She wasn't sure what to make of Robin Locksley.
Over the course of the last three months, she'd met him a handful of times, and each interaction was wholly different.
She was a firm-believer in first impressions—after all, it's difficult to hide behind a mask and put on a show when you don't know that anyone's looking. The first time she'd seen him had been outside of the school house, just before the annual awards. His son had earned one and he'd been beaming with pride. Before getting in her car, she watched him scoop up the boy and toss him in the air before pulling him into a tight hug. He spun around and cupped the back of his son's head, and when his hold loosened up, he listened eagerly as his son spoke to him. In a way, she felt like she was intruding on a private family moment and that by gawking at them she might be rude, but for whatever reason, she couldn't bring herself to look away. All she could do was stand there awkwardly smiling and hoping they didn't notice her.
She couldn't help but think she'd like to know him better—and as she stood there, considering that, she found herself distracted, trying to memorize his every detail.
His eyes were the first feature that drew her attention. Even at a slight distance, they were striking, really—bright blue and kind—and when he smiled, they seemed to glitter. She usually wasn't a fan of facial hair on men, but she liked it on him. His scruffy beard was well-kept, and instead of making him look sloppy, it made him look distinguished—and it was only at a second glance that she noticed that it hid the dimples that sunk into his cheeks whenever he smiled.
Well, she wasn't sure that she liked that particular detail, but it wasn't like her opinion mattered in that regard, and it didn't detract from the overall package—and truly, she'd only ever get to admire him from afar.
The second time she saw him he was at the house, taking an order for a party Leopold would be hosting later in the week. She'd stood at the top of the stairs watching their interaction, watching how he seemed comfortable, not at all put off by the obnoxious excess of wealth surrounding him nor the fact that he was making an illegal transaction. He walked with confidence—his head up and his shoulders square—and when he spoke to someone, he looked directly at them, regardless of whether he was talking to a footman, the butler, or to Leopold himself.
At first, she wasn't quite sure how she felt about that—and she certainly didn't think she'd like it. Being looked in the eye made her uncomfortable. It made her feel like she was being sized up, as if her vulnerabilities were evaluated, and inevitably she'd fail to measure up. She was usually the first to look away and though she didn't quite know what it was, she was sure that said something about her…
Their first conversation had been a rocky one. She'd meant to compliment his son and left feeling insulted—and insulted on the most personal level. In not so many words, he insinuated that she didn't love her son, that she'd sent him away to school so that she didn't have to be bothered with the ins and outs of motherhood. And while that was vehemently untrue, it stung—and he knew that it did.
She hadn't expected his apology nor had she wanted one; after all, she spent an entire evening convincing herself that Robin Locksley and his opinions didn't matter in the least, so his apology shouldn't matter either.
Yet his note to her struck a chord.
It was short and sweet, to the point, yet filled with his own musings of the unexpected challenges of parenthood and the unseen struggles people face. She had an inkling that he was speaking from experience, but she couldn't know for sure. What she did know, though, is that his words meant something to her. It wasn't often that people acknowledged her struggles and she understood why that was—after all, from the outside looking in, what struggles could a person like her have?
There was something familiar about Robin Locksley. She couldn't quite pin-point what it was exactly, but despite their rocky first meeting, she still found herself wanting to know him.
There weren't many people she felt that way about, there weren't many people she wanted to know—and she was sure that that feeling was mutual. She was a hard person to like and an even harder person to love. She'd spent years crafting her facade, cocooning herself in an air of elusive mystery, swirling rumors that protected her secrets, and a hard shell that hid any glimmer of her feelings. In her most personable moments, she was guarded and in her most vulnerable ones, she was cruel—and she'd done this for so long, she was beginning to lose any semblance of self she might've had.
Truthfully, she wasn't sure how she felt about that—it hadn't been her goal—and in some ways it seemed appropriate that the things she did to preserve herself had led to the loss of self.
But really, what had she lost?
Over the years, she'd tried to build relationships with people she cared for and liked, the people she wanted to be around, but she always seemed to fail. It wasn't until her son was born that she finally understood that despite her best intentions, her love would always be poison.
For a time, she thought she'd found an antidote. For a time, she had someone she loved who, miraculously, loved her back—and he had. The problem was that his love wasn't enough.
She wasn't supposed to fall in love with Daniel. She wasn't supposed to have let down her guard and let him in, and she was foolish for ever thinking that it could work out. Looking back, that was so obvious, but while she was in the thick of it, it hadn't been so clear. She was too focused on how she felt and what could be.
They'd met by chance on a warm summer night in '16. She'd taken a longer-than usual ride and when she'd returned, Daniel was there, brushing one of the horses. He'd smiled sweetly and complimented Rocinante, and from there, they'd struck up a conversation. She learned that he worked at the country club, giving riding lessons to children and caring for members' horses when they couldn't be there, ensuring they got enough exercise and were groomed. He was saving up to go to veterinary school and to speed up the process, he was living with his sister's family. On that summer night, he'd been close to having the necessary amount to cover his first year and hoped to start classes that coming spring—but of course, by April, it was all a moot point. Instead of starting school that spring, he boarded a ship to Europe and found himself stationed on the front lines, offering relief to the exhausted men who'd been fighting for years.
Throughout the war, they traded letters—sweet little notes that she kept bounded up by a ribbon and tucked in an old hat box in her closet. In those letters, she kept him up-to-date on the things happening in their sleepy little town, reminisced about steamy nights in the hayloft above the stables at the country club, and recounted funny stories and anecdotes she hoped would raise his spirits. In those letters, their relationship blossomed from a fling into something that seemed like it could be lasting.
They made plans for after the war—and looking back, it seemed so naïve to think those plans could've worked. She was going to leave Leopold and he was finally going to go to veterinary school. They were going to buy a little plot of land—just enough for a house, some stables, and a garden—and that's where they'd raise their family. In the letters they exchanged, they planned every detail of their lives. The house would be white with blue shutters, surrounded by a white picket fence and a cobblestone path that led from the road to the front. Another path would take them from the back door to the stables, with a little fork that led to their fenced-in garden. Though she'd never so much as boiled an egg, she imagined herself making big meals on Sundays when friends would come to visit and picking beans and tomatoes with their children at her feet. In every story they spun, they were deliriously happy.
He'd been allowed to come home on leave for his father's funeral—he didn't know the strings she'd had to pull to make that happen—and though he was only allowed a handful of days before he had to ship back out, it'd been enough to give them a taste of what their lives would be like.
And that's when she got pregnant.
Daniel shipped back out in late September and by early November a ceasefire was called—but in those weeks in between, Daniel's letters stopped. At first, she told herself she was silly for worrying; it wasn't like writing love letters to her was the only thing he had to do.
Only two people knew about her affair with Daniel. First was her best friend, Mallory, and the second was Mallory's half-brother, Arthur—a well-connected Major General who volunteered to fight with the British earlier in the war and returned badly injured as a result. To stay apart of the war effort, Arthur headed up the local Red Cross and worked in a hospital for the wounded. Arthur was the one who ensured her letters made it to where they needed to go, Arthur was the one who'd gotten Daniel the leave for his father's funeral, and it was Arthur who'd shown up at her doorstep to inform her that Daniel had gone missing on the first of October, only four days after arriving back on the front. She'd held her breath as she stared at him, tears welling in her eyes as she offered a high-pitched, Well, then there's still hope, but Arthur shook his head and informed her that Daniel had been a part of a prisoner exchange. He was confirmed dead upon the exchange.
Her heart nearly burst when he said it, and then he'd awkwardly looked away from her and explained that he thought she should hear it from someone who knew them both, rather than reading his name in the paper the following morning.
She'd nodded as her body went numb and the next day, she read in the paper that the patrol he'd been on when he was captured by the Germans was not his usual routine; he'd volunteered for it to cover one soldier who'd filled his place while he'd been on leave.
Reading that was like a punch to the gut. If she hadn't arranged for him to come home, he'd probably still be alive, she'd realized. She did this to him.
She'd barely allowed herself to grieve for him.
Really, how could she? No one knew what he meant to her—and certainly no one knew that he was the father of her child.
Only a week after the news of his death, she'd set a new plan into motion—a new plan that would not only shape her future, but ensure her misery and loneliness. In some ways, it was her penance, but in other ways, it was simply self-preservation.
Still numb with grief, she seduced her husband—not an easy feat considering how uninterested in her Leopold was. But nonetheless, he responded to the alcohol she gave him and to her flirtations. By the time she touched him, he was too drunk to be suspicious and when she'd knelt down in front of him the groan that escaped him told her that even if he was suspicious, he'd never have stopped her. That night, she'd laid under him hating herself and just waiting for it to be over, reminding herself that she needed to do this, that she needed him to believe that the child she was carrying was his...
In retrospect, she should have just left him.
She had a trust fund in her name, and she had no qualms about accepting the stigma that would come with being an unwed mother, but for whatever reason, that hadn't occurred to her until it was too late—and again, this was all part of her penance.
When she told Leopold that she was pregnant, he'd simply stared at her in confusion and had to be reminded of their night together. Still, even after the reminder, he looked unphased and muttered that he hoped the child would be a boy.
He wasn't there when Henry was born, and for that, she was glad.
She'd arranged a busy summer for herself and her husband, obviously time spent apart. Mallory invited her to Newport where she stayed on a month—it was there that she gave birth to Henry—and then convinced Leopold to go on a hunting excursion through Canada for the rest of the summer. The whole scheme had been so elaborate, and she'd enlisted help from Mallory and Arthur. It'd been the latter who'd finally convinced him by explaining the trip was a celebration of the return to normalcy and that the cool-Canadian air would be a nice escape. The trip went on longer than anticipated, and in early September, when they returned, Regina introduced Leopold to their baby son—a son she claimed "came a bit early" at the beginning of August.
She'd held her breath as Leopold examined the baby, huffing, He's big, before grinning smugly and hoping he might play football, just as he had, for Harvard one day. She'd managed a nod as he left the nursery, then exhaled and wondered if she actually succeeded in her scheme.
But, of course, it couldn't be that easy.
As the days and weeks and months passed, Henry began to look more and more like his father—and more and more people referenced her boy's beautiful hazel eyes. It wasn't something that was so out of the ordinary and if you didn't think too hard about it, it even made sense. After all, Mary-Margaret had hazel eyes—but Mary-Margaret's eyes were from her mother, not her father.
She'd kept up the facade until Henry was four—though it always felt like she was walking on pins and needles whenever Henry was in Leopold's presence. Then one morning she came down to breakfast to find her husband and son sitting at the table together, already eating. Henry had a bowl of oatmeal and berries in front of him and was chattering happily about upcoming music lesson that afternoon as Leopold stared at him with narrowed eyes.
"He doesn't look like me," he said, without looking at her.
"Well, you're not the only one he could take after," she retorted curtly as her heart began to pound.
"He doesn't look like you either."
"Traits can skip generations," she'd said. It was a reply she had ready. "I've always thought he kind of looked like my mother."
It was then that Leopold looked to her, his brow cocked. "Your mother."
"Yes, the next time I visit my parents, remind me to try and find a picture of her when she was young. I know she has one. You'll see it."
Of course, no such photograph existed, but Leopold only shrugged before turning his attention to the newspaper, focusing on a story about a hockey game at the Winter Games in Chamonix. And it was that day she began researching boarding schools in England.
A month later, she'd made her choice and she, Henry and Mal set sail for England. Only, Mal's ticket was also one-way. In some ways, she was glad that Mal volunteered to be close to Henry—and it nearly killed her to lose them both.
She'd been unprepared for just how lonely those two years without her son would be, and on most days, it was difficult to remember the reason behind sending him away. She didn't like to dwell on it, and she most certainly didn't like to dwell on the effect it might have on her relationship with her son. Prior to going away, he'd never spent so much as a night away from her, and no matter how much she prepped him and no matter how many times he assured her that he'd be okay, without experiencing it, it wasn't truly something either of them could know.
Whenever she spoke to him or visited, he seemed upbeat. He was good at school and made friends quickly, and of course, Mal was always nearby. So, while she wasn't fully sure that Henry or the head mistress at his school would be completely honest with her, she expected that Mal would be, and in some ways that was a comfort. But in other ways, its was anything but. Henry had been a bright spot in an otherwise bleak existence. Like his father, he brought into her life things she hadn't known that she was missing—and like his father, when she didn't get to have him in her daily life, a seemingly permanent ache settled at her core. On some days, she could ignore it; and on other days, she accepted it as the punishment she so obviously deserved, and though she couldn't quite explain why, there had to be a reason for her loneliness.