Despite his reluctance, the Blanchards proved to be ideal customers.
Leopold loved to throw parties, and he spared no expense, especially when his daughter was concerned.
Though she was still a bit too young for marriage, a rumor swept through town that she was soon to be engaged to the slightly older, but still baby faced, David Nolan who came with a fairytale, rags-to-riches story. Leopold had taken him under his wing, first as his financial advisor through the bank and then as a confidant, and it surprised no one when he took on a fairly prominent (and unnecessary) position at the bank alongside Leo. It seemed inevitable that the next step would be the announcement of David's engagement to Mary-Margaret—and just as quickly as the rumor of the engagement spread, so did the rumor that this weekend's party would serve as the perfect setting to announce it.
So it seems odd when he arrives that the evening for a scheduled delivery to find the house desolate and eerily still.
For three months, without fail, two footman had met him at the door to accept a delivery. He followed them down to the cellar when they carried down the final two crates where he knew that Leopold would be surveying his order and waiting with the payment. When he was satisfied, he paid him in cash. Few words were ever exchanged between the two of them, and truly none were needed. Both he and Leopold held up their end of the agreement; there was nothing to discuss.
But tonight, there are no footmen waiting and after ringing the bell several times, no one comes to answer.
It occurs to him that he could just leave, but driving around with $200 of champagne and another $100 or so of various liquors seems like it might tempt fate. After all, there was a reason pickups were always in the middle of the night and deliveries had to wait until sundown.
Drawing in a breath, he pulls his hands from his pockets and tries the door—and to his surprise, it opens without resistance.
He finds that the kitchen is curiously dark with no signs that a meal had even been prepared for that night. Though he knows he probably shouldn't, he looks into the servants hall, and like the kitchen, he finds it empty. His brow furrows as he bites down on his lip as he considers that perhaps there's been a misunderstanding.
He isn't sure what compels him to go up the stairs to the main part of the house, or what or who he expects to find there, but soon, he finds himself standing in one of the house's main hallways.
For a moment, he just stands there, looking around and taking in the gold fleur de lis wallpaper, rich red carpet, and the dimly lit wall sconces. The rooms off of the hall are all dark, save one, and when he pokes his head in, he sees an oil painting over the hearth. Stepping in closer, he narrows his eyes to see it better, and when he gets close enough, he can see that it's a family portrait.
However, it wasn't quite the family that currently resided in the house. Instead, it was a younger version of Leopold Blanchard with a little hazel-eyed girl sitting on his lap—Mary Margaret, he assumes—and a woman who looks eerily similar to Regina standing beside them, her hand positioned on Leopold's shoulder. Leaning in, he studies it a bit more, noting the woman's cheek bones and the shape of her eyes, the kind smile stretched across her lips and dark curls that framed her face—all features that Mary Margaret now possessed, features she obviously inherited from her mother.
Giving the room one more glance, he leaves it, going on to the next—and then, as he rounds the corner, he notices a light stretching out into the hall. Moving toward it, he suddenly freezes—suddenly very aware that he isn't supposed to be where he is. But before he can slink away, he hears Regina's voice—uncharacteristically high-pitched as it cracks, an indication that she's likely losing a battle to maintain her composure—and for whatever reason, he finds himself stepping closer to listen.
"... and why shouldn't he be allowed?"
"I had a letter from the school. He needs to stay and focus on his studies."
"They said that?"
"In not so many words."
"What does that mean?"
"It means he's all but failing his math class and could benefit from tutoring. He made a C on his last test. Long division of all things." Leopold's eyes narrow as they fall to where Robin can only assume Regina stands. "I was always good at math. So was Mary Margaret."
"And?"
A heavy silence falls between them, and for whatever reason, he finds himself moving toward the room where the Blanchards stood, hovering in the shadows just beyond the doorway to get a better look.
"I want to see the letter," Regina demands.
"I've told you what it says."
"So?"
Leopold scoffs. "What? Don't you trust me, Regina?"
Now, it's her turn to respond with icy silence. He watches as Regina's features harden and he could almost see her hurt turning into anger as her husband holds her gaze. He has no skin in the game, of course, but he finds himself siding with Regina and his own gaze hardening as he stares at Leopold. Regina had every right to see a letter regarding her son and the fact that Leopold was being so coy with her was suspect, at best.
"I've made my decision. I've already sent a letter back to the school."
Again, there's a long pause, but this time, as his eyes shifted to Regina, he could see tears welling up in her eyes as her jaw began to tremble. "But… it's Christmas," she says, her voice practically cracking. "He hasn't been home since—"
"Then he should've studied harder. My mind's made up. He's staying in London."
"Then I'll go to him!" Regina calls, reaching out to her husband as he turned away from her to lift a glass of abandoned bourbon. "Please. I can go instead. I'll—"
Robin's brows arch as Leopold turns. It seems like a reasonable solution, but as Leopold turns back to her, it is obvious that he doesn't agree. "Don't be stupid."
"You don't need me here."
"You're right. I don't."
"Then—"
"Mary Margaret does." Regina's jaw tightens at his reply. "A bride needs her mother—and, unfortunately, you're the closest thing she's got."
A callous little grin edges over Leopold's lips as he stares at his wife, and it's clear that he chose words that would sting—and judging by Regina's reaction, they had the exact effect he was hoping for and he was pleased.
"I'd only be gone a couple of weeks."
"And how would you go?"
"What do you mean?"
"How would you pay for your passage?" That seemed like a ridiculous question, and judging by the way Regina's cheeks flush with embarrassment—or perhaps, it's anger—he can tell that the question was meant to be rhetorical. "Right," Leopold says smugly as he finally draws a sip from his glass of bourbon. "Then it's settled."
"It'll be Christmas," Regina says again, her voice flat. "He's only eight, and he's—"
"Old enough to learn he has to work for the things he wants. Nothing's free and laziness shouldn't be coddled."
Again, Regina's cheeks redden as she looks up, and now he can plainly see that she's not embarrassed. Her jaw is tense and her eyes are hard, but she doesn't say anything more, likely knowing there's no way she'll win.
Eyes still focusing on her, Leopold slowly drinks his bourbon in one long sip. Regina's eyes remain locked with his, and it is almost as though they are having some sort of silent conversation. The tension between them is palpable, and it makes him feel unsettled, as though he were just waiting for one of them to lash out at the other.
It occurs to him as he's standing there that he should probably go. Whatever fight they were in the middle of was none of his business. Yet, he can't quite bring himself to leave; so, he just stands there, watching and waiting…
Finally, Leopold finishes his drink, slamming the glass down against the wooden top of the bar.
"I'm late," he says, his voice distant and low.
Regina doesn't reply; she doesn't even turn to watch him go.
Robin takes a few steps back just before Leopold exits the room, trudging toward the foyer to grab his coat. A bit awkwardly, Robin watches as he reaches for his hat—and expensive black bowler with burgundy silk piping. It's an odd thing to notice, but he does. He watches the way he touches it, his fingers grasping gently at it as he examines it, and then, giving himself an approving little smile in the mirror, he puts on the hat and upturns his coat's collar. Robin's eyes narrow as he takes in the aesthetic, assuming that Leopold was going for some sort of suave, debonair look when instead he looks like a jackass.
Feeling his jaw tensing, he has to look away.
When he was a boy, his father used to tell him that you could tell a lot about a man's values just by noticing the things he cared for. It was a sentiment that never failed him; after all, most people showed their true colors when they didn't know they were being watched—and Leopold Blanchard showed far more care for a god damned hat than he did his wife.
The door is barely closed behind Leopold when he hears the sound of shattering glass, drawing his attention from the front door to the room where Regina stands. It's only when she turns sharply to stare at him that he realizes that he must have gasped.
"I—I'm sorry—"
"What the hell are you doing here?"
He swallows. That is a fantastic question. "A delivery," he manages. "No one answered."
"So you just invited yourself in and decided to make yourself comfortable."
"Trust me, M'lady, I am not comfortable."
For a moment, she just stares at him, her eyes wide and her jaw tight—and for a moment, he thinks she's about to tear into him. But instead, she looks away, embarrassed. "So, you heard—"
"I was only looking for someone to—" He stops abruptly. There's no excuse for why he's standing in her house, eavesdropping on an obviously private conversation. "I'm sorry. I'll go."
Reigna nods, but as he turns away, she reaches for him, her fingers just barely touching the fabric of his coat. "Was it a large order?"
"Just under double of the usual."
Regina blinks. She has no idea what that means. "Can I help?"
Robin's lips press together as he takes her in; he doubts she'd be much help, but it seems insulting to actually tell her that—and she's been insulted enough for one evening. "I can come back tomorrow," he says instead.
"Oh—"
"Unless—"
"I could try." A little grin tugs up at one corner of her mouth and she offers a shrug. "It seems like this was our mistake, and I'd hate for you to have to come back because I dumbly gave the staff the night off."
"That explains why no one answered."
"No one told me anything was due, and… as you heard, my husband has plans for the evening."
"And how about you?"
He grimaces. He didn't mean that to come out the way that it sounded—he didn't mean it to sound as if he were asking her if she were free, like he was trying to win a date—but she laughed and shrugged her shoulders.
"Apparently, I'm helping you lug in crates of liquor."
Regina doesn't give him a chance to say anymore. Instead, she brushes past him, her shoulders squaring as she strides out of the room. For a moment, he just stands there—dumbly wondering if he should follow—and then, a little grin tugs up at the corner of his mouth. He's not quite sure he'll ever have her figured out.
By the time he catches up with her, she's standing at his truck, her breath puffing out impatiently in front of her.
He hesitates a moment, looking her up and down, noting her impractical dress and heels, but when her brow arches as if to ask what he's waiting for, he says nothing. Instead, he steps around her and opens the back of his truck.
She steps up beside him, surveying the crates, her fingers rubbing over the painted on "Fine China" as her brow arches and a little laugh escapes her—then, just as he's about to tell her to be careful, she reaches for a crate and lifts it, looking him square in the eye.
"Where do we normally store them?"
He blinks. "Um, the cellar, but I'm sure, given the circumstances, the kitchen would be—"
"If they go in the cellar, then they'll go in the cellar," she tells him just before hauling the first of the heavy crates into the house—and again, he feels a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
For the better part of the next hour, they transfer the liquor from the back of his truck to the Blanchards' cellar. Finally, when the last crate comes in, she offers a triumphant little laugh before turning to look at him and smiling.
He blinks and feels his cheeks warm, suddenly glad for the dim lighting and the stubble covering his cheeks.
He's not sure that he's ever seen her smile—not genuinely, at least—and it lights up her whole face. Her eyes seem brighter and warmer, her skin a bit rosier, and her demeanor completely changed. It's exquisite and extraordinary.
Regina lifts the top from one of the crates and reaches in, pulling out a bottle of French wine. He watches as she reads the label, biting down on her lip before her eyes cast upward to meet his.
"Would you… like a glass?" she asks. "After all the trouble we put you through, it only seems fair."
"You pay me well."
Her smile fades and immediately, he wishes he'd said anything else. "You mean my husband pays you well."
"Isn't it… one in the same?"
"No."
He sighs and shifts awkwardly on his feet. "Well, regardless, it's worth my trouble."
"I don't mean… doing whatever it is that you do to get this for us, though," she tells him. "I was referring to the trouble you went to tonight."
"Ah, well, in that case, all's well that ends well," he tells her gently. "It all worked out."
She nods, but looks unconvinced. "Then consider it a celebratory drink."
Hesitantly, he looks to the bottle and then back to her, wondering what she's really asking. Her big brown eyes are wide and glistening, her jaw's trembling slightly. Still, despite the sudden show of vulnerability, her eyes hold his, and he finds himself captivated, unable to look away from her. It's odd really, the way she hooks him, the way she makes him want to stay, and how in just a few weeks he'd gone from wanting nothing to do with her to wanting to comfort her.
He doesn't fraternize with customers. He doesn't get attached to them. He doesn't care about them. Yet as he stands there, somehow a simple, I'm sorry, no, seems so impossible.
He shifts his weight as he considers the harm that one drink would do—but then, he considers how easily one drink turns into two and then three, and as he stares at her, he can't help but think she's asking for more than a celebratory drink. He could be wrong—maybe he's projecting, his father did also tell him he had something of a hero complex and maybe it's him who wants more—but it doesn't matter. Even if he wanted to, he couldn't stay. It was late and Roland never slept well in his absence.
"I'm sorry to say that I can't," he finally says as he breaks her gaze. "I need to get back to my boy."
She swallows hard and offers a half nod as she musters a sad little smile. "Of course. I—how stupid that I didn't consider that." He wants to disagree—at least that her invitation was stupid—but her whole face changes as she puts on an aloof little smile. "Another time then?"
Gently, he grins and nods. "Perhaps I can take a rain check?"
"Of course you can," she tells him, her smile brightening in an effort to hide her disappointment.
On that note, he leaves her, possibilities swirling through his head as he makes his way up from the cellar and gets into his truck—and when he pulls away from the Blanchards' house, he feels a little twinge of guilt.