The Spellbook of Katrina Van Tassel

by Alyssa Palombo

  Even in the bright summer sun, I shivered, at both the earnestness in her eyes and at the memory of what she had said to Brom that day, after he had begged and cajoled and goaded her into telling him what she’d seen in his future. It was after she had finally given in that he had thrown the rock at her face and called her a witch.

  “I am always careful,” I said at last, trying to smile to lighten the moment. “At the very least, I can hardly be called reckless, no?”

  Yet even as I spoke, I thought of kissing Ichabod, his arms around me, holding me so tightly to him that there was no space for even a breath between us. And not for the first time that day, my words tasted like a lie.

  12

  Ichabod’s Tale

  My mother and I went on to the market to procure some vegetables our farm did not grow, indulging in a lunch of fresh bread and cheese while there. The whole time, Charlotte’s warning would not leave my head. Could she be referring to this new relationship with Ichabod? She had said that I would know the meaning of her words eventually …

  If that was all it was, then she need have no further concern. I was taking the utmost care. Had not Ichabod and I both decided we must proceed slowly? That we must not let our emotions run away with us? Just thinking of him brought on the physical desire to fling myself into his arms; yet I knew upon arriving home I could do no such thing. I would go up to my room, or help my mother with some household tasks.

  I did not know how to be any more careful.

  Perhaps if I had told Charlotte as much, she wouldn’t have felt the need to warn me.

  I will tell her all, in my own time, I promised myself.

  Our business in the village done, we made our way home with our purchases, as well as some remedies that my mother had procured from Dame Jansen. Upon reaching the house, I went upstairs to remove my bonnet, and found Ichabod coming toward me from his room. “Miss Van Tassel,” he greeted me, his proper tone belying the fire in his eyes. “I trust you had an agreeable day?”

  “Most agreeable,” I said. As he made to pass me, I grasped his arm and pressed close to him. “Tomorrow after luncheon, our place in the woods,” I whispered. He nodded once, then I released him, stepping into my room as though nothing had happened.

  * * *

  The next day it rained; and no mere drizzle, but an unrelenting, pounding rain that lasted into the night.

  We’d not had much rain this summer, and while I knew I should be grateful for the farm’s sake—“Thank God,” my father declared at luncheon, “I was starting to worry the crops would begin to dry up!”—I could not help but take it as a personal affront. That it might have been a bad omen was something I refused to consider, but the thought returned to nibble at the edges of my mind throughout the day.

  I kept an eye on the window all morning, hoping the rain would subside by the afternoon, but no such thing happened. I was confined to the house, helping my mother with further mending and the making of some preserves in the kitchen. When Ichabod’s and my paths crossed, we were perfectly courteous and correct, but the frustration in his eyes was plain to me, as I’m sure mine was to him. How could two people living in the same house find it so hard to meet privately? It seemed inconceivable, yet there we were. And he would be leaving for his new lodgings in three days’ time. I did not know if that would be better or worse, but I dreaded it all the same.

  He passed me in the downstairs hallway as he made his way up to his room for the night. “Tomorrow,” I said softly.

  He nodded. “Tomorrow.”

  I knew we had all the time in the world—our whole lives if we wanted; infinite tomorrows. Yet knowing this could not curb the desperation I felt to be in his arms again.

  * * *

  Thankfully, by the next morning the rain had abated, though our spot in the woods would be too muddy to be hospitable. Instead we decided to take a walk along the river, and if anyone inquired or thought it unusual, I could simply say I was showing him some of the Hudson River Valley’s most scenic views.

  We made our way down the embankment upon which the house stood to walk right beside the river. Nox promptly ran ahead and splashed happily through the shallow waters, barking at ducks and gulls. Once we were out of view of the house and most of the farmland, Ichabod offered me his arm.

  “I have been thinking,” I said as we walked, the sunshine brushing our faces with warmth, “you now know much of me and my life. But I know so little of you. Of your life before you came to Sleepy Hollow.”

  He chuckled. “What would you wish to know?”

  “Everything. About your family. Your life and home in Connecticut. Your education. How you came to be a schoolteacher. Tell me everything.”

  He sighed, his smile dimmed slightly. “It is not much of a story, I am afraid. The life I came from is nothing like yours here, surrounded by such plenty, with such a family.”

  “But it is your story, and so it is important to me.”

  He sighed again. “All right, then. Even though I am not half the storyteller you are, I fear.” He cleared his throat and began. “My father was a carpenter. He made furniture—fine pieces, and he had many wealthy customers who bought them. He would also get work in building new houses, when such was needed.”

  His face darkened somewhat as he continued. “I don’t doubt that my family would have been a prosperous one, had he lived. But as soon as independence from Britain was declared, he laid down his tools and went to fight for his country, with his fellow Americans. He died fighting the British at the battle of Saratoga.” Ichabod paused. “I know he was proud to give his life for his country, for liberty. Yet it was bittersweet that such a decisive battle for the Americans was also a devastating blow for my family.”

  “Goodness,” I murmured. “You must have been very young when he died.”

  Ichabod nodded. “I was only seven years of age. He was away fighting for a time before that, so I have only the vaguest memories of him.” He smiled. “I remember being in his workshop with him. He would show me his tools and how to put together pieces of wood to become a table, or a chair.”

  I placed a hand lightly on his shoulder. “At least you have some memories of him.”

  “Yes,” he agreed. “It is better than none. But the years after his death were very hard for my mother and me. My father had left us a tidy savings, but my mother wanted to hold on to it for as long as she could, so that I could continue my schooling. So she took in sewing, and laundry, and hired herself out as a cook or a servant whenever she could. As I got older, in between my schoolwork, I tried to take over some of the carpentry, but I did not have my father’s gift for it, unfortunately. My mother and I grew some crops and raised some animals, enough to keep ourselves fed and make a little extra money, but it was not a comfortable existence by any means.” He paused. “At times I was glad I had no siblings, so my mother need not worry about having another mouth to feed. Other times I thought it was a bit lonely, just the two of us. We had no other family, and our neighbors—kind though they were—had their own losses and struggles. We helped one another when we could, but that did not always amount to much.

  “In any case, after I finished my schooling, I took a job as a clerk for a wealthy merchant in New York. I sent most of my wages back to my mother, and she was able to hire a farmhand to help keep up our tiny farm. I learned more about figures and calculations there than I ever had in the schoolhouse, and best of all, the man was possessed of an incredible library, which he generously put at my disposal. A stroke of luck, that. I read most of what he had, and he noticed. He asked me if I might tutor his young son, who was having difficulty reading. I did, and felt an enormous sense of triumph at helping the boy. My employer, recognizing this, recommended me as a tutor to others of his acquaintance, and soon I did a nice business tutoring children—boys and girls—in reading and writing and arithmetic. One of his wealthy friends, who owns much land further up the Hudson, I believe, heard of the post here and mentioned it to me, an
d I jumped at the chance to strike out on my own, as it were.”

  He smiled. “My mother, I should mention, remarried while I was in New York—to a prosperous farmer who has combined her small holdings with his and is able to keep her in comfort. So now what I do not need for food and personal effects I save like a miser.”

  “And what do you save for?” I asked.

  “I once thought of going west and trying my hand at a homestead and farm on the frontier—they say there are fortunes to be made there, for men brave enough to try.” He stopped walking and turned to face me. “But of late I think that so long as I can provide a permanent home for myself, and for a wife, that shall be enough.”

  I looked down and away from his earnest gaze, trying to hide my wide smile. “A most noble goal,” I murmured.

  “I think so,” he said, his eyes never leaving my face.

  We continued along the river, and our talk turned to other things: books we loved, places we both wanted to travel. We even stole a few brief kisses when we were sure no one was near enough to see us. What hung in the air around us the whole time were our hopes for a shared future, one that felt as though it might not be too far off.

  13

  Rendezvous

  “Katrina,” Ichabod groaned, frustration and desire evident in his voice. “Please. We must stop.”

  I drew away from him with a reluctant sigh and curled on the grass at his side. “I suppose you’re right.”

  The day after our walk by the river was equally beautiful, so we had slipped away again that morning, returning to our spot in the woods, away from prying eyes. I had left Nox free to roam the fields, hoping no one would see him and wonder where I had gone without him.

  Once alone, Ichabod and I had kissed with a fevered passion, until he lay back on the grass, I nearly atop him, our hands roaming over each other’s bodies—when he cupped my breast, even over my bodice, I lost all coherent thought. My hands wandered beneath his shirt, and he stroked my bare legs beneath my light summer skirts.

  But that was as far as we went. Not far enough, yet much farther than ever before. Ichabod had stopped us before we could pass the point from which there was no returning.

  My body and heart cried out in protest, and I could not stop myself touching him. I wrapped an arm across his chest and held him tightly, while he let his fingers twine in my long, loose hair. “As beautiful and radiant as the beams of the sun,” he said, letting the blond strands fall through his fingers. “But such a beautiful woman as you could be adorned with no less.”

  I felt as though my entire body would melt into him at these words. “If you are hoping to distract me from thoughts of any further amorous activity, you are failing miserably,” I murmured.

  Rather than reply, he leaned over and kissed me, hungrily, deeply. I moaned against his mouth as he shifted so he was partially atop me, his hands moving downward over my body. My heart rate accelerated as I arched beneath his touch, with desire and fear and anticipation and excitement.

  Yet again he pulled himself away. “By God, Katrina,” he said, sitting up and running his fingers through his mussed hair. “We must stop. I am a gentleman, I swear it, though I am not behaving like one at the moment. And a gentleman does not make love to a woman who is not his wife.”

  I sat up, too, angry and a bit embarrassed. “Oh? And, seeing as how you’re a gentleman, and unmarried, I suppose you have never made love to a woman before?”

  His silence told me all I needed to know. “There is a difference between being a foolish young man and a gentleman, I’m afraid,” he said, his voice somewhat cool. “Though in this instance what I should have said is that a gentleman does not make love to a woman whom he intends to make his wife, before she is so.”

  “And what of my intentions?” I asked.

  “Yes, what of them? What are they? I should like to know.”

  I looked away from his steady green gaze. “I…”

  “I would know the truth, Katrina Van Tassel. Do you wish to be my wife, or no?”

  “Yes,” I said, for foolish and hasty or not, it was true. Were I to be betrothed to a man from the village, as my parents no doubt had always planned, he and I would have had less acquaintance, desire, knowledge, and certainly passion between us than Ichabod and I had now, and yet it would have been considered a good match, a better match. “Yes, I do. But I…”

  “What?” He met my troubled gaze. “You think your father will say no.”

  I knew he would say no. I remembered my mother’s words too well: You are an heiress to extensive holdings, and so your father and I expect a good match … A man with something to bring to the marriage, and not a fortune hunter. I had no doubt both of them would categorize Ichabod Crane as the latter.

  But what of what I wanted? What of the fact that I had fallen in love with this man?

  “I am afraid,” I whispered. “Now that you are here, I cannot bear to think of what life would be like if you were not. You were right; I am spoiled and am afraid of being disappointed for the first time. Especially when I would trade everything I have and have ever had, if only to have you.”

  He shook his head. “You speak so because you do not know what it would be to lose everything. To live without all your comforts in the first place.”

  “Do you think that I do not speak in earnest? Do you think I am a fool who does not know what she is feeling?” I demanded.

  “Of course not. It is just…” He sighed and looked away. “Forgive me, Katrina. I, too, am afraid, that is all. Afraid I might lose you. Afraid that your life might be better for it if I did.”

  I moved closer, taking his face in my hands. “Never say that,” I said softly. “It is not true. It cannot be.”

  He leaned down and kissed me once more, briefly. “Perhaps.” He stepped away. “We had best return. I have a few things to see to yet before I leave tomorrow.”

  “I hate that you must go.”

  “No,” he said, taking my hand in his. “Do not. It is a good thing. It is more proper this way. Once I have been gone a few weeks, I will come back and ask your father for your hand.”

  My heart pounded. “Truly?”

  He smiled. “Truly. I must come call on you a great many times before then, however, so that my suit is not a complete surprise to the good Baltus Van Tassel.”

  “Yes, I suppose you must.” With time, my parents—and my father especially—would come to see Ichabod for the wonderful man I knew he was, and give their blessing.

  He smiled. “And what is the Dutch word for husband?”

  Yet again, my pulse spiked. “Man.”

  “Ah, similar to English, when in the marriage ceremony we say, ‘man and wife.’ And so how do you say wife?”

  I smiled. “Vrouw.”

  He returned my smile. “You will be mijn vrouw.”

  I replied in Dutch, “And you will be my husband.” I prayed that in speaking the words, my doubts as to our future would be chased away.

  * * *

  On returning to the house, we entered through the side door into the kitchen, only to find my mother waiting for us. “Ah, there you both are,” she said. Her tone was even, but her eyes held a somewhat troubled expression. “Your father asked that I send you both to his study when you return.”

  “I … the both of us?” I asked.

  “Yes. He said he would speak with you and Mr. Crane.”

  I resisted the urge to glance at Ichabod, to suggest any sort of complicity between us. Had someone seen us? Had we been found out? My father was hardly the intimidating sort, but such a summons did not bode well, even so.

  My mother smiled encouragingly. “Nothing to worry about, I’m sure.”

  I did not reply; merely led the way to my father’s study at the front of the house.

  I opened the door without knocking and found Brom Bones seated within, across from my father. Both men looked up. “Ah, Katrina, Mr. Crane,” my father said.

  Brom rose from his chair.
“I shall be going, then, sir, as I see you’ve other matters to attend to.” He spoke Dutch, deliberately trying to exclude Ichabod from the conversation. Brom took my hand and kissed it as he reached the door; I recoiled at the feel of his lips on my skin. “A pleasure to see you, Miss Van Tassel, as always.” He tossed a triumphant glance at Ichabod as he left.

  My heart pounded in my throat. If Brom was involved, whatever was happening was even worse than I’d imagined.

  “Sit down, both of you,” my father said, and Ichabod and I obeyed, taking the chairs across from his desk.

  “What is this about, Papa?” I asked.

  “Ah, well, I shall get right to the point, then. Young Brom, you see, has brought something to my attention that is most … interesting, I suppose you could say, and I thought I had best get to the bottom of it.”

  “I am quite in suspense,” I said, doing my best to act nonchalant.

  “Yes, well, I shall endeavor to enlighten you, then. Yesterday Brom was on his way to call on you, Katrina, and he saw you and Mr. Crane returning from … somewhere together. He did not think too much of it at the time, he says, but then today when he came to discuss a few farming matters with me, he claims to have seen you departing together for the woods. He thought I should know, in case there is anything, ah, untoward going on.” He nodded at Ichabod. “You’ll forgive me for the unseemly implication, I hope, sir. But a man with a daughter as beautiful as mine, and of marriageable age at that, cannot be too careful.”

  The insinuation in his words turned me to ice—I was of marriageable age, but not available to one such as Ichabod Crane.

  “This is absurd,” I said coldly. “What on earth does Brom think he is on about? Is he hanging about the place spying on me, then, that he knows my movements so well?”

  “Of course not, Katrina. I have already explained how he came to see you on both occasions. And I am quite glad he did, for it is most unseemly for you to be spending so much time alone together, in a secluded wood, no less.”