about it, the more she thought this must be some cruel joke. Fate would never do this to her. Life had robbed her of Mathieu. To hand him back… It was an unbelievable dream that must have no foundation in reality.
But here they were, following close on her heels, allowing her no time to slam the door before they entered.
The child’s gaze was everywhere, his eyes enormous, clearly astonished that behind the façade of an ancient weatherboard hut was a snug little home. There was no requirement by the park administration that the interiors were kept authentic but Kelly loved her ancient wood-stove, her battered pine table, the set of kangaroo-backed chairs with bright cushions tied to each and the overstuffed settee stretched out beside the fire.
She had soup on the stove—leek and potato—and the smell after a cold and bleak day was a welcome all by itself.
Now they were inside, she didn’t know where to start. The man—Rafael—was watching her. She watched the child. Mathieu watched everything.
‘Is this where you live?’ the little boy asked at last. He was backing away from eye contact with her now. The mother-child thing…neither of them knew where to start.
‘Yes.’ She couldn’t get enough of him. She didn’t believe—yet—but she wanted to, oh, she wanted to, and for this tiny sliver of time she thought what if…what if?
‘Do you have a real stove?’
‘This is a real stove. Do you want to see the fire inside?’
‘Yes, please.’
She flicked open the fire door. He stared at the pile of glowing cinders and frowned.
‘Can you cook on this?’
‘You can see the pot of soup.’ She lifted a log from the hearth and put it in. ‘My fire made my soup. It’s been simmering all day. Every now and then I’ve had to pop home to put another log on.’
‘But you must have a stove with knobs. Like we have in the palace kitchens.’
The palace kitchens. Alp de Ciel. Maybe… maybe…
‘I do have an electric stove,’ she said cautiously, feeling as if she were buying time. She opened a cupboard and tugged out a little electric appliance—two hotplates complete with knobs. ‘In summer when it’s really hot I cook with this.’
‘But in winter you cook with fire.’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s very interesting,’ Mathieu said, while Rafael still watched and said nothing. His gaze disconcerted her. She wanted to focus exclusively on Mathieu but Rafael had unnerved her.
‘Does it cook cakes?’ Mathieu asked.
‘There’s a cake in the pantry,’ she said. She’d been miserable last night and had baked, just for the comfort of it. There’d been a staff meeting planned for this morning and she’d intended to take it along, but then one of the guides had called in sick and she’d had to take his place. So the cake was intact.
She produced it now while the child watched with wide-eyed solemnity and the man kept watching her.
‘It’s chocolate,’ Mathieu breathed.
‘Chocolate’s my favourite,’ Kelly admitted.
‘Uncle Rafael says you’re my mother,’ Mathieu said, still not looking at her but eyeing the cake as if it might give a clue to the veracity of his uncle’s statement.
‘So he does.’
‘I don’t really understand,’ Mathieu complained. ‘I thought my mother would wear a pretty dress.’
It was too much. Kelly stared at the child and she thought she was crazy, this was crazy, there was no way this was real.
I thought my mother would wear a pretty dress.
This little one had a vision of his mother. As she’d had a vision of her child.
‘I feel like crying,’ she said to the room in general, thinking maybe that saying it might ward it off. But shock itself was stopping her from weeping. Every nerve in her body was focused exclusively on this little boy.
‘I don’t understand either,’ she said at last as both males looked apprehensive. They were also looking a little confused. No, she wasn’t wearing a dress. She was wearing dungarees and a flannel shirt and leather boots. She was caked in mud. She was no one’s idea of a mother.
She hadn’t been a mother for five years.
‘You know Mathieu’s father is dead?’ Rafael said gently, and her eyes jerked up to his.
‘Kass is dead?’ She stared wildly at him and then looked down at the little boy again. ‘Your papa?’
‘Papa died in a car crash,’ Mathieu said in a matter-of-fact voice.
‘Matty, I’m so sorry.’
Matty. The name Mathieu had been chosen by his father. It had seemed far too formal for such a scrap of a baby. Matty was what she’d called him for those few short weeks…
‘Aunt Laura calls me Matty,’ he said, sounding pleased. ‘Aunt Laura says the nurses told her my mama called me Matty.’
‘But…’ Her head was threatening to explode. She sank on to a chair because her legs wouldn’t hold her up any more. ‘But…’
‘Matty, why don’t you do the honours with the cake?’ Rafael suggested. With a sideways glance at Kelly—who was far too winded to think about answering—he opened the cutlery drawer, found a knife blunt enough for a child to handle, found three plates and set them on the side bench. ‘Three equal pieces, Matty,’ he said. ‘You cut and we’ll choose. As wide as your middle finger is long.’
Matty looked pleased. He crossed to the bench and held up his middle finger, carefully assessing. Clearly cake-cutting would take a while.
Rafael pulled out a chair and sat on the opposite side of the table to Kelly. He reached over, took her hands in his and held them. He had big hands. Callused. Work worn. They completely enclosed hers. Two strong, warm hands, where hers were freezing. She must be freezing, she thought. She couldn’t stop shivering.
She’d had the flu. She wasn’t over it yet. Maybe that was why she was shivering.
‘I should have phoned,’ he said ruefully. ‘This has been too much of a shock. But I was sure you’d have heard, and I didn’t understand why you didn’t contact us.’
‘It’s me who doesn’t understand,’ she whispered.
‘You don’t read the newspapers?’
‘I…not lately. I’ve been unwell. This place has been hopelessly understaffed. What have I missed?’
‘Alp de Ciel is only a small country but the death of its sovereign made worldwide news. Even right down here in Australia.’
