A ship there is and she sails the sea
She’s loaded deep as deep can be
But not so deep as the love I’m in
I know not if I sink or swim.
—“The Water is Wide,” Traditional Folk Song
There was only one other soul in Tynemouth who knew and understood my craft, and it was to her that I set off on a fine summer’s morning, with a basket full of herbs and tinctures. Phebe lived on the edge of town in a little cottage and made her livelihood through the mending of fishing nets. Townspeople often left her offerings of food and dry goods, as it was said she could charm the storm out of the sea. Of course, she no more had the power to do that than I, but I think she liked the reputation. I went there at least once a month to trade her herbs in exchange for her company and stories.
Periwinkles and sand dollars hung on twine from the little porch, tinkling like music in the wind. My boots crunched the oyster shells that lined her front path, releasing white puffs of dust. Phebe greeted me with a grunt, barely looking up from her work. Her warm brown skin glistened with perspiration as she drew her handkerchief across her forehead. “Put that basket down and help me with these nets,” she instructed as soon as I’d opened the rickety gate. “Rain is coming, and these will tangle something fierce if they get left out.”
Though there was not a cloud in the sky, I did as I was told, and followed her inside. We worked together in silence, fishnets spread around us. Her hands were quick, working deftly to mend the tangle of netting. Her little mahogany shuttle flashed in and out of the ropes ten times for each clumsy pass of mine. When we were done, she wiped her hands off on her patchwork apron and looked over our handiwork before turning to me. “You bring me anything?”
I handed her the herb bundles and she inspected them. Nodding her approval, she gestured for me to make some tea while she sat down in the only upholstered chair in the small room. “Oh, my back is aching today,” she said. “Always does when it’s going to rain.”
When the tea had finished steeping, I poured it out and handed her a chipped cup. Outside, rain was starting to patter, just as she had predicted. “There’s a dance being held at the assembly hall next week to celebrate the docking of a Norwegian ship. Should be a fine time, especially if Mr. Brody decides to take up his fiddle.” She paused before asking, “You going?”
“Of course I’m not going,” I said, surprised that she would even ask.
She shrugged, as if it made no difference to her, but there was a telltale tug to her lips. “I just thought you might be interested. There should be some fine young men there. Tall, fair-haired. Like the Vikings of olden days.”
I stared at her. Never once in the ten years I’d known her had Phebe spoken of dances or the opposite sex in anything other than tones of scorn. “What makes you think I have any interest in young men?”
“I hear things,” she said without looking up. “Things about a certain young man meeting a certain young lady in the woods at night and making love to her.”
Nothing happened in Tynemouth without Phebe knowing about it. But still, to hear that Jack and I were being spoken of in town was like a dousing of cold water.
“He’s a smart-looking boy,” Phebe added lightly.
I concentrated on my tea, not rising to her bait.
“Broken a lot of hearts, left a lot of girls wishing maybe they hadn’t been so quick to fall for his pretty words.”
This was a bridge too far. I put down my tea and looked squarely into my friend’s deep brown eyes. “Phebe, is there something you want to say to me?”
There had always been an unspoken agreement between Phebe and me, that whatever odd things we might engage in, we never questioned the other about them.
She answered me with another question. “How old are you now, Margaret?”
“Nineteen,” I answered, suspicious of the sudden change of subject.
She nodded. “You look like your mama at that age.”
I paused, my cup raised halfway to my lips. “You know my mother?” I couldn’t think of a less likely friendship, never mind that my mother had repeatedly told me that I was not to associate with Phebe Hall.
“Oh, I knew her,” Phebe said. “I made her a promise that I would tell you about her when you were grown.”
I frowned. “Tell me what?”
I’d never known Phebe to be at a loss for words, but she sat back now and studied me with sharp eyes. “You mean they still haven’t told you?” she finally said.
“Who hasn’t told me what?” I asked, growing exasperated.
She sucked her teeth. “Child, if they haven’t told you by now then it isn’t my place to say anything. But you had better ask your mama where you came from. It’s not right that they let you go on all this time not knowing.”
“What do you mean, ‘where I came from’?”
But she only shook her head. “Ask your mama,” she said again.
Though I burned with curiosity, I knew better than to press Phebe. Perhaps she was mistaking my mother for someone else. But she was sharp as a tack, and I had never known her mind to wander. We drank our tea in silence, each nursing our own private thoughts. “Bring me some of that gingerroot next time and I’ll make you a cake like you’ve never seen,” she promised me when we were done. “And you go talk to your mama,” she said. “You need to know the truth of things.”
When I returned home that evening, Clarence and Lizzie had been there for supper, and there hadn’t been an opportunity to speak to my mother about Phebe’s cryptic advice. I spared it no further thought, for I had other matters on my mind. Matters that had dark hair and sensuous lips. Matters that had me aching with desire, counting the minutes until sundown.
Jack and I had seen each other but a handful of times since our meeting in the store, but each time his gaze would cut across the street to find me, sending thrills racing down my spine and pooling between my legs. And I would walk by, as if he were no more than a perfect stranger, unworthy of my attention. It was a game, and I savored every delicious minute of it. I wanted a child, yes, but I also wanted a conquest.
After my parents retired to bed, I slipped out into the cool, clear night with a basket on my arm. Roseroot collected by the light of the full moon is particularly powerful, and I wanted some for a charm. But that was not the only reason for my errand. A salty breeze swept around me, carrying with it the sound of footsteps. I smiled; he was coming.
I had barely turned around when his hands were on my waist, his mouth on my neck. “I need you,” he said between hot breaths. He backed me up against a tree, and I dropped my basket, fragrant herbs spilling on the ground. “I can’t see you on the street again and not know what your lips taste like, or the shape of your legs beneath your skirts. You torture me, and I only want you the more for it.”
This time there was no pretense of waiting or propriety. I didn’t have the patience to be coy any longer; I ached for his touch, for his body against mine. “Tell me,” I demanded. “Tell me what you want from me.”
“I want your heart, little witch,” he gasped into my hair as I undid his trousers. “I want your soul, and I very much want your body.”
“They are yours,” I told him, though I did not add that if I was his, then he was equally mine.
For as much as I wanted a child, I admit that as he took me against that tree, I had little thought in my mind about conceiving. All I wanted at that moment was to feel him inside of me, to know what it was to reach the peak of pleasure and come crashing down in the arms of my lover, and if I got a baby from it, so much the better.
Afterward, we lay tangled together on the forest floor, leaves blowing over us as he idly twined his fingers through my hair. I was not so naive as to think that Jack would honor any of the words he had spoken in the heat of passion; thanks to my three brothers, I knew something of the ways of men. So I was surprised when he rolled toward me and lifted himself on one elbow, and asked, “When can I see you again?”