r. Darcy sat in his dressing room sipping a glass of brandy. Only once in his life had he been as nervous as he was this night, and he hoped the drink would have a calming influence. He waited a few more minutes and then called in his valet. The routine of changing into his nightshirt, washing up, and combing out his hair took place with few words. He put on his dressing gown and dismissed his man. He walked over to the mirror and stood before it, not out of vanity, but in reflection. He was still sometimes uncertain of himself. When his offer of marriage had been refused by the woman he adored, his previously impenetrable self-confidence was greatly shaken. Since then, he had come to use his mirror the way an old seer might use a scrying bowl. He stared deep into the glass in order to gain insight.

He considered his reflection, or, more accurately, himself, his thoughts and feelings. He had always been an introspective man, and tonight there was more to inspect than usual. He was not certain he understood everything that he was feeling. It was true that he was, without a doubt, deliriously happy, but there seemed to be other emotions in him which were harder to assess. It seemed to him that there was some sadness mixed in with the joy, and this surprised him greatly. How on such a night as this, could there be any cause to be melancholy?

He thought that, perhaps, there were two reasons for his sadness. First, there were people missing from his life, who he wished could have lived to see this day, and to meet his Elizabeth. His mother and father were gone, and at such a life-altering moment, he would have liked to have them present to share in it, and to give their blessing. Second, this night was the end of something special. For two months he and Elizabeth had grown closer each day, as they had walked together down countless paths near her home and talked for hours on end. Gone were the arguments of their early acquaintance; in their place was an understanding that was growing with each moment they spent together. There was much innocence and a great deal of excitement in those days. He had enjoyed rushing to call at Longbourn each morning, to kiss her hand, and to have her to himself for a few hours; to sneak glances at her, when they could not be near; and to regret having to return to Netherfield each night. Now that time was over, and they were about to begin something new. Perhaps, he thought, he was sad because he was in transition, from one part of his life to the next--from the freedom of youth to the settled life of marriage. He also knew that after this night, his relationship with Elizabeth would change, and there was some uncertainty in that change.

His mind continued to drift through such thoughts, until he was finally recalled to himself by the loud cracking of a damp log in the fire.

She was waiting for him. She was his. His wife. He smiled at this thought and gave a contented sigh--finally satisfied with what he saw before him. He took one last look in the mirror, this time no deeper than his reflected image. He wanted her to be pleased with his appearance, so he shook his hands through his hair, and he checked to see if his dress was in order. Then, he walked towards the door to the bedchamber.

There, he stopped. He leaned against the casement and drank in the sweet anticipation of the moment. He wanted to linger in it, and to experience its full intensity. He tried to imagine just where she would be in the room--standing in the warmth of the fire, seated by the window, or, perhaps, on the bed? Would her gown be white or some deeper shade? Would her hair be pinned up or would it be free to fall down along her graceful neck and shoulders? Was she as nervous as he was? or, perhaps, even more so?

He touched the doorknob, and, whether it was from a natural phenomenon or the excitement of the moment, he could not tell, but he was certain that he had felt a brief chill of electricity run through him, as he opened the door and walked through into his new life.

The End.