‘Deal!’ Charles said with a clap of his hands.
His wife turned her disbelieving gaze on her husband.
‘Alex is right, my dear. This conversation is academic until those three jolly fellows are freely available. Poor old Cameron’s being sent to Belgium or something, isn’t he?’
‘Well, they’ll get leave, won’t they?’ Minerva queried.
Alex groaned.
‘I’m sure they will at some time,’ her father agreed.
‘If they live long enough,’ Alex observed.
‘But I think our only precious child should make an informed decision when the world is in a less wretched frame of mind,’ her father continued. ‘Besides, it’s no good her agreeing to marry a man who doesn’t return from the battlefield. Imagine the trauma of that on all of us. What if she were married, pregnant, had a child?’
Bravo, Dad, Alex cheered inwardly.
‘Enough, Charles.’ The lower half of Minerva’s face seemed to disappear into her neck, as if desperately forcing down a new line of attack, but none of her pinched disappointment was masked. ‘Right,’ she said, finding her new path. ‘So we’re agreed, then? All of us? When peace is regained, within six weeks of it, Alexandra, please will you allow me to make an announcement of your engagement?’ She eyed them both again, awaiting an answer.
‘I think that’s fair,’ Charles remarked to the fireplace. He bent again towards the tray of cooling pikelets.
‘You don’t need another, darling. Remember your indigestion.’
‘Yes, dear,’ he said, stealing a wink at his daughter and another pikelet.
‘Alexandra?’
She shifted her attention back to her mother because the tone was not to be ignored.
‘I want to hear your agreement to this pact we’re making as a family. Six weeks after formal peacetime you will be engaged. You will not break faith with this. I cannot have my daughter a spinster for much longer. This is a solemn promise you’re giving us, darling, all right?’
‘I agree,’ she said, and her mother nodded, seemingly satisfied. Alex glanced away to the tall windows that flooded light into the room each afternoon. It was still a couple of hours to dusk and she needed to take some air.
They could hear the phone ringing distantly, then a tap on the door sounded. A woman with a familiar hangdog expression entered. The often sombre-looking arrangement of her features belied the genial, kindly person who lived behind them. She’d been at Tilsden since before Alex was born and Charles Frobisher had acquiesced to the housekeeper’s insistence that no new butler was required since the war had dragged away so many of the men. She’d stepped up her role from housekeeper to shoulder most of the butlering responsibilities.
‘Yes, Lambton?’ Charles said.
‘It’s a gentleman, a Mr Britten-Jones, on the telephone, sir.’
‘Britten-Jones? All right, Lambton, thank you.’
‘Who is that, darling?’ Minerva wondered.
‘Do you remember the couple we met in Bath? He was involved in the expansion of the transport network in the west.’
‘Vaguely.’
‘Ruddy, built like a block of stone. Old money. New money too and lots of it – mind you, he’d need it. They had quite a crowd of a family, as I recall.’
‘Wife thin as a waif and extremely short, I seem to recall.’
‘That’s the one. Well, I’ve been doing some work with him via the railways this past couple of years. He’s a good sort. I like him. Excellent family. Strange he’d ring me at home, though.’
Alex followed her father to the door, smiling at Lambton, whose quiet yet somehow dominant personality she’d grown up to admire as close to a grandmother in her life.
‘I’m going to take Blackberry out,’ Alex announced to the room.
‘Rug up, darling. It’s going to be cold once that sun disappears behind those clouds coming in,’ Minerva called after her in an entirely cheerier tone. ‘Dinner’s simple and a bit earlier at seven, as Mrs Morrison is going to the play that’s on at St Peter’s School hall.’
‘Your mother chose a beef pie for this evening, Miss Alex; one of your favourites,’ Lambton murmured as she held the door for her.
Alex looked back at her mother to see only affection in her smile, the row about marriage already forgotten.
__________
It was the shivering chill that brought her out of the gloomy recall of earlier today. She noted Blackberry had completed another circuit of the parkland, far slower this time, and they were again at the entrance near the main road that led from London into York via the fashionable and wealthy homes of The Mount, where her family lived. She let the memory of the conversation dissipate, her breath coming harder for the cold ride, although the exhilaration of the gallop had helped to blow out some of the anger and gain some perspective. With her horse now still, she noticed her ladies’ maid approaching.
‘Getting a bit nippy, Miss.’ Holly held a hand above her eyes to look up at Alex. ‘You looked a bit sad?’
Alex smoothed her long black skirt, straightening it over the lace-up boots, feeling the autumn chill finding its way through her thin jacket. She should have listened to her mother and rugged up more.
‘Sometimes it’s hard being the only child – there’s just too much focus all the time.’ She straightened her shoulders, instantly chagrined. ‘Listen to me; I sound pathetic. Ignore that self-pitying remark, Holly.’ She nimbly unhooked her leg from the side-saddle and easily slipped down to the ground. Alex pulled the rein over Blackberry’s head to lead her. ‘They want an answer on marriage.’
Holly’s mouth twisted with sympathy.
‘Is twenty-five really that old? Where is it decreed that I must marry by this age?’
Her maid cut her a supportive grin but Alex knew she couldn’t blame Holly for likely considering her far too choosy as much as indulged. ‘Lady Frobisher loves you to bits, Miss. She worries about you, wants the best for you. She’s not the enemy.’
‘I know, I know,’ Alex sighed. ‘I am my own enemy. I assure you my mother is not the villain here. She’s simply a Victorian trapped in this new age who believes every daughter is essentially a wife in training. That’s how she was raised. She is determined I feel the same keen sense of family duty, especially since . . .’ She didn’t finish that painful thought. ‘Well, anyway, according to women of my mother’s ilk, their daughters should not have dreams that stretch beyond the front door of the household. There are times when I wonder why she bothered to educate me. Forgive me, Holly. I’m sounding horribly ungrateful.’
‘Nothing to apologise for, Miss. We all have dreams. There’s no harm in them.’
Alex was prodded into deeper guilt as she imagined Holly’s life of endless work duties for the Frobishers and one day off a month, which she mostly spent travelling to and from Burnley to see her parents and siblings.
‘What are yours? Marriage? Family?’
Holly lifted a shoulder. ‘Yes, of course. I hope for both but there’s not much time for romance with work the way it is.’ She looked away immediately. ‘I’m not laying any blame, Miss. I love my job with your family.’ But she frowned.
‘What? Go on,’ Alex encouraged.
‘Well, I suppose I’ve always wanted to be a shopkeeper,’ Holly admitted. Alex hadn’t anticipated the honesty of Holly’s choice and it must have shown in her surprised expression.
‘Sorry, Miss. I’ve spoken out of turn again.’
‘No, not at all . . . I’m intrigued, truly I am. A shopkeeper,’ she repeated, sounding impressed. ‘Really?’ She nodded at Holly’s self-conscious smile, happy for her personal maid, who had slowly become a confidante since they were introduced four years ago.
‘Now you’re twenty-one, Alex, your birthday present is your very own maid,’ her mother had said in a hushed, conceited tone. ‘Happy birthday, darling. Meet Holly.’
Alex remembered feeling instantly embarrassed for both herself and the new w
oman in her life. Holly was being passed over like a commodity and Alex had prickled with indignity, so she’d set out from their first hour to keep their relationship as balanced as she could without drawing raised eyebrows. And she’d discovered that pragmatic Holly was wise beyond her twenty years and it was often she who cautioned the young debutante about fraternising too closely with staff. ‘One day you might have to sack me,’ Holly had once jested, but Alex had heard the truth riding beneath the humour.
‘In all this time you’ve been at my side, why haven’t I known about this?’
Holly smiled wider. ‘Why would I mention it? It’s just a silly daydream.’
Alex hid the soft blow of the injury she felt from being locked out of Holly’s inner desires, especially as they’d effectively grown up together these past years.
Blackberry gave a snort of impatience and Alex obliged by leading her off the parkland. They paused again at the entrance.
‘What sort of shop did you have in mind?’
‘Drapery, I always thought, but now I like to daydream about a teashop or a cake shop.’
‘Oh, but that’s wonderful.’ She meant it. ‘Not even Mrs Morrison makes a pot of tea, or chocolate, as you can.’
Holly put a hand to the side of her mouth. ‘That’s because Mrs Morrison has put Tilsden on a permanent war footing and taken to reusing tea leaves, if she can get away with it.’
Alex laughed. ‘Don’t tell my mother.’
‘We do our best to protect the family from the outside world,’ Holly admitted.
‘Amen to that,’ Alex muttered. ‘How’s your war going, Holly?’
Holly sighed. ‘My youngest brother hasn’t left for Europe yet, but my elder brothers are in northern France, in a trench together, which helps us all to stay positive.’ She shrugged. ‘Sometimes, even though other girls say I’m lucky to be in love, I think it’s probably easier not to have a sweetheart.’
‘One less person to worry about?’
Holly nodded. ‘But life decided otherwise and I’ve got my man and I do miss a kiss now and then, though.’ She giggled. ‘We all need kissing, don’t we?’
‘We do. And I think it’s lovely you have your shop to dream about.’
‘Is it, though?’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because I’m not in a position to act on my dream.’
Alex blinked, taking a second to fully appreciate the undertone of the challenge in Holly’s words. ‘But I am?’
‘You have plenty of freedom, Miss. So long as you’re not hurting anyone through it . . .’
Holly’s words of daring made Alex feel as though she’d stepped out of a dark room into bright sunlight. ‘Follow my heart anyway, you’re saying?’
‘I’m not saying that. It’s not my place to encourage you to rebel against your parents, Miss,’ she said, her expression clearly saying the opposite, as far as Alex was concerned.
She regarded the racecourse they stood opposite stretching out verdantly and imagined that in a few weeks it would become boggy when the mire flooded. She’d seen people take boats out on it and in winter she usually joined the merry throng and skated over it during late January. Alex could see a lone man galloping his horse in the distance on the far side of the course. She knew the figure to be Arnold Rowntree, nephew of the original Joseph Rowntree, philanthropist and founder of the famous confectionery label. He was familiar with her father as they were both involved with the ever-expanding railway but she wasn’t privy to how their work connected. Arnold was in his early forties, plump, with his hairline racing backwards at a frightening rate to leave a shiny dome and thickets of hair just above and behind his ears. Until recently, as a Liberal MP for York, he was affectionately known as Chocolate Jumbo. As director of the family firm and a good Quaker, Arnold was also a conscientious objector, which had brought him the sort of notoriety in wartime that was far from positive.
Alex’s gaze narrowed, thinking of her cousins and Holly’s brothers and sweetheart living in filthy trenches, potentially killed at any moment, breathing mustard gas without warning while this chubby, jovial, prematurely balding man of immense wealth and privilege got to breathe fresh English air and ride his horse along the Knavesmire seemingly without a care in the world. And yet she liked him; everything her father said about him and his family’s constant good deeds for the town was endearing, including his most recent assistance to open up part of the factory to become a hospital for injured soldiers to convalesce in. There were plans already underway to build a village to get their workers out of the slum areas and into clean, healthy, modern housing. The Tuke family, former proprietors of the business that the Rowntrees now owned, had even bought a vast tract of land on the rim of the city, surrounded by a patchwork of meadows and orchards, and built a series of buildings to offer care and accommodation in friendlier, less sombre surrounds for the people of York with troubled minds. They called it The Retreat. According to her mother, the Quakers were spurred into this determination to build a sanitarium of sorts after their collective personal horror that a Quaker woman died in the County Asylum for lack of proper care. Alex shivered slightly. She knew the County Asylum to be a daunting hulk of brick and stone, built in the 1700s, with rumours of terrible treatments for the insane. She had to admire Rowntree for his magnanimity in spite of others calling him cowardly.
‘Penny for your thoughts, Miss?’
‘Pardon? Oh, sorry. Arnold Rowntree over there. Apparently his stallion is called Business.’
‘That’s an odd name for a horse.’
Alex grinned. ‘Well, the story goes that he detested the notion of lying to people in equal measure to having to entertain the constant stream of visitors he was receiving in a day on petty matters.’
‘Go on, Miss.’
‘My father said it eased Chocolate Jumbo’s soul for his servants to be able to put their hands over their hearts and say to a visitor that the master was not in because he was out on Business.’
There was not even a full second’s pause before Holly tipped back her head to laugh with Alex.
‘Priceless, isn’t it?’ she added. ‘I’ve always liked that story and it has endeared him to me knowing it hurt his heart to lie.’
‘People say mean things about all the Quakers these days.’
‘They don’t deserve it because they’ve done so much that is good for York, and let’s not forget that Quaker sons have signed up for the Friends’ Ambulance Unit serving at the Front.’
Alex led Blackberry forward and Holly fell in step as they began to head up the hill. It was eerily quiet, given that the road to London was usually a steady movement of carriages, buses and even a few automobiles backfiring as they rolled sleekly down the main artery of the two cities. The ascent would take them to The Mount, a protectorate of the wealthy and powerful. This enclave resided on the edge of York’s dark, crowded medieval streets . . . beyond the slums and markets, the department stores and civic buildings all crushed together and encapsulated by the vast city walls . . . beyond all the dirt and drama of city life to a stretch of clean, cultivated beauty that opened onto the space and bright air of the Knavesmire to their backs. Alex didn’t need to be told repeatedly about privilege; she lived it, accepted it and tried not to trade on it.
Holly switched them back to their original subject. ‘So what are you going to do about your situation, Miss?’
‘I just want to do something,’ Alex groaned. ‘Find something that fires my imagination and challenges me, and not just accept that now that I’m in my twenties I have to forget I have a brain or ambition and be defined instead by whom I marry.’
‘So who can it hurt if you volunteer at the factory? I think it’s something to be admired. Every pair of hands helps.’
‘My mother could be hurt.’
‘We can’t have that. What if you balanced it out?’
‘What does that mean?’
‘You know, white fibs. Ones that can be forgiven.�
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She smiled. ‘Go on.’
‘Well, they always need volunteers at the factory hospital. Maybe you could do a hospital shift and then a couple of hours a day you could do some time in the chocolate factory . . .’
‘Why on earth didn’t I think of this before?’
‘I’ll bet my bonnet your parents agree with you that nursing injured soldiers is an honourable way to devote your hours.’
‘They’d both consider it noble at the very least. I’ll mention it tonight over dinner.’
‘Dinner’s at seven tonight, Miss. You’ll need to get a hurry on if we’re to re-pin your hair and get you ready in time.’
They’d reached the house. Alex looked down past St Peter’s School towards Blossom Street, dominated by the convent, famous for its hidden chapel that the mummified hand of local martyr Margaret Clitherow called home. Well, if Margaret could defy Henry VIII’s reformation and hold secret masses as well as harbour persecuted Catholic priests, then surely Alex could find the courage to defy her parents in such a tame way?
‘Can you imagine the pain of Margaret Clitherow’s execution, crushed against a piece of rock the size of a huge turnip?’
‘Ooh, I don’t really like to think on it, Miss.’
‘Margaret Clitherow believed so wholly in her path that not even the fear of being killed so horribly beneath her own door loaded with heavy weights and stones could deter her.’
The Chocolate Tin Page 2