I was highly encouraged by several people to write the next chapter, especially since we're so close to the end of this story (which means that if you haven't read chapter 48, PLEASE go and do so!) I've imagined the confrontation that takes place in the chapter for a looooooooooooong time, and once I got going, I couldn't help it; so needless to say, this is the longest chapter this lil' fic has seen (and I regret nothing!)

THANK YOU to everyone for reading and reviewing! I would *really* love to hear your thoughts after this chapter. WARNING: this chapter is dark, and involves "an adult shouting/frightening a child", which might be triggering for some readers. Please continue with caution. Thank you, again, for reading if you do. The end is in sight...

Farewell, My Love
May, 1927

The last time he darkens Downton's doors is to celebrate his father's remarriage, of all things.

His father…a man quickly approaching seventy, is getting married again. And to the mother of Patrick's replacement, of all people.

He can't help but feel this is a betrayal to his mother. He can't stand the way Imogen gushes on and on about how "romantic" she thinks it all is. "Isn't it wonderful, Larry? To have a second chance at happiness?"

He snorts. He finds himself wondering if his father had a first chance. He finds himself wondering if this, what he has with Imogen, is his "second chance". If it is, he can't help but admit…he's not happy. But really, how could he be, when he's settling for "second best"?

It doesn't help that she's there. Of course she is. The wedding is being held at Downton, and she adores this woman, this "Cousin Isobel" as she calls her.

She's had her baby.

That makes three.

Sybil and her Irish wolfhound have managed to have three pups, and it wouldn't surprise him if he learned that she's pregnant again.

The eldest, a girl, is an odd mix of both parents. The second, a boy, is the spitting image of the chauffeur. And then there's the baby; another girl, only four months younger than his own daughter.

His daughter.

Lydia Grey, named after his mother.

She looks just like Imogen. She pouts like her, too.

Sybil's baby looks like her, and suddenly he finds himself whisked back to that day when he first saw her in the Downton nursery, her tear-stained face looking up at him from inside her cradle.

Her eyes were so blue then…as blue as they are now.

So too are the eyes of Sybil's youngest. The same eyes Larry remembers from when he first met her, as a baby.

He can't explain it, but he's drawn to the child, and so while guests mingle in the great hall, Larry finds himself climbing the stairs to the nursery, where Sybil disappeared only fifteen minutes ago to put her youngest down for a much needed rest.

It's quiet in the nursery. The nanny is nowhere to be seen. The child, for the moment, is by herself. And just like he had done over thirty years ago, he moves towards the crib to gaze down at the girl, her startling blue eyes looking up at him with wide-eyed surprise.

Oh God…there's no mistaking it. She truly does look just like Sybil!

His breath is shaky as he reaches down with trembling hands, and gasps as he feels her tiny weight between his fingers.

He picks her up.

God, she's so small, and yet she squirms and writhes with an energy she doesn't look big enough to possess.

"You should have been mine…" he whispers to the child.

She makes a face and starts to squirm even more.

Tears are clouding his eyes, and he swallows as he draws her close, holding her in a way he's never held Lydia. Not that he's cruel to his daughter, but he's never felt a desire to be overly affectionate. That's just not how it's done. But with this girl, this babe whose name he doesn't even know, he can't help but hold her as if she were made of spun gold.

"You should have been mine…" he repeats, both sadly and reverently.

Oh, if she were his, if she were the daughter he had made with Sybil, he wouldn't care that she was a girl. He wouldn't care if the name "Grey" dies with him. He wouldn't mind in the slightest. He would fawn over her, spoil her, hold her at every chance he could. If she were his daughter, he would devote every waking minute to her happiness…

But she's not his daughter.

She's the daughter of that paddy.

She's the spawn of that grubby chauffeur, who stole Sybil from him, who took her to a harsh land, away from everyone who loved her, got her pregnant, abandoned her, brought scandal to the Crawleys, and made Sybil an outcast…

…And she still loves that dirty mick.

She STILL ruts with him, has his children, and…and…DAMN IT ALL, must she always look at that filthy paddy like that? Does she EVER stop smiling? Stop glowing? Stop beaming with "pride"? WHAT IN GOD'S NAME DOES SHE HAVE TO BE PROUD ABOUT!?

The child is starting to whimper and he looks down at her, and suddenly all those soft, sweet emotions he was feeling earlier have changed to disgust and bitterness.

"Why…" he finds himself snarling at the babe who is truly starting to wail. "WHY DID YOU HAVE TO LOOK LIKE HER!?" he demands, holding up the child and shaking her harshly. "WHY COULDN'T YOU LOOK LIKE HIM!? IT WOULD BE EASIER TO DESPISE YOU THEN!"

"LARRY!"

He whirls around, his face going pale and his eyes going wide as he stares back at the very woman who continues, still, to haunt his dreams.

"Sybil, I—"

"Larry…" she interrupts, her voice an eerie calm, but also as cold as ice. She's looking directly at the child in his arms. "Put…my…daughter…down."

His hands actually clutch the child a little tighter. The girl is truly screaming now.

"Larry, I will not ask you again…PUT HER DOWN."

"Sybil, please, I can explain—"

"What's going on…?"

Oh this is just what he needs, the bloody paddy entering the fray! The man pauses in the nursery doorway, concern and confusion on his face, but his features freeze as he takes in the sight of Larry holding his child.

The wolfhound snarls and takes a threatening step towards him, but Sybil puts a hand on the Irishman's shoulder. "Give her to Tom, Larry."

He looks pleadingly at her, looking for that sweetness she's always possessed, for that sympathetic understanding she's always shown, ever since she was a child.

But there is none as she glares back at him.

He's barely loosened his hold on the child, before the chauffeur snatches her up, and starts to immediately murmur words that he assumes are meant to be "comforting" in that strange foreign language of his homeland.

"Take her outside, Tom," Sybil commands, her glare never lessening.

It's obvious the paddy wants to stay; he's got plenty of fight in him and Larry can only guess how much he wants to take it out on him, but the crying child is a priority, and so the Irishman murmurs something in Sybil's ear, before turning and leaving, the babe's cries fading as he moves away from the nursery.

He doesn't know it, but it's the last time he'll ever see the man.

"Sybil—"

"I want you to go, Larry," she says, her voice cold, soft, but very clear.

"Sybil, please—"

"I want you to go and never come back. Never."

"I STILL LOVE YOU!"

He didn't mean to blurt the words out, but he couldn't stop himself. And God help him, he's crying. Just like that baby.

There's a flicker of something in her eyes, despite the cold glare she's giving him. Compassion? Sympathy? Pity? All of the above? But it's not what he wants. It never has been.

"I love Tom, Larry. I always have."

"WHY!?" he demands, his face crumbling. He's beyond caring at this point. "WHY couldn't you love me?"

He reaches for her, but she sidesteps him, and his hands are left holding nothing but dead air.

"Because Tom always saw me, under every layer, and despite my faults, loved me for who I truly am. You…" she sighs and looks down. "You love an 'idea' of me, Larry. But it's not really 'me' that you love."

Her words are hard. And he feels his heart and stomach sink as she speaks.

"I wouldn't have made you happy, despite what you might think."

"You're wrong…" he rasps, his voice thick with tears and bitterness. But he doesn't know who he's trying to convince more.

She straightens her back and lets out a sigh. "Goodbye, Larry," she simply says, and there's no mistaking the finality in her words.

Less than hour later, he and Imogen are in their car, Downton Abbey fading in the distance.

Imogen is talking, unaware of all that's gone on, gabbing about the wedding, but he's long since learned how to tune her out.

It's ironic. All those other times when he vowed never to set foot at Downton again, never to see or have anything to do with Sybil Crawley or whatever she calls herself now, he's always broken that vow.

But Sybil's taken care of that now.

He will never see her again.

Now begins his exile.