My granny's dressing table bottle with no name

Here's a thing. My granny kept one bottle on her dressing table in Connemara, ribbed glass with a stopper and a label worn down to nothing by her thumb, and she only wore it to Mass and funerals and the odd wedding, and the smell of it was powder and something like violets and the turf smoke that got into everything in that house. Nobody knows what it was. My aunt has it now, with a brown line of something left at the bottom, so she has. Some tunes you only ever hear at the one session, and nobody wrote them down.