The Chocolate Tin

by Fiona McIntosh

  She’d not lingered in London. As tempting as it was to be alone in the big city, she was determined to complete this urgent errand. Somewhere deep in her mind Alex knew a tiny part of her wondered if Harry might have called off the wedding and if he might even change his mind on seeing her again. Unlikely. She’d deliberately not read any marriage announcements, unsure she could bear reading about the new Mrs Blakeney.

  She sat up straighter in her seat to shake herself free of these thoughts that were redundant. The train had left from London Victoria. She’d paid her ticket of six shillings and fourpence and been informed that there was no buffet on board but there were several tunnels to negotiate, and if she preferred not to close the windows herself against the blackening smoke, then she should sit in a carriage where someone else might help. She was also politely informed that she would leave the train at Haywards Heath and from there a horse-drawn cab would meet first-class passengers for the short journey into Cuckfield.

  Alex was among a small crowd to alight at Haywards Heath but she hung back, pretending to search for her buff-coloured cardboard ticket as others passed the ticket inspector.

  ‘Good morning, madam. How are you?’ he said, clipping her ticket for the return.

  ‘Very well, thank you. It was a lovely journey down,’ she said, eager to engage the man.

  ‘We do our best, madam. You’re fortunate, though. There’s been a problem at Three Bridges . . . the next train won’t get through as smoothly. Probably half an hour to forty minutes late, I’m guessing,’ he said, taking out his fob watch and consulting it.

  ‘Well, I’m feeling lucky today,’ she beamed, hoping this sentiment would follow through into how she was greeted by Harry. It only occurred to her this moment, as the smile faltered for the ticket inspector, that Harry might not even be at his family home. He could be back in London.

  ‘Are you all right, madam?’

  ‘Sorry. Am I holding you up?’

  ‘No, but the carriage driver might be a little terse,’ he said, nodding in the direction of where the hackney would meet her outside the station.

  ‘Oh, I’d better hurry, then,’ she said, reserving her query for the driver.

  She was the only passenger to be picked up by carriage for the transfer into Cuckfield.

  ‘Can you help me, please?’ she asked the man who aided her into the carriage.

  ‘I’ll be happy to try.’

  She smiled again; this had to be handled delicately. ‘I’ve come to visit the Blakeneys,’ she began. ‘Um, the problem is, I’ve mislaid the address. I’m not familiar with their home.’ She shrugged. ‘I’ve travelled from York,’ she added, angling for his sympathy.

  ‘What a pity you missed their wedding recently at the Holy Trinity Church! The whole village turned out for them.’ He gave a crooked smile. ‘Henry Blakeney is a war hero and a true gentleman, much loved by the folk around here, and his new wife . . . well, Miss Bethany is just adored and she made a beautiful bride.’ His smile that had widened as he spoke now shrank back to a serious line as he saw her expression. ‘Are you all right, Miss?’

  Alex was momentarily lost for words, shock spinning through her like a drill at maximum speed. She’d expected as much and still it hurt. ‘Er, yes. Of course I was sorry to miss the wedding, but it will be pleasant to see them now.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Miss. I think they’re away on their honeymoon. They’ve already been gone a fortnight, I reckon. But I’m sure Lady Blakeney will be happy to see you.’

  The journey was a blur. So Harry was not here; her journey was wasted. She considered asking the driver to turn around but she couldn’t face the trip home immediately, so she decided to find a hotel. She smiled faintly at the driver when she tipped him and there was just enough wit available to her to check in at reception. She needed time to think on her situation and a hotel was the only place to be truly alone. She could return home in the morning. Once the door was closed on her room, she lay on the bed and while her eyes remained dry, her body remained rigid in one position, hours passing as night drew in.

  Alex was woken the following morning by a knock at the door and tentative query. ‘Mrs Britten-Jones?’

  She didn’t answer and a few moments later a folded message was slipped under the door. Alex roused herself, aware that she was in her coat, still wearing her gloves, and her small holdall with its single change of clothes was seated on the edge of the bed where she’d tossed it.

  She picked up the note. It was from reception informing her that Lady Ellenor Blakeney had telephoned and invited her to the family residence today at eleven. Alex looked at her watch. It was nearing nine. How had she discovered Alex’s presence? She looked back at the bed, which appeared undisturbed. If she hurried, she could catch the train that departed for London just after ten. Or, she could refrain from being a coward and face Harry’s mother, who was surely confused but gracious enough to enquire after her son’s visitor. Going by Harry’s quip about his mother, she likely missed nothing in the village, especially the arrival of a gentlewoman asking after her family.

  She sighed. She was no coward. Alex bathed, dressed in her fresh clothes and descended the stairs to the reception.

  ‘Ah, Mrs Britten-Jones. Is everything all right?’ the gentleman behind the reception desk said.

  ‘All very well, thank you,’ she lied.

  ‘Can we serve you breakfast? It just . . .’

  ‘No, I’m not hungry, thank you. I shall eat later but allow me to settle my account. Can you organise a carriage, please, to the Blakeney residence?’

  ‘Of course, right away.’ He rang a bell and a young porter hurried briskly across the marble floor. ‘A hackney please, Donald, to Ockenden Manor.’

  __________

  The carriage drew up alongside what looked to be an Elizabethan manor with five minutes to spare. The timing was perfect as Alex alighted to marvel at the beautiful grounds that the Blakeney family residence presided over. Gardens sprawled in all directions, with manicured lawns stretching to patchwork fields. Having listened to the porter as she waited for the hackney cab, Alex now knew that these fields would lead into the Cuckmere Valley, famed for its beauty and picture-postcard villages like Alfriston.

  The front of the house was outfitted in a climbing plant of waxy green that clung stubbornly and was obviously trimmed regularly to reveal large picture windows. They peered out from a pale, yellow-grey stone soaring to several levels, with interesting architectural shapes of a vaulted roofline. It was one of the most handsome houses of the period she’d seen and befitting of the man who now presumably owned it.

  A slim, slightly hunched woman with silver hair swept neatly to each side, without all the familiar fuss of curls and tight buns, emerged onto the porch. At full height she would have been tall but age and its stoop had shortened her. She was dressed in a navy day dress with little adornment save some embroidered flowers at one shoulder in the same colour. Her eyes gleamed, still bright and alert, over a straight nose, small neat mouth and pale skin that would have once been creamy and unblemished, Alex decided. She was striking in her senior years, surely a rare beauty in her youth. The woman leaned on a walking stick with a silver handle and a tassle of silken navy. ‘Mrs Britten-Jones?’ she enquired in a clear, crystal-cut southern accent that Alex thought a royal would be proud to own.

  ‘It is. Good morning, Lady Blakeney.’ She couldn’t be anyone else, Alex reasoned. She approached her elder, who had stepped onto the gravel of the drive as the cab rolled away. ‘Do you always greet your guests in person at Ockenden?’ She hoped it sounded a light comment but it came out tinged with awe.

  The woman chuckled. ‘No, my dear. Only the ones who entirely intrigue me. Care for a walk? You’re dressed for it.’

  ‘Er, yes, that would be agreeable, thank you, but I doubt you are dressed for it.’

  Alex now noticed the woman behind, who had been shrouded by shadows, attend to her mistress, helping her on with a coat and hat,
offering gloves and tucking a silken scarf at her neck. ‘Don’t fuss, Polly. I shall be fine. It’s actually a splendid day. Come on, Mrs Britten-Jones. Shall we?’ The older woman pointed her walking stick in the direction of a path and Alex fell in step.

  ‘Please call me Alex.’

  ‘I shall, for it’s a pretty name, one I would have favoured had I been graced with a daughter.’

  ‘Did you consider Alexander for your sons?’ she replied, cutting her companion a genuine smile, finding it hard not to like this woman instantly.

  ‘I did, as a matter of fact. But my husband pressed upon me the need to go with family names. I would have got away with it for a girl but not two boys, so Edward and Henry it was, both suitably regal, don’t you think?’

  ‘I’m desperately sorry about Edward, Lady Blakeney.’

  She sighed with genuine regret. ‘I am too. He was a fine person. We all loved him so very much and the only reason you see me in navy and not my preferred black is that I promised Harry I would, just for the month of his wedding, not look like “an old raven”, as he put it, but do my utmost to be cheerful because Ed would want it that way.’ The woman chuckled at the memory.

  She swallowed. ‘How is Harry?’

  ‘Secretive, as usual. Especially about you, my dear.’ She pointed the way forward, ignoring the obvious path and leading them onto a curving bend, flanked by shrubs and ornamental trees. ‘I wish you could see this in spring. In a couple of months, this will be a riot of blossom – pinks and whites. Glorious! I used to run through here when the boys were little and they’d chase me and I’d hide because I could get away from them, then leap out from behind this tree,’ she motioned again with her stick, ‘and they’d both scream with delight at being so terrified by their monster mother.’

  Alex laughed; it was a sound she hadn’t heard from herself in what felt an age. ‘I can imagine it. It must have been such an amazing place to grow up in.’

  ‘Yes, they were fortunate boys and I’m pleased both did their duty for their country for that privilege of leading such a good life. Edward was one of too many young men who gave a life and his future for others so I don’t allow myself to get too morbid. Every next person is grieving and it’s no different if you’re from the slums of Glasgow or Ockenden Manor . . . we all mourn our men as one.’

  ‘You’re so pragmatic. My brother died in a boating accident when very young but my mother still can’t come to terms with her loss. Her grief finds its way out in ways that colour her character somewhat unfairly.’

  ‘Don’t be too harsh on her. We all handle our sorrows in our own ways. So, Alex, I’m guessing that you are the reason my son spent time in Yorkshire when he should have returned to Cuckfield?’

  The switch in topics and mood caught her off balance. There was no point in lying; Harry’s mother was far too shrewd and Alex recalled Harry’s warning about her alert mind. ‘I don’t know if I was the reason but we met a couple of times, formed a friendship and I introduced him to my parents . . . my, er, husband even.’

  ‘He never mentioned you,’ Lady Blakeney admitted.

  Alex looked back, shocked. ‘How did you know . . .?’ Her voice trailed off.

  ‘Oh, my dear. Cuckfield believes itself a town when in fact it has a village mentality that everything is everyone’s business. You’d likely barely set your bag down in the hotel before I was hearing about the beautiful woman from the north asking about us.’

  Alex cleared her throat. ‘I don’t mean to intrude.’

  ‘I realise that. So I can only believe you came down to see Harry and I presume you were not invited to do that or he would have arranged to be here.’

  ‘You’re right.’ She looked down at her feet as they strolled slowly. Her companion gave her time to consider her next words. ‘But I needed to speak with him.’

  ‘He’s abroad, my dear, on his honeymoon with my new daughter-in-law. Bethany has been in our lives for years, so much so that she has felt like the daughter I never had for long enough that I can’t imagine her any other way. I am delighted that Harry married her . . .’ There was another pause. ‘But I’m guessing that you do not share that delight.’

  Alex stopped walking and drew a shaking breath. ‘Forgive me. I didn’t come to disrupt anything, least of all Harry’s happiness. I was under the impression he and Bethany were not to marry until mid-February.’

  ‘It was Harry’s decision to bring the wedding forward. He was a man on a mission when he finally came home, refused to take no for an answer, even though it meant a lot of hasty organisation to ready ourselves for a wedding weeks earlier than scheduled.’ Alex smiled faintly, sick at the thought of Harry’s fervour to marry Bethany and be done with his affair with his Yorkshire lover. ‘He would not be drawn on why there was this burning need for advancing the date, despite me trying everything to persuade him otherwise. I suspect I can put two and two together.’ She twitched a smile at Alex. ‘I’m sorry, my dear. You are one in a long line of women whose hearts have been broken by Harry.’

  Alex bristled to be thought of this way.

  ‘I see I’ve offended. But let me finish, Alex. Many women have wanted to be Mrs Henry Blakeney over the years and I’ve helped to wipe away pools of tears of many eligible girls who truly believed they’d won him . . . but Harry was not the marrying type and until we lost Edward, he didn’t really have to consider marriage as being important to the family. He told me about his mission to find someone called Kitty on behalf of a dead soldier who seemed to represent all the men he lost and felt responsible for. I’m gathering that in his endeavours he didn’t find Kitty but he found you. He seemed different to the son I remember when he returned from York.’

  ‘He’d been to war, Lady Blakeney. I imagine that changes anyone.’

  ‘Yes, but you’d think it would change a person to be harder. In this instance, Harry had become more sensitive; when he spoke of York there was a tenderness in his voice I hadn’t heard before. A mother knows her boy, Alex. I knew something emotional had occurred in Yorkshire and it wasn’t about a dead soldier and his chocolate tin.’

  Alex nodded, hating the way her chin crumpled. She breathed out, refused to weep. ‘Harry’s a good man; he did something extraordinarily kind for my family but I misread his intentions and I came here simply to set things right between us. I promise you, Lady Blakeney, I have no desire to create any problems for him or his wife.’

  ‘Nor would I think that of you, but I believe it’s a blessing that Harry is not present to hear your explanation or absolve you of any transgression. Perhaps it is easier this way all round, for I think to see you might hurt him. It would surely hurt you.’ She squeezed Alex’s hand. ‘What’s more, Bethany has been patient. She’s a fine girl and will make an exceptional wife for Harry because she’s a rare breed of woman who makes no demands. Meanwhile, my dear, I am very demanding. I want a grandson – several grandchildren, in fact. I’m hopeful Bethany returns from her honeymoon already blooming and I won’t have anything upsetting her or threatening a pregnancy.’

  Despite the gentle tone, even the friendly smile, Alex felt riveted by a gimlet stare that pressed the point.

  ‘There is surely no man alive who could resist you, Alex.’

  The compliment felt more like a threat. ‘Harry resisted me,’ she assured, remembering the final look he gave her that was not unlike his mother’s in its intensity. She could name another man who resisted her too, who was presently cavorting around France with his lover, but didn’t think Lady Blakeney needed to share any more of her troubles.

  Lady Blakeney nodded and there was a pensive quality to her gesture; the pause that followed put awkwardness between them. ‘I have no doubt at all that on this occasion it was a great struggle for him to walk away from you. As I say, he is changed. My secretive son – the one who made so many women’s hearts miss a beat – has, I now believe, finally discovered the bitter taste of love lost. Let it remain that way, Alex, for you are both mar
ried to others and thankfully even the distance of your lives puts you out of each other’s reach. This is how it should stay. Leave him a letter, dear. I promise you I shall see he receives it in private.’

  So many responses clashed in Alex’s mind, the loudest her resentment at not being able to see him just one more time. She wanted to explain that she simply needed to hold a new memory of him in her thoughts, rather than that bruised look of rejection, the constrained dismay at her anger. If she could just explain to him that the fault was hers – a misunderstanding due to misinformation – and see him smile again, even if it was a sad smile of farewell. Instead, Alex nodded, too proud to beg, too polite to contradict in this instance. ‘There’s much to say and likely easier through a letter, where the right words can be chosen.’

  ‘Indeed, and keeps the wound clean this way.’ Harry’s mother shot her another knowing stare that said droves; she understood they were in love but could not act further on it, and she was pleading with Alex to leave Harry and his new wife alone. ‘Come, Alex, dear. Let me organise us a pot of tea while you write. I think a cheerful brew of Orange Pekoe is called for.’

  Lady Blakeney took Alex’s arm and they turned to walk companionably back to the manor for a final letter of love that she would sign as Kitty so Harry would finally own the information that eluded him and he would know – even through polite words – that they were always meant to be together.

  29

  MAY 1920

  Alex Frobisher of Frobisher’s Chocolate Salon put the phone down in her office at the back of the shop and smiled. She looked up at the woman who sat opposite her wearing an expression of excited anticipation.

  ‘Well?’ Holly asked.

  ‘It’s ours,’ Alex replied and burst into laughter at Holly’s squeal of pleasure. The women stood and Alex walked around the desk to embrace her former maid, now a small partner in her flourishing chocolate emporiums. ‘Or should I say yours?’