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Their tour had begun at the Card Box Mill but she had lingered near the main offices, running a gloved finger over the boxed tea service that was the firm’s gift to female workers who left after seven years’ service.

‘Why do they leave?’ she’d asked Helen, who despite the faint Scottish brogue had perfect diction.

‘Usually marriage, Miss Frobisher. The girls love the tea set – it’s part of the firm’s wedding gifts for most.’

‘Oh, really?’ She was unable to hide her surprise and Matthew slanted her a grin as though he could anticipate her dismay. ‘Marriage is not permitted?’

‘No, Miss. No married female workers in the factory.’

‘But that’s so unfair!’

Helen shrugged. ‘It’s how it is, Miss Frobisher.’

‘But why?’

‘Many reasons.’ Arnold Rowntree must have overheard her query and returned to explain. ‘Most start a family immediately, so they’re away for a year, even eighteen months. When they return I can’t tell you how much slower they are at their tasks; they seem to lose the dexterity that we rely on. We also feel that a woman who is married should be at home to look after her husband, her family, and not be fatigued by factory work. It’s the cycle of life too, Miss Frobisher; the married make way for the new girls.’

She hoped her consternation didn’t show in her expression although she sensed Matthew understood that she wasn’t convinced by Rowntree’s explanation. She allowed herself to be distracted or risked giving offence if she became more pointed in her queries. As they walked on, Matthew moved shoulder to shoulder with Arnold Rowntree and dropped back to talk quietly. Meanwhile she was asking all the right questions because Helen, who had struck her as dour, had warmed up considerably now that she’d established that Alex was not simply someone trawling alongside their male visitor but seemed genuinely interested in how the factory operated.

‘. . . the cocoa bean was brought to Spain from the West Indies by the Spanish adventurer Cortés in the Middle Ages,’ Helen continued as they walked. Alex realised the guide had lowered her voice and was talking now purely for her benefit; the men trailing behind were forgotten. ‘Cocoa travelled to Italy, found its way to France and reached London around 1660, and was then between ten and fifteen shillings per pound.’

‘I don’t believe I even know what a cocoa bean looks like,’ she admitted.

Helen sketched a shape in the air before them. ‘The beans are held in large, colourful pods about this big, probably up to forty beans per pod. I can show you one later – a ripe one is a splendid array of colours; it looks like a sunset from golden through to ruby. You’d be shocked at the flesh inside, though, which is white and slimy,’ she said, with a look of distaste. ‘But it’s in the fermentation period and as they dry that the bean undergoes remarkable change.’

‘How wonderful.’ Alex grinned, unable to recall a time recently when she’d enjoyed herself more.

They moved through various departments, finally arriving at a familiar smell.

‘You’re roasting,’ Alex noted.

Helen nodded. ‘It’s almost around the clock now. It’s here that the beans come in for cleaning and sorting, roasting, winnowing, grinding.’

‘How long is the roast?’ Matthew enquired, as the men caught up.

‘Our preference is for thirty minutes,’ Arnold Rowntree answered. ‘It makes the beans brittle, which is what we’re after, but it also brings out the flavour perfectly. The quality, flavour and strength of our Cocoa Elect brand is unrivalled in Britain.’

Alex’s spirits were lifting the closer she came to seeing the chocolate as the final food. Could she be a chocolatier, as Matthew had suggested? She could feel trills of excitement pulsing through her like a current of electricity, animating her in a way she’d almost forgotten she was capable of. It was childish merriment again, of the type she recalled in Scotland, when the summer days were long and endlessly carefree. Finally she felt engaged; she was sure her delight showed not only in her expression but also in her tread that felt buoyant, as though stepping on small pillows of glee.

She could hear Arnold talking about coupons in cocoa tins. ‘Once you save up forty-eight of them, there’s a free gift, you see,’ he was explaining to Matthew.

Alex arrived alongside them as Helen locked a door behind. ‘How does the product turn from a bitter, brittle stack of broken-up beans to the smooth, silky sweet taste experience I know?’ she queried.

‘Oh, I think it’s time we proceeded to the Melangeur Floor now, Helen,’ he chuckled. ‘Our visitor is tiring of dry fact. I think Miss Frobisher senses where the fun lies,’ he added.

Alex soon discovered what her host meant when she saw sacks of sugar and tins of cocoa butter being added to the cocoa mass before more grinding.

‘And these,’ Helen said, gesturing, ‘are what we call conche machines.’

Alex was struck silent to see the modern version of the tall machines with their pendulum action stirring liquid chocolate in a constant back-and-forth motion. The thick substance flowed around the paddle and was so glossy she could see her reflection in it.

Arnold sidled up to her. ‘Can you guess how long we conche for?’

‘I can’t,’ she breathed, inhaling the scent of the sweetened chocolate. It was warm and fruity, yet somehow spicy, and she could already taste it, her mouth watering at the sight of the rich, mud-like liquid oozing relentlessly forwards and backwards, presumably becoming silkier by the minute.

Rowntree’s permanently kind expression widened into a conspiratorial grin. ‘Anything up to twenty hours of this.’

She stared at the machines, transfixed. ‘That’s incredible.’