A/N: Just a reminder that the play mentioned is not real; I was totally making it up as I went. I will readily admit that it was just a contrivance to get our beloved characters to actually talk. It won't come into play after this chapter. Thanks for following and your reviews!
Once assured of Dixon's entry into her mother's chamber, Margaret turned her attention to Mr. Thornton once more. Since that first meeting, she had never spoken to him alone, and was curious about how well they could converse together without the mediation of her father. He was silent again, and she was sure that he felt cowed by Dixon's unnerving stare. She could not help being amused by his reaction to Dixon, especially as he seemed such an intimidating force himself. But her amusement gave way to pity, as he was her father's friend and should not be uncomfortable, so she took charge and tried to distract him from Dixon's presence. She herself had been pleasantly surprised at the result before the interruption of her mother's bell and hoped they could continue together in a civil and friendly manner until her father returned.
"So you are interested in the current world, are you, Mr. Thornton?" she began, her tone much more teasing than she intended. But it seemed to work to relax his tense frame.
"Is that so surprising, Miss Hale?" She had never spoken in such an arch, friendly way to him. Could he keep that tone himself? It was not natural to him, but he immediately wished to please her. Why, oh, why did he wish to please her?
"Well, perhaps not. You do need to be aware of what is available to you for your business, after all."
"This is true. But I suppose you do not refer to modern advances in machinery and trade when you speak of the current world, do you?" He pointed to the play that rested on the table. "No doubt you speak more of arts, literature, music, or perhaps the theater?"
Taking the book into her hands, she smiled. "Well, if I speak of the theater, I do not usually think of Two Hearts as One. It is not something that is of much substance, I'm afraid."
"And yet you seemed ready to find some humor in reacquainting yourself with it," he observed with a slight smile.
She blushed. "Well, sometimes one may still indulge in the ridiculous and find some entertainment. And I did say earlier that there were some speeches I enjoyed."
"True. Did you find any?" He was leaning forward in his chair, his elbows resting on his knees. She had seen such an attitude with him before as he spoke with her father, but she had never supposed he should show such a frank interest in carrying on a conversation with her, his attention fully focused on her in a friendly and not at all combative way.
"Well, one." She thumbed through the book until she found the page she wanted. "Do you want me to read it to you?" She felt rather shy about this request. It was such a frivolous work, and whatever else he may be, he was not a frivolous man. She was suddenly afraid of appearing young and sentimental, or that she approved of such appearances.
But he responded in an enthusiastic affirmative and seemed determined and interested. She could not help adding a caveat before reading from the passage. "Please remember that the play is called Two Hearts as One . . . meaning it is a romance. It may sound silly to you."
"I would not expect anything but a romance from Fanny. I promise you I will not tell you if I find it silly," he assured her easily. "I cannot say I will not tell Fanny if I find it so."
Although gratified by his assurances, she still felt slightly hesitant, but she opened the book wider and drew it closer. "All right. The man, Ferdinand, has been called away and before he goes he confesses his love for Amelia, whom he has only ever fought with. He takes her completely by surprise." A recollection caused her to blush slightly before she continued. "It does not begin well," she said in apology.
Mr. Thornton signaled she should begin, curious at her seeming reticence. She had already expressed her opinion of the play; he would not think the less of her for enjoying a single passage.
"'You cannot understand me, can you? How can that be? Have I not teased you, quizzed you, set your will at naught? Does this not give you suspicion? I have hardly said a kind word to you, and you do not comprehend that I love you. For I do. I did not know it myself. But still I do. My silence, my words, my actions, they all belie me, but I must have done this because I did not know my feelings.'" She looked up. "This is where it improves." Back down. "'Each day I see you, you become more a part of me. Each day I do not see you, I sense you. You are in my thoughts, my prayers, my hopes, and my fears. I think what you may be doing, what you may be saying, how you appear. I pray for your safety, your happiness, your joy. I hope for your love, your smile, your lips. I fear your hate, your frown, your tears. Is this not love? Is this not what it is, to dream of your hand in mine and to be afraid to ask for it? Your beauty, your charm, your wit, they consume me until I am no longer at peace and only by your willing love can I regain that peace. I pledge you that peace. I pledge my heart, my word, my honor, to you. Only you may hold them safe. Only you . . .'"
Margaret drifted off and stopped. The speech had ended and she felt slightly foolish for reading such words to Mr. Thornton. She was afraid to look up for fear that he would simply laugh. She hated appearing foolish before anyone. But he said nothing and she could not keep her gaze down indefinitely. She looked up. His attitude in the chair had not changed, but he no longer looked at her. He seemed to be staring into the fire, his expression somber and thoughtful. She still felt afraid to say anything, but at least he had not mocked her.
At length, he turned back to face her and his expression did not change as he considered her. "Well," he simply said. Perhaps he did not know what else to say.
She immediately rushed to apology. "I told you it was foolish, I warned you –"
"No, Miss Hale, do not distress yourself. I do not find it foolish. I would not express myself thus, but the sentiments avowed . . . I understand them." His gaze seemed to focus as he looked at her and she suddenly felt hot.
"Well, as I said, it does not begin well."
"Yes, a little strange."
"I'm glad you agree." He cocked his head in curiosity. Hurriedly, she went on. "I mean to say, I find it ridiculous to simply accost a woman with a declaration of love without her having any idea of its coming."
"It seems to me that he himself was unaware of his feelings."
"I do not accept that. It is ludicrous to think a man may be so ignorant of himself that he cannot tell whether he likes a woman, admires her, cares for her. Men are not surely so foolish."
He sat up straighter. "It is possible that admiration for a woman may be manifested or disguised by another feeling. He may be trying to deny himself, convince himself he does not care for her."
"But in so doing, does that not prove that he has been aware of his attraction to her, if he is actively trying to fight it?"
Her words seemed to sting him and he was silent once more. His face was thoughtful again as he pondered what she said and nodded to himself. "You are right. A man may be stupid, but he does still know his own thoughts, his own feelings. No matter if he approves of those feelings, he does still know when a woman affects him, when he thinks of her and why he does." His voice had quieted as he spoke and his tone was gentle. Margaret was struck with the thought that he possibly had never been in love himself, for these thoughts he expressed seemed new and untried. He looked up at her once more. "When it is something you have never experienced, it may take some time to recognize the feeling for what it is. Although," he smiled ruefully, "a man may feel idiotic for taking so long to put the correct term to it, be it admiration, attraction, or love. It may simply be the easier way to say he was completely unaware of the feeling being there at all. It would be a lie, and cowardly at that, but it may be that is how he keeps a semblance of pride."
She was astounded that he had all but admitted he had never experienced such a feeling - why would he admit such a thing to her? -, but was quickly drawn to his last statement. "Does pride have any place in love?"
Again, he seemed startled by what she said. "You would hope that the woman you love may be proud of you, pleased with the man you are, but as far as your pride in yourself . . ." He shook his head. "I do not know. Perhaps not. But a man must have some pride in himself. He must conduct his life in a way that he may hold his head up high and know that he is a true man."
"But is that the same kind of pride? Is that the pride that costs him his honesty to the lady he loves? You seemed to speak of that semblance of pride as merely a way to lie to the lady, to appear to be something you are not. To look better than you are."
"What man does not want the woman he loves to think he is better than he is?"
"A woman in love may know the man she loves, his faults and all, and still have a better opinion of him than anyone else, and may hope for the man to one day become the better man you would have him only pretend to be."
He seemed about to reply, but stopped himself, pulling himself to sit up straighter as he looked off in the distance. He finally smiled and said, "I concede. You have won."
"Mr. Thornton, I did not speak to win."
"But you are right. There is good pride and there is bad pride. Good pride keeps us doing well and right; it motivates us to better ourselves. Bad pride is merely an attempt to disguise who we are, an excuse to stop us from bettering ourselves because we have come up with a ruse to treat people as though we are better than they. And you are right that there is no room for that kind of pride in love. In true, real, ardent love."
He did not take his gaze from her as he spoke and she found she could not look away from him. What a strange conversation she was having with him! She had never expected to speak on matters of the heart with Mr. Thornton, master and magistrate. As the silence between them drew on, the stray thought of her father wandered into her mind and she finally looked away from Mr. Thornton, preparing to direct the conversation into safer waters.
"You used the word 'accost,'" he said suddenly.
"Pardon?" she asked, confused.
"You not only disapprove of a man being unaware of his feelings, but you also disapprove of him declaring himself." His gaze had lessened in intensity, but was still focused on her.
She scrambled to remember what he was referring to for a moment or two before recalling. "It isn't the declaration I disapprove of; it's that he gives her no sign of what to expect before asking for her love in return."
"But how should she know he has an interest in her if he does not say so?"
"He is not merely telling her of his interest or even his admiration; he is speaking of love. He is proposing to her, and he is expecting that she, completely ignorant of his interest until five minutes before, is going to accept him. How could she be expected to love him in that instant? How can he expect anything but a denial?"
She knew her own experience with an unprecedented proposal was affecting what she said, but it only served to prove her assertion. She had no idea of Henry ever doing more than like her, and yet he had expected her to accept him in that fumbling, unlooked-for proposal. She continued without letting Mr. Thornton speak, unaware if he even wanted to.
"He has not given her any indication that he thinks of her, and that is wrong of him, to take her unawares and not at all disposed to accept him. It is not kind to either party to behave in such a way. He must show her other, smaller attentions first and see if they are acceptable. If she allows them, continue, and if she does not, he must stop. Then she has avoided the proposal of a man she could not even like, and he has avoided being rejected in the worst possible way. And at least being shown some attention, the lady will not be taken by surprise by the application for her hand, even by someone she is of a mind to accept."
She had closed the book for some time, but she had been unconsciously looking at it as she spoke, rapidly recalling her objections to Henry's advances. She wasn't sure of everything she had said, but she once again thought the subject closed until Mr. Thornton spoke.
"And what attentions does a man give a woman? So she is not taken unawares?" She looked at him, surprised by such a forward question, but his expression was innocent and curious, and she assumed he asked for hypothetical purposes.
"Taking her arm when they meet, for instance," she rattled off the first idea that came into her mind, but then she had to reflect a little more. What could a man do to please her, to show her attentions she would accept and recognize? "Speak to her, ask for her opinions and thoughts in company, compliment her talents, say something pleasing about her looks." She blushed at the vanity she was betraying. "Women do like to think they are nice to look at." She paused, unsure if there was anything else. "I suppose finding ways to see her, letting her know in some way he is there to be in her company . . ." She trailed off once more as she looked at him, suddenly embarrassed at all she said. It was rather forward of her to say such things, but after all, she had spoken in general terms, and his easy manner hinted that all was well and she was in no danger of being misunderstood by him as she had been by Henry.
"Well, I hope that all men may benefit from your counsel, Miss Hale."
She reached out a hand in supplication. "Please, Mr. Thornton, please do not tell anybody . . . please do not tell my father of what we have been talking. He would . . . it would be difficult to explain."
He cut her off by holding up a hand of his own. "You may depend on my confidence, Miss Hale. This will remain a private conversation. I give you my word."
Thanking him, she laid the book aside to find her tea had gone cold. She offered him another cup and was sitting back down when they heard the front door open and her father entered the room. She was not fully able to hide her look of relief from Mr. Thornton that their unexpected conversation had not been interrupted and he allowed himself a smile before receiving the apologies of Mr. Hale, who had been detained longer than anticipated with the Smithers'. He hoped his half-hour's absence had not been too inconvenient, and the rest of the evening was spent in conversation of ancient and mythical Greece.