Scent of
Triumph
Chapter 1 Excerpt from
Scent of Triumph: A Novel of
Perfume and Passion by Jan Moran
St. Martin’s Press
A rose, the symbol of love, the
queen of the perfumer’s palette.
How then, does the perfume of war
intoxicate even the most reasonable
of men?
–DB (From the perfume journal of
Danielle Bretancourt)
3 September, 1939
Atlantic Ocean
ani
r tan o rt on off an
braced herself against the mahoganypaneled stateroom wall, striving for
a an a h
n o n a ra
porthole, seeking a moment of respite
she knew would never be. A damp,
kelp-scented wind—a harbinger of the
storm ahead—whistled through the
cabin, assaulting her nose with its raw
intensity, but the sting of salty spray
did little to assuage the fear she had
for her little boy.
Nicky was only six years old. Why, oh
why did I agree to leave him behind?
She had wanted to bring him, but her
husband had disagreed, saying he was
far too young for such an arduous
journey. As a trained scientist, his
arguments were always so logical, so
sensible. Against her instinct, she had
given in to Max. It was settled; in
their absence her mother-in-law,
o a o
ar or i y on th ir
old family estate in Poland.
Danielle kept her eyes focused on the
hori on a th
r y
or r
slanted upward, slicing through the
144
peak of a cresting wave. The ocean
liner creaked and pitched as it heaved
through the turbulent gray waters of
the Atlantic on its voyage from New
York to England. Silently, Danielle urged
it onward, anxious to return home.
Her usually sturdy stomach churned in
rhythm with the sea. Was it morning
sickness, anxiety, or the ravaging
motion of the sea? Probably all three,
she decided. Just last week she’d been
so wretchedly ill that she’d seen a
o tor ho on r
h r r nan y
The timing couldn’t be worse.
h
in
a ain t th tiff r
her mind reeling. When they’d heard
reports of the new agreement
between Germany and Russia, they’d
cut their business short to hurry
home. Had it been just two days since
they’d learned the devastating news
that a i or
ha in a
o an
Someone knocked sharply on the
door. Gingerly crossing the room,
Danielle opened the door to Jonathan
Newell-Grey, heir apparent to the
British shipping line that bore his
family name. His tie hung from his
collar and his sleeves were rolled up,
exposing muscular forearms taut
from years of sailing. A rumpled wool
jacket hung over one shoulder.
Danielle and Max had met Jon on their
outbound voyage to New York several
weeks ago. They had become good
friends, dining together regularly on
the ship, and later in the city.
tra
an hy i a y t on
o
to
or an in on n
food, and insisted on taking them to
the best restaurants in New York, as
well as little-known nooks that
served authentic French and German
fare, assuring Max and Danielle of a
salve for their homesickness after
their relocation. During their time in
New York, Max worked tirelessly,
tending to details for their pending
cross-Atlantic move, so they both
appreciated having a knowledgeable
friend to call on for help.
With his gregarious yet gracious
ann r on ha h
th
n a
good neighborhood for their family,
introduced them to his banker, and
even explained some of the odd
American colloquialisms they couldn’t
understand, as they all laughed
together over well-aged bottles of his
favorite Bordeaux. They had all
climbed the Empire State Building
together, and one night they saw a
play on Broadway, and even danced to
Benny Goodman’s big band into the
late evening hours. Jon also went to
the World’s Fair with them, where
their crystal perfume bottles were
featured in a potential business
partner’s display. Danielle and Max
were both glad they’d met Jon, a man
who embraced life with spirit and joie
de vivre, and they looked forward to
their new life in America far from the
threat of Hitler’s forces.
But now, with news of the invasion,
Max and Danielle’s guarded optimism
for their future had turned to distress
over their family’s safety.
“Bonjour,” she said, glad to see Jon.
“Any news yet?”
“None.” He pushed a hand through
his unruly chestnut hair, droplets of
water spray glistening on his tanned
face. “The captain has called a
tin at t n h n r ho r or
all passengers traveling on Polish and
German passports.”
“But I still hold a French passport.”
“You’ll need to attend, Danielle.” His
hoarse voice held the wind of the sea.
“Of course, but—” As another sharp
pitch jerked through the ship, Jon
caught her by the shoulders and kept
her from falling. He moved intuitively
with the ship’s motion, a testament to
his years at sea.
“Steady now, lass,” Jon said, a small
smile playing on his lips. He stared past
her out the porthole, his dark eyes
riveted on the ocean’s whitecapped
expanse. Blackened, heavily laden
clouds crossed the sun, casting angled
shadows across his face.
Embarrassed, Danielle touched the
wall for support. She recalled the
strange sense of foreboding she’d had
upon waking. She was blessed—or
cursed—with an unusually keen
prescience. Frowning, she asked, “Can
the ship withstand this storm?”
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h
a n
a orthy
on o th n t in th