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Alex frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, Rowntree’s isn’t just handling chocolate right now; apart from diversifying and providing a hospital, it has put itself out to offer loading of other supplies and transport via Selby Halt.’

‘Probably through guilt,’ her mother threw in and sipped some water, making a face as though it were pure lemon juice she tasted.

‘That’s not fair,’ Alex admonished. ‘The Quakers sound as though they’re doing their absolute best to contribute to the war in ways that don’t involve killing.’

‘This is true,’ Matthew agreed. ‘And if you just focus on the chocolate that the factory is producing for the soldiers alone, tonnes of it has to be transported to the Front but that means getting it from northern England to our southern docks fast.’

‘It’s exciting to think our city is providing so much assistance,’ Minerva offered, determined to stay in the discussion.

Lambton was back, quietly directing her staff with the tiniest movements of one hand and eyes silently speaking plenty. ‘Beef pie, Mrs Morrison’s famed potato casserole and winter vegetables from our own patch,’ she announced as the girls put down warmed plates loaded with a golden crusted hunk of pie, oozing a rich, onion-scented and near licorice-coloured gravy with a peppery, deeply meaty aroma. Alex could taste it already from the familiar, comforting smell that harked back to her childhood. They were all instantly occupied, serving themselves from the various dishes of vegetable accompaniments glistening with dabs of butter, and finally the servants withdrew from the table and everyone’s plates steamed temptingly.

‘Enjoy your dinner, ladies and gentlemen,’ Lambton finished, shepherding the two women out of the room so that conversation could be resumed. The housekeeper, who clearly loved playing butler, closed the door behind the staff but waited in the shadows of the dining room. Lambton missed nothing, Alex knew, and she threw her a soft smile.

‘As to the chocolate itself,’ Matthew continued, now that their quartet picked up cutlery and resumed eating, ‘the next few months form a critical time, I gather, where speed is needed to get the product south.’ He forked a neat piece of pie into his mouth and chewed. ‘Oh, I say, this is extraordinarily good,’ he exclaimed, casting a glance at Minerva.

‘Yes, absolutely delicious, darling,’ Charles added as though Minerva had slaved all day making suet pastry.

‘The secret’s really in the gravy,’ Minerva added with a conspiratorial giggle. ‘A dash of stout makes all the difference.’

‘Is that what it is?’ Matthew charmed. ‘I shall have to beg, borrow or steal this recipe for Mother.’

‘Well, you’ll need to turn that charm on Morrison. She doesn’t part easily with her recipes,’ Minerva admitted, finally coming clean.

Alex frowned at their guest; her interest had been piqued by his previous remark about the chocolate schedule. ‘Why are the next few months so critical?’

‘That’s a bit curious of you, isn’t it?’ her father wondered.

Matthew put his cutlery down and sipped from his claret, clearly enjoying the spotlight. He touched lightly at his mouth with his napkin, leaving no stain upon it, and grinned, taking in everyone with his pleasure and ensuring all eyes were on him. ‘It’s perfectly all right, sir,’ he assured, ‘there is nothing confidential about this detail.’ He turned the full weight of his patient gaze on her now, as though needing to single Alex out for special attention and to demonstrate that he took her and her question deeply seriously. ‘I don’t know if you’re aware but last Christmas Princess Mary caused a happy storm of delight for our British, Colonial and Indian armed forces when she organised a public appeal to send a gift to every sailor afloat and every soldier at the Front.’

Alex nodded. ‘I heard the appeal raised more than £160,000.’ She was determined to show she did pay attention to topical issues and her head was not stuffed full of shallow thoughts.

‘A most tidy sum,’ he admitted, ‘and this meant the giving of that gift could be broadened to include everyone wearing the King’s uniform.’ He paused dramatically and Minerva filled the momentary silence with a sighing smile.

Alex took the opportunity to eat and look away from Matthew, who she could see was just getting warmed up. She let Mrs Morrison’s sticky gravy soothe her with its faintly sweet quality achieved from the patient sweating down of onions until they tasted like a savoury toffee that made the overall flavour so intense. But she realised she wasn’t giving him the eye contact he required.

‘. . . even spices and pencils,’ she heard before he coughed gently.

‘And so the railways are connected how?’ she continued, to show him she was paying attention even if he was hogging the conversation . . . not that it mattered; her father was happily busy with his pie and her mother wasn’t at all interested in this conversation unless it kept eye contact between her daughter and their guest.

‘Ah, well, getting that amount of product in one blitz proved a mountain too high. The delivery of the gift had to be staggered. The recipients were divided into three groups, A, B and C. I don’t believe the C group received its gift until well after Christmas.’

‘Ah, I see the dilemma. That is a pity,’ she remarked.

‘Indeed. Christmas must have been so very hard in the trenches.’ She could guess what was coming, and was excited by the inside knowledge, but politely allowed him to have his moment. ‘Rowntree’s is doing a King’s Chocolate Tin in a repeat to keep morale up but they obviously want the chocolate and accompanying goodies to be delivered as swiftly as possible to the men at the Front, who need their spirits boosted after more than a year of life in the trenches.’

‘My word, yes!’ Her mother joined in, just short of cheering.

Her father was busy soaking up the last of the gravy with a neat square of pastry he’d saved just for that purpose. Alex smiled to herself, realising she had either inherited the trait or developed it watching her father for years eat so quietly, intently and neatly.

‘That’s exciting,’ she admitted, placing a neat forkful of the pie into her mouth and chewing carefully.

‘I’m glad you agree, and so our firm is involved in helping this year with the logistics of getting the King’s Tin from York to the quartermasters around Europe as fast as we possibly can.’

‘Admirable, Matthew,’ her mother cooed.

‘So when does this happen?’ her father finally said, his plate devoid of food, his cutlery neatly positioned at six-thirty.