The Chocolate Tin

by Fiona McIntosh

  ‘They say it took a quarter of an hour of horror for her to die with that stone breaking her spine,’ Holly offered, helplessly drawn into the conversation.

  Alex sighed. ‘And yet my great achievement for today is to have my hair pinned up neatly for dinner and choose what to wear! There has to be more to life, Holly. Men are dying in Europe for my right to live a free life.’

  Holly grinned. ‘Too much soul-searching for one evening, Miss. Come on, let’s get Blackberry into her stable. I’ll walk with you.’

  2

  Holly reached for the jet earrings.

  ‘I think I’ll just wear the necklace tonight,’ Alex decided. She dipped her head so that the long rope of darkly glittering beads could be hooped over her pinned hair.

  Standing, she checked her new outfit in the mirror, adjusting the charcoal lace over a grey-mauve shift beneath. There wasn’t an old-fashioned ‘swag’ in sight on this garment and it only appeared slightly layered because the lace had been used in wide bands in a gentle nod to what had gone before. It was a daring and sleek departure from the draped neckline or fussy high collars of her mother’s choice.

  ‘I feel thoroughly modern, Holly,’ she admitted.

  ‘Very beautiful, Miss.’

  ‘No doubt it will prompt discussion about the show of too much décolletage,’ Alex observed in the arch tone of her mother. ‘I do very much like my hair this way, thank you,’ she said, turning sideways to admire Holly’s handiwork of loosely pinned waves.

  ‘You look just like the models in the magazines now.’

  The lack of plaiting and tight pinning of top curls was a clear echo of the independence that young women were pressing for and together with the sleekly elegant frock, Alex anticipated raised eyebrows.

  ‘Will you wear some of the new lipstick?’ Holly wondered, a note of excitement in her tone. She picked up the new-fangled cylinder and admired it. ‘Isn’t it wonderful stuff?’

  ‘And just a fraction defiant.’ Alex grinned. ‘My mother believes colouring the lips is only for women of questionable morals but apparently pinching her lips, which achieves much the same effect, is perfectly legitimate, not at all saucy or aimed to win attention from men.’

  ‘My mother used to get us to fetch a few berries from the garden.’

  ‘Now, that’s resourceful.’ Alex took the metal cylinder from Holly, popped off the lid and they both leaned in closer to watch as she pushed the tiny bar on the side of the internal cylinder to force the tube of raspberry-coloured wax upwards. ‘Better than those messy pots. To be honest with you, Holly, I think this whole business of getting dressed only to be undressed within a couple of hours is so daft, don’t you?’

  Holly looked back over her shoulder into the mirror’s reflection. ‘I like these traditions – especially how the women get into their finery for dinner and the men put on their dinner jackets and cummerbunds. How would I earn my keep if I didn’t have a lady to dress for all of the occasions in her life?’

  Alex puffed out her cheeks. ‘How do you do that, Holly? How do you always manage to make me look at a situation differently?’

  ‘You’re just a modern woman, Miss, but in spite of your rebellion you will never be able to escape your beauty, even if you wore a sack and not even a smudge of rouge.’ They shared a smile.

  ‘You’re generous, Holly, thank you. And the best answer to your question is that you wouldn’t wait on a lady any more. You’d become independent and open that shop of yours.’

  ‘I’ll dream on while you enjoy dinner, Miss. What time would you like to retire?’

  ‘I can do it. Don’t you want to go to the play tonight?’

  ‘I didn’t think I’d be able to.’

  ‘I’m perfectly capable of taking off my hair clip without losing fingers and I’m sure I won’t break any limbs as I desperately wrestle with a nightgown. Oh, and listen, wear my lipstick when you go out.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘You’ll enjoy it far more than I do.’

  Holly gave a soft whistle. ‘Thank you. Only a touch, I promise. And I’ll lay out your night attire for you.’

  ‘Just in case I can’t work it out?’ Alex teased, squirting a puff of perfume. The room instantly filled with the fragrance of warm aniseed and fresh bergamot before softer, powdery notes of rose, violet and neroli enveloped both women.

  Holly inhaled. ‘Mmm, I do love that scent.’

  ‘L’Heure Bleue,’ she said, replacing the squarish bottle on her dressing table. ‘My cousin has excellent taste.’

  ‘What does it mean, “Lerbloo”?’

  Alex didn’t baulk at her maid’s poor pronunciation. ‘A direct translation is “the blue hour”. . . just prior to dusk, before the stars appear.’

  ‘Sounds just like it smells, Miss. I suppose that’s the point.’

  ‘Yes. Wish me luck in my blue hour as I try out our new plan to convince my parents to extend me some freedom.’

  ‘They’ll be fine, Miss. Mark my words. They’ll be proud of you volunteering for the hospital. Oh, and you’ve got company.’

  Alex halted halfway to the door. ‘Company? Not one of my father’s stuffy colleagues from the city, is it?’

  Holly gave a knowing look. ‘Yes. But I saw the gentleman in the hall arriving. He’s very handsome.’

  __________

  Alex hurried down the two flights of stairs, pausing at the grand trio of small paned windows with triumphant stained glass in the middle panel, which took the shape of a wreath of flowers. Normally light flooded into the atrium of this hall but the nights were closing in faster as winter approached and the long twilights were shortening swiftly. Already lamps were lit and the great chandelier in the reception hall was sparkling its artificial light over the warm panelled timbers. She continued her descent, her hand on the smoothly worn banister, to where Minerva had arranged a vase of fresh roses on the newel post.

  Clearly they had someone her mother considered important for dinner tonight; these touches did not go unnoticed by Alex. Her low heels were silent on the thick carpeting that ran down the middle of the flights and her feet moved swiftly over familiar ground. She used to flee down these same stairs as a child, to fling herself into her father’s arms when he’d returned from London or somewhere exotic. He’d always arrive laden with gifts, seemingly trying to make up for what they’d lost. She banished the thought as her heels now clicked impatiently on the flagstones of the main reception hall and Alex winced at the time as the grandfather clock showed she was late as she reached for the dining-room doorknob.

  Suddenly the handle turned without her help and she was all but pulled into the room. ‘Oh, there you are, darling.’ Her mother gave a soft gasp. ‘My word, Alexandra, that’s a most avant-garde outfit.’ She didn’t sound entirely disapproving, though. If anything, her mother appeared impressed. Another sign of trouble.

  ‘It’s from Lucile’s in Hanover Square,’ she murmured only for her mother’s hearing. ‘Apologies for my tardy arrival.’ She leaned to kiss her mother good evening. ‘My ride took a little longer than I intended. Good evening, Lambton.’

  The housekeeper nodded with an affectionate smile. ‘Miss Alex.’

  She turned to face the room; they were now in the main salon where her mother’s commitment to the Arts and Crafts movement was on comprehensive display. ‘Evening, Dad . . . er, good evening . . .?’ she said, eyeing the sandy-haired stranger. He was dressed for dinner in a black evening suit and stiff white collar and bowtie. Alex knew enough about tailoring to note his three-piece had Savile Row’s finest talent behind its stitching. A low-cut black waistcoat pulled ever so slightly at its buttons, she noticed, as he put down his glass to stand; here was someone leading a comfortable life . . . and a wealthy one.

  ‘Alex, this is Matthew Britten-Jones,’ her father introduced, ‘er, from Bristol.’

  Britten-Jones was on his feet and not as tall as her father but he wore a smile that said he didn’t care. ‘Good eve
ning, Alexandra.’ She tried not to concentrate on the thin monocle gripped somewhat arrogantly between his brow and cheek over his right eye.

  Alex moved past the sofas to the fireplace where he stood and allowed him to clasp her hand briefly. The handshake was dry, and unlike a lot of men’s, not overly firm. It was rare not to feel the ring she wore on her third finger being crushed against bone. ‘Welcome to Tilsden, Mr Britten-Jones.’

  ‘Do call me Matthew, or I shall feel like my father,’ he said amiably in a smoky voice that was not unattractive, and her mother tittered. ‘It’s certainly a glorious spot you have here. The building is enormous and I’m extremely fond of the tower.’

  ‘That’s Alexandra’s tower,’ her mother interjected and she was horrified to see Minerva give Matthew a sly wink.

  Even so, Alex kept the smile in her eyes. ‘We’re very fortunate to live up on The Mount.’

  ‘So many mansions all clustered up here and far removed, overlooking the city like royals,’ he remarked.

  Alex couldn’t be sure whether that was a couched criticism or merely an observation.

  Her father seemed to hear it as the latter. ‘Yes, indeed, York is rather flat and we manage to live on its single small hump, you could say.’

  ‘How do you like our internal decor, Matthew? Most people are surprised by it,’ Alex offered.

  ‘It’s a riot,’ he admitted. ‘In a good way, of course. So much colour and joy.’

  ‘Not too overdone for your sensibilities?’ Alex pressed. She gestured around the room at the intensive blocks of painted murals that covered every inch of wall while beneath it dark timbered panels and floors vied for attention. As she said this she moved to her father, who pecked her forehead with a gentle kiss.

  ‘Looking delicious tonight, darling,’ he whispered.

  ‘Thanks, Dad,’ she murmured, slightly embarrassed at the wolfish way Britten-Jones regarded her, and she wondered whether exposing so much naked skin tonight was such an inspired idea. ‘You see, I know this styling was all the rage but my mother seemed to embrace it more openly than most.’ She thought her wording to be appropriately careful.

  ‘Actually I was rather intrigued to see it in the flesh, so to speak,’ Matthew continued, emphasising the word to make her blush but sounding full of admiration for the decor. Minerva sat forward with an enquiring expression. ‘My mother showed me a photograph in The Studio magazine that, if my memory serves me right, was taken about fourteen years ago.’

  ‘Oh, heavens, that’s the year we decorated,’ Minerva said, astonished.

  ‘I understand that the whole Arts and Crafts movement was about pushing back against industrialisation.’

  Alex could sense immediately that Matthew was a born charmer; he was playing to her mother’s softest spots beautifully.

  ‘That’s right,’ Minerva admitted, clearly impressed by his knowledge. ‘Charles is not a big fan; you can hear my daughter shares his views and I simply don’t care that our neighbours, while adopting some of the styling, haven’t embraced it as warmly as I did. But you see I met William Morris, so influential in the movement, and I felt inspired by him. And frankly I love his creative mind and his artistic flair with textiles.’

  ‘He would be proud of this,’ Matthew assured her, gesturing to the room while gazing at the florid, marble-outlined mosaic in pretty pinks and greens of a nymph-like creature wreathed in flowers, turtle doves swooping about her. Then he adroitly changed topic. ‘And here of course you’re all far away from the problems in Europe.’ Matthew accepted what looked to be his second sherry from the crystal decanter that Lambton was offering. Her mother declined, her father accepted a top-up and Alex obliged by taking the tiny crystal glass aperitif.

  ‘I’ll drink to that,’ her father said. ‘And to all the brave souls over there.’

  They shared a murmur of acclamation of the troops and into the slightly awkward silence that seemed to traditionally follow, Alex used the time to deliberately seat herself next to her mother. ‘So, Matthew, what brings you north?’

  ‘Business,’ he said matter-of-factly, before turning to her father. ‘My parents have mentioned you on several occasions as being a most delightful companion couple, Lord and Lady Frobisher, and I thought it only polite that I should pay my respects.’

  ‘Very glad you have too, young man, thank you,’ Minerva said and Alex heard the note in her mother’s voice that she had learned to recognise as a sign that her mother was formally interested in someone.

  Here we go, she mused privately. Let the matchmaking begin. Alex’s creamy oloroso lost its sweetness and tasted suddenly cloying as she swallowed. She looked back at Matthew with an appraising gaze; he was not unpleasant in looks, if she ignored his narrowish shoulders and boyish expression. Her first crush had been on a man twice her own age and to this day she found older men more interesting than her peers. He certainly had a brightly open smile that he was shining on her mother in regular glances without taking his attention fully from her – it was quite a feat. ‘How long are you here?’ she continued, but only because he was watching her.

  ‘Oh, it’s fluid. I’m doing some work up here with Rowntree’s.’

  She nodded. ‘It’s a nice time of year,’ she added, lamely.

  ‘I’ve invited Matthew to stay with us,’ Minerva said, smiling benignly.

  Alex felt her mood slip further.

  ‘Yes, and jolly generous it is too, I must say,’ Matthew remarked . . . perhaps a fraction too gushily, Alex thought. ‘Thank you again; I didn’t expect it but I couldn’t refuse your mother. She was most persuasive.’

  Alex put her sherry down. She wouldn’t be able to taste its normally bright sweetness again tonight. ‘Yes, she does like to get her way,’ she said.

  ‘After tonight, though, I shall find my own accommodations, perhaps at the club, sir? How are the rooms?’

  ‘Excellent. You won’t be disappointed.’

  Alex was relieved he knew not to overstay his welcome. ‘And will you be joining up, Matthew?’ His crestfallen expression at her enquiry forced an apology to follow quickly. ‘Forgive me, it’s early days of course to —’

  ‘No, no . . . that’s not it, dear Alexandra.’

  ‘Dear Alexandra’ now? I barely know you, she thought.

  ‘I’ve already tried to volunteer,’ he explained.

  ‘You’re keen, young man,’ Charles said, draining his glass, and she noticed him nodding, presumably at Lambton who had likely given the signal from the door behind her.

  ‘Is that so?’ Alex said, unable to hide her surprise. There was something shadowed about Matthew that she was picking up on but couldn’t pinpoint. It was that intangible quality that made him seem the least likely fellow to voluntarily put his hand up for an early journey to the Front.

  ‘Yes.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m the third of five boys. That awful middle ranking. My elder brothers are needed at home, you see. They both work in the family firm and my father couldn’t possibly spare them right now. My mother refuses to spare her babies, my younger brothers. Besides, they’re the reason we go to war, surely? We must all feel the responsibility to keep our youth protected and free.’ It was beginning to sound like a speech to Alex, although she could see her mother’s bosom expanding against the proud intake of air at his stirring words. ‘And you believed you could be spared?’ she finished for him, suddenly feeling a mote of sympathy.

  ‘We can’t all wait on the sidelines. I put my hand up and was prepared to be accountable.’

  ‘Most commendable, Matthew, although I fear there will be conscription and your elder brothers may have no choice,’ Charles muttered.

  Minerva’s hand was now laid over her heart. ‘Truly brave to volunteer,’ she said to their guest.

  They were both impressed, so why was Alex feeling that Matthew’s words sounded rehearsed? Was it because he paused rather theatrically at that point to draw her parents’ praise? It was as though he was hitting well-timed beats in h
is narrative.

  ‘So they turned you down, presumably?’ Alex offered, keen to push him forward and disrupt his moment on the stage.

  He didn’t blink or wince at the interruption. Instead he nodded sadly, as if grateful to her. ‘Yes. Much to my disappointment, I’m not considered suitable material.’

  Alex held his permanently amused blue gaze, staring back at him, perplexed. ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘It’s quite ridiculous,’ he said, running a hand back through golden hair that appeared reddish from the light of the flames of the fireplace. She imagined herself cornered by her mother and offering up the pathetic argument that she couldn’t possibly marry a redhead. ‘I’m short-sighted,’ he admitted, pointing towards the monocle in case they hadn’t noticed. ‘I may also be too short,’ he added, sounding genuinely embarrassed.

  ‘Well, I’m not especially tall, surely?’ Charles said over Alex’s thoughts.

  ‘No, but you’re tall enough, sir. You’d be straight in if you were my age of twenty-six. Unfortunately, my smaller stature is their collective focus rather than my large heart,’ he said with a sad note of resignation that made her mother sigh softly.

  Alex was determined her disdain wouldn’t show. ‘A pity for you, Matthew. Er, did Lambton announce dinner, Dad?’

  ‘Yes, indeed. Well done, darling. Lambton hates us to be late when the plates are hot,’ Charles explained to no one in particular. ‘Shall we?’ He moved to offer an arm to Alex.

  ‘Lady Frobisher, may I?’

  Alex smiled thinly to see her mother’s delight at being escorted into dinner on the arm of a handsome young man. Her mind began racing for every excuse she could line up now to not be courted by Matthew Britten-Jones.

  ‘By the way, don’t be alarmed by the lack of footmen,’ she overheard Minerva say to her escort. ‘All of ours have gone to war and for our part we’ve all agreed to manage as best we can.’

  ‘So you see, Lady Frobisher, even you are doing your bit for the war effort.’