“Melted beef tallow and pork lard. Monsieur Philippe buys only the finest quality fat.”
In spite of her initial repulsion, she found she soon became fascinated by the process. This work, too, had its own rhythm, and the more blossoms poured into the creamy oil, the more fragrant the oil became. When the soupy oil became too thick, it was strained swiftly through a sieve, freeing it of the blossoms that had already yielded their perfume and making room for the fresh blossoms. The refuse was then steeped in boiling water and put through a screw press to wring out the last drops and then a new flood of blossoms fluttered down into the greasy soup in the caldron.
“How long does this go on?”
“Days sometimes. Until the oil can absorb no more scent.” Michel poured more rose blossoms into the caldron. “Then it’s strained one more time and goes into the stoneware crocks. They’re sealed and put down in the cellar.”
“Is the pomade what Monsieur Augustine works with to make his perfume?”
He shook his head. “No, that’s anessence absolue.”
“What’s the difference?”
“I’ll show you later.” His brow furrowed with concentration as he looked down into the fat in the caldron. “It has to go through the sieve again.”
Michel was always showing her something, she thought with tender amusement. The way to the sea, how to pluck the blossoms, the rhythm of the pickers in the fields. He never spoke when he could demonstrate. He never told her anything she could learn by herself.
But in future this maceration was one part of the duties of governing Vasaro she would gladly leave to Philippe.
“I’m worried about Juliette, Philippe.” Catherine lifted her goblet of wine to her lips. “Haven’t you heard anything from Paris?”
“I sent word to Jean Marc when we first arrived, but I haven’t received a reply. You shouldn’t be anxious about Juliette. You know Jean Marc will keep her safe.”
But Catherine had thought the Abbaye de la Reine was impregnable from harm too. She shivered and set the crystal goblet down on the table. “We should never have left her in Paris. I should have made her come with us.”
Philippe chuckled. “Force Juliette?”
“She’s not entirely immovable.” Catherine wrinkled her nose. “One must be very stubborn and keep at her. I don’t know why I didn’t go after her when she jumped out of the carriage.”
“You weren’t well yourself.”
Catherine looked down into the depths of her wine. It was difficult to realize she was the same hurt, shattered woman who had left Paris almost a month earlier. She was not that woman now, nor was she the uncertain girl who had been ravished at the abbey. Vasaro had changed her into someone else entirely. “Yes, I remember.” She looked up with a smile. “But now I’m quite well and we must think of Juliette. Will you write to Jean Marc and tell him he must send Juliette to us at once?”
“And what if she refuses to come?”
“Then I’ll have to return to Paris to fetch her,” Catherine said quietly. “Juliette’s in danger in Paris. I won’t have that, Philippe.”
He smiled and raised his glass in a silent toast. “I’ll write to Jean Marc tomorrow. I refuse to do without your presence at Vasaro now that I’ve become accustomed to it.”
A familiar warmth fluttered within her as he smiled at her across the table. His blue eyes shimmered in the candlelight, reflecting all that sung of sweetness, gaiety, and beauty. She had become accustomed to him, too,her worship gradually deepening into something more comfortable, yet that tremulous uncertainty remained whenever he smiled at her.
She swiftly lowered her gaze to veil her eyes but her hand shook as she once more lifted the goblet to her lips. “I’ve been thinking about asking the priest to come to Vasaro one day a week and teach some of the pickers’ children their letters.”
“He won’t come. He says teaching the peasants makes them discontent with their lot,” Philippe said. “And I agree, Catherine. What use will they have for it?”
“There’s always use for knowledge.”
He shook his head. “It’s a mistake.”
“Then it’s one I intend to make.” Catherine saw him frown and went on quickly. “I do value your opinion, Philippe. I’m sorry if I distressed you.”
Philippe’s expression softened. “The priest will refuse to come. You’ll have to find someone else to teach them.”
“It doesn’t have to be right away. We’ll find someone.”
“As long as you don’t give the task to me.” Philippe grimaced. “I have no head for learning, much less for teaching.”
All was well between them again, Catherine thought, relieved. “One cannot do everything perfectly. You manage Vasaro superbly.”
