Posted on Friday, 7 April 2000, at 8 : 27 p.m.

A hush fell on the house. The hour was late, the festivities over. Only the crackle of the low fire was audible in the sitting room. The candles had burned low, the orange glow from the fire reflected in the window glass, beyond it the dark of the night.

His wife had retired to her chamber, spirits high, her commentary unceasing, he was certain, until she had lapsed into sleep. Even then it was not guaranteed.

He chuckled.

"Oh, my Lizzy..." The words were faintly whispered and somewhat wistful. His eyes gazed about the room slowly taking in the details, so personal, that defined it as a ladies' domain; paintings, doilies, table runners, all crafted by his own daughters. Even the hideous portrait of a cocker spaniel, scrawled by Lydia so many years earlier, elicited a smile from his lips and a fond recollection of the little girl with blonde curls and an impatiently stamping foot.

Reaching slowly, his fingers traced the delicate embroidery of the table cover next to his chair. Jane's serenity and easy temper showed in the selection of coloured threads in the tiny, pale flowers forming the central design on the cloth. An image of his eldest rose in his mind, as she had appeared that very morning, fresh-faced, tiny white flowers seemingly sprinkled carelessly throughout her hair. She had been the proverbial beautiful bride, cheeks aglow with a faint blush of colour. Never could there have been a prouder moment for any father. Yet, in the end, he was handing her over into another man's care. Too many images, drawn from memory, paraded before his eyes in quick succession. In every one she was the wide-eyed innocent, trusting, never fearful.

Always Jane.

And then there was Lizzy, the bright spark in his world of nonsensical females and their incessant prattle. Lizzy was the only one with an ounce of common sense, with the gift for intelligent observation, and conversation.

Even in her role as bride that mischievous sparkle in her eyes could not be damped. Jane had appeared at the alter, properly pious and humble, her groom equally earnest. Yet Lizzy.... she had savoured every moment of the service, living it, breathing it, and at the end her radiant joy shone forth for all to see.

It was then that his own sense of loss was keenest felt.

The chime of the clock striking the hour stirred him from his thoughts. Glancing at the time he recollected with a start that both couples would have arrived in London hours since. Jane and Lizzy would already have embarked on their new roles as wives of respected gentlemen, settling into their new homes in town, acquainting themselves with the household staffs and establishing their positions as Mistresses of their husbands' homes.

He harboured no doubt about either one's success.

With a sigh, he crossed the room to pick up a piece of needlework that had slipped from its place in the basket and lay partially hidden behind a chair leg.

He recognised Lizzy's handiwork; the even rows of tiny stitches, the distinctive choice of flowers... only Lizzy would choose a wild buttercup over the more refined roses and lilies of the garden. The bright colours were reminiscent of Elizabeth's vivacity, the intricate interlacing of stitches indicative of her wit.

It was, however, unfinished, punctuating the sensation of loss he felt in the knowledge of her absence from this house from this day forward.

With a sigh he replaced the bit of fabric inside the basket and turned to the door.

Hand on the handle he took one more look about the room then slipped through to the hallway, closing the door behind him.

The End