Contents
About the Book
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Book Club Discussion Notes
Praise for Fiona McIntosh
Chocolate Tin Competition
Ad for The Perfumer’s Secret
Ad for How to Write Your Blockbuster
About the Author
Imprint
About the Book
The highly anticipated new blockbuster by the bestselling author of The Perfumer’s Secret.
Alexandra Frobisher is a modern-thinking woman with hopes of a career in England’s famous chocolate-making town of York. She has received several proposals of marriage, although none of them promises that elusive extra – love.
Matthew Britten-Jones is a man of charm and strong social standing. He impresses Alex and her parents with his wit and intelligence, but would an amicable union be enough for a fulfilling life together?
At the end of the war, Captain Harry Blakeney discovers a dead soldier in a trench in France. In the man’s possession is a secret love note, tucked inside a tin of chocolates that had been sent to the soldiers as a gift from the people back home.
In pursuit of the author of this mysterious message, Harry travels to Rowntree’s chocolate factory in England’s north, where his life becomes inextricably bound with Alexandra and Matthew’s. Only together will they be able to unlock secrets of the past and offer each other the greatest gift for the future.
From the battlefields of northern France to the medieval city of York, this is a heartbreaking tale about a triangle of love in all its forms and a story about the bittersweet taste of life . . . and of chocolate.
‘Fiona McIntosh is a prolific and superior writer in the genre, and if you enjoy popular romantic fiction, you’d be mad not to try her.’ The Age
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Book Club Discussion Notes
Praise for Fiona McIntosh
Ad for The Perfumer’s Secret
Ad for How to Write Your Blockbuster
About the Author
This book is fondly dedicated to Dr Alex Hutchinson,
Curator, Nestlé History and Archives.
1
YORK – 1915
The argument had been tame – polite, even – but there was no doubt in Alex Frobisher’s mind that if she didn’t make a decision, it would be made for her. She gave a small clicking sound and nudged her coal-coloured mare to pick up her pace. The familiar noise of hooves on the road soothed, and she tried to take her thoughts back to a time when the summers seemed to stretch forever in a warm recollection of shared laughter in Scotland. Such happy days before that August afternoon of 1905 when darkness descended on her family. It was this pain, forever haunting them, that she was sure was the root of her mother’s urgency for a wedding . . . even an unwelcome one for Alex.
Blackberry didn’t need guiding; she knew exactly where to turn left and enter the lush landscape of the sprawling green of the Knavesmire that flanked one of Britain’s favourite racecourses. The canter turned to a light gallop and soon they gained speed, the landscape melting into a pleasing blur of leaves. The glimmering late autumn sunlight, toppling fast into that golden hour just before dusk, found the bluish hint of Blackberry’s coat. The breeze tried desperately to stir free Alex’s hair, which clung stubbornly to its pins beneath her riding hat; a few wisps escaped, particularly one determined strand enjoying freedom as much as she was.
Not only had her hair deepened to the colour of chocolate over the years, but she felt her life had followed suit into maturity and this last year felt as though it had delivered her into a relentlessly dark place.
She let the debate play out once more in her mind as she pulled on the reins to slow Blackberry’s arrival at the entrance. The horse obliged, finding an easy walk, steamy breath blowing in the fading afternoon as a chill crawled over the open plain of the park. Alex relived the uncomfortable conversation that unfolded as vividly in her mind as if she were living through it for the first time. She replayed it now like a motion picture.
There was her father in his tweeds, sipping his afternoon tea, unhappily ignoring the pikelets he so enjoyed in order to escape the shrill exchanges between his wife and daughter. He’d moved to the bank of tall windows, with their small squares of glass panes framed by heavy plum velvet curtains, to look out across the grounds of the sprawling champagne-brick pile called Tilsden Hall. It had been home to the Frobishers for decades and Alex knew he searched out the duck pond. She instinctively understood that her father was wishing he could stroll now to the pond and gaze out at the two swans moving peacefully across the glass-like surface. Instead, he was suffering through yet another difference of opinion between the women in his life.
Alex watched her mother lift her eyes to the garishly painted ceiling in the Arts and Crafts style that her elder had embraced so eagerly. Minerva had often claimed that it was a ‘folk style’ of yesteryear, but her daughter glanced now at the frantic circus of flowers and geometric shapes on the timbered ceiling and felt a familiar gush of embarrassment. Alex switched her gaze to her mother. Minerva Frobisher’s pinched nostrils and pursed lips gave the impression she was attempting to shut out something particularly putrid.
‘Mother,’ Alex appealed, ‘I really must be allowed to make some decisions of my own.’
‘You can. You may choose whether you wish to be formally engaged to Edward St John, Ashley Langdon-Smith or Duncan Cameron, or indeed courted by all of them.’
‘Then, if it’s up to me, I choose none of them.’
Her mother baulked, giving a low gasp of indignation. Her father cut Alex a look of soft despair as though admonishing her for prodding an already enraged beast. She returned it with a tiny shrug of apology; they both knew he was about to be drawn into the discussion he’d aimed to avoid.
‘Charles!’
‘Yes, dear?’
‘What do you have to say to that?’ Minerva demanded.
Her father strolled over to stand near the fireplace; its blackened ironwork beneath the mahogany mantelpiece proclaimed its 1898 installation in bold relief. He turned his back to the dancing f
lames to pick up a warm pikelet that he folded neatly, careful not to spill a drop of the oozy butter or glistening jam. He bit into it deliberately to avoid speaking and nodded that he’d answer shortly when his mouth was no longer full.
Fresh exasperation was sighed out by Minerva. ‘Alexandra,’ she continued, ‘you should have been married years ago. But as an only child we’ve indulged you. We’ve given you plenty of time, far more than most daughters, plus you’ve grown up in a world of entitlement —’
‘I am aware of that, Mother,’ Alex replied, trying hard not to snap her words.
‘Are you? Really, darling, are you? Because you show no indication that you’re seriously taking on board your role.’
‘Please —’ Alex began.
‘While I pray each evening that Cousins Hugh and George are spared, I fear daily that both could be gone from us in a blink. I know that men’s lives are being cut down by the thousands, daily. Someone in this family has to be realistic about your future. Without Peter —’
Alex leapt in. She didn’t want to travel the whole emotional journey again. ‘I know, Mother. You want me to marry and give you grandsons, retain Tilsden. I do realise this.’
‘Both of us want this. But actually, Alexandra, I’m genuinely concerned that there is someone to look after you. Your father may not wish to press you but I know that women don’t get nearly as much say as they would like. Now, we can rail against it, and please don’t misunderstand me,’ she said, raising a finger, ‘I am full of admiration for courageous women who wish to change the way of the world, but our way, darling, is to cling to the traditional. I know you don’t want to hear this but I am going to say it one more time, very clearly, so you make no mistake about your role for the Frobisher family. And it is not any harebrained idea of pursuing a career! You can’t possibly contemplate working for wages – or you certainly wouldn’t be considered marriage material. Besides, you know nothing about anything, frankly. Leave business to the men in your life – that’s their role. Yours, my darling girl, is to marry. Most young women aren’t given such a selection but we love you deeply and we do want you to be happy in your choice.’ It was impressive how her mother could give offence even when her words were chosen to show affection. ‘Each is ideal in almost every way.’
‘Except the most important.’
‘I barely knew your father when I was betrothed and I did not run from my duty to marry him, even though I was far younger than you are. I very quickly grew to respect him.’
‘What about love, though, Mother?’
‘Of course I love your father,’ Minerva replied with fresh indignation, but conveniently missing the point, Alex thought.
‘Well, just so that we’re all clear, I don’t respond to any of those three men.’
‘Respond?’ her mother scorned. ‘What on earth does that mean, child? In what ways don’t you respond?’
‘Myriad ways.’ She sighed. ‘Let’s make this simple. Edward is pompous and has viciously bad breath; Ashley is scared of spiders and prefers to sleep with a lamp on – hardly heroic! Anyway, I sense Ashley is easily persuaded by his London society friends . . . and Duncan . . . well, Duncan is Scottish.’
‘He’s next in line as laird!’
‘Precisely. Do I really want to be lumped off to Ben Nevis, Mother?’ Alex hated how dismissive she sounded. These men were at the Front, fighting for their lives, fighting for her privileged life to continue.
‘Duncan has a tremendous affection for you.’
‘Of course he does. His choice is limited. It’s me or a sheep, really, isn’t it?’ Sometimes her thoughts were voiced before her mouth could catch them. Even through her shame she felt a helpless spike of triumph that her father guffawed over his second pikelet.
‘Charles, really!’ Charles’s amusement vanished as the tone of disapproval was now turned his way. ‘I despair of you, Alexandra Frobisher. Duncan deserves better.’
‘Mother, I know he’s your first choice, but be fair. Duncan doesn’t want a woman to love. He wants a wife to show off, to run his household, to keep him warm in bed on those barren highlands,’ she said, unable to hide her irritation.
‘If it gives us heirs, so be it.’
Alex sighed, letting her shoulders visibly slump. ‘You can imagine that the Camerons would consider any son as their heir, rather than yours.’
‘I don’t care. The sooner you get going at the business of making family the better. Then I know there are children growing up around you who will look after you in times to come.’ Her mother raised her voice in deep exasperation. ‘We need grandchildren . . . grandsons would be lovely.’
‘Any son’s surname would be Cameron, not Frobisher. How does this help us?’
‘Don’t be deliberately obtuse. I find it most vexing.’
‘Minerva.’ Her father finally finished his second pikelet. ‘Don’t, my dear. You know your blood pressure is high enough.’
‘Charles, I need your support in this.’
He nodded, put down his cup and saucer and sat next to Minerva, taking her hand in a sweet show of affection. Alex loved her father for it, especially as she knew all he craved was harmony: his daughter happy; wife content.
‘It’s all very well for you both, Charles. You live in a tiny world of two sometimes, Alex every inch a daddy’s girl . . .’
Alex let her mother say her piece, congratulating herself that she didn’t leap in and object that unlike all the other spoiled daughters of her mothers’ circle, she didn’t call her father ‘Daddy’ any more, but the more modern and urbane ‘Dad’.
Her father smiled awkwardly and then finally nodded and turned back to address her. ‘Alex, darling,’ he began, and she gave him her full attention because Alex knew his word would be final. ‘This discussion began because you courageously shared with us that you wish to help out in the factory where they’re calling for volunteers.’
‘I do, Dad. And being around the Rowntree’s business is a place to get ideas too.’
She watched the familiar crinkle of her father’s eyes as he smiled at her, dimples deepening in his cheeks. In that moment she was a little girl again looking into the face of the only man she adored. She didn’t glimpse his unguarded smile often enough . . . later this year it would be two decades of sorrow they’d endured. She shook off the gloom, watching her father throw a look of gentle pride at his wife.
‘And of course living in York, who could blame you wanting to be involved in its main industry?’ he said. ‘What your mother is conveying rather baldly is that what we need you to do – as our only and much-beloved daughter – is to follow through.’ He nodded to himself, liking this choice of expression. ‘We are not chocolate makers like the Rowntree family and —’
‘We’re not even Quakers,’ Minerva observed, as though tasting something stale.
Charles shook his head. ‘There are many other ways to volunteer your time. And as for you dreaming of your own business, while I won’t flatly discourage it because you’ve always been an ambitious child . . .’ He hushed Minerva at her intended interruption. ‘Let me speak, Min, dear. Alex has been an independent girl with strong opinions and I think we can both agree that she has firm morals. She won’t let down anyone she loves, least of all us, so I think we have little to worry about.’
She thanked her father with a nod and affectionate smile.
He lifted a finger of warning, though, and a pit opened in her belly. ‘However, women do have responsibilities right now to their men, to family, to helping keep the country safe and ticking over through war. Avoiding your responsibility as the only remaining child in this family is breaking your mother’s heart.’
‘You could, of course, marry a Rowntree . . . even a Cadbury would do, and make your father and me happy,’ her mother interjected.
She ignored the remark. ‘Dad, I think learning about business could inspire me. Please, I want to do more than have the sum of my life being organised into a sound marriage.�
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Her father took a deep breath to indicate that he understood. Alex opened her hands in appeal to hide her frustration, hoping it wouldn’t show in her voice. ‘Everyone we pass in the street is connected to chocolate, and I can learn, Dad. Don’t you see? Just being around it would be enlightening.’
Another gasp of horror from her mother punctured Alex’s thin balloon of hope and her plaintive statement died in her throat. She tasted instant bitterness instead of sweet joy.
Charles Frobisher looked back at her with tenderness in his gaze, making it worse, but she fought against turning sullen on him. ‘No, my darling girl, you cannot. Association with the factory floor will not do – not for a Frobisher girl.’
Alex tried not to hear the clear dismissal. ‘Give me a chance, Dad. I think I can build a career for myself, be a woman of independent means.’
‘Career? Are you hearing yourself, Alex?’ Minerva demanded. ‘Because you sound deluded. Women don’t have careers, for heaven’s sake. This may be 1915 and you may well have modern ideas, but your job is to support your husband. You’re going to be the wife of an important man, one way or another, and a mother to his children. We need to know your future is secure. That is your career as a Frobisher girl. We’ve never raised you in doubt of your duty, surely? Daughters from families such as ours have their part to play in the family’s future. It’s time to deliver on all your privileges and do your bit.’
Alex hated to disappoint either of her parents but why couldn’t they understand she didn’t want any of the entitlements to which they both referred? Her uncle’s boys could have it all, if they lived long enough to take it on. This was a battle best fought another day. She retreated, throwing appeasement their way to defuse the heat from her mother’s glare and the disappointment in her father that the two women in his life were at such loggerheads. ‘I cannot marry anyone right now because all our men are fighting for their lives, and ours, in Europe. Look, Dad, Mother, please don’t upset yourselves; the trio you refer to are likely each in trenches. They may not be suitable in my mind but it doesn’t mean they aren’t good men, brave and patriotic.’ She watched her mother’s frown loosen and felt her own relief let go. ‘We can’t make important decisions on marriage while the potential grooms are fighting a war. You come from a different age, both of you; you were born when a queen ruled an empire and we’ve already moved through a king since. We’re one-quarter through 1915 and there is surely another year of war ahead . . .’ She lifted a shoulder. ‘None of us knows what’s going to happen but I suppose the modern woman in me accepts that we can’t halt progress, no matter what. So, of course I will marry and of course I will give you grandchildren, but I don’t know who that will be with or when. Can we agree not to discuss marriage until we know there’s peace?’
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