At the bottom of the staircase, I paused, listening to the footsteps move softly toward the back of the house. I moved silently down the hallway, past the parlor and music room and into the kitchen.
I opened the door to find Mr. Crane within, pouring himself a glass of milk from the pitcher Agnes always left out for us.
He started when I came in. “Miss Van Tassel,” he said. “My apologies. Did I wake you?”
“Not at all,” I said, stepping fully into the dim room, lit only by the single candle he had carried with him and the dim glow of the embers in the banked cooking fire. “I was awake already.”
“Ah.” He took a sip of his milk and did not comment further.
“And are you unable to sleep this night as well, Mr. Crane?” I inquired, when he seemed unlikely to further the conversation.
“Indeed,” he said. “It is an affliction that troubles me from time to time.”
Again he fell silent, and I began to feel somewhat irritated—and, I realized, nervous.
“Have I done something to offend, Mr. Crane?” I asked at last, once the silence stretching between us had grown unbearable. My heart began to pound as I spoke.
He sighed. “No. You … no. Not at all. I should … I should not take out my own disquiet upon you.”
He seemed to me handsomer than ever, dressed only in his loose shirt and breeches, his hair falling about his face. I could see the muscles in his arms flex through his thin sleeves as he braced them against the high tabletop in between us, belying his scholarly life. No doubt he had grown up on a farm as well, or been trained as a craftsman of some sort. I looked at him, intent, wanting to know how he had grown up and what he had learned and whom his family was. I wanted to know everything about him.
“If there is anything troubling you, Mr. Crane, I want to assure you that you may speak freely with me,” I said. I moved closer to him and covered his hand with my own, caressing it with my thumb. “I hope that we have become friends, yes?”
What madness was making me manifest these feelings that I had only begun to identify? But I could not stop myself. The talk of my marriage, as well as the reminder that Mr. Crane would soon be leaving, had spurred me into action.
When he did not move or reply, I slowly withdrew my hand from his, my face burning. I should leave. There was no good to be had in trying to force him to talk to me. I was just gathering my courage to bid him goodnight and walk out of the room with my head held high when he spoke. “I … it is none of my business,” he said. “I should not be asking you this.”
My heart quickened its pace. “You may ask me anything you like.”
He hesitated briefly before continuing. “Brom,” he said. “That is, Mr. Van Brunt. He is your suitor, then?”
I started. “Not if I have anything to say about it,” I said, my voice cool. “He thinks himself so, but he is quite deluded if he believes I would consent to be his wife.” Feeling as though my heart was beating in my throat, I forced the next words out nevertheless. “Why do you ask?”
His head came up slightly as he met my eyes. “As I said, I should not have. It is none of my affair.”
“But you did ask,” I pressed, “and I would know why.”
“Katrina,” he sighed, looking away, and a pleasurable shiver ran through me at the sound of my given name falling off his tongue. “I cannot.”
“You must,” I whispered, “for I must know.”
“It is not that simple,” he said, suddenly angry. “Not for me. You have been given everything you wanted all your life, and the world does not work that way for the rest of us. Men like me—men without power, money, land, influence—we cannot always have what we want. We must step carefully, must work for everything we can, must threaten no one.”
“But … surely not,” I protested. “This is a great new nation, now; any man has the chance to rise, to—”
He laughed shortly. “The revolution changed many things, but not everything. Who is to say this American experiment will last? I hope it does, and that it becomes everything you wish it to be, Katrina. But not enough has changed, not for poor men. Why, even now, men in Pennsylvania are beginning to rise up over the tax on whiskey.”
“But the funds that taxes bring in are necessary for the running of the government, are they not?” I asked, momentarily diverted by the chance to debate. “We are no longer taxed by a foreign body that does not consult us, but by our own representatives, at least—”
Ichabod shook his head, cutting me off. “That is rather beside the point for me, right now.”
“I don’t understand.”
“No, of course you don’t,” he said. “What I am saying is, even in these new United States, a man like me cannot come into the home of a wealthy, influential man, accept his food and hospitality, and then speak of love to his virgin daughter. It is not right. It is not acceptable, no matter what I may want—”
I cut him off by stepping close to him and pressing my lips to his.
He stood still, as if stunned, then began to respond, hesitantly at first, then hungrily. My mouth opened beneath his, and I moaned slightly, deep in my throat, all thought obliterated.
I had been kissed once before—Brom had stolen a kiss, in fact, when we were fifteen years old. As soon as his lips had touched mine I had drawn back and slapped him so hard my hand left an imprint on his cheek. He had (thankfully) never tried such again.
That had not been a real kiss, not like this. This kiss had passion and fire and hunger and flavors of things I had only ever read about in books, but never felt myself.
He leaned into me then, pressing my back against the edge of the table, his lean body against mine. I gasped against his mouth at the feel of him, and knew he could feel the curves of my hips and breasts in turn. Dressed as we were, in only the flimsiest of nightclothes, such contact was indecent. Yet it thrilled me even so, perhaps because of that.
Without warning, he broke away. “Katrina,” he breathed, stepping back. “My God. We … we cannot. This is what I am saying.”
I closed my eyes as if to deny his words. But I knew he was right. We had already gone far enough, could go no further. Not without terrible consequences. “Ichabod Crane,” I said aloud, after I’d regained my breath. “You asked me about a man you believed to be my suitor, and I think you did so because you wanted to know what my feelings toward you might be. Now you know.”
With that, I turned and left the room while I was still able, going back up to my bedchamber and closing the door behind me. I longed to know what might have happened had I stayed, yet that was precisely why I had to leave.
9
Lovelorn
The next morning I found myself both dreading and eagerly anticipating my music lesson, scheduled for two o’clock that afternoon. Like a coward, I lurked in my bedroom much of the day, avoiding Mr. Crane—or Ichabod, should it not be? It seemed ridiculous to refer to him as Mr. Crane after our kiss—even as I longed to know what he might do and say now, in the light of day.
When the appointed hour came, I approached the music room with apprehension, my stomach feeling as if I had swallowed a mass of writhing worms. Still, I would be damned if I let it show. I held my head high and went inside.
Ichabod barely glanced at me from where he sat tuning his guitar as I entered, nodding briefly. “Miss Van Tassel.”
“Icha—Mr. Crane,” I corrected, stumbling into following his lead.
“Shall we begin?” he asked, strumming a few chords quickly.
“I—yes,” I said. “I suppose we should.”
We began with scales—again—and then he began to teach me a short, simple psalm. While it was a sight more interesting than scales, it was not enough to distract my racing mind. How could he simply pretend nothing had happened?
His words from the night before—of denial, of an unpalatable truth—threatened to repeat themselves in my head, but I shoved them firmly away. Surely that could not be all there was to it, not when we
both felt so for each other …
But felt what, exactly? There was an attraction, surely—I found him handsome, and his mind even more so. I craved his touch. But was there more than that, for either of us? What more was there?
His words forced their way into my thoughts: A man like me cannot come into the home of a wealthy, influential man, accept his food and hospitality, and then speak of love to his virgin daughter …
Love. Could he know me well enough to love me, truly? Surely love took more than a few days, a week, than even the fortnight he would be staying here? Yet the poets and playwrights spoke of love that was so powerful, so undeniable, that all it took was a single glance. I had always thought that foolish, romantic nonsense, but what if there was some truth to it?
And what did I feel for him? Love? Could I call it so? Would I marry him, should he ask for my hand?
“Miss Van Tassel,” Ichabod said, exasperated. “Kindly sing the notes on the page, if you would, and not ones of your own invention.”
I shook my head slightly, brought back to my somewhat uncomfortable reality by his sharp words. “My apologies,” I said, my tone cool. “I am a bit tired, you see. I find I hardly slept last night.”
At last he met my eyes, and I saw a flicker of something within them—but before I could determine what it might be, he looked away again.
“Be that as it may,” he said, “let us try this once more, if you please, and then I think we shall end for the day.”
We began again, my performance better, but certainly not what either of us considered satisfactory. Ichabod did not comment on it. “We shall revisit this next time,” he said, speaking to a point on the wall over my shoulder. “Our time is up for today, I’m afraid.” With that, he turned away from me to replace his guitar in its case.
I watched him, thinking he meant to say something else—to say whatever it was I was waiting for him to say—but when it became clear he was going to do no such thing, I turned and left, almost stunned.
Had he not corrected my final performance because he simply did not wish to be in the room with me any longer?
I couldn’t keep the thought away. But it could not be that. Not when he had returned my kiss so enthusiastically the night before. Surely it was only the strictures of society that stood between us.
And yet … if he truly felt for me, should any of that matter?
You have read too many books, a vicious little voice hissed inside my mind as I hurried back up the stairs, tears stinging my eyes. You are a romantic fool, Katrina Van Tassel.
Back in my room, I vigorously brushed the tears away and opened Macbeth again. A tale of tragedy and blood sounded like exactly what I needed.
10
Dreams and Nightmares
I did not see Ichabod at dinner that night, for which I was fervently grateful. The more I thought about it, the more I felt it was for the best that he was leaving our house soon, and I would no longer see him as often. It would be better for both of us.
That night I tossed and turned, trying, rather futilely, to sleep. I could not leave off thinking of the moment in the kitchen, and his coldness that day. No doubt he regrets his words to me, I thought, regrets my kiss—and that he kissed me back. I could not quite bring myself to regret kissing him, however—even as recalling it caused me to flush with a heat that was at least partially shame. I must save what fond memories I had and otherwise think no more of him.
I must have fallen asleep at some point that night, for again I dreamed of the Headless Horseman. The vision that met me was different than the one that usually came. Still he faced me from the edge of the woods, astride his horse and with the burning pumpkin beside the horse’s hooves. The sheathed sword remained at his hip, but this time, an axe was tucked into his belt as well. I had not seen the axe before. As always in these dreams, Nox was not beside me, though I never ventured out into—or near—the woods without him.
Strangest of all, I could see Ichabod within the woods, just behind the Horseman. He was looking in my direction, his lips moving as though speaking, calling out, but I couldn’t hear him. When I tried to move toward him, the Horseman moved to block Ichabod from my view, as if to cut me off.
I awoke with a start, in the dim light of dawn.
Try though I did, I could not get back to sleep, and lay awake as the sweat from the dream cooled on my brow and chest. Why had the dream altered, after so much time? And what could it possibly mean? Or perhaps it was all moonlight and foolishness and did not mean anything. I was never so grateful to see Nancy as when she finally came in to help me dress, and I could give up the pretense of sleep.
Thankfully, I was not needed for chores that morning, so as soon as I broke my fast I took my book out into the woods, to my usual reading spot, Nox on my heels. Some time away from the house was just what I needed.
I shivered briefly as I stepped onto the forest path, the dream still fresh in my memory. Reaching down and patting Nox’s head firmly, I resolved to put that confounded dream from my mind once and for all and think only of pleasant things.
I did make a success of it, if only briefly. I reached my favorite spot and settled in on the bank, opened my book, happily losing myself in Macbeth. All too soon, I heard the cracking of twigs that could only mean someone was approaching.
Nox, who had been dozing in the sunlight that filtered through the leaves, lifted his head and growled a warning. I lowered my book—I had never encountered anyone in my trips here, and it seemed unlikely I would do so now. Someone must be coming to seek me. My heart quickened, sending hope pounding through my body.
Indeed, it was Ichabod who stepped through the trees and into the clearing. Upon seeing a friendly face whom he recognized, Nox thumped his tail against the ground twice in greeting then lay back down, resting his head on his paws. I set my book on my lap and looked up at Ichabod, waiting for him to speak.
For a moment, doubt seized me. Perhaps he had not come to seek me at all. Perhaps he had merely returned here to read alone, and now, finding me, would turn back.
“Katrina,” he said, by way of greeting. I saw that he had not brought a book with him—only himself, in his breeches and shirtsleeves, his hair tied back at the nape of his neck in the summer heat.
“Ichabod,” I replied. “What brings you here?”
“May I sit with you?” he asked after a long pause.
“Indeed,” I said. “We do not stand on ceremony here.”
A ghost of a smile flickered across his face and was gone, and he lowered himself to the grass—keeping, I noted with some dismay, a quite respectable distance from me.
Thus seated, he was silent for a moment more, and I felt my impatience and curiosity and hope and dread bubbling up within me like some potion created by the three witches in Macbeth. Just when I thought I could stand it no longer, he spoke again. “I saw you come out here, and wanted to speak with you. Privately.”
“I gathered as much,” I said.
He sighed. “I wanted to apologize.”
“For your cold behavior yesterday? I should think so. It certainly warranted an apology.”
“No,” he said, frustrated. “That is, yes—you are right. It does indeed warrant an apology, one I am most willing to proffer. But that is not what I meant.”
“Oh? I can think of nothing else for which you need to apologize.”
He sighed again, a harder edge to the sound this time. “Katrina. Please do not do this.”
“Do what?” I demanded.
“You know precisely what and are being deliberately obtuse.”
“I wish to hear you say it,” I shot back. “Explain to me why you think you need to ask my forgiveness. I should like to hear the words.”
“Very well,” he said, sounding angry now. “I wish to apologize for everything I said to you the night before last, in the kitchen. It was inappropriate. Nor should I have…” The tips of his ears turned slightly red. “Nor should I have returned your kiss. I should hav
e ended it, as any gentleman must.”
My own anger rose to match his. “And I tell you again that you have nothing to apologize for. I was a willing participant in our conversation, and more than that in our kiss.”
“Katrina.” My name came out as a half sigh, half groan. “Surely you can see why none of this can be. Why it would be better for both of us if that night had never happened.”
I was silent, gathering my thoughts. Despite my earlier determination to put him from my mind, to forget about him henceforth, what I truly wanted was very different from that. I wanted him. And I could deny it no longer.
“On the night in question,” I said at last, “you accused me of always getting everything I want. And you are right. I have never been denied anything, and as such have very little practice with it.” I met his eyes. “I have no intention of starting now, not when I finally know what it means to truly desire something. I realize now that I have never really wanted anything before. The meanings of such words have shifted within my mind, until it feels as though my entire heart has been disassembled and put back together again, slightly different than it was before.”
He did not speak. His body tensed as if trying very hard not to take me in his arms. “You speak to me in poetry,” he said, his voice so soft it was almost a whisper.
“Should it not be so, between lovers?”
His head jerked up. “We are no such thing,” he said. “We cannot be, no matter how much either of us would wish it otherwise.”
“And why not?” I asked, the sound of my heart pounding in my ears. “If we both wish it to be so, what should stop us?”
“I can’t … how can I ask for your hand?” he demanded. “I have nothing to offer you. I am an itinerant schoolteacher, without land or even a house of my own. Why should your father even entertain my suit? He will think me nothing but a fortune hunter.”
The Spellbook of Katrina Van Tassel Page 5