Margaret awoke suddenly. Disoriented, she cast her eyes around her room until full consciousness returned. When it did, she guessed it was still deep night, many hours still until daybreak. From the wakefulness she felt, she knew it was not likely she would fall back asleep quickly. The vague recollection of images from her dreams still swam about her, and she wondered if they had anything to do with bringing her out of slumber. A mirror, gentle hands, and a feeling of contentment were all she could recall, and she was sure nothing else would come to her. She very rarely remembered her dreams.
Hoping to lure herself back to sleep, she lit a candle and picked up a book. She generally read before going to bed, so she trusted that reading would make her body react to habit and she would tire again. She became absorbed in the book soon enough, her brief curiosity of her dream over, but in a moment, the memory of it rushed over her like a great wave, as quick as a lightning strike and nearly as illuminating and fierce. As she remembered it, she knew there would be no sleep for her tonight.
There was not much to recall, really. It was more a single scene that flooded her senses, but what a scene! She sat before a mirror, wearing a nightgown and combing her hair. She was humming a nonsense tune as she combed, stroke after stroke. A contented smile was on her face; she was anticipating company. The door to her room opened and she was so familiar with the sound, she did not even turn her head. She did not need to. She could see him approach in her mirror.
He walked toward her, a tender smile on his lips that she returned. Without words, he took the comb out of her hands and took up the task himself, clearing away the tangles and smoothing her tresses with a gentle touch. Too soon the task was complete and he set the comb on the vanity. Finally she turned away from the mirror to face him, allowing him to reach for her hands and pull her to her feet. A tingle in the air added a luster to his eyes as he caressed her face and drew her closer. Finally, before their lips met, she spoke a single word.
"John . . ."
Margaret buried her face in her hands. How could she have dreamed such a thing? It was not right; it was not proper. She tried to concentrate on the book in her hands, but it was to no avail. His face, his eyes, his hands insisted on dominance and she could not struggle against them. Most of all, she could not shake the disappointment that she had awoken before he was able to kiss her.
She groaned. How could she face Mr. Thornton now?
After a long and sleepless night, Margaret was finding it hard to attend to her mother while seated next to the warm fire. She had visited Bessy this morning and the exertion in combination with her lack of proper rest had exhausted her. She wanted desperately to give in to the blissful feeling of sleep, but her mother would wonder at her and she was sure she was too tired to come up with a story to explain her condition. She certainly would not tell her mother that she lost sleep another evening because of Mr. Thornton, nor would she dare confess the the exact circumstances of how he had distracted her from slumber.
She was grateful for the dimming light of evening, as it was hard for her to hide her blush as she recalled yet again his touch and tenderness. She reminded herself once more that it was just a dream, that he had not really looked at her in such a way, not to mention seen her in such a state of undress. Margaret was mortified at where her thoughts had taken her.
"You visited your Princeton friend again this morning, didn't you?" her mother said.
Rousing herself she replied, "Bessy? Yes. She was most astonished to learn that I am to dine at the Thorntons."
"Why should that astonish her?"
"I believe she was afraid I would not rise to their standards. She mentioned that they dine with 'the first folk' of Milton," she repeated with a smile.
Her mother huffed. "I do not know what puts the Thorntons so above you. You are a Beresford and have been used to being among the first families in London. Mr. Thornton himself comes to read with your father. There is no need to think we are not on an equal footing with them."
"There was no harm done by her concern, Mama. She did fear I would not have anything proper to wear, as well. I soon set her right on that score," she went on quickly before her mother could voice further dismay, "and she said she would like to come and see me after I have dressed and am ready to leave for the Thorntons. So you may both admire me in my fine feathers when the day comes."
"We do still need to decide what you will wear. Go and fetch what you have, Margaret, so I may look it over."
Glad to have an occupation, Margaret soon returned with some gowns she had been used to wearing in Harley Street and let her mother pick and fuss over what would be best. She would not give any of those Milton folk reason to look down on her daughter. She was so absorbed in her decision-making, she hardly needed Margaret to respond to her.
Once again, Margaret's mind began to wander as she thought of the dinner party and how everyone would look. She was also desirous of looking well, though perhaps she was not as zealous as her mother on that subject. She fingered the material, idly wondering what Mr. Thornton would like best. The green? The white? Would he admire her? Would she please him? Would he smile at her as he had . . .
"Stop this instant!" she thought angrily. It had only been a dream. It did not matter to her how she looked to Mr. Thornton. She would not think about him. She would not wonder what he would look like on the evening of the party, what they would talk of, whether he would fix her with his familiar look.
It was a look that she was finding hard to forget even in her waking hours. She had not seen him more than twice since their reconciliation, but each time an aspect of his handsome face lingered in her thoughts for the remainder of the day. The first time had been when he was slow to leave their home after a lesson with her father, and she came upon him on her way upstairs from the kitchen. Their conversation had been brief, but he had bestowed upon her so frankly his friendly and beautiful smile that she was able to forget easily any former tension and enjoy his company. Even after he had left, his smile appeared to her throughout the day, and she wondered what else she may do to elicit such a look from him more often. The second had been another evening he had taken tea with them, and most of his conversation was with her father, but he had looked over at her so much that she felt rather than heard his invitation to join them. It was only afterward that she realized she could read the expression of his eyes, and she felt both pleased and disconcerted that she could interpret his look so easily.
She sighed in annoyed resignation. She may as well admit it. More often than she had ever imagined she would, she thought of him. And what was more, she did want his admiration. She was coming to think of him as a potential . . . husband? Lover? She decided on the word "suitor". It was safest. And no matter the illusion of the dream she had, he did in reality look at her in a singular way. And he did feel strongly about her, of that she was certain. And clearly her mind and heart were telling her she felt more strongly about him than she had first thought when examining her feelings.
But she had only just decided to look at him as a friend! What of her decision to not acknowledge his interest? Having more dear feelings for him complicated the matter greatly, and she was frustrated at her weakness. Before she had realized his feelings, she had accepted his attentions without thought. If she were to encourage him, how was she supposed to go about such an undertaking? Giving him advice on courting a woman had been easy enough, but what advice did she have for herself? To overtly accept and encourage his interest was something completely foreign to her. How would she do such a thing? As this thought went through her, she was hit with the realization again - she wanted to encourage his attentions. She wanted to discover what such a relationship with him would be. She would think of him, she would seek his good opinion, she would even dream of him . . .
"Good evening, Mrs. Hale. Miss Hale."
She was caught completely off guard. It was as though she summoned him there by her thoughts alone. And with such thoughts as she had been harboring, she blushed hotly as she took in his smile.
"I have taken the liberty of bringing you some fruit, ma'am," he said to Mrs. Hale, presenting a small basket. Margaret had been so preoccupied by his face she had not noticed the basket in his hands. Recollecting herself and taking a breath, she also noticed her father's presence. How long had she been lost in her own thoughts? She had not even heard the front door!
Mr. Hale gladly asked Mr. Thornton to take a seat, and he hesitated only briefly to look over at Margaret to see if she approved of his staying. He was dismayed that she would not look at him, but she gave no visible sign of contradiction to her father's request, so he sat.
"I cannot stay long. My mother will be expecting me."
Mr. Hale waved a hand lazily. "Oh, no matter. We're always happy to receive you for any amount of time, aren't we?" He looked to his family to concur. His wife merely nodded, still trying to decide which gown would suit Margaret.
Margaret, however, did speak. "Yes, of course. You are always welcome, Mr. Thornton."
Was it just his imagination, or did her cheeks seem more rosy as she finally met his gaze? Was it her proximity to the fire, or was she blushing? What possible reason had he given her to blush? He was left to wonder this without any hint from her because she swiftly dropped her eyes to her hands before he could fully read her expression. She was almost behaving shyly. That was not like her. Was something amiss?
As Mr. Hale inquired of the progress of John's latest book of study, he discreetly observed Mrs. Hale; perhaps she had taken a turn for the worse and that was distracting Margaret. But though Mrs. Hale was a trifle paler than the last time he had seen her, her movements slower as she picked at some fabric, she did not seem to be in a state that would give Margaret any excess alarm. Was something else bothering her? He did his best to catch her eye as he conversed with her father, but she would obstinately do her work without looking up.
Suddenly Mrs. Hale broke in. "I have it! Margaret, I think the white silk will do nicely. Your Aunt Shaw did send that coral necklace and it will go very well."
Margaret was now forced to look up, but kept her eyes resolutely on her mother. She would not allow her eyes to stray to Mr. Thornton, afraid she would not be able to control the flush that was ever so near to betraying itself again. She had hardly been able to keep her countenance when she looked at him before. The thought of how much she admired his ice-blue eyes and strong jaw prompted an uncontrollable blush that she wanted to hide. She had averted her eyes as quickly as she could, but she was sure he noticed her red face. She only hoped her voice would not tremble and give her away as she must answer her mother.
"All right, Mama. I think it will do well if you say so."
"Let me hold it up to you for a moment."
"Oh, no, Mama, I'm sure we can do that later," she spoke quieter in futile desperation that he was not paying them any mind. But her mother only spoke louder.
"Nonsense, now stand up."
She obeyed and, unable to keep her eyes away from him any longer, she looked to see him watching the proceedings intently. She felt heat rise into her cheeks, embarrassing as the whole situation would have been under normal circumstances. But now it was excruciating. She felt as though she were parading in front of him, clamoring for his attention and admiration. She did not want him to think she would stoop to such manipulative arts.
In fact he thought no such thing, as he realized Mrs. Hale's task. He watched with interest as Margaret stood and allowed her mother to hold the dress against her. He was not able to imagine what the effect would be once Margaret wore the dress; he was more captivated by the flush creeping into her face. He found it quite becoming and was relieved to know that Margaret's composed and occasionally haughty exterior could be pierced by something other than a clumsy fall.
"Richard? Mr. Thornton? Do you not think Margaret will look beautiful in this?" Mrs. Hale asked to Margaret's infinite humiliation.
"Of course," Mr. Hale replied easily. "But then our Margaret is always so pretty."
If only he could express such a compliment with so much enthusiasm! But he did take the opportunity to gaze at her more attentively before answering. "Undoubtedly, Mrs. Hale, she will be most lovely." He felt safe saying that much, as Mrs. Hale had asked for just such a confirmation, and his mild manner would certainly not make Margaret any more uncomfortable than she clearly already was.
Mrs. Hale took the dress away and sat again, ringing for Dixon, but Margaret, having lifted her eyes after his comment, remained standing for a moment, offering him a small and secret smile. He readily returned it, and there was no telling how long a moment it was that they held each other's gaze, but he knew that glow in her eyes as she looked at him so shyly. He had seen a glimpse of it before, that day he had been sure he had destroyed his chances, a glimpse of feeling that strengthened his hope and deepened his attachment to her. And here she offered it again, that quiet look that told him she might have some affection for him. He could enjoy and bask in that look for eternity.
But it was only for a moment. She recollected that they were not alone and turned away from him again, but with such an air of apprehension that he now hit upon a reason for her shy demeanor this evening. Perhaps he was mistaken, but he would not worry about that now. He found reason to hope, and he would hope deep within himself that the explanation for her behavior was him. That look she bestowed stirred his belief that she could be affected by him, but he could only describe her anxiety as a result of her own recognition of it, her own realization that she shared his feelings and was unsure of how to proceed. It may be purely speculation he grasped at in his interpretation of her, but he would not stop his heart from leaping.
He did not stay for long, but during the remainder of his visit, they stole glances at each other, soft smiles gracing their expressions. Unfortunately, neither was able to catch the other in the act, so there was not another look truly shared between them. But after his departure, both looked forward to the next time they would have an opportunity.
A/N: Your reviews and comments have been sooooo lovely and kind, and I have been blown away by how many of you are loving how gradually I'm moving their relationship along, so I was really nervous about posting this chapter, since it gives the relationship a pretty big boost in a short amount of time. I hope you don't mind the game-changer! And I hope it doesn't seem too rushed. But I also think that Margaret would need a wake-up call (metaphorical or not) to change how she's conducting herself and to move from friendship to . . . beyond friendship, no matter if it came now or much later. So be prepared; there's going to be some faster-moving relationship stuff in the next few chapters, because I get impatient if I don't get enough longing looks or hints at smoochiness - plus I do have a specific outline to follow. This is where my 21st-century sensibilities are going to come into play. I hope it works for you! (plus, today's my 30th birthday, so no one's allowed to say something negative on such a day . . . right?)
