A Scent of Magic Read online

  The aging but energetic woman all but hopped from her chair and hurried into an adjoining room, emerging momentarily with a small brown bottle in her hand. “I just know you can help me,” she puffed, out of breath from both exertion and excitement. She gave the bottle to Simone. “Take just a small sniff,” she said. “It is very potent, and too much can do strange things to a body.”

  Humoring the woman, Simone did as she was asked, but her heart almost stopped when she smelled the fragrance. “What on earth?” she managed, her voice barely a raspy whisper. It was without a doubt the same scent as the perfume oil she’d discovered in the old bottle in New Orleans. Her face grew warm as her body responded as it had to the other essence. She raised her eyes to the woman’s face. “Where did you get this?”

  “It’s lovely, isn’t it?” was the evasive reply. “But it is unfortunate that what you have there is all I have left, and I’m most desperate for more of it. Can you, Miss Lefevre, possibly reproduce this essence for me?”

  Simone’s eyes widened, unable to imagine this sweet old lady using the perfume oil for the erotic effects it seemed to have. But her heartbeat pounded in her ears as she thought it all through. Esther Brown had the perfume. Simone’s sample had come from the cottage. It stood to reason that the secret of its source must lie close by. “Where did you say you got this?” she asked again.

  Esther Brown gave her a long, appraising look before she answered, as if weighing her reply. “What I’m about to tell you may sound like the invention of a batty old woman,” she began, “but every word of it is true.” She poured each of them another cup of tea, her silence and the promise of her story building the suspense until Simone thought she might fall off her chair.

  “This perfume is actually a healing oil, created over a century ago by my ancestor in the craft,” she said at last. “By craft, I mean witchcraft.” Simone’s saucer rattled in her hand, and Esther laughed. “Now, don’t get all unsettled by that. Our craft is of the whitest kind. I have spent my life dedicated to the healing arts, using the herbal medicines our foremothers in their wisdom developed before science and chemistry gave us synthetic drugs.” She leaned forward and added confidentially, “Frankly, I don’t trust the doctors much these days. I believe that Mother Nature has given us all the remedies we need to stay healthy. We don’t need manufactured chemicals in our bodies.”

  Her fervor struck a note with Simone, who preferred perfumes created from natural essences to those contrived from synthetics. But she didn’t want to discuss the ethics of the medical profession at the moment, or the pros and cons of the use of chemical synthetics in either medicine or perfume. “What does that have to do with the oil?”

  “Ah, yes, I do tend to digress. Sorry.” She leaned forward and took the bottle gently from Simone. “For generations, this essence has been passed down from the village healer to her protégée, and each has used it to help women…uh, become more comfortable with their sexuality.” She let out a low laugh.

  “I doubt if our modern doctors would find this important to a woman’s health, but from my own experience, I know that women, especially those brought up under rigid religious circumstances, often feel shame and guilt about their bodies. I’m not a scientist or a physician, of course, only an old herbalist, and I don’t know how it all works. But with this,” she said, holding up the bottle, “I have successfully treated women for physical illnesses, everything from chronic headaches and heart palpitations to constipation and debilitating menstrual cramps.”

  Simone’s mind reeled. The perfume oil was used in a medicinal manner? “I don’t understand.”

  “I think the problems were all in their minds,” Esther said, rocking back in her chair and touching her head with a wrinkled finger. “When I gave the women ‘permission,’ if you will, to use this and to relax into their natural sexual functions, many of them reported that their symptoms completely disappeared. I don’t know how else to explain it, because in most of these cases, this lovely healing oil was all I recommended. No other herbs or drugs of any sort.”

  “How does it work?” Simone was on fire to understand the substance.

  Esther shook her head. “I have no idea. I’ve never used it myself. I just followed instructions given me by my craft-mother.”

  But Simone knew how it worked. It worked in dreams. “What is in it? What is it made of?” Simone’s questions were more like desperate demands. She was close, so close, to discovering the secret.

  The old woman looked at her long and hard, then frowned. “That, my dear, is what I was hoping you could tell me.”

  The sun dipped low in its final salute to the day when at last Simone found herself alone in the small bedroom that would be her home for the next few days. She was both exhausted and exhilarated after her long afternoon with Esther Brown, for even though she was disappointed that the so-called white witch did not know the plant from which the perfume oil had been extracted, Simone had learned much that might be helpful in her search for its origins.

  Although part of the story Esther had spun would have made a good episode for that television show Legends, Lore and Lunatics, she knew the old woman obviously believed every word of it. Simone was also skeptical of anyone who fancied herself to be a witch. She’d lived too long in superstitious and voodoo-infested New Orleans.

  Still the story haunted her, as did the witch’s warning, which disturbed her greatly. “There is great danger in that potion if it is misused,” she’d told Simone, “and I believe my craft-ancestor who created it must have gravely misused its powers.”

  Her warning echoed in Simone’s mind. Could such a substance be dangerous? Did it have harmful side effects? If she was able to reproduce it, would it even be legal?

  Simone stared out into the gathering darkness, attempting to get a grasp on the whole strange story. She tried to envision the creator of the mysterious essence. According to Esther, her name had been Mary Rose Hatcher. She was the daughter of a family who served Nick’s ancestors on the nearby estate of Brierley Hall sometime during the middle of the nineteenth century. Simone had learned from Esther that Nick still owned the estate, and that the cottage she’d rented had once been the servant’s quarters.

  Apparently Mary Rose had fallen in love with the younger Rutledge son, but their liaison was forbidden, and he was sent away to serve in the British Army in India.

  And that was where the story had become really interesting.

  Simone had listened in amazement to the legend. After creating this perfume and teaching her protégée in the craft of its healing powers, Mary Rose mysteriously disappeared one night and was never seen nor heard of again. The very same night, her lover, John Rutledge, vanished from his bungalow half-way around the world. Esther told Simone that those in the craft believed they died and that the potion was responsible for their deaths. She also believed that their bodies were somehow dematerialized by the chemistry of what she considered to be the “magical” oil.

  “Wrongly used,” Esther had warned, “this could be a curse rather than a blessing.” Her next words had sent cold chills up Simone’s spine. “One thing is for sure, it must never fall into the wrong hands.”

  In all her years in the business, Simone had never come across an aromatic oil or essence that had any real power over the physical body. Most scent worked on the mind and the emotions. Although she granted these had their own effects on the physical self, she could not imagine a perfume oil dematerializing a body.

  Still, she could not dismiss the power of the “potion,” as Esther referred to it. She herself had experienced the mystical erotic dreams the substance seemed to induce. A deep frown creased her ivory brow. Maybe part of its danger was that in dreams it made you give yourself over to your worst enemy.

  The most important detail that Esther had shared with her was that likely Mary Rose had recorded the secret to the concoction of the essence in her witch’s diary, a Book of Shadows, the crone had called it. “But to my knowledge
none has ever been found. Even though Mr. Rutledge sold off the contents of the cottage, I believe it could be still around there somewhere,” she mused. “Mary Rose might have buried it on the grounds or hidden it someplace in the house that wasn’t renovated, like the attic or something.”

  Simone attempted to sleep, but she tossed restlessly on the bed, her mind cruelly insisting on taking her back in time. To Grasse. To that fateful summer and the beautiful face of Nathaniel Raleigh…

  It was a younger face she saw, more open and vulnerable than the Nick of present day. A boyish face that grinned at her almost shyly when she opened the door to him.

  “Bonjour, Mademoiselle.” His attempt at French was delivered with a strong English accent. His voice sounded mature and yet innocent somehow. It was a pleasing voice, a voice she trusted instantly. His vivid blue eyes were guileless, and seemed to see into her very soul. Her cheeks grew warm, and she had to work to summon a reply.

  “Oui, monsieur, how may I help you?” she answered him in her own French-laced English, and saw the relief on his face that he did not have to make his way in a language he had not yet mastered.

  He gave her another lopsided smile, the kind that formed a dimple in his cheek. She had loved him instantly. But it was not her he’d come to see. It was her papa.

  Papa had loved him instantly as well, she could tell, in spite of the older man’s pretended gruffness. Papa did not casually invite strangers to their table. He had invited Nathaniel that very day. Perhaps Papa had seen into her soul, too, seen that she’d lost her heart to the handsome young Englishman who had come seeking an apprenticeship.

  Tears leaked from Simone’s eyes and soaked into the white linen pillow cover. Why couldn’t Nat have been what they’d believed him to be?

  Then her mind took her to another day. They were together in the countryside. The sun warmed her skin, and the air was sweet with the scent of lavender from the fields. Papa had given his apprentice the day off, and Simone had convinced Maman to let them take a picnic to an olive grove nearby. Maman had warned her then against men in general, but Simone knew that her mother approved of the young man and trusted him with her daughter.

  They laughed and chattered like two magpies as they walked up the hill. She wished to take his hand but did not dare, thinking it too forward and that Maman would not approve. But as soon as they were safely out of view of her family’s house, her wish was answered beyond her imagination. Like a handsome prince in a fairy tale, Nat drew her into his arms and kissed her until he took away her breath. She could still smell that kiss. It held the scent of sunshine and lavender and the salty perspiration that mingled on their lips. She had never been kissed like that before.

  Deeply. Openly. Hungrily.

  Nat’s kiss had changed her life.

  He had sworn his love that day. And she hers. And she knew that every childhood dream she’d ever had of marrying the most handsome man in the world was about to come true. Happiness swelled in her heart until it almost hurt.

  That night, long after Papa and Maman had gone to bed, Simone lay awake in the darkness, staring out the open window into the star-sprinkled night sky and feeling more alive than she could remember. She was filled with a trembling, inexplicable anticipation, frightening and delicious all at the same time.

  She had not invited him into her bed, but she had known he would come. She had only a vague idea what would happen, from stories her girlfriends had told her, but she knew she wanted it. Even though she understood such acts were reserved for marriage, it did not matter to Simone. She knew, after all, that Nathaniel Raleigh was likely to ask Papa for her hand in the near future. Maybe even tomorrow…

  Simone rolled to her side and sat up on the edge of the bed upstairs in Esther’s house, hugging the pillow to her face to suppress the sobs that threatened to choke her.

  “God damn you, Nathaniel Raleigh,” she whispered, looking out of this window into this night sky, ten years and many miles later. “God damn you.”

  Chapter Eight

  Simone gave up trying to sleep. Forcing thoughts of those days in Grasse from her mind, she padded to the window and opened it wide. A full moon crested the tree tops, its light spilling through the window and shimmering on the scarlet of her silken chemise. A warm, rain-prescient breeze wafted in the scent of rose and lilac and beckoned her into the fragrant darkness. The scents reminded her of the perfume and the story of Mary Rose and the old cottage she’d so suddenly vacated. Did she dare return there? Not by day, for certain. But perhaps under cover of darkness, when no one would know of her intrusion…

  She did not recall locking the door when she’d left in such haste. Maybe she could get in and explore the quarters where Mary Rose had lived, even though Nick had pillaged it of its historic contents. Perhaps Esther was right, and there was an attic or a cellar that he’d left untouched. With only the light of the moon to guide her, Simone doubted she could search the grounds for the Book of Shadows, but the house was a possibility.

  Without giving herself time to change her mind, she took a black woven scarf from her suitcase and tied it loosely around her shoulders, covering the bare skin exposed by the low-cut, sleeveless knit top she wore. She pulled on some black leggings, donned flat black canvas shoes, and tied her hair up and away from her face in a tight pony tail. She laughed when she surveyed her cat-burglar image in the mirror, but Simone Lefevre felt few qualms about breaking and entering the cottage belonging to Nicholas Rutledge.

  Esther’s house was dark as Simone crept down the stairs, and she surmised that her hostess had gone to bed. She slipped silently and unobserved out the front door, making sure it did not lock behind her so she could return unnoticed. Reaching the stoop, she hesitated for a long moment, allowing her eyes to become accustomed to the night before proceeding down the road. It couldn’t be more than a mile, she’d decided, and the exercise would do her good.

  She headed out on her journey, her heart beating hard in spite of her attempts to assure herself that she was perfectly safe alone here at night. Redford was a small village. She had not seen any unsavory characters loitering on the picturesque streets. There was little traffic along the road at this hour, and when she saw the lights of an approaching vehicle, she stepped into the protective darkness of the hedgerows that lined the byway. No one would hurt what they couldn’t see.

  At last she reached the small gravel lane that led away from the main road, branching off in the direction of the servant’s quarters. Beyond, she surmised, lay Brierley Hall. Was Nick still there? The thought made her uneasy. But there was no way, unless he himself was out snooping at night, that he would know of her nocturnal adventure.

  Simone tried the door to the house, the same one she’d opened earlier from the other side to find herself face-to-face with Nick Rutledge, but to her disappointment, it was locked. In her haste to vacate Nick’s property, she’d given the key back to the estate agent in return for a full refund of her money. Now she wished she hadn’t acted so impulsively. She stood on the steps and peered into the darkness of the forest that surrounded the house, trying to decide what to do next.

  Any rational woman would turn around and go home to get a good night’s sleep.

  But the night was enchanting, with moonlight fringing the leaves that quivered in the rising wind on the branches of the ancient trees. Lunar luminescence washed the walls of the house in silvery blue and outlined the stepping stones that led from the front of the cottage toward…what? Simone followed them as if they were the bread crumbs left by Hansel and Gretel.

  The path, although cleared in the front of the house, became snarled with brambles and overgrowth behind the dwelling, and Simone had to pick her way through the sharp thorny branches that clawed at her ankles. At last she came to a gate in the tall garden wall. It was old and rusted, obviously not part of the modern renovations, and encrusted with prickly vines. Gingerly, she reached through the overgrowth for the lever and raised the latch, and with an effort
, pushed the gate open.

  Inside, Simone stopped to catch her breath. She surveyed the enclosed space and decided that this once must have been an impressive garden, although now the weeds reigned supreme. She spotted a low bench to one side, next to the wall, and stepped up on it for a better view. From that vantage point, in spite of the weeds, she could make out the outline of a garden bed that once must have been quite grand indeed.

  The perimeter of the bed was circular, bordered by light-colored stones that gleamed in the moonlight from beneath their hood of weeds. Rocks also divided the beds into pie-shaped beds meeting at a smaller circle in the center. The four walls that enclosed the garden space were only murky curtains in the night, woven over as well with the tapestry of thick, twining vine.

  Simone knew instantly this had been Mary Rose’s garden. Here, on this moonstruck plot, she was certain Esther’s craft ancestor had grown something, some unusual plant, herb or bush that she’d used to create the fragrant, sensual essence.

  Had Mary Rose hidden her Book of Shadows here? Perhaps, but Simone lost hope of discovering it by poking blindly around the garden in the middle of the night. This place had been neglected for so long it was virtually imprisoned by weeds through which she had no desire to fight her way. Oddly, however, the part of her that loved gardens, that had planted and nurtured the small but lush and fragrant beds in the courtyard of her aunt’s apartment, felt an immediate bond with this place. She wanted to rid it of the overgrowth, the brambles, the ruin, and restore it to its former beauty.

  Ha. She came to her senses again abruptly. She would do no such thing. This wasn’t her garden. And she had no desire to benefit Mr. Nicholas Rutledge with her horticultural skills. At the thought of the handsome bastard, she jumped down from the bench, suddenly eager to leave this place and make her way back to Esther Brown’s house.

  Simone heard a strange noise, muffled by the sound of the restless wind in the trees, and she turned her head sharply to discern its source. It sounded like the baying of a hound. The hair stood up on her arms. It was a dog barking! And it was not too far in the distance. In fact, it was getting louder, more excited, by the moment, and it seemed as if it were coming directly for her.