Reader, this season’s Bridgerton was bigger, and better, than even last year’s season. Coffers were opened much wider, and hands plummeted right to the depths. The stage set must have had the biggest budget any production has had for years.
But, this author’s senses were left lacking. Despite the sumptuous visual and clever musical feasts, we nary got to enjoy the sherbet and pistachio-aromas of the gateaux, or to lay our oily hands upon The Duke.
So, until some twelve-year-old genius innovates smelly vision, imagination is all we have to recreate the fragrant tableau.
Of the rose scented conservatories, and Benedict’s Bohemian art studio patchouli musk. Of the Viscount’s sandalwood earnestness, or his ylang ylang fragranced betrothed. Reader, sweet as she is, with her heaving bosom and pretty face, this author found her somewhat nauseating, after a while.
Miss Sharma with her doe eyes, was said to smell of lilies. But surely her seductive nature and raunchy underwear would have her redolent of jasmine?
Of course, nothing happens in the AromaTon without the say-so of Queen Charlotte; bossy, fearsome, and herself ruled by her husband’s dementia. The queen then, focused on memory and with a tendency to raise blood pressure, we wondered if Her Majesty might not have a Rosemary aroma?
The Viscount’s mother always wears lavender, naturally. Miss Eloise, as forthright female, Sweet Basil.
Reader, perhaps you join me in hoping next season brings torment for Master Colin, whose tedious Greek Island tales make him reek boringly of Cypress.
The Featheringtons with their tangerine frocks, and Pen’s lemon acerbic wit, should act as reminders that citrus oils are spiteful when they are past their best.(**8 Never use citrus oils on your skin if they are older than 6 months old.)
This author relishes Lady Featherington’s rapacious dealings very much.
One wonders if it really is the end of Lord Featherington, and his dastardly crimes. What a dashing fellow, first came down the stairs, but Heavens! What a cad!
What oil is he? It’s hard to know, but in some shots, he seemed to measure a height of eleven feet! Un boisson vert, I think he’ll be. The crème de menthe, a long, tall peppermint drink.
Lady Danbury, what about her? Political mover and steely guide to all. In her dark red suits, independence, and practicality. A hefty slug of rose geranium, most assuredly.
But does Daphne smell of Daphne flowers?
One is not convinced she does. This author fancies her pastel heart to be more like a breeze of neroli.
But woe is me, dear Reader.
Where, on Earth, was the cedarwood Duke?
Call me cold hearted, but his toddling offspring did nothing to stir my loins.
In amongst all that deep breathing (presumably they were smelling our oils) not once did this author have to change her knickers, and the modiste stitched a new pair, for this very occasion.
Reader, I suspect underhandedness.
That I was robbed of his chiseled form.
The human version of suaveness and sophistication was indeed used as an oil!
Think about it, reader.
All that smoldering and serious contemplation struggling to stay calm under pressure that’s where cedarwood earns adulation.
Just look at their hair long, thick, and lustrous; glossy and ornately coiffed. Certainly, a little cedarwood influence would achieve hair as lovely as that.
All that struggling to moderate heart beats, to suppress love hormones and sexual neurotransmission. That is endocannabinoid stuff, and you should see what the laboratories say about cedarwood.
Think of the snarling dog. We never saw him scratching. Maybe, the cedarwood Duke was masquerading as insect repellent?
Wherever he was I mourned him. The copious number of roses could nary come close to replacing him.
Worry not, however, for this author found good comfort in a double dose of Outlander.
( This piece was written by Clinical Aromatherapist, Elizabeth Ashley. We would like to be clear that neither she, or Vinevida, have any connections to Netflix, ShondaLand or Bridgerton.)