Only five chapters left at this one. Thanks for the continued support and readership! I won't say much about this; all will be revealed at the end...

Devastating News
August, 1920

The telegram comes to his town house late at night, but he isn't there to receive it.

His valet takes it and pays the messenger, promising to deliver it as soon as he is able. But even when dawn comes, the telegram remains unopened.

Dawn becomes morning, and still there is no sign of him. His valet begins to worry, as do the other servants. They have no idea what the telegram contains, but they can only imagine the sort of news something that arrives in the middle of the night would carry.

By midafternoon, his valet goes in search of him. He hasn't been to a brothel since that night, so his man doesn't even bother checking them. Instead, his valet goes to the clubs he typically frequents, and then makes inquiries at several homes of his so-called "close" friends.

It's at one of these, that he's found.

Passed out on a couch in some billiard room, several empty bottles lying on the ground beside him.

"Sir," his valet tries to gently wake him. "Sir, you must wake up; you must come with me."

God, how his head hurts. He groans and makes a weak attempt at pushing his valet away, trying to roll over and ignore the rest of the world. He's been doing that for the last several nights.

"Sir…" his valet tries again. "Forgive me, but you really must—"

"FUCK OFF!" Larry howls, finding the strength within him and shoving his valet away so violently, the man falls backwards and nearly bangs his head against the billiard table.

The poor man scrambles to his feet and mumbles several apologies, before turning and fleeing the room, like some cowardly dog with its tail between its legs.

He doesn't want to be bothered. He doesn't to think about "what might have been". He doesn't want to remember that he was so close…so close to having the one thing he's ever truly wanted…but again, and again, and again, he comes up short…

He thought for certain, now that she was back, now that all had been revealed about the kind of man she had married—a failure at being a husband and provider, not to mention a violent arsonist—that surely now, NOW, she would have come to her senses?

He didn't care that she was damaged goods; he would still take her, EVEN NOW, now that she was ready to birth that mongrel's pup—

"Grey, get up," mutters his friend (though he honestly can't remember his "friend's" name). "There's something you need to see…"

The voice is so grave that Larry feels a chill run down his spine.

Something isn't right.

Despite the pain in his head, he forces himself off the couch and leaves the billiard room…only to find that his valet has returned, and sees the paper that he's holding.

The man looks deeply troubled, and mumbles some sort of apology as he holds out the telegram.

…He doesn't want to touch it.

No.

No, whatever news it contains, he knows he's not going to want to read it.

Something's happened. Something bad…

"If you don't, then I will—" his friend reaches for the telegram, but Larry beats him to it, snatching it away because even worse than having to read bad news himself, is someone else reading it to him.

He rips open the envelope and glares down at the words.

The telegram slips from his fingers.

Cold.

Shock.

Pain.

He was not expecting this…

Dead.

…She's dead.

"Sir?" his valet gasps, before bending to retrieve the fallen telegram.

But…how can that be? How…how can she be dead?

He snatches the telegram from his valet's hands and scours its few sentences for an explanation.

He can't believe it.

He doesn't want to believe it.

SHE CAN'T BE DEAD!

…But she is.

"Grey, what is it? What's happened?"

His "friend" is talking to him now, demanding to know the contents of the telegram. Larry is too cold to say anything.

He had come to this house to drink and forget. He hasn't stepped foot inside his own home, because he wants to run away from the other piece of devastating news.

Sybil's had her baby.

A girl.

And despite complications, both mother and daughter are doing fine.

Oh the irony.

He ran away from home to get drunk in peace, because he didn't want the image Sybil's version of Madonna and Child, haunting him there.

Only to be greeted by the ghost of his mother, via this telegram.

Sybil is a mother.

And his mother is dead.