Chapter Text
"A man has died at the Infirmary, in consequence of a fall, received at Outwood station, between the hours of five and six on Thursday evening, the twenty-sixth instant. At the time, this fall did not seem of much consequence…"
–Elizabeth Gaskell, North and South
The pain sliced through him like a knife.
John Thornton could not move, could not look away, as the sight before him shattered the battered remnants of his heart. Margaret Hale stood across the platform, half hidden in shadows, in another man's embrace. Her slender arms rested on the man's shoulders. Arms John vividly recalled encircling his own neck…
Suddenly, Margaret noticed John's presence, her startled gaze meeting his. She visibly tensed and pulled back, the young man turning to look as well. Both their expressions were alarmed. Guilty.
John could take no more of this torture. He had to get away. He turned on his heel and angrily strode out of the station, scowling blindly into the darkness ahead.
Margaret Hale has a lover. The knowledge was agony, and yet it should not surprise him. No wonder she had treated John with such disdain, violently rejecting his proposal and affection as unworthy. So offended that he would dare to love her.
It all made sense. The hat hanging in the Hale's front hallway, the unfamiliar male voice inside when she had turned John away at the door. This was that man, a man welcomed and embraced into the Hale family. He and Margaret likely had a long understanding. And yet she had never bothered to mention him, even when rejecting John's proposal. She had not even tried to soften the blow. Instead, she had not hesitated to scorn John's pitiful offering of love.
And now she brazenly met her lover alone, at night. And on such a night—the evening before her own mother's funeral. The couple must have been saying their tender farewells, before her lover departed for someplace less dirty and coarse than Milton. Unwillingly, John imagined their last fond words of affection. Lips meeting briefly in a furtive kiss, a single tear trickling down Margaret's cheek as she bravely watched the train finally pull out of sight.
And then she would give way to her grief, allowing the tears free rein as she walked home, by herself, in the dark…
John's rapid stride halted suddenly. If the man was leaving, Margaret would have no one to accompany her home. She would be walking the streets of Milton late at night. Alone.
His feet had pivoted before he realized he had made a decision. He could not allow her to put herself at such risk, a woman walking the streets at night by herself. He gritted his teeth. He loathed to see her, to speak to her. But if Margaret's gentleman would not arrange for her protection, then John must do so, whatever it cost him.
Arriving back at the station, he spotted Margaret immediately. She lingered still with her suitor, but now another figure lurked ominously nearby. This man looked rather bedraggled, stumbling a little, probably drunk. He moved threateningly closer to Margaret's companion. Raised voices carried across the platform; the two men were arguing. John rushed toward them.
Abruptly, the second man grabbed Margaret's suitor. The two scuffled for a moment, and then the drunkard gave a violent push. The young man lost his balance, falling off the platform and out of sight.
"Frederick!" Margaret dashed down the stairs after him. Before the ruffian could follow, John reached him and seized the man's collar. The train's piercing whistle rang out as John forcefully jerked him back.
Startled recognition registered in the man's face as he gaped up at John. He reeled clumsily, grabbing feebly at the taller man's arm. "Thor… Thornton?" He staggered, trying to loosen John's grip. "I was jus'… I know 'im, that man…"
"Leave. Now." John growled. "And say nothing to anyone." He would not allow Margaret to be caught up in any scandal.
The man hesitated briefly, then bobbed his head frantically in agreement, clearly intimidated by John's menacing glare. John released his grip and the drunkard lurched backwards, barely catching himself before hastily fumbling his way out of the station.
The shrill blast of the whistle rang out again. John hurried forward to peer over the edge of the platform. The young man lay crumpled below, clutching his leg in pain. Margaret knelt beside him, anxiously stroking his hair, attempting to soothe him.
Oh, Margaret. So this is the man who holds your heart.
"Frederick!"
The cry burst from Margaret's lips as she watched Frederick pitch over the edge of the platform and disappear. Her stomach lurched in panic. Without thought she threw herself forward, nearly falling herself as she scrambled down the stairwell. She rushed to her brother, awkwardly sprawled on the ground. He gripped his ankle, grimacing fiercely in pain.
"Frederick! You're hurt!"
"My ankle…" Frederick groaned out the words. He gingerly tried to set his foot down, but instantly pulled it back with a sharp cry. His head snapped up, his eyes sweeping the platform above them. "Leonards…"
Margaret's eyes followed his, but nothing was visible overhead but smoky air. "Fred… We must get you on the train…"
The blaring whistle drowned out her words, the engine's roar growing louder. Frederick grasped her hand, frantically trying to rise, but then slumped against her. "Margaret…" She could hear the frantic urgency in his voice. "Help me…"
Desperately, she ducked her head under his arm so that he leaned on her shoulders. She strained to pull him up, struggling under his weight, until he pushed himself upright onto one leg. There—they could do it…
And then, a horrifying sound—the train began to move.
"No! Wait!"
Time froze in that moment, as a wave of fear washed through her. She was aware of Frederick's gasps of pain… the intensifying clamor of the engine picking up speed… the bruising pressure on her shoulders as her brother sagged against her… the train still so far away… too far… and then it had pulled clear of the station.
Margaret's strength gave way, and they both collapsed, along with her last hope.
"Margaret…"
She pulled herself to her knees, leaning in to hear his faint whisper.
"Margaret… I'm sorry."
"No, Fred, this is not your fault…"
"I'm so sorry," he continued. His eyes were squeezed shut, moisture gleaming at their corners. "I never meant for this to happen. I never meant to cause you pain. You and Papa…"
"It's all right."
"And after suffering such a loss…"
"Hush, now, Fred. You have no need to apologize. Let us just—"
"I love you, Margaret girl." His eyes bore into hers with sudden intensity. "Always remember that. Tell Papa I love him too."
Margaret felt a strange panic rising within her. "Now listen, we must get you—"
"Tell Papa I got on the train. Let him believe I'm safe."
"Frederick! There is no sense in talking that way. Let us just get you home, and then we can decide—"
"Margaret." Something in Frederick's low voice turned her blood to ice. "Don't you see? I cannot go home. Leonards knows me, knows my name. He will bring the police straight to your door. I cannot go home."
"But, Fred—" Margaret could hear her own voice rising higher in agitation. "Leonards could come back. He could bring the police here!"
"I know." Frederick gave her a sad smile and lifted one hand to brush her cheek. "My sweet Margaret girl."
Ominous terror swept through her. Why wasn't he trying to run—
"Fred! We must get you away immediately! It's not safe—"
"It's too late." The quiet words cut like a knife. "I'm sorry, dearest. It's too late for me." His brown eyes gazed back at her, heavy with sorrow and quiet resignation, as if he had long known this day would come, as if it was some relief to face it. "You must get yourself away from here, Margaret. I do not want you exposed to this. Go home. Do not tell Papa. Perhaps he will never hear—"
"No!" Margaret nearly shouted, forgetting to keep her voice low. "No! I will not hear of it! We must leave. We will think of something. We must! We will find help…"
"Margaret girl, I'm sorry. There is no one to help us."
She gaped helplessly at her beloved brother as her world crumbled around her. She did not want to believe it. But he was right. There was nothing they could do. And soon she would lose him forever.
At that moment, the shadows surrounding them darkened. Margaret's head shot up to see the tall form of John Thornton hovering nearby, glaring down at them. He looked as severe as she had ever seen him, his handsome face stony and grim.
And suddenly a glimmer of light broke through the raging storm.
"Mr. Thornton! Please! We need your help."