Work Text:
15 December 1775 :: Quebec City, Quebec
Matthieu looked out the window, hands clasped behind his back while the soldier made his report to Governor Carleton. There wasn't anything in it that Matthieu didn't know - the patriots were camped outside the city walls, on the Plains of Abraham, and firing the occasional cannon shot and arrow-borne message at the walls. They were commanded by Richard Montgomery and Benedict Arnold, they had supplies they’d captured in Montreal and at later skirmishes, and his brother was with them.
Why was his brother with them? Didn't he have more important things to do, like follow Washington around like a puppy, or make speeches in Boston? Matthieu had stayed in Montreal for a week after the surrender of the city to Montgomery's men, waiting for his brother to show up and explain what the hell he was thinking, invading Matthieu's lands like that. But he never appeared, so Matthieu had left for Quebec City and waited for his governor to arrive.
"Thank you sergeant," Carleton said, voice rolling with his Irish brogue. "Dismissed."
Matthieu heard the clip of the sergeant's heels as he saluted and walked from the room. "After 1759," he murmured, "I never imagined that I would have to see Montgomery outside the walls of Quebec City again, let alone that you would be defending it."
Carleton snorted. "It does seem rather ironic, yes. Be thankful that my experience in '59 will help us hold through the winter."
"You were the quartermaster-general and an engineer."
"I also commanded a battalion of the 60th foot."
"Mm. At the far left of the line."
Carleton shuffled his papers. "Do you remember everyone who visits you, who walks on your soil?"
"You chased me out of my capital, I think that deserves remembering. If you have the chance, ask Lord Kirkland about the armies that came over with Harald Hardrada and William of Normandy. He can still curse them out by name."
"Do you know who is out there now, in what disposition?"
Matthieu didn't answer, watching the first snow flurries fall. He could feel the storm moving over the farmland to the west; it would bring more snow for the rebels to use to build their gun emplacements.
Carleton set his papers down, and Matthieu could hear the clop-clop of his boots as he came to the window. "What will it take for you to trust me, Matthieu? I've tried everything I can think of, given you what you want instead of turning you into just another colony – blocked orders, prevented undue Anglicisation, gave you back your St. Lawrence seal fishery – yet still you don't talk to me. I can't help you if you don't help me."
"I understand, I do."
"Then why?"
"My people want to be left alone. The Quebec Act you helped draft made my seigneurs and clergy happy, but the average Canadien..." He touched the glass, watched frost form around his fingers.
"And you?"
"You were in command of a battalion that took my capital. My heart." He dragged his fingers down, the frost holding imprints of his fingertips. "I'm sorry."
Carleton sighed, turned on his heel. "When will this 'general' of yours be arriving?"
"He's already here. Tell the wind when you wish a meeting. Or," his mouth twisted in something like a smile, "tell me."
"Next Tuesday at tea-time, if it isn't too much trouble."
"I'll tell him."
"Thank you." He could hear Carleton hesitate, then the scratch of leather-on-wood as he picked up his leather folder. "Turn out the lamps before you leave."
Matthieu nodded, and Carleton exited the office, leaving Matthieu alone by the window with only the frost for company.