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May 1784 :: Montreal, Quebec :: after the signing of the Treaty of Paris and Peace between Great Britain and the United States of America
Matthieu froze when Arthur set down his dinner fork, folded his hands. "Matthieu."
"Yes, sir?"
"I know that my visit was unannounced, but if it's such a hardship that you cannot think what to say to me, I can stay with Nova Scotia or Bermuda instead."
"It's not-" He shook his head, "I'm not unhappy that you're visiting. It's.. it's nice, after being left alone so long again."
"Then what's the matter, lad? You've not said more than a few words since I arrived."
Matthieu looked at his plate, poked his potatoes with his fork.
"Matthieu."
"Francis didn't come," he blurted, then covered his mouth with his hand. That was not what he'd meant to say, not to Arthur, but Arthur just tilted his head.
"Why would the frog come here? He's trouble enough at home."
"I'm not ungrateful for the time and investment you've put into my development," he said slowly, carefully, "but I- my people thought that France might want her colony back. And since they won the war..."
"Why would he want you back? I'd just conquer you the next time we went to war."
"But now that you don't have to protect Alfred, and gave St Lucia back, we thought-" He slumped into his chair. "I'm sorry, it’s not my place."
After a moment, Arthur reached across the small table, tilted Matthieu's chin up; Matthieu turned to the stove. "Matthieu, look at me."
He swallowed, lifted his eyes.
Arthur- Arthur wasn't angry, he just looked sad. "Matthieu, Francis has moved on. You need to let him go, poppet."
"But he-" He swallowed again, trying to get rid of the knot in his throat. "He said that I'd see him again."
"Did he visit you during Alfred's rebellion?"
He shook his head.
"Even though he was scant miles from your border?"
"No," Matthieu whispered, shoulders hunched.
"Has he written, even once?"
"No."
Arthur stood, walked around the table. "Then you see, lad," he said, his hand on Matthieu's hair. "There's no sense waiting for a ship that never comes."
Matthieu buried his face in Arthur's waistcoat. He wasn't crying, he wasn't.
Arthur stroked Matthieu's hair, waited for his shoulders to stop shaking. "Better?"
"...Why are you here?" he mumbled.
"Because I have business with you, Nova Scotia, and the Northwest Angle. I can't shirk my duties simply because I wish things had gone differently with your ungrateful prat of a brother." He pulled away, straightening his clothes, and oh god Matthieu hoped the wet patches on the brocade wouldn't stain- "Speaking of. You're about to get several thousand immigrants - refugees from Alfred's foolishness. You'll need to help settle them in."
He blinked. "More of them?"
"Over ten thousand, yes. Oh, don't look at me like that – the Nova Scotias are getting nearly forty, and some fresh immigration will do you good."
As if he hadn't been getting British immigrants ever since the conquest. "... Yes, sir."
"And stop calling me 'sir.' I think we've know each other long enough that you can use my name, hm?"
He hesitated, flushed. "All right.. Arthur."
Arthur nodded, pushed his plate forward. "There's a good lad. Now, would you be kind enough to fetch the biscuits for dessert?"