The man stood with his back to Margaret. He appeared unaware of her presence, his attention entirely on his violin. The instrument lay cradled in his arms, his tall form swaying gently as he played.
Margaret stood frozen, not wishing to interrupt the exquisite music. The rich notes seemed to reverberate deep into her soul.
She observed the man as she listened, wondering who he might be. He wore no coat, only his shirtsleeves, along with a black waistcoat and trousers. His dark hair was a little disheveled. Strong shoulders flexed as he moved the bow across the strings, offering glimpses of well defined forearms.
Margaret was struck by his remarkably tender manner with the violin. She knew musicians well. Her father had been a skilled violinist, and had always played his own instrument with obvious affection.
But this man… He held the violin in an embrace that was almost… seductive, coaxing out such hauntingly beautiful music… as though teasing a caress from a lover… Margaret blushed. Where on earth had such thoughts come from?
She waited quietly as the music came to a close. He held out the final note, letting it linger in the air. As the sound faded away, he lowered his arms, reverently placing the violin onto the table beside him. Unhurriedly, he turned and faced Margaret.
She felt her breath catch as she found herself staring into eyes of a clear, brilliant blue. The eyes that observed her were calm, guileless… and yet she had the sense that they concealed deep mysteries… like the deceptive tranquility of an ocean's surface…
A moment later Margaret was startled by the realization that half of the man's face was covered by a mask.
The effect was rather unsettling. It created the impression that the man was split in two, the smooth porcelain surface on the left a sharp contrast to his natural features on the right. She immediately wondered why anyone would choose to cover half his face. Especially such a remarkably handsome face…
Those riveting eyes regarded her steadily, seemingly unsurprised to find her there. She stared back at him for several moments, unable to speak. Vaguely she questioned whether she was truly awake. This all felt very dreamlike. Should she be frightened? Here she was in some hidden part of the opera house, alone with a strange man, who wore a mask…
The man looked down at the yellow rose still clutched in her hands. "You found my rose."
That voice – Margaret instantly recognized the deep, dulcet tones as the voice that sang with her the previous evening.
Blinking, she glanced down at her hand. "Your rose?" Her eyes met his again. "Are you the Phantom?"
She imagined she saw a flicker of something like pain in those blue depths, though his expression did not noticeably change. She regretted her words instantly. "Oh… please forgive me. What a ridiculous thing to say." She felt completely foolish. "Of course, you are not a phantom. I can see you are as real as I."
The man shook his head slightly. "No, I am no ghost, though some might wish otherwise." His tone held a hint of melancholy.
Margaret's brown furrowed. "I am sorry. It is only, the other girls said… I mean, they seem to think…" Her words trailed away, as she stared at him. No, this man was no ghost, but… "Who are you?"
He was quiet for several moments, perhaps reluctant to reply. "My name is John Thornton, Miss…"
"Margaret Hale." Margaret blinked. "Thornton… Do you mean… Are you Madame Thornton's son?" He nodded slightly. Her mind whirled. "But they said you were dead!"
He glanced away from her for the first time, his shoulders sagging slightly. "They say many things, Miss Hale, often with little regard for truth." He paused. "I would ask you not to believe everything you hear about me."
"Oh, I… I see, Mr. Thornton." Margaret was not at all sure that she did.
His eyes met hers again. He gave her a small smile, seeming to sense her confusion. "There are few who are aware that I am alive, and that is how I prefer it. I… I would appreciate it if you would not tell anyone of our meeting."
Margaret wondered what to make of this. Hesitantly she nodded. "I… I suppose… If you wish it, Mr. Thornton."
"I thank you, Miss Hale."
His eyes continued to regard her steadily, one from behind the mask. The effect of his split face was striking. She found herself staring at him, into those eyes… She reflected how easy it would be to let herself fall into those depths, that hypnotic crystal blue gaze…
Margaret recollected herself and glanced away abruptly, feeling a strange fluttering in her chest. She looked around, fully taking in her surroundings for the first time. The candlelit chamber was filled with musical instruments of every kind, all of the most superior quality. A large pipe organ took up most of one side of the chamber, and a magnificent grand piano sat in the center of the room. "What is this place?"
His eyes scanned the room briefly, and then moved back to her. "This… is my private music chamber." She thought she sensed a note of uncertainty in his voice, as though he hoped for her approval.
"It's wonderful. Do you play all these instruments?"
He nodded, brushing his hand over the violin on the nearby table. "Yes, Miss Hale. Music… is very important to me."
"It was you I heard playing. In my room.."
He was silent for several moments. "Yes. I hope… I hope my music does not disturb you."
"Oh no, Mr. Thornton. Of course not. It was so beautiful. I'd never heard anything like it."
He did not reply, only looked at her. Margaret felt her cheeks warm and glanced away, perusing the rest of the room. It was astonishing that anyone could have the skill to master so many different instruments.
She stepped towards the table on which he'd laid the violin. She reached out and gently stroked the wooden surface, admiring the extraordinary craftsmanship. "This is a magnificent instrument. My father was a violinist."
"Was he, Miss Hale?"
"Yes. He played with the Paris Opera." Margaret smiled up at him, happy to talk of her father. "He was very good. I loved to listen to him." Margaret looked down, a pang of sadness making her throat tighten.
"Your father is no longer with you?" Mr. Thornton stepped a little closer.
"No." Margaret felt the tears forming in her eyes, and she blinked furiously, determined not to cry. "No, he… he passed about a month ago."
"I am very sorry, Miss Hale." His voice was quiet and gentle. "You must miss him very much."
Margaret nodded. Despite her efforts, a tear escaped and trickled down her cheek. She felt an unexpected warmth, and saw that his hand covered her own.
She glanced up into those dazzling eyes, now regarding her sadly, tenderly, full of compassion. She was startled by the heat that rose up her arm from his touch, the way her heart began to race from the intensity of his gaze…
Abruptly he looked away, removing his hand from hers. He moved apart from her, and she felt a strange disappointment. "I believe the violin may be my favorite instrument. It has an extraordinary ability to capture emotion."
"Oh, yes." Margaret struggled to refocus her thoughts. "I remember Papa used to say that music could express what words could not."
"Indeed. Your father spoke wisely." His eyes met hers again. Now they seemed to glow with a passionate fervor. This time he did not look away. "I believe that very strongly. Music allows us to bypass the mind, to speak directly from one soul to another."
Margaret felt herself blushing, overwhelmed by the intimacy of his words, the way he looked at her… She wondered at herself. Why was she feeling so unsettled? She had never had such a strong reaction to a man…
With a small inhalation of breath, she managed to look away, her eyes resting once again on the table before her. Beside the violin lay several pages of sheet music, written by hand. The notes stopped in the middle of the paper, apparently unfinished. A pen and ink lay nearby.
"Do you also compose?" Margaret recalled the breathtaking music she had heard in her room. But naturally, they must have been original compositions. She knew she had never heard anything like them before.
Beside her, Mr. Thornton stood silently. Looking around more closely, Margaret noticed stacks of sheet music nestled between the variety of instruments on shelves around the room, everywhere she looked.
"You… you wrote the music you played. The music I heard in my room." Suddenly, it all clicked into place. The haunting music at night… the astonishing aria in rehearsal today, more beautiful than any opera she'd ever heard… the mysterious composer without a name…
She looked up at him in astonishment. "You are the Maestro of Milton."
After a hesitant moment, he gave her a slight nod. "I am, Miss Hale. The name allows me to keep my identity hidden."
Margaret's mind raced with questions. Why wouldn't he want to take credit for such remarkable compositions? Why did he want people to believe he was dead? Why did he hide half his face? And especially, how did he create such incredible music?
But only one question emerged from her lips. "I don't understand… Why would you entrust me with your secret?"
He did not reply immediately, holding her gaze silently. Abruptly he turned and crossed to the organ. He stood with his back to her. "The other night… while I was playing… I heard you sing."
Margaret felt a sudden rush of embarrassment, recalling how the organ had suddenly stopped when she had joined in. "Forgive me, I was just so caught up in your music. I did not mean to disturb your playing…"
"No!" His response was immediate, turning around and striding quickly towards her. "No, Miss Hale, you could never disturb me. Your voice…" He paused for a moment, then let out a frustrated sigh, as though unable to find the words he sought. He stood quietly, merely gazing at her. Margaret felt her heart beat faster as she looked back into those eyes, which seemed to be regarding her with… wonder. "Your voice… is the most beautiful thing I have ever heard."
She stared back at him, too stunned to reply. Surely he could not be serious. Her voice? Was he mocking her? No, somehow she knew he would never do that.
"You… you like my voice?"
"Miss Hale…" His eyes seemed to pierce her with their intensity. "Like could not possibly begin to describe how I felt listening to you sing."
Margaret felt her cheeks burning and looked down. She shook her head slightly. "I… I never sang for anyone else before, except Papa. I would sometimes sing while he played…"
"Then I am truly honored that you would grant me such a privilege." The sincerity in his tone warmed her to her core. She looked up, meeting his warm gaze once more.
"Miss Hale…" He paused, then took a deep breath. "I left the rose on your mirror… I hoped you would find your way here. I longed to meet you…" His expression seemed uncertain, wary. "I wanted to offer you a proposition."
A dagger of ice shot through Margaret, her eyes widening. Was that why she was here? He wanted to proposition her… She was suddenly aware that she was wearing only her nightgown, alone in a hidden room at night with a strange, masked man… She wrapped her arms around herself and began to back away from him, panic rising. "Sir… You have mistaken me… I am not open to your proposition…" She crept nearer the door and readied herself to run.
His confused expression transformed quickly into one of horror as comprehension dawned. "No!" He nearly shouted. "No, Miss Hale, that is not what I meant at all… I would never…" He seemed to collect himself, but did not approach her. "Please, have no fear, Miss Hale. I meant nothing untoward. I merely wished to ask you to sing for me."
"Oh…" Margaret felt a rush of relief, followed by embarrassment. Of course, he had not intended anything unseemly. He now wore an expression of such anguished remorse she felt a strong urge to comfort him. "Please forgive me, Mr. Thornton. I feel rather foolish…"
"No. Please. The fault was entirely mine." He shook his head. "I should not have expressed myself in such a way." He took a small, hesitant step towards her. "I assure you, Miss Hale, you will never be in any danger from me."
Gazing back into those clear blue eyes, Margaret found that she believed him. "Thank you," she whispered.
He looked slightly reassured, but still troubled. "What I wanted to ask you…" He suddenly turned and paced away from her. "When I heard you sing… I cannot remember when anything inspired me so much before. I have been writing…" He gestured to the stacks of sheet music on the table. "Before I even knew who you were, I knew I had to write for you, for your voice…"
He ran a hand through his hair and turned to face her again. "Miss Hale, you would be doing me a great service if you would consider… lending me your voice. To hear you sing my music… to sing with you…" He sighed. "I cannot express what it would mean to me."
He took a step closer. "And… in return, if you wish it, I could help you refine your technique. I hope you will take no offense… Your voice is… astonishing, truly unmatched, but it is unstudied. It would benefit from more training. I could help you. You could outshine any prima donna in any opera house in Europe."
Margaret stared at him, amazed. Did he really believe that? That he could care so much for her voice… Her father had enjoyed listening to her sing, but she had never imagined her voice was anything special. Certainly not compared to the professionals she heard every day. "Mr. Thornton, I… I don't know what to say."
She looked down, bewildered. She stared at the rose clutched in her hands. She had no idea how to respond. She had never regarded herself as a singer. Mr. Thornton seemed to think she could be good enough to sing in an opera. Did she believe him? And… would she even want that? As much as she loved dancing on the stage, she enjoyed a certain anonymity in the ballet corps. She was one among many. Silent. The idea of singing onstage… With the whole audience watching her… The thought was terrifying. No, Margaret had no desire for such a thing. She preferred her role in the background, quiet and unremarkable.
Yes, that was the proper decision. She would thank Mr. Thornton for his kind offer, but graciously decline. She took a breath to speak, but then…
She looked into his face, those eyes… Her words fled. He wanted her to sing for him. To sing his music. Mr. Thornton's music, those magical chords that transported her to an enchanted world… To sing again with him, not just alone in her room, but here in person… She imagined singing his enchanting compositions, gazing into those eyes, as their voices blended together… Margaret suddenly felt dizzy at the thought.
"Yes, Mr. Thornton, I think… I would like to sing for you."
The smile that lit up his face nearly stole her breath. "That makes me very happy, Miss Hale." They stared at each other for several moments. Margaret felt helpless to look away. "Perhaps we may begin tomorrow? When you have retired for the evening. You may again use the passageway behind your mirror."
Margaret nodded wonderingly. She suddenly felt the strangeness of it all. Hidden passageways… secret meetings… Glancing down at her nightgown, she wrapped her arms more tightly around herself. "Yes, tomorrow. I… I think I should get back to my room…"
"Of course." Mr. Thornton's manner was instantly serious. He took a step back. "Forgive me for keeping you so late. You need your rest."
"It's all right." She gave him a small smile. "I just find that I'm rather tired."
"Naturally. Please excuse me. We need not meet tomorrow…"
"No… no, I want to meet, Mr. Thornton. Very much." Her reply was instinctual, an effort to reassure him. But as she heard herself speak, she knew her words to be true.
He studied her for a moment. "Very well, Miss Hale." A slight echo of his earlier smile returned to his face. "Then I look forward to seeing you tomorrow evening."
She nodded. "Good night, Mr. Thornton."
"Good night… Miss Hale."
Margaret turned and walked once again down the shadowy corridor. The doorway to her room was still slightly ajar. On this side, it appeared as a solid wall. She ran her fingers along the edge, marveling at the construction. Stepping through the narrow passageway, she pulled the doorway closed behind her, hearing it latch shut.
She moved back and examined the mirror. Once closed, it gave no hint of the secrets it concealed. She regarded herself in the reflection. The same Margaret Hale looked back at her. Oddly, she had rather expected to see some difference. She somehow felt herself… changed, though in what manner she could not say.
Watching herself in the mirror, her eyes were drawn down to the rose in her hand. If not for that physical evidence, the entire evening might have been a dream. She raised it to her face and breathed in the lush, comforting fragrance. In the distance she heard the rich, warm tones of a violin begin to play.