The Daughters of Nightsong. V. J. Banis

She watched until he’d brushed back his hair and clamped his hat on his head before dropping the curtain back into place. She could close her eyes and picture how his dark brown eyes turned black when he scowled and the way they smoldered with passion when he looked at her.

      She would never allow him to look at her in that way again, she vowed, as she felt the familiar need stirring deep inside her. She had made her success, she had built her fortune, but the price had been high. She’d lavished all of her love on April, a daughter who did not seem to notice or appreciate it. She had a son, too, however, still in China. Perhaps one day, now that she had the money to afford it, she would return to China and bring home the child she’d been forced to abandon. Perhaps he would be more appreciative of his mother’s generosity.

      The carriage drew up in front of the gleaming white and pink marble facade of Empress Cosmetics. Lydia found herself wondering if it had all been worth it. Yes, she said to herself, quickly and with determination, thrusting any doubts from her mind and climbing down from the carriage.

      The interior of Empress Cosmetics was as luxurious and impressive as its outside, all mahogany and leather, hand carved paneling and rugs so thick they deadened even the heaviest footsteps. Muted Tiffany shades softened the light of the desk lamps, giving the impression that one had walked from harsh reality into a world of make-believe merely by entering the offices.

      “You’re late,” Mrs. Clary said good-naturedly. “Morris has been biting his nails.” She helped Lydia off with her cloak and followed her into her private office.

      “Sorry, Evelyn. I spent the better part of the morning going over those new proposals from New York. Did you have a chance to check on what the railroad would charge for shipping that many cases?”

      “Too much,” Mrs. Clary said as she laid her report on Lydia’s massive desk. “It’s bad enough that they overcharge their customers, but when they find that the customer is a woman, the price goes higher.”

      Lydia bit down on her lower lip and tugged at a stray curl of red gold that had managed to get loose from its pin. “I found when I began this venture that the world of business is not very tolerant of female executives. You should know that by now, Evelyn.”

      “It isn’t fair.”

      Lydia picked up the report and frowned at the high cost figures. “Nothing is fair, Evelyn, but thank goodness we can afford to pay their blackmail. Tell Shipping to send the Marshall Field order by Pacific Rail. I’ve already told them I want the Wanamaker shipment to go by boat. The Balclutha will take it tomorrow.” She threw down the report. “Now, what’s Morris biting his nails about?”

      “The Nez!”

      Lydia gaped at her. When she recovered from the surprise she said, “He found one?”

      “From Paris, supposedly. He wouldn’t tell me anything except that. From the look of him, he’s ready to jump out of his skin with excitement.”

      “Tell Morris to come in. You’d better sit in too, Evelyn. If he’s found a true Nez, we’ll have cause to celebrate.”

      A Nez. It wasn’t a particularly attractive title for a man with such unique talents—at least she wouldn’t take too kindly to people referring to her as a “Nose.” But in the cosmetic business, a Nez was as rare as peonies in winter and the most valuable asset a perfume manufacturer could have. He was the equivalent of a taster in a scotch distillery. A truly fine Nez—and there were only a handful in the entire world—could not only tell, by sniffing, which blossoms a perfume contained, but how many blossoms, when the flower was grown, when harvested, and the composition of the soil in which it was grown.

      It took true genius to be a Nez, and Lydia had to remind herself not to become too anxious or expect too much. They had searched for a long time for someone who could duplicate the Empress’s perfume. Was it possible that the search was ended, that Morris had finally located the man?

      Morris Hurley, Lydia’s head chemist, was a little man, lean and spare. His sandy hair had gone thin, so he wore it very long on the side and brushed carefully across his large bald spot. He had pale eyes that were watery with excitement as he hurried into Lydia’s private office.

      “Well?” Lydia said when Mrs. Clary had closed the door.

      Morris put his fingertips on the top of the desk and leaned forward on the tips of his toes. He looked as if he were fighting to keep himself from pouncing on her with joy. “His name is Andrieux. Raymond Andrieux,” he said, badly imitating the French pronunciation. “I’ve checked and he’s the very best, Mrs. Nightsong. He’ll come high, but from all evidence, he’s worth whatever the cost.”

      Lydia’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “If he’s so good, why is he so available?” she asked.

      “Ah, but that’s the rub,” the chemist said. “He isn’t exactly available. Let’s say he is unhappy where he is.”

      “Which is where?”

      Morris glanced at Evelyn Clary, then at Lydia. “I don’t know if you are going to like this, Mrs. Nightsong, but he’s with P.M. Cosmetics.”

      “Peter MacNair?” Lydia groaned. “I should have suspected he’d be involved in some way. Why is it every time I turn around that man is standing in my way?”

      Mrs. Clary said, “Perhaps because he enjoys placing himself there.” She gave Lydia a knowing grin. “He certainly has spent a great deal of his time trying to speak with you, Lydia. I remember....”

      “That will do, Evelyn.”

      Lydia remembered without any help how persistent Peter had been when she had been almost destitute and laden under debts she thought she’d never be able to pay. Peter’s attentions, she’d learned, were not for her; they were for what she’d taken out of China. She could close her eyes and still feel the cat that brushed against her, frightening her half to death that dark, horrible night when she’d stolen into the Dragon Empress’s vault and taken her personal perfume, a perfume created exclusively for the dowager’s imperial use. Peter MacNair knew as well as Lydia that whoever succeeded in duplicating that fragrance would corner every perfume market in the world.

      “Nightsong,” she mused, as she turned back toward the windows. That was the name she intended to give the duplicate perfume when it was marketed, a name she’d chosen for herself when she’d immigrated.

      She frowned as it occurred to her that even the name she’d chosen—Nightsong—had originated with Peter MacNair. That night in Peter’s hut, when he’d made her get out of her wet clothes and dressed her in a silk robe, was suddenly clearly etched at the backs of her eyes. She could see the wall of his rough bedroom where some artist, centuries before, had done a painting—a branch of a plum tree in full blossom and a bird on a branch, singing to the slightly curved rim of the moon as it started to rise above the horizon. It was little more than a few deft strokes of the brush, really, in the manner of the Chinese artists, and yet it seemed to capture the scene in all its eloquence. Lydia remembered, too, vividly gazing at the exquisite painting and fancied that she had only to listen to hear the nightingale’s song to the moon, that she could actually catch the fragrant scent of the pale blossoms.

      “I call it Nightsong,” Peter MacNair had said, coming to stand behind her. Taking hold of her....

      With a shiver she threw off the memory of that night, not really knowing whether the shiver was one of pain or pleasure.

      Nightsong. It had given her so much trouble, it had caused deaths and on more than one occasion attempts on her own life and the life of her daughter. The Empress had never forgotten her transgression and Lydia knew that even today that evil woman still wanted her dead. And all because of a perfume, a perfume that seemed to be cursed, as if within its haunting fragrance lay some power for evil, the blossoms of some dark flower as destructive as it was intoxicating. Perhaps that was the secret of its desirability.

      For a brief moment she was tempted to turn and tell Morris to forget this Nez, this Raymond Andrieux, to let him stay with