Limes Floris 1806

Places that no longer exist have always surrounded themselves with something mythical. When it is a place that writers and poets have reported on countless times, and one where social careers were launched and dynasties founded, it becomes even more so. Almack's - fully: 'Almack's Assembly Rooms' - located on King Street, St. James, in London, is such a place - one that, at the end of the 18th century, was initially a social club of somewhat questionable reputation. The aristocracy avoided it in those early years, as ladies were permitted to gamble here, which was considered reserved for the demi-monde. Only around 1800 did the club become what particularly Regency literature knows and loves it for - an elegant yet morally archaic marriage market, where only young ladies of the most impeccable reputation were introduced to society. Money or titles alone were not enough to gain admission - rather, a flawless reputation was required.

The decision to grant or deny access to Almack's - and thus to determine the social success of a debutante (and her family) - rested on the strict judgment of the so-called patronesses: seven ladies of London society who could revoke this permission at the slightest suspicion of impropriety. The leading among them were Lady Jersey, Lady Sefton, and Mrs. Drummond-Burrell. They were joined by Lady Cowper, Lady Castlereagh, the Countess Lieven, and Princess Esterházy, the latter being the wives of the Russian and Austrian ambassadors in London. Even the Duke of Wellington was denied entry to the club rooms when he arrived a few minutes late and in inappropriate attire. Only a snack was served, and no debutante dared to dance the then still considered disreputable waltz without the explicit approval of one of the patronesses.

Almack's was a place of elegant living and of hardly overestimable social relevance. Graceful modesty was regarded (not only there) as 'comme il faut' in those days, and an obtrusive, even morally questionable scent would not have suited any debutante, nor any hopeful mother of one, nor any marriage-minded gentleman. Instead, it was wise to have the maid or valet select a simple yet elegantly appealing perfume that was above the slightest suspicion of vulgarity - English and respectable. Such a scent is Limes by Floris, created on the eve of the Regency - the 1810s - as a wonderfully British citrus-floral perfume that could be recommended just as unreservedly to a debutante as to her dove-blue dressed mother or the somewhat clumsy earl with the too tightly tied cravat, who struggles so much with the counter-dance.

Limes is a fine fragrance of highly respectable lightness and delicacy. Like the white Florentine lace on the swelling bosom of the debutante, on primrose-yellow muslin. Or the monogrammed handkerchief of the young earl, who suspects that he - knowing his father's estates are heavily encumbered - has little chance of marrying the enchanting foreign princess, but - the most dreadful of all horrors - is facing an engagement to the wealthy daughter of an ordinary merchant if he ever wants to settle the family debts. Brightly shining petitgrain, a wonderfully soft linden blossom, and a lovely lily of the valley illustrate this delicacy and distinction in the most charming way - at a volume that indeed hardly exceeds the scent on a perfumed handkerchief, which is pleasant and very British - even today, where engagement to wealthy merchant daughters has lost much of its horror.

Conclusion: Almack's and the building that once housed the clubs no longer exist. Today, there stands an office building that only bears the name 'Almack House' in memory of those days. Yet, if one strolls slowly past there, one might still catch a hint of linden blossoms in the evening breeze - just gently, who knows?