The Chocolate Tin

by Fiona McIntosh

  Harry sighed. ‘You have nothing to apologise for. I’m the one who is sorry. I’ve seen too much that is ugly, Alex. It’s made me unsympathetic at times . . . like now. I have no right to criticise you.’

  ‘Actually you do. I am behaving like the spoiled daughter I try so hard not to be.’

  ‘All I’m saying is that it’s easy to be dismissive of Bethany but neither of us know what it’s like to love someone so much and yet be invisible to them. The fact is we’d be lying if either of us said we’d ever had to look far for attention.’ He lifted a forefinger to qualify his claim. ‘And by that I mean from family as much as from affectionate admirers.’ She closed her mouth to clamp down on the words that had wanted to spill, knowing he was right. ‘Bethany did precisely what you speak of. She helplessly fell in love with the wrong person. Now she’s determined to manoeuvre her life around that wrong person simply because he is unattached and rather ridiculously feels a sense of doomed obligation because of a brother he loved.’

  ‘So you’re prepared to be viciously unhappy for the rest of your life?’ she asked, aghast.

  ‘No, my point is she is prepared to be unhappy for the rest of my life because she’s resigned to take me on any terms. She believes that by marrying me, she can own me. She’s convinced that being my wife in a legal sense is enough for both of us because she’s wanted it for so long. Meanwhile, I’ll likely be her Matthew. Dutiful, charming, mostly absent.’

  Alex’s eyes watered unexpectedly. ‘Your honesty hurts.’

  ‘Since meeting you I realise I’ve never loved anyone in the same way, and we’re relative strangers in terms of how briefly we’ve been acquainted, but I know I would never want anyone else in the life I fought to preserve. I sometimes wonder why I did.’ He sighed. ‘Now I just sound morbid. Look, Alex, I can’t have you but I can give you my truth . . . it’s as good as giving you my love.’

  She backhanded away the treacherous tears. ‘Sorry.’

  He shook his head and said nothing but passed her his handkerchief. ‘I hate to make you cry but there’s no future for us, unless we want to be hateful cheats.’

  ‘I’m already one of those.’

  ‘And that’s my fault, not yours. Don’t cry on my account. I’m not worth it.’

  Alex sniffed. ‘You are worth it, Harry. Don’t sell yourself short. I think you talk in this manner simply as a mechanism of defence.’ She sniffed, faking a brighter tone. ‘So, this is Cambridge Street, one of the main thoroughfares. Betty’s is over there.’ She pointed. ‘I’m going to tell you about it and you’re going to listen because it stops us talking about being in love. It’s called a confiserie and café apparently. The man who brought it to England is Fritz Belmont, who is originally Swiss, I gather. He has an interesting history – something to do with being an orphan, auctioned off to a farmer, then becoming a baker – but held little interest in breads. He was more engaged in the aristocratic art of the chocolatier.’ She sighed. ‘Mr Belmont used his training as a baker to blend pastry making with chocolate making and business to achieve this,’ she said, waving a hand towards the café. ‘I do admire him.’

  ‘He’s an ideal role model, Alex. You can achieve your ambitions. I’m sure in less than a year everyone will be talking about Frobisher Chocolates.’

  She gave him a watery grin. ‘Oh, I do hope so.’

  ‘What a handsome town,’ he remarked, charmed by the ornate Victorian architecture.

  ‘I’ve always thought it rather prim,’ she replied.

  ‘No, I’d call it elegant.’

  ‘People used to come here religiously to take the waters,’ she chuckled. ‘It’s built its wealth as a spa town.’

  He nodded. ‘My mother swears by the waters of Kent at Tunbridge Wells,’ he said before correcting himself with a grin. ‘Royal Tunbridge Wells, that is.’

  ‘If we have time,’ Alex said, sounding momentarily distracted as she looked for somewhere to park her car, ‘we can take a walk onto the Stray – that’s the park that surrounds part of the city – but first some tea and cake to cheer us. Ah, there’s a good spot.’ Alex deftly swerved their vehicle next to the kerb.

  ‘I’m impressed,’ he admitted, making her smile again, even though he knew neither of them was feeling it. ‘Let me get the door for you and with luck we’ll dodge the threatening shower,’ he offered, before opening his door and swinging himself easily out of the passenger seat. He moved around to the driver’s side door for Alex, wondering whether to suggest retrieving the umbrella he’d glimpsed in her boot, when a voice quavered nearby.

  ‘Is that you, dear Alexandra?’

  Harry watched Alex freeze a smile as she stepped around to the kerb. ‘It is. Hello, Wanda.’ She kissed the older woman holding the arm of a female helper. ‘What brings you to Harrogate?’

  ‘Meeting some old friends, dear, who are convinced they can start a new winter season for the spa waters . . . either that or they’re getting in early for spring,’ she chortled and then her gaze inevitably shifted to Harry with undisguised interest. ‘But this ice is treacherous, isn’t it? I had to bring my maid Joyce with me to stop me slipping on it. We’re staying over in Ripon.’ All of this was said without removing her stare from Harry.

  ‘Oh, how lovely for you. Wanda, this is Henry Blakeney,’ Alex offered breezily, her fake smile widening. ‘He’s a friend of the family and up from Sussex.’ Her parents wouldn’t contradict her if asked, she was sure. ‘He’s escaping frantic wedding arrangements. Bethany’s expecting you home today, isn’t she, darling Harry?’

  He blinked at her, clearing his throat. ‘All true. I can’t escape my groom duties any longer,’ he answered.

  ‘Harry, may I introduce Mrs Wanda Barraclough, a very dear friend of my mother’s.’

  The fur-laden woman extended a hand, the other still firmly linked around her maid’s. ‘We went to school together,’ she joshed. ‘How have you enjoyed York, Mr Blakeney?’

  ‘Immensely, thank you. It has given me memories to take home and keep close forever.’ He didn’t look at Alex, noting how well she kept her irritation hidden that he would risk the subtle jest in front of someone he was guessing was a sharp-tongued gossip.

  ‘Oh, how charming. Minerva must be taking the modern approach allowing you out and about with a handsome bachelor, my dear.’

  ‘Good grief, Wanda, I’m a married woman now. I don’t ask my mother’s permission about whom I spend time with.’

  ‘Only teasing, darling girl. Of course I realise you and Mr Blakeney are likely meeting dear Matthew for afternoon tea.’ She blinked frantically as she fished.

  ‘Matthew?’

  ‘Yes, dear. I just saw him barely a moment ago. It’s why I presumed you’re here together . . . or perhaps you’re not?’ Again her gaze lazed heavily on Harry with deepening intrigue.

  ‘Oh, no, I hope we haven’t missed him. I didn’t think he’d be here so early,’ Alex said, recovering brilliantly, in Harry’s estimation. ‘He told us three o’clock, didn’t he, Harry?’

  Harry’s mouth twitched. It was an attempt at a smile. ‘That was my understanding,’ he answered obediently.

  ‘Gosh, well, thank you, Wanda. I’d better find my husband. Where did you see him?’

  Wanda’s chins wobbled in what Harry could see was bafflement. He must congratulate Alex later on the effortless manner in which she fibbed. ‘He was with a colleague,’ Wanda explained. ‘They were obviously having a meeting at the Crown Hotel, just around the corner. Probably headed this way shortly because Matthew’s colleague has to catch a train.’

  ‘My . . . you have discovered a lot, Wanda. Thank you.’ Despite her phoney confidence, Harry could hear the slight warble of nervousness. Perhaps he should leave too.

  ‘Goodbye, Mrs Barraclough,’ he said to extract Alex from the woman’s orbit. ‘Let’s find Matthew, Alex, shall we?’

  ‘We must,’ she agreed. ‘Goodbye, Wanda. See you at the weekend at Tilsden Hall, no doubt?’ She l
ifted a hand in farewell and her mother’s friend gave a similar gesture but looked perplexed by the swift departure.

  Harry took Alex’s arm lightly but there was no doubting they both hurried across the road.

  ‘I’ll leave you here,’ he said, to make it easy, glancing at Wanda who had turned away from them.

  ‘All right,’ she agreed. ‘That was a really close call – she’s got the loosest lips in the county, I’m sure.’ Alex smiled sadly. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Don’t apologise. It can’t be helped.’

  ‘I’m not apologising. I’m sorry for me, Harry. I dare not even hug you.’

  ‘Best not,’ he cautioned.

  ‘I want to, though.’

  He took a breath. He should just turn, walk away and not look back. And yet he lingered, searching for the right words to convey the enormity of how he was feeling. ‘Alex . . . it’s been —’

  ‘Too late,’ she murmured, looking past him, her expression filled with dread. ‘Here comes Matthew now. I feel ill.’

  He didn’t turn. ‘Behave just as you did with Mrs Barraclough. You were amazing.’

  ‘Really?’ She cut him a look, daring to take her gaze off her approaching husband.

  ‘Point, wave and make me turn around so that I can be introduced. Go through the same charade and I’ll be gone as fast as you can say cocoa nibs.’ He said it to win a smile and she obliged.

  ‘Darling!’ She stood on tiptoe and waved. ‘There you are!’

  Harry, now obliging her, turned as casually as he could in an effort not to over-dramatise his part and was shocked to see the unmistakable lope of James, the waiter from Alex’s father’s club in York. He noted that James was caught in the midst of laughing easily with the finely tailored gentleman he walked alongside. The clearly wealthy companion lifted his hand in equal surprise to see his wife and Harry could swear he detected dismay before a beaming smile pushed it aside and he began laughing with what Harry had to presume was pleasure.

  ‘I can do this,’ he heard Alex murmur frantically to herself. She stepped away to greet the man. ‘Good grief, Matthew, what are you doing here?’

  ‘My angel, I could well ask the same of you alongside such a handsome escort,’ he deflected, his gaze locking on to Harry. He took off a glove and offered to shake hands. ‘Good afternoon, I’m Matthew Britten-Jones, husband of this delectable creature you’re accompanying.’

  The cold, formerly thin air felt as though it had instantly thickened around Harry as he obliged, removing his own glove to shake the man’s hand. He cut a slight frown at James, who caught it and shook his head once. Harry blinked in fresh confusion. The waiter looked positively terrified.

  Alex hadn’t noticed any of this silent communication, Harry realised, because she was clearly too busy wrangling her own fears, and the necessary introductions. ‘Matthew, this is Henry Blakeney. I told you he was Harry Blake on the telephone – that’s apparently how he was known in his unit.’ Her voice had a different quality to it in her dismay. ‘He prefers Harry, though, and he’s up from London to visit Rowntree’s.’

  ‘Blakeney,’ Matthew repeated. ‘As in the Blakeneys of Southampton.’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ Harry admitted.

  ‘Excellent! Up here on business?’

  ‘No.’ He just caught himself from answering that it was purely for pleasure. Alex was fiddling with putting her car keys away, no doubt to hide her blush. ‘I’m in the north on a mercy errand for the family of a dead soldier. He was . . . well, I was part of a unit that was sent in after peace was achieved.’

  Matthew gave a sympathetic grimace. ‘I fear the ghosts of the war follow us.’

  It was such a meaningless placation. Harry knew Matthew had seen not a single gunshot of action and he couldn’t be bothered to respond. Now his and Alex’s attention was forced, out of politeness, to shift to James.

  ‘Sorry,’ Alex gushed. ‘How rude of me. I’m Alex, Matthew’s wife.’

  ‘This is James Feeney,’ Matthew introduced.

  ‘Hello, Mr Feeney,’ she said, extending her hand. ‘Forgive me, should I know you?’

  He removed his hat and seemed to hesitate before he pulled off his glove to shake her hand gently. The man gave a brief, obsequious smile that Harry recognised from the club. ‘No, Mrs Britten-Jones, we have not met previously,’ James replied and Harry sensed, rather than heard, a mocking undertone. He told himself he was imagining it.

  ‘So, you’re a colleague of my husband’s?’ Alex continued. ‘We just ran into Wanda Barraclough,’ she explained, as though that told Matthew everything. He obliged her with a wince.

  Harry detected the slightest of pauses before James cut him a sharp, pleading look. ‘Er, not strictly. We do go back many years,’ he said. ‘I used to work for your husband’s family.’

  Harry’s quizzical look deepened. Charles Frobisher had made a point of explaining that although James was from Bristol – as Matthew was – the two of them had not met prior to being connected with the Yorkshire Club. Someone was lying.

  ‘Well, you’re most welcome up at the house if —’

  ‘Feeney lives in Bristol, darling. It’s a rare visit down this way to see an ageing aunt, isn’t it, James? And only coincidence we ran into each other.’

  Harry looked away so no one could see him frown with consternation. Yes, indeed, lies were swirling around all of them, especially as he knew where James lived. It wasn’t Bristol any more.

  ‘Yes, sir. I . . . she . . . she’s rather frail.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear it,’ Alex soothed. ‘Does she live in Harrogate?’

  He nodded and Harry saw him swallow surreptitiously.

  Matthew rescued him. ‘Did you say she lived in Starbeck, Feeney?’

  James glanced at Matthew and Harry watched gratitude easing across his expression; quite obviously to Harry he’d never visited Harrogate or its surrounds previously. ‘Er, yes, that’s right.’

  It was a smooth lie from Matthew but Harry wasn’t about to entangle himself in whatever deception was underway here. Alex wasn’t picking up on it and James’s business with her husband was not his. He recalled his moment of voyeurism, witnessing James embracing another man; he wondered what James’s game was. He would wait for this charade to play itself out, believing explanations would bubble to the surface.

  ‘So what are you two doing in Harrogate?’ Matthew continued.

  Harry opened his mouth to give an explanation but Alex cut in with a silky response. ‘Mr Blakeney and I are on the most intriguing adventure, Matthew. Shall we remove ourselves from this drizzle and chill and I can tell you more? We were just heading across to Betty’s – won’t you both join us?’

  ‘Feeney was just leaving, darling. I was walking with him to the station, actually.’

  ‘Wanda seemed to know that too,’ she said as a way of lightening the awkward situation.

  His companion shook his head. ‘You carry on, Mr Britten-Jones. It’s been a pleasure to see you again.’

  ‘All right, Feeney. I’ll, er . . . well, I’ll see you next time I’m in Bristol, no doubt visiting my family.’

  ‘Mr Blakeney, Mrs Britten-Jones.’ James nodded at them with a slight bow. ‘Please excuse me.’ He glanced at Matthew. ‘Goodbye, sir.’

  Harry watched the vignette of guile unfolding and was now struck, as he observed Matthew lift his hat in polite farewell to his companion, that the shape of his head and even the sandy colour of his hair were reminiscent of the man at the window . . . the lover. He caught his breath in astonishment but before he could explore it further, husband and wife were turning towards him.

  ‘So, Blakeney,’ Matthew began as though they were old school chums. ‘Shall we share a pot of tea and you and my wife can tell me all about your Yorkshire adventure?’

  __________

  Convinced that Matthew’s subtle mind could read hers, could sense that her heart was pounding, her pulse racing to make her feel light-headed, Alex w
as grateful they did not have to queue. They passed quickly by the showcases of treats, treading swiftly across the chequered marble floor of the reception to the seat she found herself being eased into.

  Betty’s was brimful with patrons, their noise a wave of murmurings that was punctuated by bursts of laughter, over which tinkled the clamour of silver cutlery against crockery, grey-blue china cups being picked up and put down repeatedly against saucers around the room. All the various sounds combined to become a lively yet harsh cacophony after the peace of the cottage. Questions about Matthew roared in her mind. What was he doing here really? She didn’t believe the story of coincidence for a moment. Was James Feeney really a former member of the family’s staff? They’d seemed friendly when she spotted them but then stiff during the introductions. She kept her queries silent, not wishing to drag Harry into them; they would be aired another time in private. For now there was more than sufficient awkwardness with her husband and her lover being seated either side of her. Alex tried to distract herself, sweeping a glance around the café to admire the mainly dove-grey decor teamed with blushing pink panels bordered in silver that echoed the heavy old silver electric candleholders that hung against the panels. Mirrors reflected the light from those candleholders and the tall arched windows.

  ‘Everyone happy here?’ Matthew asked. ‘It’s a bit cramped. We could move to the second floor, to the smoking room?’ he offered Harry, nodding his head in the direction of the sweep of stairs that disappeared above the dark wooded ceiling.

  Alex watched Harry shake his head politely. ‘This is fine, thank you,’ he demurred.

  ‘All right, darling? You look a fraction pale.’ Matthew instantly fell into his most attentive mode. This is how he was – committed to her when they were together, yet like a stranger when they were apart.

  She too shook her head, using the excuse of removing her gloves to withdraw her hand from beneath Matthew’s proprietorial touch. ‘I’m perfectly well. Just a little overwhelmed by the noise in here.’

  ‘It’s certainly a busy establishment. Gosh, that Belmont has done well. He’s minting money. I’ll bet he’ll open up all over the north before long with this sort of patronage. Our family should have invested when we first heard rumours of the Swiss gent looking for shareholders!’ he quipped, looking around at the tables laden with goodies and every inch of the place spoken for by eager customers. ‘We must have captured the last available seats.’