard the devastating news that Nazi forces had invaded Poland?
A staccato knock burst against the stateroom door. Gingerly crossing the room, Danielle opened the door and caught her breath at the sight of Jonathan Newell-Grey, vice president and heir apparent to the British shipping line that bore his name. His tie hung from his collar, and his sleeves were rolled up, exposing muscular forearms taut from years of sailing. A rumpled wool jacket hung over one shoulder. Though they hadn’t been friends long, she was truly glad to see him.
“Is your husband in?” His hoarse voice held the wind of the sea.
“Max will be back soon. Any news?”
“None.” He pushed a hand through his unruly chestnut hair. “The captain has called a meeting at fifteen hundred hours for all passengers traveling on Polish and German passports.”
“But I hold a French passport.”
“You’ll still need to attend, Danielle.”
“Of course, but—” As another sharp pitch jerked through the ship, Jon caught her by the shoulders and kept her from falling.
“Steady now, lass,” he said, a small smile playing on his lips.
Feeling a little embarrassed, Danielle touched the wall for support. Suddenly, she recalled the strange sense of foreboding she’d had upon waking. She was blessed—or cursed—with an unusually keen prescience. Frowning, she asked, “Jon, can the ship withstand this storm?”
“Sure, she’s a fine, seaworthy vessel, one of the finest in the world. This weather’s no match for her.” He stared past her out the porthole, his deep blue eyes riveted on the ocean’s white-capped expanse. Dark, heavily laden clouds crossed the sun, casting angled shadows across his face. He turned back to her, his jaw set. “Might even be rougher seas ahead, but we’ll make England by morning.”
Danielle nodded, but still, she knew. Oh yes, she knew. Acid churned in her stomach; something seemed terribly wrong. Her intuition came in quiet flashes of pure knowledge. She couldn’t force it, couldn’t direct it, and knew better than to discuss it with anyone, especially her husband. She was only twenty-four; Max was older, wiser, and told her that her insights were simply rubbish.
Jon touched her arm in a small, sympathetic movement. “What a sorry predicament you’re in. Anything I can do to help?”
“Not unless you can perform a miracle.” Jon’s rough fingers felt warm against her skin, and an ill-timed memory from a few days ago shot through her mind. On Max’s encouragement, they’d shared a dance while Max spoke to the captain at length after dinner, and Danielle remembered Jon’s soft breath, his musky skin, his hair curling just above his collar. He’d been interested in all she had to say, from her little boy to her work at Parfums Bretancourt, her family’s perfumery in France.
Danielle forced the memory from her mind, took a step back out of modesty. “I had a bad feeling about this trip from the beginning,” she started. She caught sight of herself in the mirror, her thick auburn hair in disarray, her lip rouge smeared against her pale cheek. She drew her fingers across her cheek, straightened her shoulders, and went on. “We’d planned to take care of our business in New York, then return to Poland to close the chateau. After that, we were to join Max’s mother, Sofia, and our little Nicky in Paris, for a brief visit with my family before returning to America.”
“Why didn’t you bring Nicky with you?”
“I wanted to, but he’s so young that Max thought he’d be better off in Paris with my family.” Why, oh why, had she agreed to leave Nicky? Max had made it sound so sensible. Wincing with remorse, she fought the panic that rose in her throat. “But now Sofia’s terribly ill, her last cable said that she and Nicky haven’t even left for Paris.”
Jon wiped a smudge from her cheek and said quietly, “Danielle, they’ve got to get to Paris as quickly as possible.”
Mon Dieu! she thought. They hadn’t realized Sofia was so ill. ‘It’s just a cold,’ her mother-in-law had told them as they left. What if Sofia isn’t well enough to travel?
The ship pitched, sending the porthole door banging against the paneled wall. Shifting easily with the vessel’s sharp motions, Jon caught it, secured the latch, then turned back to Danielle. “Max told me he thinks he has your immigration to the States sorted out.”
“That’s right, a senator from New York helped us secure a financial partner. Max plans to reestablish our crystal manufacturing facility there by the end of the year, but now, the workers he’d like to bring—” Her voice hitched as she thought of what their friends and family faced.
“You’ve done the best you could, Danielle.” But even as he spoke, his gaze trailed back to the sea, his eyes narrowed against the sun’s thinning rays, scanning the surface.
She matched his gaze. “Anything unusual out there?”
“Could be German U-Boats. Unterseeboots. The most treacherous of submarines. Bloody hell, they are.” He moved toward her, and leaning closer he lifted a strand of hair, damp with sea mist, from her forehead. “If I don’t see Max, you’ll tell him about the meeting?”
“We’ll be there.” She caught a whiff of his salt air-tinged skin, and as she did, a vivid sensory image flashed across her mind. A leather accord, patchouli, a heart of rose melding with the natural scent of his skin, warm, intriguing...then she recognized it—Spanish Leather. But the way he wore it was incredible. She was drawn in, but quickly retreated half a step.
His expression softened and he let her hair fall from his fingers. “Don’t worry, Danielle. The Newell-Greys always look after their passengers.” He left, closing the door behind him.
She touched a finger to her lips. Jon’s casual way with her sometimes made her uncomfortable. Fortunately, Max was too much the German aristocrat to make a fuss over nothing. And it was nothing, she told herself with a firm shake of her head. She loved her husband. But that scent...her mind whirred. Fresh, spicy, woody...she could recreate sea freshness and blend with patchouli.
Abruptly, the ship lurched. Cutlery clattered across a rimmed burl wood table, her books tumbled against a wall. She braced herself through the crashing swell, one hand on the doorjamb, another shielding her stomach. She pushed all thoughts of her work from her mind, there were so many more urgent matters at hand. Her son, their family, their home.
When the ship leveled, she spied on the floor a navy blue cap she’d knitted for Nicky. He’d dropped it at the train station, and she’d forgotten to give it to Sofia. She pressed the cap to her cheek, drinking in the little boy smell that still clung to the woolen fibers. Redolent of milk and grass and straw and chocolates, it also called to mind sweet perspiration droplets glistening on his flushed cheeks. They often played tag in the garden, laughing and frolicking amidst thicketed ruins on their sprawling property. Oh, my poor, precious Nicky. Her stomach lurched at the memories.
She picked up her purse to put his cap inside, then paused to look at the photo of Nicky she carried. His eyes crinkled with laughter, he’d posed with his favorite stuffed toy, Mr. Minkey, a red-striped monkey with black button eyes she’d sewn for him. At four years of age, Nicky was an adorable bundle of blond-headed energy. A streak of fear sliced through her. She stuffed the cap into her purse and snapped it shut.
The door opened and Max strode in, his proud face ashen.
Danielle turned. “Jon just left. There’s a meeting—”
“I know, he is behind me,” he said, clipping the words in his formal, German-accented English. He smacked his onyx pipe against his hand, releasing the sweet smoky scent of vanilla tobacco.
Jon appeared at the door. “Shall we go?”
The muscles in Max’s jaw tigh
tened. He slipped his pipe into the pocket of his tailored wool jacket. “I need a drink first. You, Jon?”
“Not now.”
Max pushed past Danielle to the liquor cabinet. As he did, he brushed against her vanity and sent her red leather traveling case crashing to the floor, bottles bursting from within, smashing against one another.
“Max, my perfumes!” Danielle gathered the hem of her silk dress, and sank to her knees. The intoxicating aromas of jasmine, rose, orange blossom, bergamot, berries, vanilla, cedar, and sandalwood surged in the air, jumbling and exploding in her senses like brilliant fireworks. She sighed in exasperation. She knew Max hadn’t meant to destroy her precious potions, but she wished he’d been more careful. Now there was nothing she could do but pick up the pieces. With two fingers, she fished a crystal shard and a carnelian cap from the jagged mess. “Max, would you hand me the wastebasket?”
Instead, he turned away and reached for the vodka. “Leave it, Danielle. The cabin boy will see to it.”
Jon crossed the stateroom and knelt beside her. “Are these your creations?”
“Yes, I blended the perfumes at my family’s laboratory in Grasse. The case was Max’s wedding gift to me.”
Max poured a shot of vodka. “Get up, Danielle. And for God’s sake, open the porthole. That stench will kill us.”
Anger burned in her cheeks, but she said nothing. She angled her face from Jon and continued picking up slippery shards, though she was glad for his help.
Jon rested a callused hand on hers, sending a shiver through her. “These are beautiful works of art, Danielle. Max told me you were once regarded as the child prodigy of perfumery.” He took a sharp piece from her. “Don’t hurt yourself, I’ll send someone to clean this up while you’re gone.”
She caught his eye and mouthed a silent thank-you, then rose and opened the porthole. A gust caught her long hair and slapped it across her face, stinging her flushed cheeks. Staring at the ocean, a sudden thought gripped her, and she spun around. “Jon said there might be U-Boats out there.”