Page 106 of A Convenient Fiction

“Two years? Three? I have copies of the bills of sale, if you’d like to see them.”

“We require all of the relevant documents,” Alex said.

Marchand glanced at the two of them with interest. “Will you be resuming production?”

“We don’t know yet,” Laura answered.

“Yes, we will,” Alex replied at the same time.

She looked at him, brows raised in enquiry. In response, he merely gave her one of his roguish half smiles. Her heartbeat quickened. She’d thought she couldn’t feel anything stronger for him than the swell of affection she’d felt when he offered to take her to the seaside in Cannes.

She’d been wrong.

As she looked at him now, she was filled with such all-encompassing warmth. Such endless gratitude. Such…love.

Good heavens, she loved him.

She loved him.

The realization fairly took her breath away.

“Are you all right?” he asked softly.

“Perfectly all right.” She slipped her hand through his arm.

Monsieur Marchand continued their tour, oblivious to Laura’s roiling emotions. “You’ll have to purchase new equipment and hire back some of the men. Many have left for other perfumeries.”

“What of the flower crops?” Alex asked.

“You’ve missed the harvest,” Monsieur Marchand replied. “Monsieur Beauchamps— c’est votre locataire… How do you say?”

“Our tenant?” Alex frowned. “The perfumer who leases the land?”

“Yes. Him. He has already taken the flowers. There’ll be nothing again until next year.”

“We’d still like to see the fields,” Laura said.

“Mais bien sûr.” Monsieur Marchand motioned to the door. “I will take you there.”

It wasn’t far. Only a short distance by carriage, along a tree-lined road that led to a lush valley at the edge of the hills. There, the fields rolled out before them in orderly division—acres of rose and lavender bushes void of their blooms, rosemary and thyme, and Seville orange trees cut back at the branches.

Laura gazed out at them, a warm feeling of recognition settling in her breast.

The flower fields in Dorset had looked similar after the harvest. She recalled trailing down the rows of lavender behind her father as he discussed perfume production with one of his assistants. She’d often touch the plants as she walked past, sliding her gloved fingers along the stalks and leaves. It left a clinging residue of scent. Sweet, clean lavender. The fragrance she associated with the best part of her life.

Alex watched her face. “Shall we get out?”

“Oh yes,” she said. “Please.”

The carriage came to a halt at the edge of the lavender fields, and he assisted her down.

She inhaled a deep breath. The air was alive with the scents of fragrant leaves, woody bark, and well-irrigated soil. It was a warm day but not an uncomfortable one. Indeed, it was nothing like the English climate she was accustomed to. It was better. Perfect. The sort of place one might dream of existing, but never did except in one’s imagination.

And yet, here she was. In the flower fields of Southern France, kissed by the sun and soothed with cool, hilltop breezes.

Alex stood beside her, looking out across the fields. “Do you know what all of these are?” he asked. “What you can do with them?”

“I believe so.” She tucked her hand through his arm. “That’s lavender, of course. And those are rose bushes. Rosa Centifolia, if I’m not mistaken. The hundred-leaved rose. Papa used to use it in his perfumes. But I’d planned to use it to make rose water.”