At dinner, Margaret made a concerted effort to temper her natural inclination toward spirited debate. She paused before speaking, carefully weighing each word, and avoided blurting out her opinions as she might have done among friends in Alton. The restraint chafed at her; it was exhausting to mold herself into the kind of woman who would be considered agreeable in Ilchester society.
In Alton, her friends had valued her opinions, her father had encouraged her curiosity, and even her occasional misspoken rudeness had been met with indulgent laughter rather than offense. Here, she felt the need to tread carefully, especially in the company of Edith and John Thornton. The knowledge that her yet-unpublished article would soon lay her opinions bare to the entire city made her all the more self-conscious.
Perhaps it was that very sense of being stifled that had driven her to write the article in the first place. As her pen name, she could argue her points with clarity and conviction, free from the judgment that came with being a young, passionate woman in a city she barely understood. It was both liberating and terrifying to imagine her words being read and considered, even by people like Mr. Thornton, who she understood to value logic and control above all else.
But in this setting, she could not rely on the anonymity of her pen name or the luxury of revision. Here, her words carried weight that could not be erased, and any misstep could deepen the precarious position she already occupied. 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. Here, however, she would listen and measure her responses, a choice both practical and self-protective. 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 said, scowling again.
"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.
Margaret's gaze lingered on Mr. Thornton as he scowled at Edith, the furrow of his brow leading her eye down the strong line of his nose and to the faintly pursed curve of his lips. There was something striking about the way his features worked together, each sharp angle softened only slightly by his occasional half-smile. She realized too late that she had been staring.
Her stomach dropped, heat rising to her cheeks as she fumbled for her wine glass. What on earth had just happened? She'd been utterly transfixed, staring at him for—well, she didn't even know how long. The man was handsome, surely, but Margaret had met handsome men before and been largely unmoved. There was something different about him, something she couldn't quite name, and the thought left her unsettled.
He's not like anyone you've known. Her mind supplied the answer unbidden, and she bristled at it. True, Mr. Thornton was not only handsome—although she grudgingly admitted that he was—but he was also a man of action. Intelligent and capable, he ran a successful business while caring for his family, balancing strength with control. Even now, as he exchanged quips with Edith, there was excellent command of his temperament that Margaret found impossible to ignore.
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 enthralled 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 deduce that Mr. Gordon had quite the eye for women." 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?" John inquired.
Mr. Thornton was still teasing her, Margaret knew, though his tone carried a challenge that made her pulse quicken. She had no reply ready, but thankfully, Helen was sharp and quick. Her cousin derailed the question with a feigned curiosity about the poem in question, 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 set down his utensils and squared his shoulders, his chin lifting in a gesture that was both confident and entirely unselfconscious.
"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's voice was rich and melodic, filling the room with unexpected warmth. Margaret found herself drawn to the rhythm of his words, the way his voice lingered on each line, giving it weight and meaning. He was educated, some part of her brain noted, he must be to read and recite so eloquently. Her father's voice echoed faintly in her memory, reciting the same poem in his deep, gentle tone as he comforted her tears. The ache of loss tightened her chest, and she bit the inside of her cheek to keep from showing it.
"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 eyes met Margaret's, her breath hitched unexpectedly. The words resonated deeply, stirring something in her that she didn't entirely understand.
At first, it was the memory of her father—his voice, rich and warm, reciting those same lines to soothe her tears. But it wasn't only that. There was something in the way Mr. Thornton spoke, the rhythm of his voice, the weight of each phrase, felt personal, intimate even. Her chest tightened, an ache of longing rising unbidden, tangled with grief and something she couldn't name.
She dropped her gaze, twisting her napkin in her lap as if the simple motion might ground her. The words seemed to reach into her, a balm for one part of her soul and a provocation for another. She felt exposed, as though some hidden part of herself had been brought to light without her consent. She felt laid bare, her defenses unspooling even as she tried to gather them again. The feelings were chaotic—grief, loneliness, longing—and others that she couldn't define, too raw and unformed to be given a name.
The poem, Its beauty, its familiarity, had caught her unguarded. Surely that was why her emotions churned like a storm at sea. She refused to entertain the notion that it could be anything more.
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.
Does she spend her days in 'goodness'? John had noted Miss Wilde's penchant for discussion and her easy way of forming opinions. She was somehow more direct than the ladies he spoke with - choosing not to affect indecision, or to make John guess at her meanings. Certainly that wouldn't match Byron's definition of 'So soft, so calm'. Or perhaps it would, with her steadfastness lending to a calm nature instead of a flighty one built on pretense. Miss Wilde's smile could be described as 'winning' - although it held more honesty than John would ascribe to a 'winning smile', as if smiling was a means to get ahead in the world.
The dinner guests finished their 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, her fingers tightening around the napkin in her lap. She glanced upward, hoping that the details of the ceiling's intricate paneling might anchor her. Her chest rose and fell with a deliberate slowness as she forced the tears back, determined not to let them betray her.
"It was exquisite," she managed at last, her voice trembling slightly despite her best efforts. And it was. The poem had touched her deeply, stirring emotions so erratic and tangled that she felt as though she were coming apart at the seams. She swallowed hard, her throat tightening as she tried to compose herself.
Sensing the silence that lingered too long after her words, Margaret added, "I'm sorry. The poem was one that my father often recited, and I—" Her breath hitched, and before she could stop herself, she lifted the napkin to her face, blinking against the tears that filled her eyes anew. How foolish she must look, breaking down over a parlor recitation. She hadn't anticipated the effect that speaking of her father would have, nor how the words would seem to echo through her, intensifying her grief.
Jude leaned toward her, her hand brushing Margaret's arm in a silent offer of comfort, but Margaret shook her head quickly. She forced a wavering smile, though the warmth of it didn't reach her eyes. "It's nothing," she murmured, though she knew the excuse would convince no one.
Mathew, ever attuned to the atmosphere of a room, was the first to speak. "Mr. Thornton, didn't you mention an engraving collection earlier? Perhaps you might show me while the ladies finish their tea?"
John hesitated for a fraction of a second, his gaze darting briefly to Margaret before he nodded. "Of course," he said, his voice calm and even. He pushed his chair back and gestured for Mathew to follow him into the hall.
As the men left the room, Margaret pressed her lips tightly together, her hands clenching the napkin in her lap as though it were the only thing tethering her to composure. The tears still pricked at the corners of her eyes, but she fought them back with a ferocity that left her trembling.
She didn't want to imagine what Mr. Thornton must think of her now. It seemed that every time she found herself in his company, she was reduced to helplessness. A clumsy girl lost on the streets of Ilchester. A stubborn sparring partner. And now this—emotional, overwrought, and utterly exposed. Her chest ached with frustration, and the voice in her mind—sharp and unforgiving—chastised her for her inability to maintain the poise she so carefully constructed.
But another, quieter thought surfaced beneath the din of her self-recrimination: Why should his opinion matter so much? Margaret didn't have an answer, and the uncertainty gnawed at her as the weight of her emotions settled heavily in her chest.