Black is the color of my true love’s hair
His face so soft and wondrous fair
The purest eyes
And the strongest hands
I love the ground on where he stands.
—“Black is the Color of My True Love’s Hair,”
Traditional Folk Song
It was October when my courses ceased. My breasts grew tender, and I often found myself sick at the sight of food. For all my wishing and dreaming of a baby, I was terrified of the physical changes that seemed to happen overnight. Would I still be beautiful? Would Jack still find me desirable? Would I even recognize my reflection in the mirror come this time next year? Though my body was no longer my own, I liked having a secret. Who was this stranger who was growing inside of me? Would they love me as fiercely as I already loved them? Would they be my ally, my companion, my dearest little friend?
I had not yet told Jack about the child, as I knew that the early months were fraught with danger, and that I could lose it at any time. Jack and I had spoken at length about what our future might look like. We would lie on the sun-warmed rocks and watch the tide seep in as we built our castles in the air. And though I was content with these snatched moments of happiness, I wished that he was not so hesitant to be seen with me in town, for he still did not want his parents to know of our attachment. They would need time to come round to the idea of his marrying me, he explained. Never mind that my family was wealthy and well respected; it was understood that I was different, that I was not fit for marriage.
On a crisp day when the late afternoon sun slanted through the reddening trees, I laced on my boots and slipped out the back door. I had hardly reached the gate when I heard footsteps in the fallen leaves approaching me at a leisurely pace from behind. Shadow growled, his hackles standing on end.
“Hullo, sister.”
I stopped, groaning inwardly. “Hello, Henry,” I said, unlatching the gate without turning.
“Where are you off to this fine afternoon?”
“Just going for a walk.”
Henry hurried to catch up to me, slipping through the gate before it could shut. “All alone? Where is this beau of yours that supposedly worships the very ground that you walk on?”
I didn’t particularly care if Henry believed me about Jack or not, but I certainly didn’t want him interrupting our precious time together. “Just walking today, no beau,” I said.
“Excellent. Then I don’t suppose you would mind your doting brother escorting you?”
He didn’t bother waiting for an answer before he fell into step beside me, his sleeve brushing my arm. Shadow trailed us, sulking. He did not care for Henry.
Henry chatted with me about the weather, George’s engagement and how he wished he didn’t have to return to Boston to work. The sun was dipping ever lower, and soon it would be dusk and I would miss my rendezvous with Jack. Henry was going on and on about how boring his work was and how he was destined for greater things, when I spun and faced him. “I have to go. I promised Mrs. Crenshaw that I would bring her seaweed for a poultice.”
Henry frowned. “It’s almost dark.”
“The tide is going out, and I’ll miss it.”
I could see the indecision warring on his face. I knew that, on one hand, he would not want to get his clothes dirty scrambling down the rocks, but on the other hand, that he was unwilling to let me go.
“I’ll be fine,” I said, giving him my warmest, most sisterly smile. “Tell Mother I’ll be late, and not to wait for dinner on my account. I’ll make myself a plate later.”
When at last Henry’s reluctant footsteps had faded back down the path, I hurried toward the rocks where I had promised to meet Jack.
When I saw him waiting with his hands in his pockets, I nearly lost my breath at how beautiful he looked with the wind in his dark hair. The weather had turned cool, and though I shivered beneath my shawl, Jack was only in his shirtsleeves and vest. He must have felt my eyes on him, for he turned and gave me his crooked smile. “There’s my wildflower.”
I fell into his arms, hungry for his touch and the heat of his lean body against mine. I knew I should tell him about the child, but a part of me was frightened that it would change everything between us. It was such a perfect moment, with the crashing waves behind us, his arms wrapped around me and his chin tucked over my head. Our hearts beat in unison, the wind binding us tightly together.
“There’s something I must tell you,” I made myself say.
He pulled away slightly, tilting my chin up to him. “What?”
He was looking down at me with such heat in his clear blue eyes, such longing. Had there ever been a woman so adored, so loved? “Nothing,” I said, managing a small smile. “It is nothing.”
I led him away from the rocks and into the woods where he took me with no less passion than he had the first time or the hundred times since then. Afterward, we lay on a bed of damp autumn leaves, my shawl wrapping us together in a cocoon. Above us, a canopy of black branches fanned out against the dark lavender sky. I was in such a daze of contentment that I hardly realized he had said something.
“Maggie,” he said, twining a finger through my hair, “there’s something I have to ask you.”
I caught my breath. Here, at last, was my proposal.
But it was not a proposal, nor even the pretty words to which I’d grown so accustomed. “The stories about you...that is...” He cleared his throat, looking suddenly uncomfortable. “How much is true?”
I didn’t need to ask him what he was talking about. I tamped down my disappointment. I suppose it had only been a matter of time before he would ask. “You want to know if your ‘little witch’ is indeed practicing some dark art, is that it?” He didn’t say anything, but I could see the confirmation in his eyes. I sighed, sitting up. “Very well. Give me your hand.”
Reluctantly, he sat up and gave it to me. It was a beautiful hand, large and strong, fingers elegantly tapered at the tips. Taking my time, I drew my finger down the meandering lines of his palms, my featherlight touch eliciting a sharp intake of breath from him.
“Your love line is very deep,” I told him. “You love intensely and with your whole being. But it is not long.” I raised my gaze to meet his, and found that he was staring at me with an unreadable expression. “I hope that means you will not be unfaithful to me,” I teased.
Abruptly, he took his hand back. “I don’t like this, Maggie,” he said. “It’s all nonsense anyway, isn’t it? You can’t truly see all of that, can you?”
“It’s as true as any preacher’s sermon,” I told him.
Jack went very still, as if just struck by an unpleasant thought. “You can’t...that is, you can’t see into the minds of others, can you?”
I nudged him in the side, amused by his discomfort. “Why, do you have dark secrets you’d rather keep hidden from me?”
“Of course not,” he said gruffly.
If only I did possess such a power, I might have saved myself considerable heartache. “Here, look at this.” If he didn’t want to see the truth, I could at least show him a pretty trick. Taking up a dead aster, I held it between my thumb and finger and murmured the words I knew so well. Jack’s eyes went wide as the withered leaves uncurled back to life, pink color returning to the petals.
I had never shown my magic to anyone before, and my heart was beating fast, my palms sweating. I had not thought that I would care, but I suddenly realized how very important it was to me that Jack understood what I was. Who I was.
“Maggie,” he said, his voice husky and almost breathless. “I don’t know if I should be afraid, but I can’t seem to be anything other than amazed. My remarkable girl.”
We watched the aster complete its transformation in silence, until the last petal had opened and I let the sea breeze carry it away.
“I want to speak to your father,” Jack finally said.
I must not have heard him correctly. We had built many castles in the air that started out in just such a way, and I assumed that was what he was doing now. Propping myself up on my elbow, I arched my brow at him. “Why, whatever for, Mr. Pryce?”
“Don’t, Maggie,” he said. “I’m in earnest.”
And indeed he was. I could see it in his eyes, the way he looked as if his next breath relied on my answer. My heart raced, my thoughts in a jumble. I wanted my child. I wanted love. I wanted to be my own mistress and escape the stagnation of my parents’ house. The first two only required a man, but the third required a husband. A husband would give me certain freedoms, yes, but I would be no less beholden to him than I was to my parents now. I studied Jack out of the corner of my eye. Would he expect me to work in his family’s store? Or would he keep me home to raise his children? Would he tolerate my wild ways and let me go where I would? Or would he grow bored with me after he had captured his prize? The chill that we had kept at bay with our lovemaking returned.
“And what of your parents?” I asked him. “Do they approve?”
His pursed lips and the way he evaded my eyes was all the answer I needed. “I am a grown man,” he said, almost as if he was reassuring himself and not me. “If they do not approve, then what can they do to stop me?”
A great deal, it turned out. Nearly a week later when I saw him next, Jack admitted that his parents had threatened to withhold his inheritance from him if he were to marry me, small though it must have been.
“What need have we for money?” I drew my finger down the length of his torso, teasing at his waistband. “I shall charge for my midwife services, and you are strong and clever. Why, my brother George would give you a position at the shipping office if I were to ask, I am sure of it.”
But Jack didn’t say anything. A cloud seemed to have settled over us, a wall of thorns springing up around our castle in the air.
The knock at the door the following week was sharp and angry. Mother and I had been mending in the parlor, though my mind was far away, spinning through my memories of Jack and the night we’d spent together. Mother shot me a questioning look, but I just shook my head. I was as surprised as she was to be getting a call so early in the morning, and on a Saturday, no less. Could it really be that Jack had already spoken to his parents again and was now here to ask for my father’s blessing? Or perhaps he had decided to forfeit his inheritance altogether and had come to abscond with me.
My heart raced as I stood behind my mother as she opened the door. It was not Jack, but three men in work coats and rough trousers, their skin raw and chapped from the sea. After my initial disappointment wore off, it took me a moment to recognize one of the men as Jenny Hough’s husband, Bernard. My stomach tightened; I knew why they were at our door. I only wondered that it had taken them so long.
I had always been able to keep my worlds separate, the wild witch that worked magic in the nights, and the dutiful daughter of my parents in the daytime. So I could only watch, frozen, as those two worlds met in a spectacular collision.
“Gentlemen, can I help you?” Mother looked perplexed, but she was as polite as always.
“That’s her!” shouted Bernard, pointing at me over my mother’s shoulder. “That’s the unnatural woman what told my wife she could bring back our little Suzy. Said that we had to kill another child and bring her the body if we ever wanted to see our girl again.”
The other men howled their agreement. Perhaps the only thing more unnerving than a group of wild boys in the woods was a group of angry men on your doorstep.
“I said no such thing!” I exclaimed.
By this time my father had overheard the commotion and come to the door. “What is this?” he demanded.
“They say that Margaret...” My mother trailed off, looking at me as if I were a stranger in her house. “They say that she told them to kill a child.”
My father shot me an alarmed look, color blooming behind his mustache. But I just held my chin up, unfazed. Let them hurl their insults and accusations, they could prove nothing.
“Bring her out! She must be made to answer for this. My wife hasn’t stopped crying in weeks.”
“She gave my wife a draught to keep from conceiving,” another man shouted.
There was jostling, and I realized that the men meant to gain entrance, to do what I wasn’t sure, but no doubt nothing good.
“Stand back!” I’d never heard my father raise his voice in such a manner. There was a vein throbbing in his neck and he was bright red. He’d stepped in front of my mother, his arms braced on either side of the doorframe. “If you have a grievance against my daughter, then do the civilized thing and hire a lawyer. I won’t have angry hordes beating down my door with baseless accusations.”
Their hateful looks could have eviscerated me, but the men must have known that they had no other recourse, so they left, cursing over their shoulders and spitting on our front walk.
When they had gone, Father shut the door, and I was left with my parents in the silent hall.
“What,” my father said, mopping his red brow, “was that all about?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” I said innocently. “They must have mistaken me for someone else.” But I could tell from my parents’ expressions that I would have to do better than that.
“I do not know from what kind of encounter their bizarre accusations sprung, and I’m certain I don’t want to know. Your mother and I have been patient with you, looking the other way at some of your more...aberrant behavior. But I will not have people knocking down my door with craven accusations about my daughter. I have a business to run, a reputation as a good, honest family man to uphold.”
Mother’s gaze had not left me the entire time my father had spoken. “What did they mean,” she asked quietly, “when they said that you told them to kill a child to save their own?”
I might have told her the truth, but she wouldn’t have believed me anyway. I decided to meet her in the middle with a version of the truth instead. “His wife came to me asking for a cure for her sick child. There was nothing I could do, and in her grief she must have imagined such a scenario.”
It was the first time I had admitted anything to do with my practice, and I was more fascinated by what my parents’ reaction would be than anything else.
“There’s to be no more of this...of this herbal or medicinal practice,” Father said, pacing about the hall. “We have looked the other way while you pursued this hobby, but you want for nothing in this house, and I won’t have my daughter engaging in a debasing trade. Perhaps it is time we began to think of marriage, or sending you somewhere for some polish.”
For the first time since the knock at the door, a real sense of panic began to set in. Was he in earnest? I was nineteen years old and I could not go to some faraway boarding school—I was pregnant. And I could not—I would not—marry any man but Jack.
Though it prickled my pride, I bowed my head in what I hoped was sufficient obedience. “I will leave off in my herbal work and give you no cause for reproach,” I murmured. “You have my word. It was only a fancy to pass time—I never thought it would cause any trouble.”
The look my father gave me was unreadable, but eventually he nodded. “Very well. Perhaps you should go upstairs and spend some time thinking on how you might improve yourself and be an asset to this household. Your mother and I will discuss this further.”
As I climbed the stairs, I could hear my mother’s distressed whispers, and then my father angrily stalking back to his study. I did not believe that I had truly fooled my parents, and it was only a matter of time before the truth leaked out around the seams of my lies and omissions. I had seen the anger in those men’s eyes; there was a reckoning coming.