Work Text:
Symposium of Hearts
***
“According to Greek mythology, humans were originally created with four arms, four legs and a head with two faces. Fearing their power, Zeus split them into two separate parts, condemning them to spend their lives in search of their other halves.”
― Plato, The Symposium
***
Margaret Hale felt an emptiness that could not be explained. Upon her arrival at Marlborough Mills, the young lady was welcomed by one of the serving staff, relieved of her travelling cloak and was shown upstairs to the sitting room. There, she was usually met by the smug and idle chatter of Fanny or the icy glare and cool countenance of Mrs. Thornton. But this time, it was an experience completely unfamiliar. She felt as though she was a void in the room, dressed in her black mourning weeds. The conversation between her Aunt Shaw and Mrs. Thornton sounded distant and faint, blended into the rumble of the factory as the workers went about their day. She felt like one of the pieces of cotton floating around the factory work room. Weightless. Floating on air and unable to bring herself back to the ground.
This felt different than when her mother had passed. She had been ill for some time so she had time to prepare herself and say her goodbyes. Having Frederick visit her one last time had been a blessing for her mother and their family. After her mother had died, she helped her father manage his grief, hoping a visit to Oxford to see his university friends would bring him some comfort. She never could have imagined this. Watching him walk down the street, his spirits lifted and the light back in his eyes, would be the last time she ever saw him. But now, she felt like she was alone in the world and the grief felt like it was going to consume her. The only thing grounding her in the moment was the book that she had clutched in her hands. One of the things she had left to remind her of her dear father.
She had never felt so alone in a room. She stood with her Aunt Shaw, Mrs. Thornton, and Fanny as they discussed the arrangements for her return to London, unable to focus on what they were saying. Until a familiar baritone voice from behind her brought her back into her body.
‘So you’re going,’ Mr. Thornton remarked in his usual, straightforward manner. Margaret turned to face him and took some hesitant steps towards him. Unable to meet his gaze, her eyes returned to the book in her hands as she offered it to him.
‘I brought you father’s Plato, I thought you might like it.’ He looked down at the book, Plato’s The Symposium , and his lips curled up in a small, short smile. Margaret could count on one hand the number of times she had seen him smile.
‘I shall treasure it, as I will your father’s memory. He was a good friend to me.’ A long, quiet pause passed between them as they looked down at the book they were holding, both unable to let go. It was the first book that he had studied with her father, which they had started on the day they had first met at Marlborough Mills. A day they were both unlikely to forget. Her fingers brushed against his, like when she had passed him his tea all those months ago, as she slowly let go of the book to leave it in his care. A piece of her father, a piece of her, to leave with him.
‘So you are going,’ John whispered, his shoulders sinking. Margaret has never seen him look so despondent as the truth set in. As though he had not truly believed she would leave Milton, leave Higgins and Mary, her friends. Leave him. ‘And you’ll never come back.’ Margaret mustered the courage to speak.
‘I wish you well, Mr. Thornton,’ Margaret replied, returning his smile as best she could. Their eyes met for a few moments longer, until John turned away, the spark of hope fading from his pale blue eyes as he walked towards the windows overlooking the mill yard. Margaret’s gaze followed him, willing him to turn around.
‘I must get her home as soon as possible,’ she heard from her Aunt Shaw behind her. Home, to London. Two hundred miles away. A place to which, not so long ago she would have given anything to return. It now felt so foreign and cold, just as Milton had when they first arrived.
‘To be sure, as soon as possible,’ Mrs. Thornton mumbled. She knew what had passed between them. How Margaret had rejected her son, the pain it had caused him, and how deeply he loved her still. She may not care for Margaret, but seeing the agony written on her son’s face knowing he would never see her again, she felt his pain as though it were her own. A feeling only a mother could feel as she watched her child’s heart breaking before her.
***
John stood on the porch and watched Margaret cross the mill yard and board the carriage. She was a silhouette of black, a stark contrast against the white snow that floated around her in the cold winter air. Her eyes never left the ground in front of her.
‘Look back, look back at me,’ he whispered to himself sorrowfully. How desperately he wished that she would turn to see him, standing there in the snow, and decide to stay in Milton. But when he heard the coachman click his tongue and the creaking wheels of the carriage as the horse began to slowly pull away, his heart sank in his chest, knowing that she was gone. And he would never see her again.
John held the book in his hand, the weight of it heavier than he remembered. He removed his cravat and undid the top buttons of his shirt. The book was worn, the fabric beginning to fray at the corners and the spine creased from being read many times. Mr. Hale had a great passion for books, especially the classics. John was grateful to his friend for sharing his knowledge with him, something he was unable to experience with his own father. Margaret shared her father’s passion for reading, one of the many things that John admired about her. He could picture her, walking around her father’s study to borrow one of his many books to read among the hedgerows and roses around Helstone. ‘Just like a village in one of Tennyson’s poems’ , as Margaret had described it. A place where the air is clear and birds sing instead of the smoky streets and constant rumble of factories. A place where Margaret deserved to be. Not here with him. Not in a place that had caused her so much pain and where she had experienced so much loss. No matter how desperately he wished she would stay.
He heard Margaret and her Aunt Shaw leave the room behind him, unable to watch her leave. Instead, he looked down at the book, Plato’s The Symposium . It had become one of his favourites, and he wasn’t able to get a copy of it for himself in Milton. As he went to open it to flip through, John noticed a piece of crisp white paper folded between the pages. He gently opened the book to find a folded letter with ‘ Mr. Thornton’ written on it in Margaret’s elegant, practised hand. He set the open book down gently on the table next to him and opened the letter.
Mr. Thornton, it read, but then she switched to the familiar,
John,
I hope you will accept the gift of this book. I know my father would have wanted you to have it and I pray that it will offer you some comfort. Father treasured your lessons and conversation very much and I thank you for all that you did for him, for all of us, during our time in Milton. Your kindness will not be forgotten. As I am to leave now for London with my Aunt Shaw, I confess there is something that I would like to tell you that I had kept hidden. I know that, as always, I can trust in your discretion in this as it is a matter of great delicacy .
John froze. ‘What could have happened to warrant such secrecy?’ he wondered as he read on.
As you will no doubt have not forgotten, some months ago, while my mother was ill, you saw me with a man at the station .
‘Of course’ , he thought. He was unsure if he could bear to hear what followed, reluctant to read of some sweetheart in the south.
That man is my elder brother, Frederick.
‘He was her brother’, John whispered, utterly bewildered. ‘Why would Mr. Hale never mention that he had a son?’ He read on, his heart somewhat lifted to learn the identity of the man.
When Frederick joined the Navy, my mother and father were so proud, though it broke our hearts to see him leave. But the captain that he sailed under turned out to be a brutal, cruel man who broke many of the laws at sea. So, Fred and some of the other sailors mutinied to protect the lives of the others. But something went terribly wrong and the captain was killed. Fred had no hand in his death, but all of those involved in the mutiny were to be court-martialed when they arrived in England. So my brother has fled to Spain where he now lives. Though I am proud of my brother for standing up for those who could not protect themselves, I do wish sometimes he had been more of a coward. If only so that he could return home to us safely, especially now that we only have each other. We had to keep his visit during my mother’s final illness a great secret from everyone, which, reluctantly, included you. It hurt me terribly to keep it from you, but given your position as a magistrate, I did not want to put you in a difficult position. I know this whole situation caused us a great deal of tension, and for that you have my sincerest apologies.
I could not bear to think that you were alive in the world and thinking badly of me. I want you to know how desperately I would like to stay in Milton, but I’m afraid my Aunt Shaw has insisted I return to London with her. As she is my only family living in England and I will be quite reliant on her for some time to come, I fear I must do as she wishes. My feelings have changed so much since we first arrived in Milton. I have felt more alive here than I had realised before. More than any of the idle, carefree days of my youth in Helstone. I hope you understand I must leave to be with my family, but I feel as though I am leaving my heart and soul behind in Milton.
I - I can hardly find the words to express my deepest regrets for my reaction to your proposal that day. I know now that I greatly misjudged your character and have seen the changes in you since we first met. My feelings towards you have changed so greatly, but I did not have the heart to speak of it to you in person. Knowing now the man you truly are, my feelings are quite the opposite of what I spoke of then. I confess that I also chose to leave you with this book for another reason. A quote on this page expresses my feelings much more aptly than I am able to at this moment.
It is my deepest hope that, one day, you can forgive me, and if you make the journey to London, that we can meet again.
Yours affectionately,
Margaret
John could not believe what he had read, could this be true? He quickly picked up the book that he had left open on the table and scanned the page until he found,
“ the two are struck from their senses by love, by a sense of belonging to one another, and by desire, and they don’t want to be separated from one another, not even for a moment.”
He remembered reading and discussing this book with Mr. Hale all those months ago, trying to make sense of Plato’s explanations of romantic love. How Zeus, jealous of humanity, split their souls into two parts to live in separate bodies so they would spend their lives looking for their other halves. Soul mates. Could that truly be what Margaret had come to feel for him, as he had felt for her for so long? That she was the missing part of his soul, the better part of himself. The warm, southern sun to complement the cool, harsh north. The memories of all the times he had felt that Margaret would never accept him, no matter how ardently he cared for her, flooded back.
‘She would never have me.’
‘I dare not believe such a woman could care for me.’
‘I knew I was not good enough for her.’
He had been so wounded by her rejection of his proposal that he had tried to put her completely from his mind. Doing so, he realised now that had missed the subtle changes in her countenance towards him in their last meetings before Mr. Hale’s death. Looking over her shoulder when she walked away from him. Offering him her hand for a handshake when they met.
‘I have a better opinion of you than you do of me at the moment, I feel.’
Blind. He had been utterly blind in his desperation to forget about her, to banish every thought of her as though she didn’t inhabit every part of his heart and mind. And now she was gone, leaving Milton forever.
No, he couldn’t let her go. Not without telling her he still loved her, that his feelings for her had not changed, but instead had only grown. Not now that he knew she loved him. If she chose to leave, he would respect her decision and never speak of it again. But if he let her go now, he knew he would regret it forever. John put the book down on the table and folded Margaret’s letter into the pocket of his coat, running down the large staircase. Not noticing the bitter cold of the winter air, John raced across the yard, hoping to catch the carriage. Amongst the bustle of the street, he could just see the coach reaching the end of the street, turning in the direction of the train station.
John couldn’t recall the last time he had run so fast. The faces he passed by were no more than blurs of colour against the bright white snow. He heard voices of some of the people of Milton as he rushed by, not stopping for so much as a nod, propriety be damned.
‘Good day, Mr. Thornton.’
‘Was that Mr. Thornton of Marlborough Mills?’
‘Wonder what’s got ‘im in such a state.’
Being a Milton lad through and through, John knew the fastest way to the station. He slipped down an alleyway, a shortcut he knew of from childhood, praying with every fibre of his being to make it in time before the train departed. He quickly glanced down at his pocket watch. It was nearly noon, and the train for London always left at half past. He was nearly there, just a couple streets more and he would be there.
Stumbling out of the alleyway, the station was in sight, the plumes of steam floating up into the sky. The carriage was just outside the gate, pulling away without the luggage it had been carrying. A wave of relief swept over him as he approached the station, hoping to find Margaret on the platform.
***
As Margaret disembarked the carriage and she and Aunt Shaw made their way to the platform, she couldn’t help but remember the way she had felt when she, her parents, and Dixon first arrived here more than a year ago. She couldn’t have possibly fathomed how a place such as this could ever feel like home. The grey, narrow streets, the perpetual noise from the factories, and the near constant cover clouds seemed so alien after her idyllic childhood at Helstone. But she had learned and experienced so much here, good and bad, loved and lost. Now she was about to leave it all behind, and not look back.
Her. In love with John Thornton. He had come as the greatest surprise of all. After their first meeting at Marlborough Mills and his surprising proposal, that version of herself would be dumbfounded by the position she currently found herself in.
‘I do not like you, and never have.’
How her feelings had changed. How she had changed. How he had changed. They were such different people compared to when they first became acquainted. She had berated his un-gentlemanly manner to his face the day he proposed. Since then, his cool demeanour had grown more pleasing and his temper had steadied. She had developed an understanding of Milton, its people and what it took to run one of the factories. She now appreciated the great weight John Thornton carried on his shoulders everyday, not just for himself, but for all those who relied on him. His mother, His sister. Nicholas and Mary. The Boucher children. All the workers. It was such a great responsibility to carry alone, and she had grown to love and admire him for it.
She had left her father’s The Symposium with Mr. Thornton as a memento of her father for him. She knew how much their lessons together meant to the both of them and remembered sitting in the lounge with them both as they discussed the book; the gentle cadence of his rich, deep voice lulling her to sleep after a busy day of helping Dixon. Margaret knew how much John would cherish the book, and hoped it would remind him of her as well.
She left the letter folded in the book for him to find, hoping that he would read it and understand the truth about Frederick and why she must leave Milton no matter how greatly she wanted to stay. But, most importantly, how her feelings for him had changed. She did not do it to cause him further agony, but Margaret knew that John deserved the truth, even if they were to be separated. A single tear rolled down her cheek as she thought of John reading her letter, hoping he would understand. And so they would be, just as in Plato, two souls separated by distance, and yet bound to each other in an unworldly way.
‘Sir, you need a ticket to be on the platform. Sir!’ Margaret heard from behind her as the porter was lifting her luggage onto the train. As she turned towards the commotion and could hardly believe the sight before her.
John Thornton.
Margaret gasped, dropping her reticule to the ground. She had never seen John in such a state, his hair windswept and missing his cravat. He was looking frantically around the station, running his hands through his hair. He handed the station master who had been following him some money as he continued down the platform.
‘Mr. Thornton!’ Margaret cried out, but he could not hear her over the busy crowd. Leaving propriety behind, she pushed her way down the platform towards him.
‘Margaret, where on earth are you going?’ she heard her Aunt Shaw call out to her, but she did not care. He came after her. He must have read her letter. Her heart raced both in anticipation and anxiety for their first meeting after she had made such a declaration to him. She continued down the platform, until, at last, her eyes met his. And in that moment, time stood still.
***
John had not felt such a sense of urgency for such a long time, not since the fire at Marlborough Mills. He pushed his way through the crowd of travellers and porters, his eyes darting up and down the southbound platform. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, from both the exertion of running such a distance and the fear that he might miss her. Until, at last, he met the familiar blue eyes of Margaret Hale. Slowly and slightly in disbelief, like a man who had found an oasis in the desert, John walked down the platform towards her as she made her way towards him. Until, at last, she stood but a few feet in front of him, their eyes not leaving each other for a moment.
‘Miss Hale,’ he said breathlessly.
‘Mister… Mr. Thornton,’ she replied, her long eyelashes fluttering. He could see the redness in her eyes and the faint shimmer of a tear on her cheek. ‘Y-you’re here, you came.’
‘Of course I did,’ he whispered. ‘I read your letter.’
His normally stern gaze had become softer, and the corners of his mouth upturned in the faintest hint of a smile. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the letter, tentatively holding it between them.
‘I-I see,’ Margaret hesitated as she looked down at the folded piece of paper between them. She reached out to touch the letter, her fingers brushing his for the second time that day. ‘John, I feel I must explain, to tell you in person…’
‘You don’t need to explain, I know now…’ John said as he led Margaret to the nearby bench. They sat facing each other, with his arm resting across the top of the bench between them.
‘Please, I feel that I must. I owe you an explanation for that night. You know now who that man is, and why we had to be so secretive,’ John nodded, recalling what he had read in her letter. ‘Later, after my mother has passed, your mother came to see me to express her concern for my behaviour. Given the circumstances, I admit, it must have appeared very improper. But after, she expressed how pleased she was that I had rejected you on that day,’ her shoulders sinking and her eyes falling to her lap, recalling the day that he had proposed to her. She went on,
‘In that moment, I felt as though I had truly lost you, and didn’t fully understand then why it caused me such hurt.’ His eyes never left her face as she explained, taking in every beautiful detail. ‘I knew it was partly because I did not want my father to lose the companionship he found with you, but there was something else. Something I couldn’t explain…’
He moved his arm from the top of the bench, gently placing his hand on top of hers, running his thumb across her fingers. Shyly, Margaret placed her hand on top of his, wrapping her fingers around his.
‘I found the passage in Plato. “The two are struck from their senses by love…,”’ John recited. And with this Margaret lifted their hands and placed a gentle kiss on the back of his hand. John let out a sigh and all the tension he had been holding left his body. He ever so lightly brushed his thumb over her cheek, still unable to believe that this moment was real.
“And they don’t want to be separated from one another, not even for a moment,” Margaret breathed as John leant in and kissed her tenderly, knowing this was likely her first kiss. Feeling her return his kiss, John kissed her again raising his other hand to gently cup her face, the crowd of people on the platform completely forgotten. Finally pulling away from each other, he continued to hold her face in his hands as blue eyes met blue again. She stood up from the bench, looking at him until she turned and walked away back down the platform. John watched, astonished, as she headed back towards her coach. He blinked several times, trying to mask the threatening sting of tears, as he leaned against a lamp post. This was his last chance to convince Margaret to stay in Milton, and he blew it.
‘London train about to depart, London train about to depart,’ he heard the platform conductor announce followed by the whistle of the train as it left the station. This was it, he would never see her again.
Until, moments later he saw a familiar reflection in the station house window. He turned around quickly, praying that it wasn’t an illusion. It was Margaret, standing there on the platform, clutching her carpetbag, as the train pulled away from the station. He felt as though his heart would leap out of his chest. She stayed. She chose to stay in Milton, with him. He couldn’t help but smile.
‘You’re coming home with me?’ John asked confidently. She answered him with a smile and a small nod, and he reached out and took her bag. Linking her arm with his and leaning against his shoulder, the couple left the station, not taking their eyes off each other. When they reached the street, John hailed a carriage to take them back to Marlborough Mills.
As the carriage pulled away, John wrapped his arms around Margaret’s shoulders, unable to look away from her. They sat together in comfortable silence, content to be with each other in this moment. John could see her smiling as she looked out the window, at the people of Milton going about their days. When she turned back to him, he leaned in and placed three gentle kisses on her lips. As they pulled apart, they both smiled, Margaret’s eyes returning to the world outside as John leaned his forehead against her temple.
The carriage pulled up in front of Marlborough Mills and John opened the door. He took Margaret’s bag and offered her his hand. She took it, merging her fingers with his. With a smile, he led her across the yard. He saw the workers watching them, exchanging looks and whispers, which only made his smile beam brighter.
They were home, together, and nothing else mattered.