The Chocolate Tin

by Fiona McIntosh

  Holly’s eyes glistened with pleasure. ‘Your third salon, Miss Alex. I hope you’re proud of yourself.’

  ‘It’s ours, Holly. You’re a co-owner in this one. You’re quite sure, aren’t you?’

  ‘Never been more sure about anything other than the man I love. I told you, I realised I didn’t want to clean up after people any more – no offence, Miss Alex.’

  ‘None taken. And you always said you wanted to be a shopkeeper and, so long as you don’t mind having cocoa dusted on your clothes and in your hair, you’re going to make an even better chocolate salon owner.’

  ‘So, I’ll sign the lease?’

  ‘Go ahead. All of Lincolnshire is going to love you.’

  ‘Weekly deliveries?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll arrange that for Thursdays, so you have stocks for Friday paydays and the weekends, of course. I thought this evening we could get you practising the sealing of hearts. We’ve covered everything else and that’s about the only task you’ll be required to perform with liquid chocolate at the time of purchase – all other sales are pre-foiled or —’

  ‘I know, I know . . . on with our gloves and hand-packing individual chocolates. You’ve trained me well.’

  Alex sighed. ‘You learn fast, Holly. I’m very happy for you. Where’s Stan? Will he mind about tonight?’

  ‘Don’t be daft. He’s thrilled about what I’m doing.’

  ‘He’s a good man being so supportive.’

  The friends shared a glance of sympathy.

  ‘I couldn’t help noticing all the legal paperwork, Miss Alex. Is the divorce all sorted out now?’

  Her friend nodded.

  ‘That’s good. Now you can set about finding a good man of your own.’

  I don’t need to find him. I know where he is. I just can’t have him. Alex stopped herself saying any of this. ‘He’ll have to find me, I’m afraid,’ she replied. ‘I’m much too busy. And, Holly, now you’re a business partner in the firm, you can drop the Miss and just call me Alex, please.’

  ‘Would feel odd . . .’

  ‘I don’t care. Get used to it. You’re not my maid. You’re a businesswoman now in your own right.’

  Holly’s eyes shone with pride. ‘So, I’ll go over to Mr Farthing’s office to sort out and sign all the final paperwork, shall I?’

  ‘Please. It will need you and Stan to sign – everything’s in order with Giles and how we agreed. I’ll see you this evening. What’s the time now?’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I can close up a bit early. Why don’t you come and have some supper at the house and then we can return to the workshop and spend a couple of hours playing with chocolate?’

  ‘Those hearts are the best idea you’ve ever had.’

  ‘They do sell well,’ Alex admitted.

  ‘I’ll bet Rowntree’s are kicking themselves they didn’t hang on to you when they had you.’ Holly winked. She kissed Alex. ‘Thanks for supper. See you a bit later.’

  Holly left and Alex returned to her desk to regard the paperwork that notified her she was now a divorcée, free to meet other men, to fall in love, to marry. The oddity was that she had never felt more imprisoned by her heart than she did now. If Matthew had given her the irksome reputation of a failed marriage, it was Harry who had ruined her for future relationships.

  It had been fifteen months since she’d seen him but it might as well be fifteen minutes because her despair felt fresh. In fact, though she dare not admit it to anyone, not even Holly, she grieved for Harry far more than for her tarnished reputation, which failed marriage brought, or for the obvious talk that now followed Matthew’s name.

  She knew she was fortunate not to be one of those society ladies, though, or the divorce would likely consume her until she became bitter company. Happily, establishing and growing Frobisher’s Chocolates had taken all of her energies and thinking time so that the last year and more had fled past her in a fast-moving path of tastings, testings and trials. Alex now had her chocolate range set, her brand was known and appreciated in York, Harrogate too; the latter’s seasonal influx took her product south with the society folk and she had no doubt that her next conquest would likely be London, with a tiny salon. She had a private goal to open in Brighton and would choose the south coast resort location over the capital because of its high society population and constant ‘holiday’ atmosphere. It was within such easy striking distance of the capital that she had convinced herself it would gather up the London market anyway. However, before she could make such a move she needed to be sure of the logistics of moving her product successfully across such a long distance. In this regard, Matthew would have been ideal assistance, but her father would surely offer help and advice for using rail transport.

  Secretly, though, Alex’s only desire for a Brighton salon to succeed would be to show Henry Blakeney that she’d achieved her dream. It would be a lustreless victory not to share his pleasure in seeing his inspiration for the hollow heart being so successful but at least he would know. She sighed; Brighton was for another year . . . right now she had three shops to supply and ensure they enjoyed brisk trade before she could consider a fourth.

  She tucked the paperwork she was holding into the safe behind her and moved out into the salon, inhaling the chilled fragrance of chocolate, sweet and dark at once, which seemed to prompt a stream of pleasure to flood her consciousness. It was like a waterfall of happy memories melting her mood from slightly melancholy to optimistic, and she appreciated that her future was bright even though she planned to live it alone. Her heels clicked lightly on the black-and-white tiled marble floor that her shop assistants broomed each hour; Alex insisted that no dust ever be allowed to take purchase. She glanced out through the two sets of windows divided up into small panes, which lent a Victorian look to her headquarters and, in the depths of winter, caught the snowflakes in their angles. Despite the chill afternoon she assured herself that those harsh months were behind them. Good for chocolate sales, though, she reminded herself.

  Alex smiled at the customer being served by her single staff member. ‘Hello, Mrs Bromley. How are you?’ She couldn’t help her gaze darting quickly to the display cabinets to check that she had plenty of violet creams piled up in a neat pyramid beneath the glass; they were Mrs Bromley’s favourites. They stood proud and glossy, their daintily sugared fresh petals glittering off the strategically placed mirrors that lined the dark wooden cabinets.

  ‘Good afternoon, Alex. I’m very well, thank you. Just recovering from a bit of a chest cold but otherwise fine. I saw your mother today, actually. She’s awfully proud of you and your salons.’

  ‘She took some convincing at the outset.’ Alex glanced at the box of chocolates that were being tied off with a red satin bow. ‘Lovely, Elsie. Did you include some of our new spring rose chocolates?’

  Elsie nodded with a grin.

  ‘Oh, I’m glad you’re trying those, Mrs Bromley. It’s taken me a while to get that rose syrup just right. And the sugared crimson rose petals contrast perfectly against the violets.’

  ‘You’re so clever to be using fresh flowers, Alex. I have to admit, whenever I get a box of your chocolates I almost never want to open them, the packaging with that red ribbon is so exquisite. I’m giving these to my sister-in-law. She’s quite the adoring fan of your floral fondants. The rose and violet in particular.’

  ‘Thank you. Give her my warmest regards.’

  Mrs Bromley paid and left with her parcel.

  ‘You’re getting better with those bows, Elsie. Far neater than mine.’

  ‘Go on with you, Miss Alex. I love my job here.’

  ‘Well, you take an early mark. I’ll close up.’

  ‘Are you sure? I don’t mind.’

  ‘I’m sure. I’ll probably get away a bit earlier too.’

  ‘All right, then. Good evening, Miss Alex,’ Elsie called, taking off her white linen apron. ‘I’ll lock the back door on my way out.’

  ‘Night night,’ Alex called, sighing com
fortably to herself as she checked the gloves that needed to go home with her for laundering. She hummed as she neatened up the padded boxes of assorted fabrics. Her signature box was a black-and-white striped oval that was tied with a scarlet satin ribbon – this was reserved for her most expensive range and the ovals were stacked up on the shelves in contrived disarray to make a pleasing monochrome display, while the ribbons, scarlet and various others to denote different ranges, hung from hooks in a silken cascade of glimmering colours. Entering the space was like falling into a special world from a time that was fast disappearing. She had surprised herself at her choice of decor but somehow the cleaner, paler choices of today didn’t suit the atmosphere she wanted to create around her products. She wanted the cosy, soft warmth that only dark wood, which Alex favoured for her cabinetry, could muster. Together with her mirrors, it formed a backdrop for the brilliant colour from her ribbons, crystallised flowers, sugar-dusted confections and the high-gloss unadorned chocolate-covered caramels, nougats, fudges and fondants, and showed off their shiny desirability.

  Christmas was her favourite time to decorate the salon in a frenzy of colour and her fir tree in the window that was hung with her special hand-foiled chocolate angels and snowflakes had been widely admired, even mentioned in the newspapers too. She hoped that people would begin to travel to Frobisher’s just to see the window dressing at the festive times. If she could make it a tradition then Alex imagined that sales could easily quadruple in Christmas week.

  But while she was a long way from Christmas, Alex had no complaints about her business or its potential to expand across England. Harry would be proud . . . so would Matthew, she had to concede. Her former husband had only wanted success for her business dreams.

  She looked up momentarily to stop any rogue tears from surfacing and with the gesture made a mental note to ask Elsie to dust the chandeliers and wall sconces tomorrow; she knew her girls had only done them yesterday but, even so, it paid to be attentive to their hygiene. The chandeliers cast a rosy glow around the shop, reflecting their sparkle off the mirrors perfectly to light the polish of the dark chocolates for maximum brightness, but the lights were traps for the tiny motes that blew in with the customers or drifted up from the floors in light whorls when the door was opened. Alex wondered whether she should introduce a new cabinet of wrapped chocolate bars. They might be small ones that inside the wrapper told the story of Frobisher’s, or perhaps the origins of chocolate and how a humble bean is fermented, relying on the air to change its structure and taste. Something to ponder, especially her idea to not make the bar flat but give it a ‘mounded’ shape . . . making it look feminine. A thought struck . . . perhaps she could fill the mounds with fondant on some of the bars . . . peppermint, orange, strawberry . . . the most popular flavours? She grinned at the notion, promised herself she’d explore that idea on Sunday when the shop was closed and she could ‘play’, as she liked to call it.

  Alex wound up a few of the stray ribbons and generally tidied the main counter around the till for the morning. She peered out, anticipating drizzle, but the early evening remained dry. Soon the days would stretch into the night and she could remain open longer. Spring this year was mild; she might even get in a ride on Blackberry this evening before Holly and Stan joined her for supper. Life was good; she needed to keep reminding herself of that and not permit the shadows to cloud her mind and colour her thoughts as unhappy. There was much to look forward to in business and perhaps her achievements in the chocolate salons had to be enough.

  She bent beneath the counter to pick up a stray glove she’d missed when she heard the bell above the door ring. Annoyed with herself for forgetting to put the closed sign up, she straightened.

  ‘I was just about to close,’ she said.

  A petite woman stood hesitantly by the door. Her clothes spoke of the south and high fashion of the utmost quality. In fact, her exquisite spring blue ensemble screamed of Paris couture. ‘Oh, should I leave?’ the woman offered. Yes, she was from the south, Alex deduced.

  ‘Forgive me. That must have sounded rude. I was just packing up but you’re most welcome to choose a selection. I’m Alex Frobisher.’

  ‘The owner?’ The woman approached the counter and peeled off cream gloves before unwrapping a silk cream and pink scarf. She smelled of expensive perfume.

  She blushed. ‘Yes. A working girl,’ Alex replied, feeling dowdy in comparison to the beautiful woman with flaxen hair cut short in the latest bob style that was sweeping through the country. She touched her own in a self-conscious manner of being behind the times . . . something she’d never considered she could be accused of. But Harry had asked her not to cut it.

  The woman offered a hand in greeting. ‘I’m delighted to meet you at last, Alex.’ Her accent was posh, far more exaggerated than Alex’s, which had been so prized by Rowntree’s. But there was nothing disdainful or even vaguely condescending in the woman’s attitude. Her smile struck Alex as genuine, reflecting in the shiny round eyes the colour of a summer sky.

  She blinked. ‘My apology – should I recognise you?’

  ‘No. We have not met previously.’

  ‘Oh.’ Alex was startled into uncertainty. The woman’s bright smile didn’t falter. ‘I do love your hair,’ she admitted. ‘I was thinking of cutting mine equally short. So much easier for work.’

  ‘Do it. Not only will you not regret the freedom it brings from all those pins and fiddly decoration, but your beautiful dark hair will sit like a glossy helmet. Mine is neither the right texture nor colour, but I do love the shape.’

  Alex grinned. ‘I probably will.’

  ‘Perhaps have it styled in London, though. I can give you my hairdresser’s name to get it perfectly shaped.’

  ‘Thank you.’ The pause was only vaguely awkward but Alex felt obliged to fill it. ‘So . . . um, what can I help you with today?’

  ‘I’ve heard about your famous hollow heart – I thought I might pen a little note to go inside one.’

  ‘I’d be delighted to organise one for you. Here’s the paper. Write on one or both sides – it folds up perfectly to fit into quarters. Then I’ll seal and foil it for you.’ The woman took the small square of paper and gestured to the tiny table and seat. Alex nodded. ‘Pencils are on the table,’ she offered. ‘I’ll just check the chocolate’s temperature to seal the heart. Back in a moment.’

  She left the woman scribbling her note, returning a minute or so later with the small pot of molten chocolate. ‘Here we are. Now I can seal your note inside.’

  ‘Thank you,’ her customer said, handing over the folded note.

  Alex sat the paper into one of the halves that she’d picked up with gloved hands and both women were silent as she piped chocolate around the edge of the seal. She looked up and grinned. ‘We’ll just give that a moment or two to set and then I’ll foil and pack it for you.’

  ‘It’s such a clever idea.’

  ‘To tell you the truth, it wasn’t mine,’ she admitted. ‘It was given to me by a close friend. I’ve never been able to thank him properly or even show him how well his idea works.’

  ‘I feel sure that one day you’ll both be able to share the success of it together.’

  ‘That’s a wonderful thought, but we’ve lost touch.’ She cleared her throat beneath the direct, blue gaze. ‘Too much water under the bridge,’ she added, suddenly embarrassed. ‘I’ll foil now.’ With great care she cocooned the heart with dexterous precision in the golden wrap, reminding herself to make Holly practise this part as enthusiastically as the sealing, for it was the foiling that everyone admired first and there should be no smudges of chocolate, no unnecessary wrinkles of the shimmering paper.

  ‘Well, life is rarely certain and often springs surprises. Keep faith with your friendship.’

  ‘I’m not sure I hold such optimism,’ she continued politely, but her tone sounded slightly distracted.

  ‘Oh, I think you and Harry will definitely meet again.’

/>   Alex’s attention snapped to her customer, her brow creasing with surprise. ‘H-how . . .? Who are you?’ she stammered.

  ‘I am Bethany Blakeney.’

  Alex’s hands froze, holding the foiled heart.

  ‘Forgive me, Alex – may I call you Alex? I really didn’t mean to startle you and I can see I have done just that. There was no easy way to meet you. Coming to the salon seemed the most polite way.’

  Alex put the heart down, pulled off her gloves and tucked a wayward curl of hair behind her ear. Her voice was raspy when she finally found it. ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘I wanted to speak with you privately.’

  Alex moved around the counter and immediately turned the closed sign to face outwards. ‘I think I need some air. Do you feel like a walk?’

  ‘Not especially, but I’ll be glad to stroll alongside you if you don’t go too fast.’

  ‘We can find a bench in the gardens, just a few moments from here. It’s a mild evening.’

  Bethany showed no objection and the two women emerged from the back entrance to walk across the flagged stones of Davygate.

  ‘We can take this thoroughfare as a shortcut,’ Alex explained. ‘It’s named after the man who supplied King Stephen’s larder in the twelfth century,’ she offered, knowing she was blathering.

  ‘How intriguing,’ Bethany remarked. She sounded breathless. ‘You may have to slow down for me, Alex. Forgive me, I’m not nearly as fit as you are.’

  Alex slowed her stride and took deep breaths to calm her nervousness but she could do nothing about her scattering thoughts, which felt as though they were being shaken about in a baby’s rattle.

  She led Bethany into the botanical gardens. ‘The remains of the original Roman walls pass through here,’ she remarked, simply for something to say into the awkward silence. ‘Um, and that angular tower has ten faces. I believe it was built to house a catapult in the very early centuries of Roman rule.’

  ‘Fascinating.’

  ‘This all belonged to St Mary’s Abbey,’ she continued, pointing to the Benedictine-style buildings. ‘It all fell into disrepair when Henry VIII dissolved the monasteries.’