January 21, 1928
Regina sits by the lamp, staring out the window and watching as it rains, the want ads in the newspaper face up on her lap, but nearly forgotten.
Parting with Henry was always difficult, no matter how long or short their separation.
The headmaster at his school thought that she was spoiling him, and perhaps she was; but it didn't matter to her. She was just glad to have her boy back and she had time to make up for.
That afternoon, she'd picked him up from school and taken him out for lunch. They ate hot roast beef sandwiches at a little cafe near his school, then, despite the cold, went for a little walk, eventually ending up in a little park. All the while Henry chattered on about school and his friends, telling her stories about his lessons and the pranks they'd play on one another in the dormitories. He explained how they all gathered around whenever one of the boys received a package, splitting up chocolates and all taking turns at new games—and then, her heart swelled as he giggled and described an ugly, oversized jumper his friend's grandmother sent.
Just to buy a bit more time, she bought them two cups of hot cocoa from a stand, urging Henry to drink it slowly as they walked back to his school.
She ignored the disapproving gaze of the headmaster as she signed him back in, and as he hugged her goodbye, she struggled against her tears.
"Can we do this again?" Henry asked as he started up the stairs, his hazel eyes wide and his smile broad. "Next weekend?"
She'd smiled and nodded, her heart already aching to have him back. "Of course."
For the rest of the day, she wandered aimlessly.
Sometimes, she was unsure of what to do with herself. Outside of Henry, there wasn't much for her to do. It occurred to her that she could take a more active role in her son's life, that simply being in the same city with him wasn't really enough, but upon her arrival in London, she found that Henry liked his school.
Leopold's conversations with the Headmaster seemed to have been skewed to paint a picture of an unhappy, unadjusted little boy who struggled with his studies. While Henry was a relatively average student, he liked his classes and his teachers, and they seemed to like him, their reports to her lacking the details that Leopold often relayed. According to his teachers, Henry excelled in writing, but preferred short stories to essays. He liked to read and was fascinated by science; he'd even made the school's cricket team and was quickly learning to play the sport.
Two weeks before, she'd tried to slyly inquire about Henry's tuition, holding her breath as she awaited a bill she could not pay; but to her surprise, the bill had been paid. Leopold had sent in the payment for the new semester. For a moment, she'd just sat there, across from the headmaster, puzzled at why her estranged husband would do such a thing—and that's when the headmaster pivoted the conversation, telling her that he was glad Henry would be continuing his studies, and then, hesitantly, he added that he enjoyed her son, though he'd been disappointed he hadn't been able to go home for Christmas like the other boys.
It was then that she realized the game Leopold had been playing. Keeping him at the school was a joke he'd privately enjoyed knowing it came at her expense.
She wondered if her husband was even aware that she was in London…
That afternoon, her thoughts fluttered back and forth, not knowing quite what to do—should she let Leopold continue to pay? Should she enroll Henry elsewhere? And if she did, how would she manage it? But the most important question she considered was whether or not Henry would be as happy elsewhere...
Mal decided that she should let Henry stay at the school, after all, so much of Leopold's wealth was thanks to their marriage, so it only seemed fair that her son should benefit from it. And then in an easy, throw away comment, she reminded Regina in the event Leopold stopped paying Henry's tuition, she could pick up the tab.
And that caused another pang of guilt.
Mal had done so much for her and her son already—in fact, the entire Pendragon family had. Friendship or not, it didn't feel right to take more.
It occurred to her that afternoon she should probably start to look for a job, something that, in theory, should be easy enough but in reality was riddled with complications.
Her schooling had been limited to a girl of her class. While she had impeccable posture and could speak flawless French, she had no practical skills—no hirable skills. She was taught to be an ornament to be taken care of never to care for herself...
"Is there a reason you're not opening your mail?" She looks up, watching as a smile twists over Mal's lips. Her eyes are a bit red, her smile coming easily, and there's a slight saunter to her approach. "This letter's been sitting here for days."
"I know," Regina replies. "I'll… get to it."
"How about getting to it now?" Mal asks, plucking the letter up from the tray. "It's from him. Aren't you the least bit curious?"
"I'm… busy."
"Well, I'm not," Mal says, slipping her finger beneath the envlope's fold as she plops down in the armchair opposite Regina and drapes her legs over the chair's arm. "And really, neither are you. You're just pretending to read that paper."
Regina's eyes roll. It's not untrue. But reading the want ads had proved fruitless hours ago. After all, no one was hiring for a socialite. "Aren't you supposed to be on a date?"
"I was, but now I'm not."
"Clearly."
Mal sighs. "Her husband missed his train. He'll be leaving in the morning."
"Have you considered… I don't know… dating someone who wasn't married?"
Mal's brow furrows. "And where would the fun in that be?" Regina's not sure whether to laugh or scoff, and the sound that escapes her is some squeaky mix of the two causing Mal to laugh out in a burst. "We're not talking about me," she says, her eyes brows shrugging as a devilish little grin crosses her lips. "Now, back to this letter…"
"I was hoping I could distract you."
"Not when I'm the one who needs distracting."
Regina watches as she unfolds the letter, her eyes moving slowly over the words.
It looks... long, she thinks, but she can't be sure.
Biting at her lip, she watches as Mal reads Robin's words—her eyebrows arching up at certain points, a little smile drawing onto her lips at others, and every now and then, she emits a wishful little sigh.
"How… quaint," Mal says at last, folding it up and tucking it back into the envelope. "He's a good writer."
Regina blinks. "A good writer," she repeats slowly. "That's… all you're going to say about it?"
Mal grins, looking quite satisfied with herself. "I thought you were busy with pretending to look for a job—which, I feel compelled to remind you is completely unnecessary—and so didn't have time for the letter just yet."
"We both know I'm lying."
"I knew it, I just didn't know if you did."
Regina's eyes roll.
"He seems sweet."
"He was."
"Is," Mal corrects. "He's not dead, he's in Maine."
"It's a world away."
"No, just an ocean."
"Is there a difference?"
Mal's eyes roll. "So, it's all or nothing now, hm?"
"I never—"
"The thing you and Robin seemed to like about one another was that you were unavailable."
Regina blinks.
That's not untrue. Though they hadn't really ever talked about it, that did seem to be a draw for both her and Robin. She was married, he was focused on his business and raising a son. They carved out little bits of time for each other, and somehow managed to fit perfectly into the other's life. Like that final puzzle piece…
But a piece was all they could be.
"It worked in Maine, but I just… I don't see how it could work now."
"You're so imaginative, Regina."
"As you pointed out, there's an ocean between us."
Mal swings her legs over the chair and sits up, looking straight at her. "You're in love with him."
Regina feels her cheek flush. "I'm—"
"Don't even try to argue with me." Regina's lips press together and her eyes widen as she stares back at Mal. "We've known each other since we were kids and I know you. I know all your little idiosyncrasies and quirks and I know what an idiot you can be when you're in love, but don't think you should be."
Regina looks away. Mal's talking about Daniel and the guilt she felt over their love affair. "This is… different."
"Yes. Robin's alive and Daniel is dead."
"Ouch," she murmurs, looking up sharply. "That was… an unnecessary reminder."
"Look," Mal says, her voice softening. "Life isn't perfect. Relationships aren't perfect, unless you're in the middle of some fantastical novel, and even then someone's going to die of some terrible fever." A little grin creeps up on her lips. "He's not asking you for much, Regina. He just wants to stay a part of your life. Don't deny him that. Don't deny yourself that." Taking a breath, she holds out the letter, waiting until Regina takes it. "It's late. I'm going to take a shower. I smell like cheap cocktails."
Regina girns. "I wasn't going to say anything, but—"
"Well, I'll do us both a favor," Mal says, standing as she looks pointedly at Regina. "Read it."
Hestitanty, she nods, her stomach flopping with something that might be nerves or excitement. "And you're going off to bed after the shower?"
"Yes, I figure… I'll just, um… continue my date in my head."
At that, Regina laughs, watching as Mal departs, sauntering toward the stairs. She keeps an eye on her until she reaches the top, and it's not until she hears running water upstairs that she draws Robin's letter from the envelope—and almost immediately, she feels a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
Robin's letter is filled with all sorts of mundane yet amazing stories.
Roland lost a tooth and nearly woke up when "the tooth fairy" visited his room to deposit a quarter beneath his pillow. She laughs as she imagines Robin diving down at the side of the bed, trying not to land with a thud, then limping out of the room as Roland rolled over, going back to sleep. Afterward, John teased him about making a fairy costume "just in case" for next time, complete with glittery wings.
He tells her about a soup he made that Roland said was "almost good" and shares a recipe for s'mores, a treat he'll think Henry would like to try. He tells her about the weather and his business, using the vaguest of cryptic details that make her roll her eyes, and he tells her that he can't seem to manage getting through a day without wondering about her.
He misses her, and that detail makes her heart flutter and ache at the same time.
He recounts a day they had lunch together—one of those planned things they pretended were mere coincidences. He reminds her of how easily the conversation came and how they'd laughed, getting caught up in themselves as if they were the only two people in that little diner. Hours larter, when they'd parted ways in the parking lot, he'd wanted to kiss her goodbye.
He hadn't, of course, but the instinct had been there.
And he says that's sort of how he feels now.
Robin's letter ends on a hopeful note though, asking her to write him back. Her letter to him felt final—and that was how she meant it to be—but he's not sure that it has to be, not sure he can accept that. And ordinarily while such a sentiment might be off putting, she finds it sweet, loving him for not allowing her to recoil into herself.
Upstairs, the water turns off. It's late, and she should be getting to bed, but instead, she reads the letter again. Then, instead of going up to her own room, she moves to the little desk by the window and pulls out a sheet of stationary.
Dear Robin, she begins. It was wonderful to hear back from you...