The Daughters of Nightsong. V. J. Banis

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      Lydia turned from the window and drew on her gloves. If April weren’t visiting old Kim Lee in the afternoons, then where was she spending her time? Her daughter, surly and resentful for so long, had actually been pleasant of late. Almost friendly, Lydia thought as she tucked the papers she’d been studying into her reticule.

      Well, she couldn’t think of April now. There was too much to be done. Empress Cosmetics was operating again. This time it was her own money that was financing it and she was making a handsome profit. For the first time in her life she was learning how it felt to be rich, to not have to worry about money. Those earlier years as a missionary’s daughter in China, hard as they had been, had been a comfort when compared to some of what she had endured since.

      “The carriage is here,” the housekeeper said, breaking into Lydia’s memories.

      “Thank you, Nellie.”

      She would be glad to be rid of her memories, Lydia told herself as she tied her light half-cape about her shoulders and started out of the salon with its lead glass windows and its perfect view of the city from atop Nob Hill.

      Outside the air was hot and damp from the previous night’s fog. A summer sky of delphinium blue hung over the harbor where Balclutha, the three-masted sailing ship, was laying at anchor after having just completed another trip around Cape Horn. When it sailed again, it would be carrying cases of her latest beauty creams en route to her new markets in the south while the new railroads carried her Empress Cosmetics to the north and east.

      A trolley clanged as the carriage started down the hill, making the horse whinny and grow skittish. The wheels sank into the trolley track grooves, making the carriage lurch sideways before correcting itself. Lydia gripped the arm rest to steady herself. She felt a familiar pang as she passed a large three storied house with tiers of leaded windows and gingerbread trim. There were several such mansions on Nob Hill but this one was particularly unwelcome to her eyes, though she found she could never keep from looking at it.

      She never wanted to see Peter MacNair again and why she’d purchased a mansion within a stone’s throw of his she did not know. Of course Nob Hill was convenient and it did represent the epitome of success and respectability, a respectability she had coveted greatly. Why should she have to feel intimidated and live elsewhere simply because the MacNairs had their mansion on Nob Hill?

      Lydia drew back in her seat as the front door of the MacNair house opened and Peter MacNair stepped out into the bright of the day. He was as handsome as ever, so tall and muscular, with sandy brown hair that spilled carelessly over his forehead. 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.”

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