A Perfect Proposal (18 page)

Sophie considered this analogy but still shook her head.

Matilda put her hand on Sophie’s. ‘He’s asked you a big favour, he wants you to get something out of it. Being generous works both ways – giving and receiving. You’re a giver, be a receiver too.’

Sophie bit back a smile. ‘That sounds kind of illegal. As if it involved drugs or something.’

Matilda laughed. ‘Well, it doesn’t. Luke is very law-abiding.’

‘The trouble is, I’m not sure I really understand why he wants me to go. Why is it so useful for him?’ Although Luke had actually laid his argument out quite clearly, she wanted reassurance from Matilda that it was vital she helped Luke out.

Matilda sighed and considered. ‘In New York Luke can go out with whom he likes, more or less. Although I do wish he’d stop choosing stick-thin blondes with high-maintenance hair just because they look pretty on his arm, but it’s really none of my business.’ Matilda paused for breath and Sophie wondered if she had been about to add something but she continued: ‘But if you bring a girl to a regular event – as this brunch is regular – it’s significant.’

‘You mean it’s like inviting your boyfriend for Christmas? You don’t do it unless you’re serious? Well, I get that part, but why doesn’t he go alone?’

‘Because he’ll be swamped. And word will get around that he doesn’t currently have a girlfriend and every single woman in New England will – how do you say it these days? – hit on him.’

Sophie giggled at Matilda’s use of language. ‘But if I go with him I’ll protect him from the harpies, but it
won’t be “significant” because I’m English, and otherwise unsuitable?’

‘You’re completely suitable, but that’s about it.’

‘OK,’ said Sophie, deciding to give in gracefully. If Matilda said she should go then go she would. ‘So what do I wear for a brunch?’

‘Let Luke and the advisor in the shop guide you. You don’t need to worry about it. Now I suggest you relax, explore the grounds, do what you like until lunchtime. And then after lunch the children will be over for the cookie-decorating.’

‘Oh. Who are the children? Family? Or friends? I didn’t spot any last night.’

‘The neighbours’ children. They come and decorate cookies for the big party tonight. It’s a tradition I started years ago and I can’t seem to give it up. The staff hate it because they’re so busy. If you supervise, they won’t have to.’

Luke was nowhere around – probably working, Sophie decided, although she knew that Thanksgiving was a national holiday and no one worked. But she enjoyed walking in the gardens, curious to see how English – or how Italianate – the gardens were. They were extensive. There was also a wood to wander through and by the time she got back, she felt energised by the exercise and ready for lunch.

After lunch, which was just her and Matilda, she was ushered to the kitchen. It was a dream kitchen, as she told Matilda. It had every modern appliance but also a huge dresser covered with copper jelly moulds, pans and utensils, huge old majolica platters adding brightness and colour, and faded English willow pattern and other traditional patterned plates.

‘Oh, it’s delightful!’ said Sophie, looking at the dresser in particular. ‘I love it!’

‘It’s mostly for decoration,’ Matilda explained. ‘But when we have big parties in the summer, it’s fun to get out all the pretty things. Now, I’m going to leave you with Consuelo. Everything is ready for you, I think. The children will be here soon.’

‘Everything’ consisted of quite a lot of premade cookies in the shapes of turkeys, horns of plenty and pumpkins, a large supply of disposable icing bags, each with a writing-nozzle, and tubs and tubs of decorations. There were the silver dragées that Sophie was familiar with but all sorts of other things: gold sugar, edible bugle beads in jewel colours, some wonderful things that looked like drops of water only edible, sugar stars, flowers and shapes, in fact every possible thing you could imagine except actual diamonds. Edible glitter was in shakers and there were pens you could write directly on to the icing with.

‘This is amazing!’ Sophie said. ‘I can’t wait to get started.’

The children filed in. There were five of them, three girls and two boys. They were between seven and five, Sophie guessed. The prime age for enthusiasm and mess. But they were not dressed for cookie-frosting – they were dressed for a visit to the Big House. This surprised her as she thought America was free from such things.

‘Hello, I’m Sophie,’ she said. ‘I’m from England and we’re going to frost cookies together. Consuelo? Do we have some pinnies – aprons for these children? They’ll ruin their smart clothes otherwise.’

Conseulo produced a basket piled with old shirts, skirts with ties and other garments suitable for messy play. ‘Mrs Winchester got these together years ago to save the children from the frosting. It gets messy!’ She handed the basket to Sophie and, with a ‘Call me if you need me,’ she left Sophie in charge.

‘OK,’ Sophie addressed her mini audience, ‘now you know my name but I don’t know yours. Why don’t you tell me your names and then pick something to cover your clothes?’

The first little girl came forward. ‘My name is Lola.’

‘Hello, Lola, pick a pinny.’

One by one they came forward and chose coverings. They were still very shy.

‘OK! Now gather round the table. Have a turkey and a bag of frosting and get going! I’m going to put spots on mine.’

‘Turkeys don’t have spots,’ said a little girl who was called Crystal.

‘They do, sort of, if they’ve got feathers on. But you don’t have to make the turkeys look real, just pretty! There! That’s lovely! Now do one of these.’

As the children stopped being shy they became more imaginative and used every product provided on every sort of cookie. Sophie had been told that they would be collected at four o’clock. It was only half past two. All the biscuits had been used. She cast around for some other way of keeping them entertained and spotted a tall glass jar. It was full of cookie cutters. Sophie decided they had to be used.

‘OK! Let’s make more cookies, only we’ll use these different shapes, to make it more fun. There are still lots of different sparkly things left. We’ve run out of edible glitter though.’

‘Can I eat a cookie?’ said a little boy.

‘Of course,’ said Sophie, aware the child’s parents might have issues with him and sugar but feeling that it wasn’t human to expect a child to decorate cookies and not sample them.

All the children, and Sophie, picked a cookie and ate it. They were good, but not as good as the ones Sophie used to make. ‘I think I’ll use my recipe for the next batch.’

As she mixed up her standard biscuit dough in a corner of
the kitchen she did feel perhaps she was being what Luke would describe as wayward, but she was sure Matilda would understand. The children were thrilled, especially when they discovered a cutter that created a
Mayflower
shape. Sophie cut those out as the sails and rigging made them very complicated.

She let them run wild with the other cutters though. Matilda had them for every festival there was and a whole lot more besides. There were the usual bells, Christmas trees and holly, as well as reindeer, shooting stars and Santas. But there were shamrocks, eagles and Native American headdresses too. They had a cookie-cutter orgy that meant each child had his or her initial to decorate. It had got a little wild at the end when the children felt they wanted to make hair slides with the leftover icing and apply them directly to their hair but once Sophie was wise to this she managed to stop them.

By the time the children were taken away, bearing baskets of cookies and looking more or less the same as they had done when they arrived, apart from their hair and faces, Sophie felt so sticky herself she walked carefully through the house, trying not to touch anything until she got to her own bathroom and could have a bath.

‘I wouldn’t actually eat that, if I were you.’ Luke leant across the table to Sophie as Consuelo held out a bowl for her.

‘What is it?’

‘It’s a traditional Thanksgiving dish. My grandfather loved it and so my grandmother has them make it every year.’

‘But what is it? It looks like green beans cooked in soup.’

‘That’s exactly what it is,’ said Luke. ‘With those onion things on top.’

‘I think I’ll pass,’ she said.

Thanksgiving dinner was going well, she felt. Matilda’s family were friendly and welcoming, obviously used to odd people being present at the occasion. She felt much more
relaxed with Luke now even though he had caught her out with cookie-dough in her hair; she’d had to get dressed in rather a hurry. But at least she felt she looked OK in Milly’s dress transformed with fringes and feathers the evening before she came to Connecticut.

The biggest turkey Sophie had ever seen had been placed in front of one of the men, who had taken on the carving with enthusiasm.

Just before its appearance, all the children, including the grown-up ones, had sung a psalm of thanksgiving, and after that, everyone round the table had had to say what they were thankful for. Sophie, who had to go first, said she was thankful that she’d met Matilda, and therefore the rest of this wonderful family, which went down well.

Now that plates of turkey were in front of everyone, the vegetables were being passed round.

Sophie passed on the green beans but took a tiny helping of everything else. Her plate was still laden.

‘The trouble is,’ she said to her neighbour, who was some cousin or other, ‘it all looks so delicious and I don’t want to miss out on anything.’

‘Matilda always has very good cooks. Her husband was a great gourmet. So, honey, remind me how you and Matilda met?’

Sophie had answered this question several times and the story sounded more ridiculous every time she told it. ‘It was so random!’ she said. ‘I just happened to see Matilda nearly collapse at a private view at an art gallery, where my friend works.’ She paused. ‘We bonded, sitting on the floor outside the Ladies – restroom. I don’t really feel I should be here, but when Matilda heard that I didn’t have plans for Thanksgiving, she insisted.’

‘Don’t worry about it, Sophie, honey,’ said the woman, ‘that sounds just like Matilda. She always was a soft touch.’
Although she smiled, this made Sophie feel awkward. Seeing this, the woman went on, ‘Matilda doesn’t feel that Thanksgiving is right without someone from the outside present. And I hear you helped with the cookie-frosting? My little girl told me all about you.’

Grateful to be able to stop feeling like a hanger-on and more like a helpful older child, Sophie went into a description of the cookie-frosting that had her neighbour hysterical with laugher and appalled at the same time.

The meal went on; the wine flowed. Matilda’s guests were friendly and interested in her as a person. She nearly found herself explaining her mission to find her relative, but thought better of it. It was such a long shot, after all. And anyone willing to cross the Atlantic on the off chance there might be money in it would seem rather odd.

After the turkey and vegetables came the pies. There were dozens of them. Pumpkin pie, apple pie, fruit pies, pecan pies and various others. Some had lattice tops, some were open and some had double crusts. With them there was pouring cream, whipped cream, ice cream and something in a jug that was brought to Sophie first.

‘It’s Bird’s Custard, darling,’ explained Matilda loudly. ‘I thought it might make you feel at home.’

‘But you don’t have to have it if you’d rather not,’ said Luke. ‘Matilda always produces it for English guests but no one ever eats it.’

‘Well, I’d love some,’ said Sophie instantly, although she was so full. ‘I haven’t had custard for ages.’

If anyone suspected this was because she didn’t really like it, they didn’t mention it.

After the party she fell into bed thinking what a happy day she’d had. She’d had a brilliant time with the children and she’d had tea with Matilda. Luke had joined them and they’d been very cosy in Matilda’s sitting room, chatting until it was
time to get ready for dinner. And Luke had been surprisingly nice. And he had continued to be friendly all through the meal.

She woke up in the middle of the night aware that she’d dreamt about Luke. The warm, fuzzy feeling she woke to didn’t seem to connect with the buttoned-up lawyer she’d first met. She’d started to wonder which one was the real Luke before she went back to sleep again.

Reasonably satisfied that it was OK for her to accept generous gifts of clothing from a very rich man, and as smart as she could be given her limited wardrobe, Sophie got into Luke’s car the next morning to go shopping. She wished she recognised what sort of car it was – people loved that kind of detail – but apart from the fact that it was long and low and silver-grey, nothing else about it meant anything to her and she didn’t want to ask him. But she was going to enjoy speeding along in Luke’s lovely car seeing the tree-covered hills of New England from the window.

Now Matilda had persuaded her she wasn’t behaving badly by accepting his largesse, she found herself quite excited. ‘So, where are we going? The mall?’ Sophie kind of hoped it was ‘the mall’. Although they’d had them in England for years and years American ones seemed more exciting, somehow, at least in films.

‘My grandmother told me about some exclusive stores in the village while you were getting ready.’