Beneath the Apple Trees (Finale)

Nestled in a cul-de-sac in London, Parfums Gisèle had failed to establish itself as a cult boutique in the city’s perfume scene. Perhaps, its dilapidated exterior pushed away potential customers with its falling beams and broken top-floor windows. Perhaps, it was the rest of the street, nearly deserted after the war as it awaited repairs from the bombings. The sign barely hung above the door, though a path of flowers had been planted around the threshold to counter-balance the hostility of the shop. The eccentricity of the boutique rivaled that of its owner, a certain Mistress Bishop. At 65 years old, she haunted the stalls of London’s flower markets dressed in white. She always wore an extravagant Norman headdress, determined to remain a relic of a distant past.

None who uttered her name could stop themselves from discussing the rumors that followed her like loyal companions. I heard she married an aristocratic man, but ran away to be with her butler! Didn’t the butler drown in that ferry boat ten years ago? No, no, she was shipwrecked on her way to America from Amsterdam. Aye, I think you’re right. But, I heard she visited more than the flower market to keep her boutique open. I have seen her around the brothels near the docks more than once. She pretends to be a French noblewoman, too; I hear sailors like that.

Zélie Moore walked inside the poorly lit boutique, the waft of a floral scent blowing into her nose. She smiled to herself and walked among the rows of oddly-shaped frosted glass bottles. She picked one up, its rose shape embracing the palm of her hand to perfection. In spite of its shape, it bore the name Pomme d’amour.

“That one is my bestseller.”

Zélie turned around and gazed at the woman looming over the counter like a white shadow. Mistress Bishop crept in her direction and picked another vial, this one shaped like a cicada.

“This one sells well, too.”

“What is it called?” Zélie asked, intrigued by the woman’s countenance.

“Bagnoles.” Her eyes darkened with melancholy.

“I know this place!” Zélie’s smile lit up her face. “It’s not too far from where I grew up.”

“You don’t sound French at all,” the shopkeeper responded, visibly dubious.

“Well, I married young and moved here.”

She nodded. “I know what that feels like… to be young, married, and in a strange new place all at once.”

“And in love,” Zélie added, almost whimsically.

Mistress Bishop huffed, though her client was unsure if it sounded more like a light chuckle or a scoff. “Yes, and in love.” The shopkeeper uttered the words with hesitance and telltale disgust.

Lady Moore ignored the heaviness that suddenly weighed down her shoulders and continued her dance around the shop. A malachite bottle stood out to her, its label carved into the stone and etched in gold. Lili, it was called. She picked it up, holding the nozzle to her nostrils. The bottle and scent captured the green landscapes of the Norman countryside. Its aroma opened with that of apples, which were not saccharine like the first perfume, but bitter like cider. The notes quickly faded into a bouquet of sweet daisies and powdery violets after rainfall before the depth of smoked wood and moss took her back to the forest she used to run away to with Amélie and Eulalie when their mother was prickly. “Oh, my! It reminds me of home.” She turned to Mrs. Bishop and inquired about its price.

“This one is invaluable.”

Zélie sprayed the inside of her cloche hat and breathed in the scent. “It smells like my sisters. It even bears their names… and mine.”

“Oh?” Mistress Bishop raised an eyebrow, betraying her sudden interest in her customer’s life. “Are you all called Lili?”

“No, but we all called each other that.”

Mistress Bishop nodded once more. “I’ll give you a bottle for free.”

“Oh no, I couldn’t possibly! Besides, the perfume wouldn’t be for me. My granddaughter is getting married, you see.” She beamed with pride. “Your perfumes are known to capture the essence of my native region. I wanted to buy her one she can remember me by.”

“All the more reason to gift you this bottle.”

Zélie smile’s crinkled the corners of her eyes. “You are too kind and not at all how people describe you.”

“To their credit, some of the rumors are true.”

Lady Moore raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Which ones?”

Mistress Bishop offered an enigmatic smile. It was the first she had displayed since Zélie had walked inside her boutique. “That’s a secret.”

But, Zélie had an inkling about the mystery that was Mistress Bishop. “There was a girl in the village I grew up in,” she recalled. “People called her La Comtesse for her mannerisms and her perfume. But her real name was—”

“Élise.”

“That’s right, that’s you.” She frowned. “You were my sister’s best friend.”

“I was.”

“Why did you open a boutique here and not in France?”

“I was supposed to move here with her. I foolishly—no, desperately—hoped she would come and find me and that the past decade had all been just a terrible dream.”

Zélie held her hands. “She’s gone for good.”

“I am beginning to see that.”

Lady Moore left the store, the malachite bottle nestled inside her bag. She wrote Élise a heartfelt letter and went back to deliver it the following morning. But, when she arrived on the crumbling street, a constable revealed that she had passed away during the night. The top floor of the boutique had finally given out, destroying the vials underneath.

“Are you her family?”

Dazed and distraught, Zélie did not know how she could answer. She hesitated and looked around, begging for someone to claim Élise as their mother or their wife. But, the street remained quiet, and the only faces that graced its cobblestone path were that of a mustached constable and a French woman on the wrong side of town. She knew how alone Élise truly was. “Yes.” She paused before adding, “She is—was—my sister.”

The constable handed her the lace headdress, seemingly the only possession he had bothered to save. “What was her name?”

“Élise Gosselin.”