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He nodded. ‘To achieve a velvet-like texture in our customers’ mouths with a slow melt, this is what must happen first.’

Alex was reminded of her belief that chocolate and romance were linked. Melting on the tongue had sexual overtones. It could work. She could be the chocolate maker for the romantics of York . . . everything from declarations of affection to apologies for a misdemeanour, plus engagements, weddings, anniversaries . . . Each new client could become a long-term one if she got it right, kept a diary of their special dates, reminded them, made them feel valued . . .

‘Shall we move on?’ Helen offered, breaking into Alex’s excited thoughts. Helen had clearly walked this route and seen these scenes so many times that her fascination had long waned and she sounded the opposite of how Alex was feeling in this moment.

‘I think Miss Frobisher is reluctant,’ Matthew cautioned, sensing her thrill.

Fresh affection flooded her for his acute antennae where she was concerned.

‘You do seem rather taken with it all, Miss Frobisher,’ Rowntree admitted and there was a hint of query in his tone.

Was this the moment to reveal her desire to achieve something in business in her own right? Matthew’s quip that she should make chocolates stopped being a suggestion and suddenly it became a possibility and its echo had become insistent, louder. Fate, destiny, guardian angels – she didn’t know what – were opening doors and leading her down this path, and now she stood at the final door, it seemed. All she had to do was knock on it. She glanced at Matthew and he gave her a single encouraging nod; it was as though he could now listen in on her thoughts. Say it! his expression urged.

‘I am, sir,’ she said, not allowing herself to hesitate a heartbeat longer. ‘In truth, Mr Rowntree, I believe I would like to learn how to make and fashion chocolate.’

She anticipated surprise, perhaps even reluctance to hear more, but only delight crinkled the plump skin at the tops of his cheeks. ‘Well, well, Miss Frobisher, how extremely pleasing.’

‘Really?’ She swallowed in relief, mostly shock that she’d spilled such a revelation. It seemed Arnold Rowntree wasn’t at all unnerved by the notion of women in business. ‘I thought you might find my presence suddenly awkward.’

‘Heavens, no! We’re not selfish about chocolate, Miss Frobisher, we want the whole world to enjoy it. The more the merrier, I say. The Terry and Cadbury families are our friends. And I think we all have something different to bring to this delicious treat of ours. One more chocolate-maker is a boon, not a gloom.’

Helen gave a courteous chuckle at his quip.

‘You’re all competitors, though,’ Alex qualified, frowning gently.

‘Competitors, yes, indeed, but not enemies,’ he replied. ‘And where there’s competition, there’s innovation. Keeps us on our toes, you might say. I’m all for it.’

‘I can tell,’ she breathed, her admiration effervescing.

‘Carry on, Helen,’ he said and gestured for their party to keep moving. ‘I like to think of us all as healthy rivals and it means the industry keeps developing and thus improving standards for staff, for quality of chocolate, new ranges of products, new ideas for mechanisation . . . So now, how can we help you to follow this dream of yours, Miss Frobisher?’

‘You’ll help?’ she gusted.

‘On my word! Presumably you want to be a specialist maker of small chocolates?’

She nodded helplessly, in awe of where this conversation was leading.

‘Then as you are hardly a manufacturer at our level, it’s my duty to help you to be one of the new breed of small chocolatiers who add to the range of treats that customers can be delighted by. Without healthy competition, Miss Frobisher, any industry would become stagnant. I really do believe there is a place for all of us and we can make Northern England the hub of fine chocolate for all of Europe. I am firmly of the opinion that chocolate is a food for the masses; I can see a day not-so-far away when everyone can afford to eat a little chocolate daily. We’ll take care of the large market, Miss Frobisher, and you worry about making exquisite, handmade chocolates for very special treats.’ He chuckled indulgently at her. ‘I’m presuming your parents approve of this path? As, I must say, it seems unusual for a family of your standing to permit their only daughter to —’

‘My father approves of my ambition,’ she said brightly, convincing herself as much as the listeners that she was not actually lying.

‘Well, no doubt you’d be managing your business, overseeing chocolate production and guiding staff. I’m sure your father would invest and have plenty of involvement.’ He blinked and she smiled at his couched way of reminding her that women of her social standing did not work for a living. She lifted and dropped her shoulders as if delighted by his interest. It felt as though Arnold Rowntree had lit a fire beneath her with those words. ‘I have so much to learn, though. I want to work for you,’ she spilled, as Matthew conveniently and no doubt deliberately distracted Helen so the guide couldn’t eavesdrop on this conversation. ‘But my parents wouldn’t hear of it. I’m sorry. That sounds terrible, doesn’t it? But they just will not permit me to work on a factory floor.’

‘Oh, my dear, be assured I do understand. And your father is a colleague of mine so I would not wish to transgress in any way. No, I couldn’t have you on our factory floor staff either. It wouldn’t be appropriate, but we’ll find ways that you can learn. I shall have to think on this because you’ll need to invest a couple of years at least to acquire the skills for chocolate-making, especially if you are to teach others.’

‘In the meantime I could volunteer to help with getting the King’s Tin out to the troops!’ she leapt in, unable to hide her excitement. ‘No one, not even my parents, could find fault with that.’

He looked unsure. ‘We are pushing hard to get those tins to the Front as fast as we can. In truth it’s clean, uncomplicated work and simply requires dexterity and speed. It also teaches you about how to handle the chocolate.’ Arnold bit his lip and then dashed her hopes by shaking his head. ‘I’m sorry, though, my dear. It is just not the done thing to have a gentlewoman on our floor. Besides, there are a queue of excellent young working women who would want to tar and feather me should I employ you.’

‘Don’t employ me,’ she replied. ‘I want to volunteer. Please let me assist. I feel so helpless where the war is concerned. I’m going to volunteer my services at the Friends Hospital later today, Mr Rowntree, and it would be so heartening to be able to give some time directly to the boys in the trenches.’

His softening expression told her he understood her dilemma. ‘There may be another way. Do you speak any languages?’

‘French, and I read Latin. Of course, I have some good conversational German.’ She blushed at the last.

‘And how’s your geography?’

She looked at him, perplexed. ‘Excellent . . . I think. Er, I know all the major continents . . . certainly all the countries within Europe.’