A/N: fifth entry for the OQ prompt party, Friday.
199. Robin & Regina meet & fall in love in their 50's.
oh, if you're looking for entries 3 and 4, they are, respectively, the new story Pearls and Plumes and the third chapter of Fallen.


Rome, 1888

He was in Rome since, merely, a week, and he was already in love. Not with a woman – it was entirely too early for that, although his caring nature could have eased one's way in his heart and gained his affections. He was in love with the city…

His cousin, Margherita, had so kindly proposed an Italian escapade – at her place, she'd written, in a morning letter, to mellow his gloomy mood and cheer him up, for he was too shamefully sad and she didn't think it was wise nor healthy, too brood after his late wife.

Marian had died after an exhausting sickness which the doctors couldn't treat. Their son of thirty, Roland, had come back from America – a long trip by boat, he'd missed the funeral, but said he wanted to be there for his father. Robin had relished his grandchildren's love, children he'd seen for the first time. But Marian and his memories were craved in his heart, and staying there in the very same house where they'd created those memories was simply too much. Roland had soon noticed the deterioration of his manners, patience and moods.

Margherita's invitations had come one day, as he was having breakfast with Roland and his wife Grace. Come here with us, Margherita had written, this air and this sky will do wonders for your mind, you'll go back as a new man.

So Italy it was. A long journey, preceded by the goodbyes to Roland and his family, the hugs with his grandkids and his daughter-in-law. He'd given orders for the house to be looked after while he was gone. The servants had splayed white cotton pieces of fabric above tables and sofas, and some of them had gone to work elsewhere, as he didn't know when he'd be back in England. Margherita and his husband had welcomed him with kind words and a behavior that was – maybe – a bit too coddling for his liking. As if he were a convalescing man, they'd lower their voice when passing ext to his room on the first day, until he'd asked them to stop, that he wasn't sick, he was melancholic.

But then, Rome had bloomed in autumn, and the season of dancing and great meetings had reopened. It was lively, the capital, and Margherita's house was in such a perfectly situated place, that he'd fallen for blue skies, the nearby fountains and the roman ruins.

"I could spend years here and I wouldn't visit it all," he confessed to Davide, Margherita's husband. He agreed, telling him he'd lived there his almost whole life and yet he was more familiar with the Paris of his youth. But Rome! Rome and its gardens, its villas and the aristocratic glory of popes and princes. Rome and its monuments, millennia of art, culture, poetry, Rome and thousands, millions of live there intertwined, one after another.

Margherita was very well known amongst the roman élite. She was, as they say, a kind spirit, and the ones who didn't love her – they envied her. She quickly took to extending her invitations to her cousin, but at first, Robin politely declined them all. He needed a few days, he said, to recover from the trip and to quietly start appreciating the town's wonders in peace. His only chaperone, an old servant of Margherita's, with a sufficient knowledge of English to be understood.

"So are you going to find yourself in a party soon, milord?" he'd asked one day, after an afternoon of the finest roman artifacts.

"I'm way too old for a party, Marco," he'd answered.

"Nonsense! You can't be older than forty-five."

"I'm fifty-three," he'd said in kind, perhaps slightly flattered by the older man's mistake.

"Never too late to restart a life," was the final wise advice Marco had offered – before continuing to explain the main legends tied to a splendidly decorated column.

Nevertheless, his thought were still too submerged with memories of his wife to even consider those words.

.:.

He was in Rome since two months and his grief was starting to subside – leaving place to a dull apathy, a quiet acceptance. At the same time, winter was just about to begin. Roland's letters were frequent and always welcomed. But Margherita's parties and retrouvailles had shown him a side of life he wasn't quite ready to give up, not yet. His cousin's vitality (she was twenty years younger than he was) had been contagious, and he'd soon created a routine of his days. Letters, coffee and newspapers in the mornings. Explorations in the afternoons. Dinners and nights around, jumping from home to home. There, he'd met several friends of his cousin's. Younger, the most of them, they'd have gone accordingly with Roland, but most of the time he liked this side of life.

One evening, Margherita introduced him to a Enrico Heathfield, son of a renamed family, and he found the man of witty intellect and enjoyable conversation. His wife, Arabella, was a thing of beauty and darker skin, and Robin found out the man had married in America, then returned to Rome to join his mother.

"I will introduce you two, of course," he promised, one sip of wine later. "I'm sure you've already heard about her, haven't you?"

"I'm afraid not," Robin replied. Enrico's eyes were shining with excitement, of the natural excitement of someone who loves life and all its wonders.

"Of course, his mother is Rome's golden treasure," Arabella intervened. "She married twice already – now she's a widow – but everyone talks of her and she's surrounded with many legends. When I met her I didn't know of her many nicknames and stories, so I wasn't particularly frightened – well, aside from the normal anxiousness of meeting your future mother-in-law," she smiled.

"Come on," Enrico laughed – he found his wife's hand and he squeezed it. "You're scaring him away."

"Frankly, lady Arabella's speech has left me the most intrigued," Robin affirmed. "Now I find out I can't wait to meet one that sounds like an extraordinary woman."

"You won't have to wait that long," Enrico told him. "She told me she was, in fact, arriving here in time for dinner."

Princess Ferini announced, in that moment, that they could start moving towards the dining hall. Robin glanced at Enrico – he was looking at the door, frowning, then he turned back to smile at him. "I am sure he's just about to be here." His concern for his mother was charming. Robin approached him, and he placed a hand above his arm. "how about we start going downstairs to see if someone has, perhaps, stopped her in some way?"

Enrico nodded, with a grateful smile, and got closer to the princess who was hosting them – informed her of the issue. They rapidly got downstairs. The first snow was starting to fall. Robin was suddenly awestruck by how many weeks had already passed. He'd got there in September and it was December. The warmer temperatures had tricked him into a longer summer.

Enrico's mother was nowhere in sight, however, and he noticed the tiniest ounce of worry for a woman he'd never met starting to creep up on him. Gone were the roman mornings of blue skies and kind words, of ice slices with flavored syrups, of artistic studies and sunny midday. In fact, as he stood there in the slow snow with the other man, waiting, he was thinking of nothing. At last, there was a noise of horses. A carriage, black and white, was fast approaching, its driver shivering with chills. It finally stopped in front of the pair, sloshing mud on the side of the street. The door opened swiftly.

And there it was – the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.

She dismounted with grace, smiling at her son, and turned to urge the carriage back. "Ritorno con Enrico," she said, telling a relieved driver how she'd come back. She was eager to greet her son, the customary kisses on the cheeks were rapidly exchanged, her eyes shining. Eyes that turned and fell upon him, she spoke to Enrico, presumably to ask who he was.

"This is lord Locksley, mother," he answered. "Cousin of Margherita De Nobili."

"Ah yes, that delightful snowflake," the lady said, a glint of amusement in her eyes. "May I have your hand, good sir?"

"Robin, milady," he offered his arm in a chivalrous move.

"Rather inspiring, if I dare say," she took his arm, again that smile. She was stunning. Quite close to himself in age, and yet so young in spirits – she was in her full blossom, raven hair tumbling down in curls, her hands covered with black gloves. Time had been kind to her, polishing her features in a sweet manner, softening her edges, and yet he couldn't find a particular spot where she looked old.

"A name is a fine gift, milady," he told her. "I'd ask for yours, but the mystery is very much exciting, don't you think?"

"A name for a name, milord," she nodded. "Mine is Regina."

Her accent was entrancing, the way she had to tumble out those syllables with a roll of her tongue, with that characteristic notes of someone who already knows they've won your heart.

"We should hurry upstairs," Enrico suggested, interrupting their almost-trance. "I am sure they have been wondering where we went."

"Yes, let's," Regina said, offering her other arm to her son Robin had to hold himself back from shrugging away the snow from her hair with a kiss.

.:.

1st of January, 1889

My dear Roland,
thank you for your last, and your wonderful news. The fact that I'm going to be a grandfather again soon thrills me to no end. Your mother would have been as proud and happy. She is always in my heart, as you know, but I have news as well.
I hope you can find in yourself to forgive me, son, and I hope you will have a long happy life with dearest Grace. But life goes on, an despite loving your mother still, I found myself more and more taken with a lady I met some weeks ago. And by god, she seems to be inclined to exchange my sentiments. My boy, I never thought I could find something similar to love again…

.:.

They used to meet in the afternoons, in a little café that excluded them from curious sights, and Regina told herself not to hope.

She'd had a decent life. Her first husband, Enrico's father, was an English man who married her in London and they'd been happy for a few years, before he died. Her second husband had married her to repay his debts, but as soon as Enrico had reached the age of maturity, Leo's old heart had given in, leaving her with a redoubled fortune. So she'd come back in Rome where she had first fallen in love, and hadn't moved since then.

Robin was… a novelty. She deeply enjoyed their conversations, about their children and families. He'd been deeply amused to find out about her and Margherita's past.

He told her she was beautiful. He told her of his late wife, of his roman interlude to grieve, and she'd told herself carpe diem, and to enjoy it while it lasted. He didn't look like he wanted to leave any time soon, though. He'd started to learn Italian. He'd made himself quite the circle of acquaintances, thanks to Margherita's influence. So Regina had been flirtatious and kind, but had never dared to hope for him to stay. His life was in England. And yet, hope was hard to send away.

He'd never kissed her. Maybe he'd started to learn things about her. Legends and stories. Like the ones who said she'd killed her own husband. Maybe he was right to stay away.

.:.

He'd always considered himself too old to fall in love again. Love was for the young and the fool. Regina was neither, and so was he. He was enjoying her companionship, her attitude – her freedom. There was something, in a woman like her, that had him captured. He was waiting for the right moment. He was wondering if he could muster up the courage. (He'd written a poem for her.)

(Regina had told him, once… It is good to be old. We have no hurry, we have no places to be. We can have the luxury to take our time to see if we're in the right place.)

One evening, Regina invited him to the opera. They were playing the Aida. A small gathering, she'd said, bring Margherita too. And a rose, for me.
It was a chilly February evening, when he picked a white rose from the greenhouse, and put a letter for Regina in a small envelope.

The Aida went through marvelously, but he wouldn't have known. His heart was beating madly, her hand mere inches from his. "Regina, guardami," he whispered, she turned in the dark. Her customary gloves were brushing his skin. She tilted her head and – finally – met his lips – unguarded, unwitnessed, the kiss promised so much more, and he just knew he had to, when he slipped the letter, it landed in her lap. She smiled at him. "Sei un tesoro," she told him. No one knew about them, at that time. (Margherita had blushed, in bidding them goodnight.)

.:.

That started a correspondence between the two of them. Before they knew it, it was April, and peach blossoms were covering of pink the street to her house. Touches had grown bolder, never too much. Until she was, undeniably, too far gone. It was scaring. But that day, it was when she'd invited him to her house – they were to be alone for some hours, her son was away with his wife. She poked at the fire in the fireplace, still roaring even though the air was definitely warmer.

The noises from the street had her head snapping up from the book she was reading. He was here.

Her fingertips went to cover a pulsing vein on the inside of her wrist. She breathed, slowly, waiting for him to be announced – she'd already informed her servants to let him through. After what looked like hours, she heard a knock on the door. "Come in," she murmured.

The door opened. "Regina," he bowed his head, ever the gentleman.

She didn't answer, but raised to her feet and went to meet him. He tangled his fingers in her hair, and kissed her forehead gently, then left her to free himself from gloves and hat. Her nervousness was starting to filter through, so she turned, poured herself more tea. "I'm glad you're here," she said, without looking at him.

But he was, alas, by now too expert of her mannerism. "What is it?" he asked, approaching, a hand placed on her shoulder. "Are you alright?"

"Just… yes," she lied.

"You know, I, myself, am quite nervous," he said lightly. She appreciated this way to lighten the mood. "If you're still… sure, that is."

"I am." She turned, and cupped his cheek. "I am not this… person you've seen at dinners and parties, Robin. I am different – I am, currently, terrified."

He smiled softly, and leaned in to kiss her. She felt everything, right there – everything he wasn't telling her out loud, every sparkle of affection he'd behold until then, every caress and flower he'd yet to give. Their mouths parted, their foreheads touched. "You are a marvel," he whispered. "And I feel so wonderfully fortunate to have met you."

The fire continued to flicker in its nest, as he brought her to the bed, as they made love slowly, sweetly. He kissed her skin, told her not to hide, that she was beautiful. She held him, as she cried her relief into his shoulder, as she cried all the love she was not ready to say out loud.

But as the afternoon faded into dusk, she knew – that moment wasn't so far.

.:.

19th of July, 1889

Dear Roland,

Thank you for the photograph of your family, I especially appreciated the newest addiction. I shall cherish it with my heart. I am yet to talk Regina into taking one to send to you, but we surely will. Life is going well, my boy. I have now a fiancée – can you believe, at my age – and this is to tell you, to please come back for the wedding in December. I cannot wait for you to meet her. I proposed last week, and I'm afraid I made a fool of myself, because my physical issues prevented me from kneeling, so I told her to pretend I was kneeling, and she laughed so cheerfully I fell in love even more deeply.
Life goes on, my boy, and I am so blessed to have met her. I just wish I could have more time with her, but I won't waste a single second of my second chance.

Send my love to Grace and the children.

Your father