At dinner Margaret made a concentrated effort to be kind to Edith and Mr. Thornton. She was careful to pause before speaking and keep from blurting her opinions about every topic. It was difficult, having to censor herself in order to be accepted in society. In Alton her friends valued her opinions, and they would never take offense to any misspoken rudeness that might escape. In honesty, it was the ability to speak her mind and be valued that prompted Margaret's article in the Gazette. It was true that it gave her purpose and distraction, something she sorely needed. It gave her more than that, however. In the guise of her pen name she was able to lay out her points thoughtfully, carefully, and expect others to listen. No one would dismiss her valid arguments simply because she was a woman, because she was passionate, or because she was new to city life. Her opinion was laid there in black and white. Others may not agree with it, but they could not force her to hide it.
Pleasant company, however, required that Margaret reserve her spirited discussions for those who loved her and knew her well. She was thankful for Aunt Winnie, Jude, Helen and even Mathew; as they appreciated her fervor and wit. It was clear around the dinner table that Edith did not appreciate being argued against. Equally clear was the fact that her brother enjoyed arguing against her. Their quibbles made Margaret smirk.
"Edith. You cannot give so much credit to the gossip columns. They pay money for stories and there are plenty willing to fabricate items to sell in that trade." Mr. Thornton was scowling again. Margaret watched the way the lines on his furrowed brow angled into his strong, straight nose and how his nose in turn led her gaze to his lips. She watched him purse them in a half-smiling expression of disagreement.
"With all of the scandal surrounding the Monroe house I am certain that at least most of it is the absolute truth. Gossip column or no." Edith shot back at her brother as Margaret continued her examination of his features. From his lips her eyes traveled to his clean-shaven chin, starched white collar and wide angular shoulders.
Without warning Margaret felt a pinch at her elbow from her left. She started and gave Jude an incredulous look.
"You were staring." Jude leaned to Margaret's ear and whispered, a giggle playing at her voice. Margaret's stomach flopped as she realized it was true. Her chest burned with a rush of tickling embarrassment and she reached for her wine glass to cover it. What on earth had just happened? She'd been absolutely transfixed in the visage of Mr. Thornton. So much so that she'd openly stared at him for – she didn't even know how long. The desire to look at him again leeched into her mind as she contemplated her own behavior. Never in her life had she been so entranced by a man.
You've never met a man like him. Her mind answered. It was true. Mr. Thornton was not only handsome, although that was true and well noted. He was also an intelligent and capable man with a successful business. He managed to balance the demand on his time with the care and provision he made for his sister and mother. He displayed excellent command of his temperament; a trait that was advertised all evening as he quarreled with his impossible sibling.
As dinner progressed, Edith, Mathew, Helen and Mr. Thornton turned the conversation to one of literature. It was a subject that Margaret knew well, and she ventured into their discussion. At first they speculated about important columnists, stemming from Edith's interest in the gossip writers. Margaret found she was lost in the act of sharing suppositions and facts bouncing between the table guests, and quite enjoyably so. Jude and Aunt Winnie listened intently, but professed a lack of knowledge when addressed directly. After a time the conversation steered toward George Gordon the Lord Byron and his poetical works. He was a figure of some scandal and managed to find himself exiled for his escapades. Edith, Mathew and Mr. Thornton believed that Byron's strange nature cast a shadow on his works. They laughed about beautiful love poems or fantastic tales of bravery that might take on new meaning when faced with the moral degeneration of their author. Margaret couldn't help but disagree.
"It's obvious that Gordon had serious deficiencies, but I think that the words he wrote are still true and honest. Perhaps the most honest thing the man ever felt." She argued. Mr. Thornton turned to face her with a challenging look that mirrored one she'd previously seen on Edith. Inwardly Margaret braced herself for the sparring.
"Do you mean to say, Miss Wilde, that a man who devilishly left his own illegitimate daughter to rot in a convent – resulting in her death – meant words such as 'she walks in beauty?' " He countered her with incredulity and the faintest hint of a smile.
"If that poem is to be the example, I can say without hesitation that I do honestly believe that our George Gordon meant every word. The Poem describes a woman of extraordinary beauty, and I think it is safe for us to deduct that Mr. Gordon had quite the eye for ladies." Margaret smiled back and others laughed at her joke. "In truth, I think it is nearly impossible for a writer such as Gordon to be so passionate, so articulate about a feeling he does not have. The best writing must come from personal experience." Margaret knew the poem well. Her father had often recited it to her, whole or in pieces, as a gesture of affection. If she was crying, Father would cup her face and say 'all that's best of dark and bright…' before offering her his hand-kerchief. Margaret pushed the painful memory away.
John watched Miss Wilde's eyes as she spoke, something he'd done all evening without his own notice. Their golden brown color seemed amplified by the lamplight and they almost glowed in stark contrast to her dark and full lashes. He observed abstractly that she wore no kohl around her eyes nor rouge on her cheeks, nothing to glamor her already lovely face. John wondered if that was a difference in ladies' fashion between the city and country, or if Miss Wilde simply preferred not to make a pretense of her face.
He suspected the latter. Miss Wilde didn't seem typical of the women he knew in society, friends of Edith with whimpering voices and trivial interests. She seemed to enjoy answering his friendly taunts, displaying grace and wit with her well fashioned replies.
"Ah, and do you know many Authors that you can set as an example for your argument?"
Mr. Thornton was still teasing her, Margaret knew. She wondered briefly if he knew about her forays into writing, and inwardly jolted when she realized that the article she'd written for the Gazette would be a conversation point for him and his brewer colleagues. Suddenly she felt embarrassed and worried that he might dislike what she'd said or think she was ridiculous for meddling in his affairs. She hadn't considered him at all when writing it.
Thankfully, Helen was sharp and quick. She derailed the question with a question of her own, feigning ignorance about the poem in question and asking Mr. Thornton if he had a volume in the library she could borrow to read up on it.
"Oh, no need Miss Watson. I've committed it to Memory." He sat his utensils down and pushed slightly away from the table, squaring his shoulders and sticking out his chin.
"She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies…"
Mr. Thornton spoke the words beautifully, and his melodic voice filled Margaret's senses. He was educated, some part of her brain noted, he must be to read and recite so eloquently. Tears pricked at the edges of her eyes, memories of her Father flooding her mind.
"One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace,
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling place."
Mr. Thornton continued, using his hands to emphasize the rhythm. He looked at his table guests each in turn, exhibiting a flare for dramatic performance. When his gaze reached Margaret she bit hard on her tongue, hoping that he couldn't see how the words affected her. It wasn't just the painful memories of lost endearment that sat like a stone in her stomach. Those feelings were joined with a score of others. Hopelessness, loneliness, longing and fear, indecision and worry all held their own weight piled in a heavy mound at the base of her spine. Still, there were more – these ones light as bubbles in contrast to their cold stone brothers. Hope, desire and excitement fluttered in her chest as he looked at her and spoke such sweet and familiar words.
Looking at her was a mistake, John realized the instant his eyes met hers. In that moment his mind went completely blank. All of the dinner conversation, the eager listening faces of his guests, the brewery and the band of hope all vanished, replaced with snapshots of Miss Wilde and her deep blue silk, dark hair and porcelain skin. Her wrinkled nose in response to Edith's incessant baiting, her practiced attempts at hiding her formidable opinion. Her sharp wit and interesting speculations. Honey colored eyes glistened with moisture in the lamplight as they looked up at him, capturing him in a way that he'd never experienced before.
Somewhere, the words floated –thank God!- into his empty mind. He moved his mouth to speak, but could not bring himself to look away from her. He struggled to resume the poem with the same volume and tenor as he'd left it, but found his voice much softer as he finished.
"And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent."
John took an exaggerated bow and broke his eyes away from her, sitting heavily in his chair while the table clapped for his performance. He wondered at himself inwardly. He'd memorized the poem under orders from his literature tutor and had recited it at many parties; a simple parlor trick that he'd learned to make use of. Never in all of those times had he found the words so meaningful. Perhaps Miss Wilde was right. Surely if a man like Byron was able to write words that sparked such passion, he must have some personal experience to draw from. He wondered foolishly what Byron would have thought of Miss Wilde.
The dinner guests erupted in a chorus of applause. There were kind words and smiles all around. It was the response John often received to his recitation. After all, it wouldn't be a well-used parlor trick if it wasn't a well-loved one. John tried not to notice that Miss Wilde hadn't smiled or clapped, and he wondered if she was angry over his teasing, or if he had come off as inappropriate in his demeanor. It occurred to him that he had no knowledge of Miss Wilde outside of this dinner table. Was she engaged? Did she have suitors? He made a note to ask Edith at the earliest convenience.
"What do you think Margaret?" Helen drew his attention across the table to Miss Wilde and John found himself anxious to hear her response.
"It was-" She was looking at her hands, twisting her napkin in her lap. Her dark hair cascaded out of her clips and tendrils hung at the union of her neck and shoulder. Her voice was thick and, it seemed to him, pained.
Margaret willed herself to take a deep breath. She looked at the ceiling to clear her eyes of unshed tears, abstractedly observing the detail in the paneling there. She breathed out slowly, and answered Helen.
"It was exquisite." It was. She'd been so overwhelmed with the depth and erraticism of her feelings that she had almost spilled over in tears.
Sensing the confusion from the other guests she added, "I'm sorry. The poem was one that my Father often recited and I just-" She brought the napkin to her nose, furious with herself as unexpected tears filled her eyes anew. She hadn't foreseen that saying the words out loud would intensify her emotions and that she would be heartbroken hearing them hang in the air.
Jude leaned in to comfort her, but Margaret shook her head and forced a smile. Mathew was kind enough to suggest Mr. Thornton give a tour of his engraving collection and the two men moved out of the dining room and into the hall. Margaret wished that Mr. Thornton hadn't seen her so ridiculously emotional. It seemed that she was doomed to be nothing but helpless in his mind.
