The Chocolate Tin

by Fiona McIntosh

  ‘. . . begun,’ he said. ‘The chocolate is already made, being wrapped in special waxed paper that is corrugated to protect it. The tins were manufactured earlier this year and readied. I think I’m right in saying that special postcards of York have been printed to go with the gift.’ He shook his head. ‘There are probably other items I’m overlooking.’

  ‘When does it leave?’ Alex asked, and they all turned to glance at her, presumably due to the urgency in her tone. ‘I mean . . . we definitely want them to have the King’s Tin for Christmas, don’t we?’ she added, covering any clue that she fully intended to be part of the team that packed the special thank-you chocolate for the troops. This was it – a sense of purpose at last. She suddenly felt as though she’d be betraying the men at the Front and somehow not fulfilling her dream, all at once, if she didn’t.

  ‘I gather it begins next week and we’ll want the first boxes being loaded by mid-month.’

  The women were back clearing away emptied plates and glasses, while Lambton scraped away crumbs of pastry with her special silver tool that looked like a chemist’s scoopula. ‘Just cheese and some fruits, sweet biscuits, my lady,’ she heard Lambton murmur to her mother, who nodded her approval.

  ‘Matthew?’ Her mother looked his way, sounding inspired. ‘You said you would be visiting Rowntree’s tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes, Lady Frobisher, I shall.’

  ‘Excellent. Perhaps you might care to escort Alex to the hospital?’

  Either her mother was onto her clandestine plans or, worse, she was even deeper into her matchmaking than Alex had anticipated. She shouldn’t be so surprised, though, with an available and most suitable male at their table. She dared not glare but felt her mother’s excitement simmering just below the surface of her smiling façade as Matthew’s eyes widened with pleasure.

  ‘Yes, of course, Lady Frobisher, I will. Shall we say after breakfast?’

  ‘We shall,’ Alex agreed, hardly in a position to say much else as platters with cheese, wafers, raisins and sundry other fruit and delicacies were placed between them.

  ‘The pears are from our orchard,’ Lambton assured, ‘and the Wensleydale is particularly creamy at the moment.’

  ‘You’ll forgive us for not serving a Somerset or Gloucestershire cheddar,’ Charles chuckled, loading his plate with a chunk of the blue he had neatly hacked off the wedge.

  ‘It would be near sacrilege for a west country man to eat any other sort at home, so let me assure you this is a treat, sir, to be able to taste other cheeses and one local to this region,’ Matthew replied with his usual charm.

  Alex was moved to wonder whether Matthew ever lacked the perfect response to each remark . . . Seemingly not, by her mother’s deepening smiles and soft glances at her husband. Alex could interpret those in a blink. Minerva Frobisher was hatching ideas, probably already imagining which designer to use for the wedding gown and whether her daughter and Matthew might be married at the Minster rather than a plain old church. Before her mother could start enquiring about his future plans, Alex leapt in.

  ‘Did you know this cheese came about because of spores from the leather horse tackle that was stored in the same barn as the cheese?’

  Matthew had a lump of the blue halfway to his mouth.

  ‘Spores?’

  ‘Yes, well, all blue cheese is mould, isn’t it?’ she said, matter-of-factly and realised she was behaving just as he had earlier. She changed her tone instantly. ‘It’s safe, Matthew. I just think it’s interesting to learn how so much of history’s famous recipes have come about quite by accident.’

  He smiled, although she didn’t believe he was entirely reassured about the mould.

  ‘How does eight o’clock sound for tomorrow?’ Alex said, switching subjects back to where he might feel more comfortable.

  He put the cheese down and nibbled on an almond macaroon instead. ‘That sounds perfect.’

  ‘Well, young man, do you fancy a nightcap and a pipe?’

  ‘Of course, Sir Charles; I’m not a pipe man, though, I should add.’

  ‘Oh, you’re around for a while, aren’t you?’

  ‘A few weeks, yes, sir.’

  ‘You’ll be tamping down your own bowl before you know it,’ Charles Frobisher assured.

  ‘Shall we withdraw, Mother?’ Alex offered and Minerva nodded.

  Charles moved to pull the seat back for his wife. ‘I must teach this young pup how to taste real tobacco, not those ghastly cigarettes.’ Her father kissed his wife’s cheek. ‘Goodnight, Min, dearest,’ he murmured. ‘Don’t wait up.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not tired,’ her mother replied and to Alex that clearly sounded like Minerva Frobisher code for I want to talk to you about the suitability of Matthew Britten-Jones for Alex!

  ‘Well, I might have an early-ish night,’ Alex said, looking to escape. ‘Sounds like I have a big day tomorrow. Goodnight, Matthew, it was lovely to meet you.’

  He took her gloved hand and kissed the back of it. ‘I am enchanted,’ he said and quickly turned to her mother. ‘Good evening, Lady Frobisher. Thank you for your kind hospitality.’ He kissed her hand also.

  ‘Dear boy. We shall see you tomorrow,’ her mother replied, smiling indulgently. ‘Sleep well.’

  ‘Goodnight, Mother.’ Alex kissed Minerva’s cheek.

  ‘Not waiting for me, darling?’

  ‘I thought you’d probably want to discuss menus and larder stocks with Mrs Morrison as it’s market day tomorrow,’ she said. ‘But I can —’

  ‘No, no, you’re right. Hurry along then, darling. Get your beauty sleep.’

  These last words felt loaded with double meaning to Alex. And given that Minerva’s gaze flicked briefly to Matthew who was talking softly with her father, heads together, she was certain the undertone was intentional but she pretended not to hear it. ‘Thank you, Lambton; please let Mrs Morrison know that her beef pie is every bit the childhood treat I recall.’

  The housekeeper smiled. ‘I’ll let her know as soon as she returns from the church hall, Miss Alex. Holly has laid out your night attire. Sleep soundly.’

  Alex fled up several flights of stairs, barely noticing the windows or the soaring atrium this time as anxiety over her mother’s invigorated plans for finding a suitable fiancé blended with excitement that she might be in the Rowntree’s chocolate factory far sooner than she’d hoped. She seated herself at the dressing table and took off her jewellery, hanging it carefully across the glass tree that Holly had left for her to loop her beads over. She pulled off her elbow-length pale grey silk gloves before adding to the tree the ornamental turquoise enamel and diamond ring her parents had given her from their travels abroad a few years back.

  ‘Hope you like it as much as we do. It reminded us of your exquisite eyes, darling,’ her mother had said, when she had opened the small box to gaze at the ring cushioned in black silk.

  It was fashioned in the Etruscan Revival style and Alex enjoyed the drama of it with its enamel the colour of the Mediterranean that she’d read about.

  ‘Now those beautiful turquoise waters run with blood,’ she mused to herself, glumly staring at her reflection as she pondered the news of the terrible slaughter in the Dardanelles and whole regiments of brave colonial soldiers who had crossed the world to fight for their King cut down. It wasn’t the done thing to cast a care to the enemy but Alex secretly did regularly. They were, after all, men like her cousins, doing their duty, giving the most precious possession of all in the name of their country. Her thoughts about soldiers helplessly led her to their houseguest. She wasn’t ready to lay a white feather at his feet but there was something uncomfortable – to her anyway – about his thinly disguised relief at not being at the Front. While she heard him offer the right words, express the appropriate façade of contrition that he too wasn’t knee-deep in mud and blood, an internal antenna of hers was registering guile somewhere. Alex sighed with soft frustration, leaning her chin on her cupped hands as she regarded her refl
ection and wondered why it was that her elders saw only a fine young man when she was seeing a cad. This felt especially uncharitable given that he had played a major part in tonight’s charade; Matthew was clearly onto her desire to be at the chocolate factory’s hospital, but he couldn’t possibly know why, surely?

  If he had simply helped her out of an awkward moment, then he was quick, she’d give him that. His pathway out of her dilemma was seamless and slickly laid out.

  Alex sat back, beginning to undo her hair, the pins clinking into the flattish cut-glass bowl on her dressing table. Absently she wondered just how many pins Holly had needed to tame her hair into this style but that piece of flotsam was blown aside as she realised that she and Matthew were now conspirators.

  3

  Her night had been restless, interspersed with dreams of men opening tins of chocolate that exploded to maim them, so that they were brought to York, to the hospital at the Rowntree’s factory, to be cared for. She was the nurse’s aide waiting for them; they all asked for her. It was unsettling and as soon as she heard a distant cockerel warming up, she was out of bed and at the window to greet the dawn.

  She opened the sash window and the rush of winter’s breath chased away her yawn as well as the warmth that her fireplace had tried to protect all night with its still-white embers. She blinked up at the sky and was delighted to see it was a clear day; it would be freezing. On the air rode the familiar smell of sugar and the burnished aroma of cocoa, almost licorice-like in its intensity. The scented air was blowing over from the complex of another family of chocolate producers, the Terry family.

  She sniffed, enjoying the experience despite the chill. The Terrys were Freemasons but her thoughts moved to the Quaker families that had begun their lives as grocers and shifted into chocolate, which they could see was potentially a most profitable business. If they could start small, why couldn’t she? Granted, her father inherited handsomely when he was twenty but he took risks when older, more experienced businessmen were being conservative. If he hadn’t got himself into the railways so early, he’d have suffered badly during the mid-1870s and if he hadn’t risked his fortune to invest in diamond mines in the Congo or gold in the deep shafts of southern India, she wouldn’t be living the mostly indolent life she led now.

  ‘That’s how I want to be,’ she whispered to the wind, to carry her plea away to someone who might hear. ‘I want to take a risk and follow my heart, my instincts.’ She sighed. ‘I’m my father’s daughter; it’s natural,’ she said towards a grey dove that had settled on a nearby window ledge. She caught a hint of orange oil on the air and was again tipped back into the Terry family history, which she knew well. They had taken over a small shop at Bootham Bar in York, owned by a Mr Berry, which sold cough lozenges and other simple confectionery. Along came Joseph Terry, a chemist working at Swinegate near the hospital. Joseph fell happily in love with Berry’s niece and naturally, using his pharmaceutical skills, got involved with the family business and made great improvements to its range, including sugared sweeties, candied orange peel – even marmalade. Alex imagined her father would have most likely been involved with Joseph Terry’s son, who used the railway network Sir Charles had helped to found, to not only carry raw materials into the chocolate factory but also to transport the goods across the country.

  ‘I know the Terry family reasonably well, darling,’ her father had whispered the previous day. ‘Perhaps I could buy you some cookery lessons from one of their chefs so you can enjoy learning . . . it would be like your culinary lessons at finishing school, eh?’

  She’d smiled meekly. Her poor father was doing his best.

  Alex sighed, deciding that the Terrys’ factory was surely busy at the lengthy conching process for the chocolate fragrance to be this powerful through such a cold morning. She’d only seen the conching room from afar when she was little and had been walked through the factory alongside her father on some official duty. She recalled now her fascination with those enormous machines that stirred tirelessly at a slow pace, rolling liquid chocolate at the perfect temperature to temper it. Alex could taste it from the smell: earthy, with fruity, almost liquor-like, overtones. She’d never thought on it previously but she was the only person she knew in her family’s circle who took an interest in their county’s famous export.

  It crossed her mind, in a moment of irony, that she could potentially marry into one of the great confectionery families of the north but they would be no different to her own family. She would still be kept at a distance from the business. She could, if she were one of those women who would connive to do so, have Rowntree or Cadbury as a surname, but her status would remain unchanged as a gentlewoman of means and her role would be society wife, mother, hostess, fundraiser and household manager.

  No, her only chance for a career was to shake off her genteel ways and move into the realm of subterfuge before she progressed into business for herself. And it seemed Matthew Britten-Jones was more than willing to aid her.

  She closed the window and chose her outfit for today. ‘What are you up to, Matthew?’ she said as she gazed down the rack of outfits. All of her summer garments had been carefully packed and stored. Her choices were now mainly woollens and tweeds, velvets and thick satins; the colours were darkly neutral, lifted only by the occasional burgundy, emerald or olive. The war had reached into the nation’s psyche and no one felt like wearing the rich pinks or purples, the sapphires and golds of winters of yesteryear. Life was sombre. She understood this but it didn’t have to be flavourless, and perhaps chocolate was the affordable treat for all. She began to wander down that path of thought: chocolate might be an area of business that was less threatening to most for a woman to be involved in. Could she take her genuine but frankly unexplored interest and turn it into an opportunity? Food for thought, perhaps.

  But first, she had to remain on friendly terms with Matthew and especially to find out what his intentions were.

  __________

  Breakfast was a polite affair because both of her parents were at the table but, frustratingly, at separate times so there was no occasion for talking alone with Matthew. And so the conversation relied on the coming winter, the tenanted parts of the lands they owned, the Glorious Twelfth of August that had been cancelled because too few men were around to enjoy or help with the start of the fox hunt season, and of course the inevitable discussion about railways, from which both families’ wealth had been predominantly built.

  ‘. . . oh, indeed. In fact, women are working the railways up and down the country,’ Matthew replied to a remark her mother had made that she hadn’t been paying attention to, while she’d scanned a letter from Duncan. It was full of brisk fact, little affection, and gave her a sense of doom that he fully expected her agreement for them to be engaged on his next opportunity for leave.

  ‘Rowntree’s isn’t special in this regard,’ she heard Matthew mutter.

  Alex put the letter down. ‘I admire them.’

  ‘Don’t get ideas, Alex, darling,’ Minerva cautioned, looking up from letters she was also sorting out as she breakfasted. ‘Soot and silk do not go together,’ she jested, reaching now for a letter opener to slit apart an envelope. She read for a couple of heartbeats and issued a noise that sounded to Alex like a hen preparing to lay. ‘Gracious me, that Aldwyn girl – the youngest – is marrying a Penshaw. Can you credit that?’

  Alex cast a Help me, please look at Matthew, who grinned.

  ‘Er, Alex, I’ll be meeting with some of the management today and I’ve been offered a tour of the chocolate factory. I wonder if you might care to join me? I am happy to say you’re a close friend of our family . . . if that’s not too presumptuous?’

  The cup of tea she had raised to her lips remained untouched even though her mouth felt instantly dry. ‘I would very much enjoy that, thank you, Matthew. Are you sure?’

  He shrugged. ‘I cannot imagine Mr Rowntree having a problem with it. Who could possibly mind a beautiful woman in our
midst?’

  Minerva was seemingly busy reading her letter, but she missed little and looked up to catch his eye and her expression was one of extreme pleasure.

  Alex smiled thinly.

  ‘Of course I would have to check what time you might be free from the hospital,’ he said, surely only for Minerva’s benefit.

  Alexandra’s smile of gratitude was genuine now. ‘Of course.’ This morning he seemed less subtle.

  ‘That’s a lovely suit, darling. I haven’t seen that one before, have I?’

  Alex shook her head.

  ‘Shows off your superb figure. That ivory trim is delightful.’

  ‘Really, Mother,’ Alex admonished softly, standing to peck a kiss on Minerva’s cheek. ‘See you this afternoon. Matthew, I shall meet you downstairs in two minutes.’

  __________

  They had walked in a comfortable silence for a few minutes, passing St Peter’s School as dark-blazered boys scurried around the grounds after a bell sounded for lessons.

  ‘According to my father, this is the fourth-oldest school in the world apparently, older than the House of Lords,’ Alex said, feeling she should offer some context for the local buildings they were passing by. ‘Mind you, its history can be traced much further, back to the seventh century, when it would have been nothing more than a small spread of wooden buildings over the River Ouse, I imagine.’

  ‘And now look at it, such a grand motley of implacable stone architecture.’

  ‘I think you’re right, there. Dad says behind that entrance,’ she said, pointing, ‘is a warren of corridors and chambers, built on over centuries.’

  ‘I attended a school similar to this – not as old, I’ll grant you, but this triggers lots of memories.’

  ‘Good or bad?’

  ‘Both. We boarded; that can be hell for some and haven for others. I sat somewhere in between but I would rather any son or daughter of mine have a choice.’