TIME JUMP! We go from 1927 to 1946 (Larry is nearly 57 years old). All that is left is the epilogue, which I'll post later (by tomorrow at the latest, unless people REALLY want me to post it tonight) ;oP
THANK YOU again for your support and encouragement, for reading and reviewing. It's hard to believe that it's almost over! So I won't delay you further...
History Repeating
December, 1946
"…So that's it then," she murmurs after a long pause. "You have nothing else to say to me?"
He keeps his eyes steady and focused on the dying embers of the fire before him. "There's nothing more to be said," he mutters after a moment, before bringing the brandy glass to his lips.
She sighs, a sign that she's still there, even though he would know if she had left or not, even without looking at her.
"I…" she pauses and he can hear the tears in her voice, but he still keeps his gaze locked on the fireplace.
"I had hoped that…" she takes a deep breath. "…That we could have parted as friends," she finally manages to say, though she nearly loses the control she's trying to hold over her voice at that last word.
Friends.
Did he ever really have a friend? Was Patrick even his friend? How many times did he try to be friends with…
No, no, he's gotten rather good at not thinking or saying her name after all these years, so he won't break the trend now.
"Well…" she sighs again, clearly having collected herself. "It doesn't matter. I don't need your blessing."
His jaw clenches and he raises his glass to his lips once more.
"I suppose then that…this is goodbye."
He closes his eyes and his fist grips the arm of his chair.
Another long pause fills the room, but Larry knows she's still there, that she's still standing just a few feet behind him, offering him one last chance to say something, do something, to fix this mess that has taken place.
…But he's not going to.
Because to do so would be a form of "surrender", and he's far too stubborn for that.
That's why, despite the times he contemplated it, he never followed through with killing himself after that final rejection from…her. And she if she were here, she would no doubt stand before him and say that the entire reason he's never been able to move forward with his life is because he can't bring himself to "surrender" his unrequited feelings and accept the truth.
Her words still echo in his mind, despite the near twenty years that have passed since they were last spoken.
"You love an 'idea' of me, but it's not really 'me' that you love. I wouldn't have made you happy, despite what you might think…"
Perhaps if he believed this, he would have been able to move forward? But that requires surrender, which also means accepting "defeat".
Defeat…to the grubby chauffeur.
"Alright," he hears her whisper. The defeat he can't accept is painstakingly loud in that small, simple word. Her choice is another thing he can't surrender to, or accept.
"Goodbye then…Papa."
He closes his eyes and his heart sinks as he hears her turn and listens to her retreating steps, which are then followed by the sound of a door being closed.
She's gone.
And just like so many others, he'll never see her again either. He knows that. And while he can't accept the choice she's made, he can for some reason, accept this.
The fire is nearly gone and the room is cloaked in shadow. That doesn't stop him from eventually rising to pour himself another brandy.
Why was fate so cruel to him? All he wanted…all he's ever wanted was her. But a bloody Irishman named Branson took her from him, and now…it's happened again.
His daughter. His only child…
He and Imogen tried again…though he admits, his heart wasn't really "into it". There was a phantom pregnancy, but nothing more.
Indeed, fate has been most cruel. His sister has had four strong, healthy sons—FOUR! While he, the one responsible for carrying on the Grey family name, has just the one daughter. And even though his father has been dead for well over ten years, he can still feel the man's disapproving glares from beyond the grave.
He's a disgrace; a failure.
He's a failure to his lineage, a failure in his marriage, and now a failure as a father.
The only thing he seems to do right is drink…and so that's what he does.
He staggers back to his chair with a new glass and stares at the few, final embers, drinking and hoping the brandy will dull the throbbing pain in his left arm and shoulder, as well as his chest.
Somewhere in London, his wife sits alone in an empty house with only servants for company. But she's no doubt happier there, than she would be here at his family's estate.
Somewhere between here and London, his daughter has no doubt gotten on a train, traveling back to his wife…or…or to that…that…
He takes a great gulp of the amber liquid, not wanting to dwell one what's about to happen.
How…truly, HOW could fate be so cruel to do this to him…AGAIN?
He takes another drink, and another, and another…
…And then the glass slips from his fingers as a crushing pain settles over his chest, like a great weight. It's so heavy, he can barely breathe. He doesn't even have the strength to reach for the bell to ring for help.
He turns his eyes to the window, to the rising winter moon, the same moon that is rising over Dublin, where she and her brood returned many years ago. Even now, as he lays there dying, his final thoughts are of her.
He opens his mouth, thinking he'll go ahead and break his vow with his last breath and murmur her name…
But it isn't her name that leaves his lips.
"…Lydia…"