A Perfect Proposal (11 page)

Sophie frowned slightly. ‘Are you saying that your grandson thinks you’re in danger from
me
?’ She pointed at herself to make it clear whom they were talking about. ‘But I rescued you! Without me you’d have ended up in a heap on the floor, possibly with a broken hip.’

‘I know!’ Matilda matched Sophie’s indignation. ‘Ridiculous, isn’t it? But he is over-protective. When his father died, we became very close. His mother married
again – rather quickly, he thought, and he’s never really got on with his stepfather. Over the years the roles have reversed and he seems to think he has to watch out for me, instead of the other way round.’ She paused and then exhaled and smiled as if shaking off the memory of a very unhappy time. ‘But never mind, he can pay for tea. Let’s go and look at some pictures. We’re not due to meet him for an hour.’ She chuckled. ‘He had to get out of some meeting to join us, but he insisted.’ Matilda took Sophie’s arm, obviously determined to put her grandson’s unreasonable behaviour out of her mind.

‘Now, we can’t see everything, darling.’ Sophie’s companion was firm, bordering on bossy. ‘You never can, without getting artistic indigestion, so shall I take you to my favourites?’

Sophie was happy to go along with Matilda’s wishes, still wondering why her grandson should worry about a woman who so obviously knew her own mind.

Matilda’s favourites were the English paintings; they stopped in front of a canvas depicting Salisbury Cathedral. ‘I come here when I’m feeling in need of a taste of home. Not that it’s exactly the right part of England, but as England really is very tiny, Salisbury would be considered practically next door to Cheltenham to an American.’ She glanced at Sophie. ‘So where in the West Country do you come from?’

‘I come from the Cotswolds – which is a pretty big area, really.’

‘Me too!’ said Matilda. ‘Which is why when I heard your name I knew we were going to be friends. My grandparents came from Cornwall.’

They surveyed the two Constables. ‘Wow,’ said Sophie, ‘they’re really quite different from when you see them on birthday cards, aren’t they?’

Possibly aware of the startled response of a couple of other
visitors, Matilda drew her young friend along. ‘There is something about seeing the real painting instead of a reproduction that is so different, like seeing the real sea and not just a postcard. Now, would you like to see some French artists? My grandson thinks they’re rather vulgar but I like things to be pretty!’

‘Is your grandson an art expert, then?’

‘Oh, no, he’s an attorney. Why would you think he was an expert?’

‘Just because we met at that art show. I was there because my friend Milly works for the artist. You weren’t considering buying anything, were you?’

‘Goodness me, no! It was just a social thing. People don’t go to those shows to look at the work, you know. At least, not many of them.’

Sophie chuckled. She may have been wearing clothes she’d bought from jumble sales and customised for probably half the price of one of Matilda’s shoes, but they were having a conversation about art she could enjoy and take part in. Matilda didn’t exclaim at her ignorance the way her family always did or dismiss her opinion outright.

Was it the fact that she was English that made Matilda so different from her handsome grandson? He seemed so buttoned up and tense, while she was so elegant and relaxed, wearing her wealth with nonchalant authority. It didn’t stop her befriending a young woman who was obviously (although not too obviously, Sophie hoped) from a very different world.

They ambled through the girls on swings and ample women who didn’t seem at all worried about their bums looking big in their bits of drapery and found their way to the Holbeins.

‘You can really feel the softness of that fur, can’t you?’ Sophie said, in front of a portrait of Sir Thomas More. ‘It’s all
right,’ she added, ‘I know better than to touch. It’s just so skilled though, isn’t it? The paintings at the private view last night were just … well, different.’

‘Thinking about art is like thinking about the sky,’ declared Matilda. ‘There are many sorts and they all have their fans.’

Sophie chuckled. ‘I just like this sort best,’ she said, indicating the perfect brush strokes they were looking at.

‘So do I really,’ agreed Matilda, ‘but I do like to keep an open mind about art, otherwise one just keeps harking back to one’s favourites and never learns anything. Talking of favourites, let’s go and see the Vermeers, then we can have tea.’

In fact, they looked at far more paintings than they intended to and were late by the time they reached the café, which fortunately was very near. Sophie hated being late, but Matilda had no intention of hurrying, not even for her beloved grandson. Sophie tried to adopt her insouciant attitude.

Luke was already seated at a table and waved at them, which meant they could pass the small queue that was forming. As they moved between the tables to where Luke was sitting, Sophie noticed that the music was coming from a grand piano, and the dark panelled wood gave the impression of an earlier era. Huge carved coat stands reminded Sophie of stags’ heads. It seemed to her to be like the Frick Museum, and unlike the rest of New York. Matilda had told her it was the nearest thing to Vienna outside Vienna.

On the table were two pots of tea and a selection of the most heavenly-looking pastries that Sophie had ever seen. Luke got up as they approached and kissed his grandmother fondly. He nodded to Sophie with cool formality, impeccably polite but somehow disapproving. She nodded back, wanting to laugh – he was so incredibly stuffy.

‘I ordered because I am on a tight schedule,’ he explained. ‘Is Earl Grey tea good for you?’ he asked Sophie.

‘Oh yes, fine. I usually drink “builders’”, but I like Earl Grey too.’ Something in his expression told her that Indian tea wasn’t usually described as ‘builders’’ in his circles. Being American, he probably didn’t drink tea at all; he was drinking coffee now.

‘I do hope this hasn’t been sitting around for too long,’ said Matilda, picking up a silver pot and turning to Sophie. ‘You’ll find it very hard to get a good cup of tea in America.’

‘Considering you’ve been here since you were nineteen and tea was rationed in England when you left, I’m surprised you’re such an expert,’ said Luke.

‘I have been to London a few times since, dear. You get lovely tea at Brown’s,’ said Matilda, taking this gentle tease for what it was. ‘Have something to eat and don’t be so grumpy. How’s that lovely girlfriend of yours?’

‘Still lovely, but no longer a girlfriend.’

‘Why did you bother to introduce her to me if it wasn’t going to last?’

Luke hesitated. ‘I didn’t know it wasn’t going to last. And it’s become known that getting to meet my grandmother is very important for girls who go out with me.’

‘Is it?’ Matilda was bemused. ‘Why?’

Luke shrugged. ‘I guess people know you’re important to me.’

Sophie couldn’t help sensing there was something Luke wasn’t saying. Was it to do with Matilda’s vast wealth? Maybe Luke wasn’t wealthy in his own right and any girl— She stopped her train of thought abruptly. It wasn’t like her to be cynical. Why should women want Luke for his money or worry if he didn’t have enough of it? He was seriously handsome. Sadly, far too preppy and conventional for her taste.

Matilda was looking pityingly at her grandson, who didn’t seem at all sorry for himself. ‘You do get through them! Poor
Luke.’ Matilda turned to Sophie. ‘Girls are attracted to him by his enormous fortune and his good looks.’ That answered that particular question.

‘So why don’t they stick around then?’ asked Sophie. After all, if he was independently wealthy, what was putting them off? And then she realised it probably wasn’t them dropping Luke, but the other way round.

‘Maybe they sense when their presence is no longer welcome,’ he said.

He looked at her coolly, possibly giving her a hint. Sophie looked back, her expression conveying that he really needn’t worry, he wasn’t her type.

Matilda frowned slightly and Sophie got the impression there was something she wanted to say but couldn’t. Instead she picked up her pastry fork and studied the plate of cakes speculatively. ‘New York is so full of lovely young women. The young metrosexual is spoilt for choice.’

Sophie and Luke both regarded her in amazement. ‘Grandmother, where do you pick up these expressions?’ asked Luke in astonishment.

Delighted by his reaction, she turned away from the pastries. ‘Here and there. One does live in the modern world, after all.’ She paused. ‘And why don’t you call me Granny any more, like you did when you were little? Grandmother is so matriarchal.’

‘I just felt, now I’m an adult—’

‘You have been for some time, dear. You’re thirty-two.’

‘That’s not so very old,’ put in Sophie, ten years younger. ‘He’s got plenty of useful life ahead of him.’

‘I’m grateful you think so,’ said Luke, giving her a look that implied only his grandmother was permitted to tease him.

Sophie twinkled at him. Anyone who knew her would recognise this was a sign that she might not conform.

‘Let’s concentrate,’ said Matilda. ‘This one, if I’m not
mistaken, is chocolate and hazelnut, one of my favourites. And that one is … what’s that one, darling?’

‘Pistachio and chocolate,’ said Luke. ‘And that’s a real Black Forest gateau.’

After some more chat about various family members and who should have which cake, still no cake decisions had been made. Matilda got up. ‘I must find the restroom,’ she said. ‘Luke, can you get some more hot water, or maybe some fresh tea. Sophie, if you want to try a piece of genuine Black Forest gateau, this is your chance.’

‘Would you like me to come with you to the Ladies?’ Sophie asked, half rising.

‘No thank you, dear. I feel perfectly well and I have no intention of fainting.’

As Matilda left, Sophie took another sip of tea. Over her cup she saw that Luke was fiddling with his cake fork nervously. She smiled encouragingly. She couldn’t work out why this man of the world should be uncomfortable with her when in reality she was a penniless nobody and an acquaintance of his grandmother’s, not his.

He cleared his throat. ‘I want to talk to you!’

‘Well, go ahead. I’m listening.’

‘It’s slightly awkward. My grandmother is a very warm-hearted and generous woman.’

‘I know! She’s lovely!’ Sophie exclaimed, thinking how kind Matilda had been to her and how much fun they had had together.

‘And you’re very attractive.’ He cleared his throat again and went on quickly. ‘I mean you’re very appealing – to an elderly woman like my grandmother.’

‘Oh. So you’re taking back your compliment? You don’t think I’m attractive, you just think your grandmother does?’ While this was disappointing, it was also quite funny and she smiled.

‘Yes – no – Why are you determined to wrong-foot me?’ He scowled.

‘Sorry!’ She smiled again, but he didn’t seem reassured.

‘What I want to tell you, before my grandmother gets back, is that she intends to ask you to stay with her.’ He sounded as if he was warning her about something potentially hazardous.

‘Oh?’ Sophie was surprised, but not daunted. ‘How very kind of her.’

‘And I want you to say no.’

‘Why?’

‘Because she’s a vulnerable old woman! I don’t want her preyed on by …’ He paused. Sophie could tell that being caught out in quite appalling rudeness was not a comfortable situation for him.

‘By “appealing”’ – she made visible speech marks – ‘young women from England?’ Sophie liked to be helpful.

‘Yes! I mean … That isn’t to imply …’

‘What you’re saying is, you don’t want to imply that I’m in any way a threat to your grandmother but you don’t want to take the chance?’

‘You’re making this very difficult for me.’

‘Not at all,’ said Sophie calmly, sipping her tea. ‘I’m making it very easy for you. I’m putting into words what you don’t seem able to.’

‘I really don’t wish to be rude but I do have to look out for my grandmother.’

‘Actually, I don’t think you have to at all. She’s very bright and has got all her marbles. I think you’re fussing unnecessarily.’

‘I know she’s bright, but … she does have strange flights of fancy. She befriends people – people who may not have her best interests at heart.’

‘I see.’ She felt sorry for Luke because she sympathised with his concern for his grandmother, but she couldn’t help
feeling that he was being over-protective. And, of course, impossibly smug. ‘And you think I’m one of them?’

‘No – maybe – I don’t know! You are … different, and my grandmother is vulnerable …’ He stopped.

‘Yes?’

‘And you’re a young woman from her part of England. She’s bound to be attracted to you.’

‘You said.’

‘And I don’t want you to take advantage of her.’

Sophie frowned. She understood, admired even, Luke looking out for his grandmother but she wasn’t going to be practically accused of being a confidence trickster. ‘And I won’t.’

‘You would say that, wouldn’t you?’

Now Sophie was cross. He was being impossibly rude, practically implying she was going to try and wheedle money or something out of his grandmother. ‘Are you saying you don’t trust me?’ It was blatantly obvious that he didn’t, but Sophie liked things spelt out.