That she was there at all was mystifying enough. She had made it abundantly clear that being in his company was repulsive to her, and he couldn't fathom why she would seek him out, even during the best of circumstances. But for her to be there now, so soon after her mother's death and while she must be grieving, it only compounded the mystery.
Added to this was her confounding action of closing the door behind her. He couldn't help remembering an occasion when he had been the one to close out the world to them. They had not been in such close proximity to each other since that day; indeed, he had been sure they would never be so again. He ruefully mused that she could not possibly be here to mirror all of his actions from that day. Her manner of speaking did not suggest a passionate interlude.
Not knowing at all what to expect, he motioned to the chair across the desk. "Please, be seated then," he said in response to her words. Could she see how puzzled he was? She stood formally, almost stiffly, giving away nothing. He settled back into his own chair, waiting for her to follow suit.
Her stiffness gave way to the hesitance that had slowed her feet only moments before, for she still stood upright. But she did look around her nervously, as though afraid of being surrounded by enemies and was trying to find the nearest escape. He was suddenly struck with the thought that something had her greatly agitated, and whatever it was extended beyond the distress she must already be feeling. Afraid that this meant that something else had gone wrong in her home, that Mr. Hale was somehow in some danger, he worriedly asked, "What has happened, Miss Hale? Your father, has anything -"
"No, no," she interrupted quickly, reaching out a hand to calm his alarmed inquiry. "Do not distress yourself, my father is well." She checked herself with a glance to the floor. "That is, well as he can be under the circumstances," she amended quietly.
"Of course," he spoke now just as quietly. He had felt a little foolish asking what had happened when it was too clear what was occurring in her family, but he was relieved to know nothing else calamitous had taken place.
She still had not moved from her position, and another awkward silence fell. He roused himself to continue. "Please allow me to express my condolences," he said softly. "I know what it is to lose a parent. I am very sorry for your loss, Miss Hale."
She nodded in response. "Thank you, Mr. Thornton." The brief energy she had needed to exert herself to assure him and now to accept his sympathy was finally enough to move, and she now sat in the proffered chair. But though she sat nearer to him, she was no closer to knowing how to begin what she must say. "I understood that you came to our home yesterday."
"Yes," he replied awkwardly. "To see your father. But I do understand his feelings at not seeing me. I was not offended at being turned away."
"He will be relieved to hear that. He was sorry to send you back. He was simply . . . unable to see anyone." For more reasons than Mr. Thornton knew, she thought.
He nodded in comprehension. "Of course. But whenever he requires me, I am at his service." With a tremor in his voice, he pressed forward. "I am also at your service, Miss Hale. If there is any help you need at this time – or any other time – please believe that I am honored and glad to be of any use to you."
She lifted her head in wonder at his words. Little did he know what she would ask of him, and here he had given her a perfect opening. The feeling way he spoke touched her heart tenderly, and she was too overcome by his kind tone at the moment for speech. She had hoped that she would be able to stay in control of her feelings, but they refused to be suppressed. Too much had happened in the last few days for her to be unaffected by the sympathetic way he expressed himself, especially in contrast to the cold manner they both had been forcing upon each other the past few weeks. It was all too much for her vulnerable and trembling heart to behave coolly any longer.
For his part, her silence and stare meant something very different. He would not retract what he said, nor look away in shame, but he was certain she was interpreting his offer in the worst way, as an affront to her dignity and an unwanted revelation of his continued regard. He knew he took a risk by speaking so unguardedly, but his compassion and love for her demanded he do so. He was not a machine, unable to repress his natural impulse to comfort her in a time of need. But she must be so offended that he would offer himself up as some sort of champion to save her from her grief. She must despise him even more than she already had.
This was why it was another shock to him when her eyes, so capable of regally looking down on him and flashing with indignation, now brimmed over with moisture. No sooner had her eyes filled with tears, than those tears came spilling and crashing down over her cheeks, and she had to avert her head, stifling an unmistakable sob. In an instant, he was kneeling at her side, wrestling a handkerchief from his pocket, and boldly placing a hand on her arm as she gave vent to her cries. His boldness was hardly registered at all by her; she did nothing to acknowledge his presence beyond accepting the handkerchief he held out.
Never before had he seen her composure crumble, and he felt helpless in the face of her sorrow. He was completely unaware of how to comfort his own sister, although he had long ago ceased to try. In any case, Fanny had never cried like this in front of him – only complained and harangued. His own mother never gave way to great feeling, either, and he would have been at a loss to help her if she did. As for Margaret, he longed to enfold her in his arms until her sobs ceased, but although she had not rebuffed his hand on her arm, she was sure to cast him away with some choice words if he dared such a liberty.
"Miss Hale," he began softly as her cries faded. "I apologize for offending you. I only wish to help you. I did not intend to upset you, but I obviously have." She had not looked his way yet, although she was now quiet. "Tell me what I must do to make amends."
With an incredulous eye, she now turned to him, traces of her tears still present on her face. He had to stop himself from reaching up to wipe them away.
"You do not know," she whispered. "You do not know what you offer, Mr. Thornton." Another tear escaped her, and with a quaking hand she brushed it off. Taking an unsteady breath to calm the flutterings in her heart and stomach. "You do not know," she murmured again, looking away to stare intently at her hands and the handkerchief they grasped. How could she face him and say it?
Still quietly, but more deliberately, he spoke. "Then tell me."
She turned her face to him once more. The compassion he had spoken with was still there in his eyes, but also strength. He was intent on knowing what drove her to his door, and the fierceness of his powerful eyes seemed to probe into her soul. Another quavering breath, and she asked, "Can I trust you, Mr. Thornton?"
Had she asked him any other day under any other circumstances, he would have been offended. Had he not proven to her that he was honorable? Had he done nothing to earn her confidence? But now he saw the depths from which she crawled to ask such a simple, yet crucial question. She was humbling herself before him now, and she was afraid. Terribly afraid. This extraordinary woman who had braved a violent mob to protect him was frightened by whatever she had come to speak, and this realization halted the injury to his feelings such a question would otherwise have prompted.
With a firm set to his mouth, he moved his hand to cover hers in her lap. For only a moment she looked down in surprise, but something impelled her to say nothing and to simply meet his gaze head-on again. He looked at her long and carefully, studying her as she studied him. Finally, he broke the silence. "You can. You must know you can trust me."
His deep voice echoed through her very bones, and she let herself believe him. That he was sincere was clear, and that she felt comforted, even for a moment, was a relief. But still she shook her head lightly in response. "It is not that simple, I'm afraid."
His eyes hardened and he withdrew his hand. "Then why bother asking me such a thing?" he asked, some frustration seeping into his quiet voice.
"Because you cannot imagine what I wish to – what I am here to tell you. You may change your mind." Now she dropped her head again, ashamed that she let her doubts cloud those brief moments of peace and comfort.
Only her earlier display kept any of his budding anger at bay. Why did she have to be so infuriating? Why could she not simply believe him and leave it at that? "I will not," he replied firmly. How he wished to force her to look at him, to take her face in his hands and keep her there, perhaps for the rest of his life. Instead he waited for her to move of her own volition. It did not take long, but it felt an eternity before she did so.
She took a final deep and weary breath as she looked at him. So slight was the nod of her head that he would have missed it were he not focused so closely on her, but it was there. "Perhaps you should sit again, Mr. Thornton," she murmured.
At once he rose and crossed back over to his chair, but he never looked away from her. He was too anxious that she might disappear if he let her out of his sight. He sat rigidly and in silence, willing himself to be patient and let her proceed at whatever pace she chose.
Still clutching his handkerchief in her hands, she began twisting it around nervously. "I'm afraid . . . I don't know where to begin. I may not be very clear."
"I'm listening." His voice was a mere rumble, but his gaze was constant and he exuded an air of keen interest.
It was easier for her to look away as she spoke, but even as she directed her words to the floor, she knew he was listening, just as he said. "To be perfectly honest," her voice stumbled. "I- I do not know what you could possibly do to help, Mr. Thornton. I only felt – that is, I felt . . . I must come and ask. There may be nothing at all you can do for us, and . . . I suppose that would be all right, but – there must be a reason that you were my . . . answer."
"Answer?" he inquired, puzzled.
She shook her head ferociously. "That is not what matters. Not now, anyway. I am here. And if I don't tell you now, I may never do so."
"Then tell me," he repeated his invitation.
She closed her eyes once more, praying for strength and courage. If God had truly told her to come here, the least He could do was help her speak.
"You do not know I have a brother." There. It was begun. She could continue now. She still could not bring herself to look at Mr. Thornton, so she did not see his stunned reaction, but he said nothing beyond an audible intake of breath. "His name is Frederick. He is . . . many years my senior. We do not talk about him, nor do we see him. Why we do not . . . this is a secret we keep."
She hated the inarticulate way she spoke, but she gave Frederick's history, keeping her eyes stubbornly averted from Mr. Thornton. She spoke about the ship, the captain, the mutiny, and Frederick's subsequent removal to Spain. Mr. Thornton was too well acquainted with the law to know what danger her brother would be in if he were discovered in England, so she did not elaborate on the consequences of Frederick's brave, if criminal, actions.
Shocked as he was at this revelation, he failed to see what had her so frightened. It was a sad history for her to relate, obviously, and it must be painful for her family to be separated from Frederick, but as long as he stayed away, he was safe. Until she began to speak of her mother's unabashed favoritism of her son. He felt his chest constrict at a suspicion of what she was about to tell him as she mentioned Mrs. Hale's memories and love for Frederick. Surely he was wrong. His suspicions had to be wrong. A man would not be so foolhardy as to risk . . . But still he did not interrupt her, even as she wound her way to confirming what he speculated.
"And then Mother became so ill," she was saying. "She knew her time was fast approaching, and she became desperate." Margaret little knew that Mr. Thornton by now could clearly see the end of this history and what brought her here, so engrossed was she by the tale. "She was heartbroken to think that she would die without seeing Fred again, and she made me promise to write to him, to tell him of how close she was to death. She knew . . . and I knew . . . that if he were made aware of it, he would come. Heaven alone knows what compelled me to make such a promise and to carry it out, but I did, not really knowing how preposterous or dangerous it was. If my father had known, he would have stopped me, but I didn't tell him until it was too late."
She shook her head, still irked by her naivety. It was the first lull in nearly ten minutes of speaking, and she would have continued if his voice hadn't arrested her.
"Your brother is here."
She raised her eyes finally to see him staring intently at her. His face was deadly serious, and she could only think of one response.
"My brother is here," she repeated.
A/N: Anyone who is a writer here will know that your characters don't always act how you plan; as you actually write them out, their personalities direct them to say different things and behave in different ways than you initially thought, and this can be really frustrating. This conversation between Margaret and Thornton isn't really much different than I first imagined, but I first envisioned them being a LOT colder to each other before the major revelation. And then Margaret went and cried on me! And what could John do BUT try and comfort her and be gentle and tender? His response is actually supported from the book. When he visits Mr. Hale after Mrs. Hale's funeral, Margaret's there and he is compelled to offer her some sympathetic words and he speaks really kindly to her, and this is AFTER the events of Outwood station and he's ticked off and confused. But even then he's kind to her in the face of her mother's death, and she's not able to say anything in reply because she's overwhelmed by his kindness. So even though this part of their conversation ended up being warmer than I first outlined, it's not completely out of character, at least for him. I hope that, even though they will not act as their original counterparts did, John and Margaret are still recognizable to you. Thanks for your reviews so far! They buoy me up.