Royal Gardner was feeling tired as he walked the streets of Paris one afternoon in June 1891.
Art Noveau was in force everywhere.
A golden dim light shimmered on the facades of the handsome buildings, as the weeks-long negotiations about the possible expansion of his family's business-interests upon French soil were still slightly unclear, even though the negotiations had gone well.
The contract papers were for the lawyers to review.
Soon he should be traveling back to Kingsport.
The future was clear and uncertain at the same time, and a slight longing pushed his heart.
There were so many plans, some of which had come true almost too easily in the last few years.
He was slowly establishing his international reputation, Gardner Hall was no longer a leaky ruin, even if the house and grounds would require years of extensive repair work.
And then there were the affairs of her sisters, Aline was buried in a deep even suffocating mourning from which Dorothy tried to raise her, every now and then, when she had time to do so, amid her own good works and rallies, which Mama Constance resented very much, but Dorothy only smiled lightly, and got up on her bike, cheerful as a lark, in the spring.
Royal took out a small folded piece of paper from the pocket of his stylish cream-colored linen summer suit, and glanced at the address written on it once.
Two steps away, on the shady side of the street, was a shop, Frêche parfumerie, whose display window was elegantly sensuous.
A bright clock ticked above the door as Roy stepped into the beautiful, fragrant space.
The counter was polished wood the color of deep mahogany and there were narrow cabinets everywhere that held graceful bottles.
The walls were cream-colored and graceful vines were painted with gold paint, the overall effect was enchanting.
Dried roses in various vases were artfully displayed, and small perfume bottles were lined up on different shelves.
The air was full of different scents.
Intrigued, Royal examined the selection, the names dazzled in his eyes, Jardins d'Armide, Violettes du Czar, Vétiver Royal Bourbon, Vetiver, Apothéose, L'Eau de Corse, Relique d'Amour.
Suddenly, Royal's senses were filled with a light enchanting scent that combined Lily and Frankincense into a harmonious whole, and a sonorous female voice inquired from beside him, "Puis-je vous aider de quelque manière que ce soit, monsieur?"
Royal glanced to his side and froze, for beside him stood a young woman whose pale green eyes looked at him with warm, open curiosity.
The woman, still almost a girl, had curly reddish-blonde hair, her features were regular and graceful, and her skin was as pale as Royal's summer suit, her dress was simple, but high-quality, a striped morning-dress with leg-of mutton sleeves.
Royal, muttered, a slight blush rising to his ears, in his best attempt at most Parisian French, but he was painfully aware that it was too, too québécois-patoise," Chère mademoiselle, auriez-vous de l'eau de fleur d'oranger dans vos sélections?"
A light, enchantingly bright, slightly sly smile rose on the woman's lips, as the woman took a step back, and taking a small bottle from a shelf, said quietly, "Voudriez-vous peut-être autre chose, jeune monsieur?"
Royal, found himself responding to that smile openly, and eagerly, as he burst out with unrestrained fervor, with carefully calibrated Gardner charm,""Vous avez raison, Mademoiselle, je viens du Canada, ici pour affaires. Je veux connaître votre nom et je veux vous inviter à déjeuner avec moi, si vous me faites l'honneur."
That small smile on the girl's lips widened, and she noted lightly, in charmingly stilted English, "My name is Valentine, and as for your lunch request, perhaps that can be arranged. Would you like to add anything else to your order?"
Royal felt himself blush again from the force of that gaze, as he looked around and remarked seriously, "Just in case we don't meet again, I'd like a bottle of that same perfume you're wearing now, I'm Royal Gardner."
Dark eyelashes fell on soft cheeks, hiding those vibrant eyes, as Royal noticed that Valentine quickly walked to a far shelf and took one bottle, which she carefully packed.
And accepting the small package tied with a dark green velvet ribbon, Royal stifled a shudder as their fingers gently touched each other.
The nearby Catholic church bells were tolling, the bells were ringing, calling for Mass. And suddenly her features brightened, Valentine lightly touched the glittering cross on her neck, as she murmured softly, "A bientôt alors Royal."
Three light steps, a whiff of perfume, and the door creaked shut, on Valentine's trail.
And suddenly Royal felt confusedly happy as he made his way into the toasty early evening, the view spread out before him was a typical Parisian side street, somewhere in the 16th arrondissement of Paris.
Two days later, Royal was standing in the perfume shop again, it was lunch time, and behind the counter was a slender but slightly sturdy middle-aged man who was looking at Royal steadily through his glasses.
The man's eyes were bright gray and he pointedly observed, " "M. Gardner, vous n'êtes en aucun cas le premier à vous intéresser à ma fille, jusqu'où va votre intérêt est une autre affaire."
Royal straightened his posture while handing out coral red roses to Valentine, who accepted the roses with a soft smile, quietly remarking, " Papa, calme-toi, c'est juste l'heure du déjeuner. Parce que je ne pense pas que M. Gardner va m'emmener au Canada avec lui, n'est-ce pas?"
Royal felt his smile freeze on his face as Monsieur Frêche's eyes had a dry expectant look, but gracefully Royal extended his arm to Valentine and said, "Our reservation awaits."
Valentine laughed in surprise as the resplendent silhouette of the Petit Bouillon Pharamond fell before them, as waiters dressed in impeccable liveries poured chilled champagne for them.
Royal had one half open bloom of coral rose in his buttonhole.
Sunlight glimmered on narrow mirrors, of the establishment and on Valentine's hair, crowning her, with golden halo. In that moment Royal felt that his heart almost burst with intense un-Gardner-like sentiment, a vibrant passion that was burning, achingly sweet.
And so the courtship began, the days rolled by, lunches slowly turned into walks in Bois de Bolongue, and weekend trips around Île-de-France, Essonne, and Yvelines, Versailles, Saint-Germain-en-Laye.
At times Royal sat in the incense-scented peace of the church, looking more at Valentine's tender delicate features shrouded in the golden honey tinted candlelight than at the elaborate Gothic details of the churches, as the Latin mass throbbed around them, and Valentine made the required gestures among the rest of the congregation.
Already a few times, Royal had delayed his return to Canada, even though the contract had already been confirmed a month earlier, successfully.
It was August, the heat was everywhere, the heat flickered almost intolerably, as Toulouse, it was like a pink dream, as Royal took Valentine's gloved hand in his own and whispered, "I have great plans for my future, but here, standing on the banks of the Garonne, with you, they are not suddenly so very important, because the thought of life without you is unbearable, sitting in Kingsport in my office, in Gardner Hall."
The delicate pale hat shaded Valentine's face as she gently pressed against Royal's arm in her familiar light, distant way.
Silence rippled and then Valentine said gravely, "Write to me, Royal."
Kingsport social circles were dismayed, and Christine Dawson, wrote long and curious letters, to Aline and Royal, when it turned out that Royal Gardner, was head over heels in love, and with a foreigner, no less.
Rich, passionate and scheming letters poured to Paris, as the months passed, slowly even Constance Gardner was forced to admit that her dearest Royal stood his ground, unmoved. He was adamant.
Royal would marry Valentine Frêche, sooner or later, as he refused to see any obstacles, even though there were many of them.
And finally, tiredly, Constance sighed, "Royal, I'm coming with Aline Adeline to meet your Valentine, then perhaps we can look at this obsession of yours about marrying a Catholic more rationally."
Royal looked up from the import tariff tables and said with a dry smile, "Mama, you've wanted me to get married for years, and marriage to Valentine will bring me benefits, with her dowry I'll get contacts in her family's perfume factories and a foothold in France, if I'm thinking practically, not romantically, but if I think romantically I see her as fulfillment of my old unspoken dreams made flesh, she is witty, graceful and temperamental, but also perceptive. She is the one for me."
Valentine was sitting in her bedroom, a stack of letters in front of her that smelled faintly of orange blossom water, Royal's handwriting had become extremely familiar to her over past weeks, and months.
The last missive had come a day ago, it was an inspired scribbling that was a combination of the description of the picture of Dorian Gray that new Oscar Wilde's novel and a romantic longing epistle, filled with various plans.
Feeling a bit tired, Valentine took out her diary, it was covered with thin pale blue brocade as she began to re-read her impressions, from few weeks ago.
On his next journey to Paris, Royal brought with him to our place of rendezvous, unannounced, his mother, and his elder sister, to my astonishment, for they both seemed very cold and formal, though they praised me, in laudatory terms, as if I were six, and not soon to be twenty-three.
So feeling irritated, I said to Mrs. Gardner, in my most charming and sunny way. "Votre fils vous a dit que vous aimiez les roses, heureusement, le gagne-pain de ma famille dépend en partie des feuilles de rose. Mais maintenant c'est bientôt l'heure d'aller voir le service à Notre Dame, c'est incroyable en soi, surtout les dimanches soirs comme celui-ci quand le lieu est ouvert à tous."
Mrs. Gardiner's face had narrowed, that venerable lady had not said a word, and the sister had only fixed a sharp look on her brother, which I had been at a loss to interpret. Afterwards, Roy had handed me a velvet box containing an extremely beautiful string of baroque pearls.
Valentine opened the drawer of her bedside table and there was that pearl necklace shining, it was a promise of marriage.
Carefully, Valentine ran her fingers over the soft, warm pearls interspersed with gold nuggets, those pearls the same color as her skin, and again Valentine heard Royal's hoarse but sure whisper in her ears, "I swear to you, my love, that I will do everything in my power to make you happy, if I only can."
The greenness and peace of Easter was everywhere in Gardner Hall, that dark, hollow building, where only the green ivy creepers on the brick exterior walls brought life, to that elaborate house of long echoing corridors and large unused rooms, where gilded familyportraits looked down from walls.
Theodore Gardner sauntered into his cousin's study and happily exclaimed, "Royal, stop daydreaming if you can, even though your wedding it is looming in the horizon."
Royal, placed a small silver-framed photograph down on the table.
It was of a blond woman with reddish blond curls, and pale green eyes, and a triple string of baroque pearls around her neck, she was dressed in a forty pale amber dress, deep neckline was cut off from alabaster pale shoulders. Light laughter seemed to be shining in the green eyes, and there was an inviting, softly mischievous smile on her lips.
Sighing, Royal focused on Theodore's plans, but with difficulty, as he pushed heavy sealed manila envelopes aside, with careless gesture, as he waited.
The day of his marriage, it would be the happiest day of his life.
He was certain of it.
The purple crocuses would bloom, on the verdant grass, there would be roses everywhere, and the bells of Notre Dame would ring, for the two of them.