Grief was too shallow a word.
Nothing could describe the despair he felt. His soul seemed to submerge itself in the depths of hell, refusing to come up for air.
She had been his everything. She was his whole life. And now she was gone.
During the final moments of her life, Tom had prayed more fervently then ever before. He had pleaded for his life to be taken instead, pleading to every Deity he could think of. She was such a wonderful person, she should've been destined to grace the earth forever, not be taken off of it at a tender age. He would have gladly given his own life for hers. In a heartbeat, Tom would trade fates.
He had remained with her body up to the last instant, hoping that by some miracle, she would blink, open her eyes, and ask why everyone was making such a fuss. She would demand to hold her child. They would spend their first moments together as a family.
Dr. Clarkson had to gently pry their hands apart. Her fingers were stiff and cold.
Tom cursed everyone he could think of. The doctors, the Crawley family, even their tiny child. And finally, himself. The harshest of them all. He cursed every action he had made in life that affected her. If only they had settled in the country instead of the harsh city air, if only he hadn't been caught at those meetings, if only he had worked harder and let her rest, if only, if only, if only.
He felt like his chest had been ripped in half. His mind was reeling, hoping that this was all a drunken fantasy.
Death would seem blissful compared to this.
He had briefly considered it. The window was high, falling from it would lead to a certain death. His anguish would be over, and he would be reunited with his beloved.
But there was one thing holding him back.
Tom looked down at the sleeping infant in his arms. He hugged her closer. Her tiny head was already covered in soft dark hair, a sign that she was going to look like her namesake. The only thing he had left of her.
Sybil.