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‘Mr Montcour!’ Benjamin Keant practically squealed, having discovered his arrival. ‘It is so good to see you here.’
Matthieu shook off the shocking effect of a memory he had not delved into once since the night of the accident, simultaneously yearning for and strangely resenting the remembered feeling of his mother’s embrace.
He ignored the varied ramblings of the director, but he couldn’t shake the overly watchful gaze of his wife—the wife that saw far too much.
Maria had felt the pull from Matthieu almost as more of a physical tug than the hold the lovely little baby currently had on her bracelets. She had been talking to the couple and their children, finding relief in their easy open conversation more than the vacuous twitterings of the famous socialites or patrons attending the charity gala. Forging even more of a yearning to hold her own child one day.
But then she’d felt it. His gaze lifting the light hair on her arms, a tingling at the back of her neck. When she’d finally seen him, stalking towards her through the crowd, her breath had caught at the sight of him. Impossibly broad shoulders encased in a midnight-blue tux, the material pulled tight across the muscles on his arms, his dark tie pulled slightly at the neck of a startling white shirt as if he’d yanked at it in frustration. On many it would have looked disrespectful. On Matthieu it looked irresistible.
His dark brow and beard accentuated the severe look on features that softened momentarily when he took in the sight of her standing with the young family whose son, Edward, had been caught in a car accident that had swiftly turned life-threatening when the petrol tank had leaked and gone up in flames.
Though the charity director had released an almost unstoppable flow of words at her husband, apparently failing to discern the dark mood swirling about him, Matthieu had not once taken his eyes from her. She felt it almost as a physical touch, a caress, a brand across her skin. A promise of something she couldn’t quite identify and once again she felt herself hurtling towards some kind of impending confrontation and welcomed it. She’d meant what she’d said to him earlier. She couldn’t, wouldn’t, live like this.
‘I like your bracelets,’ Edward said, reaching up to where his baby sister was still shaking them to produce a tinkling she took great joy in.
‘Thank you, Edward,’ Maria replied, unable to keep the beam of pride from her voice. ‘I made them myself, so the fact you like them makes it extra special for me.’
‘You make jewellery?’ he asked. She thought of the boxes she had sent to Italy, initially unsure how to work her past into this new present—her marriage. But over the last weeks she had filled sketch pad upon sketch pad, ideas brimming from the stunning surroundings of the estate by Lake Lucerne. The beautiful natural structures of the woods, the trees, leaves and berries... The smooth, mirror-like surface of the water, the reflections to be found there, working with the solitude to fire her imagination. It had been strange to suddenly find this creativity—one that had been languishing, despite her faith and belief in her work, ever since she had left Iondorra. Ever since she had left his bed that first and only time.
‘I do,’ she decided, realising that it was as much part of her as the baby growing within her.
‘And what will you do when you grow up?’ Matthieu asked, a tone to his voice Maria didn’t think she’d heard before.
Edward peered up at him, cast a quick glance to his parents as if to ask if it would be okay to speak to the stranger and, receiving encouraging smiles, answered, ‘I am going to be a firefighter,’ with no small amount of pride and determination.
‘That would be a very exciting job—and a very important one too.’
‘I know,’ Edward said, almost dismissively, in that easy childlike way, of his scars.
Matthieu crouched down, bringing his huge frame to Edward’s level. ‘I do too,’ he whispered conspiratorially, lifting back the shirt collar as he had once done with her. Maria held her breath as Edward’s eyes grew wide and round, then narrowed in assessment. ‘I had skin taken from my head and used in the graft on my face.’
‘Wow,’ Matthieu said, letting out a low whistle of awe that seemed to satisfy Edward greatly. ‘Okay,’ he said, making it clear that he was giving something deep consideration and bringing a surprising smile to Maria’s lips. ‘I had fake skin used in my graft.’
‘Split or full thickness?’ Edward fired back challengingly.
Maria’s skin vibrated with the rumble of laughter let loose by Matthieu and she couldn’t help but feel it within her too as she watched her husband and the young boy compare and compete over
their various conditions and treatments, seeing for the first time how he might be with their child. The bond she wanted and yearned for between them. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to be a doctor when you grow up, rather than a fireman?’ Matthieu asked.
‘I like the fire truck best.’
The group’s responding laughter was cut short by the gala’s welcoming speech. Benjamin spoke clearly, and surprisingly slowly, on how the money raised would be put to use, and introduced a few of the inspiring success stories from some of the guests present, leaving barely a dry eye in the room, before turning his final thanks and debts of gratitude to Matthieu himself.
Maria shivered from the effect of hundreds of pairs of eyes on her and the powerful man beside her, who managed to hide the discomfort she imagined he must be feeling as he gracefully accepted the acknowledgement and thanks of the charity director. As the cheers from the crowd died down, and Edward and his family disappeared into the throng, Maria finally turned to her husband.
‘Do you regret coming tonight?’ she asked tentatively. She watched him choose his response carefully.
‘Not yet, but the night is still young,’ the ironic tone to his voice a fragile olive branch.
She smiled up at him then, reaching for his hand, slipping her fingers in between his, and marvelled at the jolt of electricity and happiness that shot through her as he squeezed gently, the light pressure saying so much more than his brief, carefully chosen words.
* * *
As Matthieu took her hand in his he looked about and saw the good that had been done by the charity he’d created from his family’s insurance pay-outs. The help it had brought others. Both his uncles and his aunt had been younger than his parents with no children of their own and, as Matthieu was their next of kin, their wealth had all been funnelled his way. More money than he could ever imagine spending in a hundred lifetimes. On top of Montcour Mining Industries it would have seemed almost laughable, if it had not been tied to such a great loss.
Ever since that first gala almost ten years before, the intrusive press, the headlines of the ‘haunted Montcour’ taking precedence, he had vowed not to return. But in doing so, had he shut himself off from what the charity had achieved? Seeing the hundreds of people, if not more, that the charity was helping...it was as if his family had reached out to so many people in need and worked to help them when and however they needed it. It soothed an ache he’d thought buried too deep to reach.
He was about to turn to Maria when Margery appeared at their side.
