I don't own Downton Abbey, it belongs to ITV and Julian Fellowes (sadly).

This was written from a prompt on tumblr in September... I hope you enjoy.

He pauses. His hand, holding a tiny baby gown, hovers over the small suitcase. Why was he doing this? They were perfectly fine here, at Downton, the place where his wife had grown up in, the place where he had met the love of his life... the place where she died.

Shaking his head, he proceeded to pack again. He will do this. It's the right choice. He will not have his daughter grow up in the Crawley ways. No, he will not. He forbids it.

He looks over to the small bassinet just a few feet away from him. His baby girl, sweet little Saoirse Patricia Branson, slept unaware of what her father was planning.

Unaware that her mother is dead.

His jaw clenches and his lips twist in a determined manner, this is the right choice. He knows it is. He clasps the suitcase shut.

He will do this. His daughter is Irish, like her father; Catholic, like her father. She would be so terribly out of place amidst the Crawleys, firm Englishmen, members of the Church of England.

He gently gathers his daughter in to his arms; the suitcase's handle secure in the palm of his hand.

He leaves.

Not because he wants to (God knows how much he doesn't like Downton Abbey). He leaves because he needs to.

For his daughter.