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Alex was facing the bank of curved windows with their achingly pretty stained glass. The curtain had not yet been drawn and night had fallen heavily so she could now see all of them seated in reflection. It made for a cosy family scene of happiness and she sighed inwardly, knowing this was what her mother craved. It was obvious they liked Matthew; her mother’s interest aside, she could tell that her father was impressed with him too, and why not . . . there were no rough edges to Matthew that she could tell. Yet she questioned his sincerity and couldn’t comprehend her own suspicions. She put them down to the fact that they’d only just met and therefore it was perfectly natural to be hesitant. That said, he was easy to talk to, certainly lively company, had excellent manners, was gentle on the eye, appeared to possess no outwardly poor habits and he’d already assisted her immeasurably. She snapped her attention back to the conversation.

‘. . . begun,’ he said. ‘The chocolate is already made, being wrapped in special waxed paper that is corrugated to protect it. The tins were manufactured earlier this year and readied. I think I’m right in saying that special postcards of York have been printed to go with the gift.’ He shook his head. ‘There are probably other items I’m overlooking.’

‘When does it leave?’ Alex asked, and they all turned to glance at her, presumably due to the urgency in her tone. ‘I mean . . . we definitely want them to have the King’s Tin for Christmas, don’t we?’ she added, covering any clue that she fully intended to be part of the team that packed the special thank-you chocolate for the troops. This was it – a sense of purpose at last. She suddenly felt as though she’d be betraying the men at the Front and somehow not fulfilling her dream, all at once, if she didn’t.

‘I gather it begins next week and we’ll want the first boxes being loaded by mid-month.’

The women were back clearing away emptied plates and glasses, while Lambton scraped away crumbs of pastry with her special silver tool that looked like a chemist’s scoopula. ‘Just cheese and some fruits, sweet biscuits, my lady,’ she heard Lambton murmur to her mother, who nodded her approval.

‘Matthew?’ Her mother looked his way, sounding inspired. ‘You said you would be visiting Rowntree’s tomorrow?’

‘Yes, Lady Frobisher, I shall.’

‘Excellent. Perhaps you might care to escort Alex to the hospital?’

Either her mother was onto her clandestine plans or, worse, she was even deeper into her matchmaking than Alex had anticipated. She shouldn’t be so surprised, though, with an available and most suitable male at their table. She dared not glare but felt her mother’s excitement simmering just below the surface of her smiling façade as Matthew’s eyes widened with pleasure.

‘Yes, of course, Lady Frobisher, I will. Shall we say after breakfast?’

‘We shall,’ Alex agreed, hardly in a position to say much else as platters with cheese, wafers, raisins and sundry other fruit and delicacies were placed between them.

‘The pears are from our orchard,’ Lambton assured, ‘and the Wensleydale is particularly creamy at the moment.’

‘You’ll forgive us for not serving a Somerset or Gloucestershire cheddar,’ Charles chuckled, loading his plate with a chunk of the blue he had neatly hacked off the wedge.

‘It would be near sacrilege for a west country man to eat any other sort at home, so let me assure you this is a treat, sir, to be able to taste other cheeses and one local to this region,’ Matthew replied with his usual charm.

Alex was moved to wonder whether Matthew ever lacked the perfect response to each remark . . . Seemingly not, by her mother’s deepening smiles and soft glances at her husband. Alex could interpret those in a blink. Minerva Frobisher was hatching ideas, probably already imagining which designer to use for the wedding gown and whether her daughter and Matthew might be married at the Minster rather than a plain old church. Before her mother could start enquiring about his future plans, Alex leapt in.

‘Did you know this cheese came about because of spores from the leather horse tackle that was stored in the same barn as the cheese?’

Matthew had a lump of the blue halfway to his mouth.

‘Spores?’

‘Yes, well, all blue cheese is mould, isn’t it?’ she said, matter-of-factly and realised she was behaving just as he had earlier. She changed her tone instantly. ‘It’s safe, Matthew. I just think it’s interesting to learn how so much of history’s famous recipes have come about quite by accident.’

He smiled, although she didn’t believe he was entirely reassured about the mould.

‘How does eight o’clock sound for tomorrow?’ Alex said, switching subjects back to where he might feel more comfortable.

He put the cheese down and nibbled on an almond macaroon instead. ‘That sounds perfect.’

‘Well, young man, do you fancy a nightcap and a pipe?’

‘Of course, Sir Charles; I’m not a pipe man, though, I should add.’

‘Oh, you’re around for a while, aren’t you?’

‘A few weeks, yes, sir.’

‘You’ll be tamping down your own bowl before you know it,’ Charles Frobisher assured.

‘Shall we withdraw, Mother?’ Alex offered and Minerva nodded.

Charles moved to pull the seat back for his wife. ‘I must teach this young pup how to taste real tobacco, not those ghastly cigarettes.’ Her father kissed his wife’s cheek. ‘Goodnight, Min, dearest,’ he murmured. ‘Don’t wait up.’

‘Oh, I’m not tired,’ her mother replied and to Alex that clearly sounded like Minerva Frobisher code for I want to talk to you about the suitability of Matthew Britten-Jones for Alex!