The Spellbook of Katrina Van Tassel

by Alyssa Palombo

  “Well spoken,” I said, and we went into the house together. It was all I could do not to run with him into our music room and shut the door behind us. Once we were there, though, he immediately swept me into his arms and kissed me, hard. I returned the kiss eagerly, melting against him, feeling every inch of my skin hum like the strings of his guitar.

  “I have had to remind myself that it has only been a few days, and not a lifetime,” he whispered against my hair as we broke apart.

  “Yes. Oh, yes.”

  He stepped back and went to remove his guitar from its case. “We had best engage in some music, lest anyone become suspicious.”

  “I suppose,” I said, and he chuckled at the regret in my voice.

  “Do not fear. I have brought something I think you will like. It is a duet, something for us to sing together.”

  “Oh?” I said. I took the music sheets from him, feeling my excitement grow as I scanned the lyrics: it was a love song, yet the words were innocent enough that no one need suspect anything. It was no different from any of the other ballads sung around an evening fire. Yet we would know the truth. I grinned. “I approve of this plan.”

  “I thought you might,” he said, eyes twinkling. “But first, of course, you must learn your part, and learn it well.”

  As the lesson began, I was surprised to find him slipping back into his exacting teaching persona. Yet even as it chafed, I knew it was his way, one that would make me a better musician. He sang my part through for me once, that I might hear it, then played a phrase at a time on his guitar and had me sing it back to him, that I might learn it. As usual, it was demanding work, with his insistence on perfection, and by the end of the lesson I had only learned the first third of the song. I was frustrated, which had the strange effect of making me desire him even more.

  “You have deliberately picked something difficult,” I accused him as he packed away his guitar.

  He glanced up at me, one eyebrow raised. “But of course. It shall take us much work and much time together to master.”

  A smile curled at the edges of my lips. “Yes, I suppose it will.”

  He rose and took my hands in his. “When shall we meet again, my Katrina?” he asked, his voice low.

  I sighed. “It will not be for some days yet, my love. My monthly course is upon me.”

  He closed his eyes in relief. “Thank God,” he said. “Do not misunderstand me; I am disappointed that we cannot meet sooner. But it is for the best, in this case.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I wonder how many lifetimes that shall feel like.”

  Ichabod did not seem to have heard me. “Katrina … we are lucky this time. What about the next time?” He ran a hand through his hair. “I … I have always known this is not wise, but maybe we should reconsider. Perhaps it is best that I ask your father for your hand straightaway; surely he cannot deny us when he sees how we love each other…”

  “No,” I said, cupping his face in my hands, forcing him to meet my eyes. “Not yet. I … I think we had still best wait.”

  “But what if—”

  “Do not fret,” I said. “I am taking precautions to ensure I will not conceive a child. Not until we wish to, of course.”

  He studied me carefully. “What precautions are these?”

  I waved his question aside. “There are ways,” I said. “My dearest friend is Charlotte Jansen, daughter of Mevrouw Jansen, the village herbalist and midwife. She is going to help me.”

  “Does she … does she know the truth?” Ichabod asked. “About us?”

  “Yes,” I said. “As I said—”

  “Oh, Katrina,” he interrupted with a groan. “Why did you tell her? It would have been so much better if no one knew—”

  “She is my best friend in the world,” I repeated. “I trust her beyond anyone. She would never betray us; and what is more, I need her help.”

  Ichabod hesitated. “Charlotte Jansen. I have heard that name,” he said at last. “There are … rather startling rumors about her in the village.”

  “Pay no attention to that slanderous drivel,” I said sharply. “It was all created, every last word, by Brom Van Brunt, and it is all lies. Charlotte is the best person I know, and has never done anyone harm in her life.”

  Ichabod nodded. “Forgive me. I have never met her, and so was hesitant to give credence to the gossip in any case. If you trust her, then that must be enough for me.”

  “Indeed it must,” I said, still rather piqued at him.

  He looked as though he wanted to say something more, but apparently thought better of it. “Very well,” he said at last. “I shall return, in three days’ time for our next lesson.”

  “Wait,” I said, an idea striking me. “I must go to the village to confer with Charlotte about … well … this.” I looked up at him through my eyelashes, something I had learned men found rather fetching. “Walk with me there? You can meet her, and assure yourself that all will be well.”

  “Yes, of course,” he said. He kissed me again, swiftly. “The longer we can delay our parting, the better.”

  I went into the kitchen to fetch Charlotte’s basket, which I had bade her leave behind yesterday so that I would have an excuse to see her again today. I found my mother within, conferring with Cook. “I am off to return Charlotte’s basket,” I told her, holding it up. “Mr. Crane shall walk me there.”

  “Very well, dear,” she said. “It is a lovely day; enjoy yourself.”

  And so we were on our way, free and clear. Ichabod offered me his arm as we walked toward the road—a perfectly appropriate gesture, yet one that spoke of something a bit more, perhaps. I found myself wishing my father was watching.

  “And so how are you finding your teaching duties?” I asked as we walked.

  He told me in detail of his first few days, of how some of the students were eager to learn and others convinced that they would never have any use for such things. “It is a struggle to reach both groups of students, to ensure that they all learn equally, whether they understand the importance of it or not,” he said. “And of course there is an issue of language, as well. Some of the students speak little English.”

  “Indeed,” I said. “And so we must improve your Dutch. But I understand the larger struggle you face. Many of the women in the village have often scoffed at me for reading so much, and for wanting to learn. They do not see a use for things that will not help run a household or raise children. Yet is not learning always worth it for its own sake?”

  “That it most certainly is,” he said. “And that is what I am trying to impress upon these students. Many of them plan to grow up to be farmers or laborers or craftsmen and so see no value in book learning.”

  “Surely they realize they must know how to read and write and count, so as to keep track of their wages and put their signature knowingly to a contract,” I said. “It will make them better businessmen, better at keeping track of their money.”

  “That is so,” Ichabod agreed. “Perhaps I must frame it in such a way.”

  “Of course you must,” I said. “I wonder that you have not done so already.”

  He lifted my hand to his lips. “I needed you to show me the way, of course.”

  “Indeed,” I scoffed. “I wonder what the good villagers of Sleepy Hollow would say should they learn just how distracted their new schoolmaster’s mind is.”

  “I am most distracted, I confess. And if you keep looking at me like that I shall become further distracted from this road.”

  I laughed. “As I should not like for you to collapse in a heap upon it, pray keep your mind on the task at hand. Walking, that is.”

  We continued to playfully tease one another the rest of the way into the village, though we became quieter the closer we got. It would not do for anyone to overhear our flirtatious banter and make us the talk of Sleepy Hollow.

  I led him to the Jansen cottage, and withdrew my arm from his as I knocked upon the door. Best not to draw any probing question
s from the kind yet formidable Mevrouw Jansen.

  Yet as luck would have it, it was Charlotte who opened the door. “Why, Katrina,” she said. “I see you have come to return my basket,” she added with a wink. “Oh, I am sorry,” she said, catching sight of Ichabod. “I do not believe we have met, sir.”

  “Charlotte,” I said, performing the introductions, “this is Ichabod Crane, Sleepy Hollow’s new schoolmaster, of whom you have heard me speak. Mr. Crane, this is Charlotte Jansen, my dearest friend in all the world.”

  Ichabod doffed his cap. “Miss Jansen,” he said. “It is a pleasure.”

  “A pleasure to meet you as well, Mr. Crane,” she said. She threw me a mischievous yet approving look. “Indeed, Katrina has told me much of you.”

  Ichabod gave a nervous smile, still not entirely comfortable with Charlotte knowing our secret. He will soon see, I reassured myself. Once he gets to know her, he will see how worthy she is of our trust.

  “Please, come in, the both of you,” Charlotte said, stepping back so that we might come into the cottage. “My mother has run out to the market—a pity,” she said to Ichabod, “for I know that she would most like to meet you, good sir.”

  “Kind of you to say,” Ichabod said. “I look forward to making her acquaintance as well. I have heard her spoken of with naught but the utmost respect.”

  Once these pleasantries had been exchanged, we all looked at one another awkwardly. I could almost hear our mutual thoughts: did we speak of our shared secret? Or did we keep pretending that everything was proper and just as it should be?

  Charlotte broke the silence, and the stalemate. “I believe there are some herbs that you need from me, Katrina,” she said, glancing at me. Then she switched her gaze to Ichabod. “I am told they will be beneficial to you both.”

  Ichabod fidgeted uncomfortably. “I … that is, I can imagine what you must think of me, Miss…”

  Charlotte smiled, a smile so radiant that Ichabod seemed to relax immediately. “I think no such judgmental thoughts, good sir,” she said. “You make Katrina happy, and otherwise what is between you is none of my affair. Yet I would say this,” she added, her voice taking on a serious note, “have the utmost care with her heart. I will not stand to see it broken.”

  “Nor would I,” Ichabod replied. “You need not trouble yourself on that count, Miss Jansen.”

  “Good.” Her smile returned. “We are in accord, then. I think you and I shall be friends, Mr. Crane.”

  “I hope so.”

  Charlotte turned to me, her smile wider. “Come into the herb room, then, Katrina,” she said. “Mr. Crane can await us here. We women have things to discuss.”

  “Indeed,” I said. I cast Ichabod a look over my shoulder as Charlotte led me into the herb room, where bunches of herbs hung drying from the rafters, giving the room a bold, spicy scent. Jars along the walls held liquids and dried herb mixtures alike, ready to be dispensed to whoever might have need of them.

  “He is handsome indeed,” Charlotte said to me in a low voice. “And he seems kind, and gentle, and sincere. I commend you on your choice.”

  I giggled. “Thank goodness. If you did not approve, I think I should part ways with him completely.” Yet though I had spoken in jest, I realized my words were quite true. If Charlotte had distrusted or disliked Ichabod for any reason, I would have found myself with many doubts indeed.

  Charlotte reached behind one of the jars on the shelf and extracted a smaller jar. “I already mixed the herbs for you,” she said, handing it to me. “Pennyroyal and blue cohosh. Now, as I told you, brew these into a tea and drink it after each time you are with him. A teaspoon’s worth for each cup, no more. Too much will make you ill.”

  I took the jar. “How soon afterward must I drink it?”

  “As soon as possible. It will likely not taste very good,” she added, “but a bit of honey will do no harm and should help the taste.”

  I nodded, tucking the small jar into a pocket of my dress. “Thank you, Charlotte. I truly cannot thank you enough.”

  She waved my words aside. “Of course. But, Katrina…” That haunted look came into her eyes again. “Do be careful, won’t you? That no one discovers this secret?”

  “Of course,” I said. “You need not even tell me. But Charlotte, this is the third time that you have warned me to take care. What do you see?”

  “It is … it is nothing, I think,” she said, her eyes a bit unfocused. “Truly. More a feeling of apprehension, of danger, that I felt about you last week. I think I was only seeing this romantic venture of yours.”

  I relaxed slightly. “If it was something more, you would tell me, wouldn’t you?”

  “You know I would.” She shook her head slightly and smiled reassuringly at me. “Truly, Katrina, do not worry. Well, you should worry, so that you do not take foolish risks, of course. But you know what I mean. All I have been foreseeing—if indeed I was foreseeing anything at all—was my own nervousness for you.”

  “I suppose that makes sense,” I said.

  “In any case,” she said, returning to the business at hand. She nodded at the pocket where I had put the herbs. “If you should need any more, just tell me.”

  I grinned. “And what shall you think of me if I should need more in short order?”

  She laughed. “Nothing I don’t think already,” she teased.

  We returned to the front room, where Ichabod had taken a seat. He rose upon our entrance. “Everything well, ladies?” he asked.

  Charlotte and I exchanged a knowing look. “Quite well,” I said.

  “I hope I can persuade you both to stay for a cup of tea,” Charlotte said.

  Ichabod withdrew a gold pocket watch from his coat and consulted it. “I wish I could,” he said reluctantly, snapping the cover closed again, “but I am due back at the schoolhouse for afternoon lessons.” He hesitated, then, remembering we were among friends, crossed the room to me and kissed me quickly upon the lips. “I shall see you in three days’ time,” he said. “For your next lesson.”

  I pursed my lips in a pout. “Would that it were sooner.”

  “Would that it could be,” he said. “But I think it best we not seek each other out before then.”

  I sighed.

  He kissed me again. “I will see you then,” he said, lowering his voice, “and shall count the hours in the meantime.”

  “As shall I.”

  He put his hat upon his head and nodded to Charlotte. “Miss Jansen,” he said. “It has been a pleasure making your acquaintance. And I thank you for your … erm … assistance.” His face turned slightly red.

  Charlotte grinned wickedly at him. “A pleasure meeting you as well, Mr. Crane.”

  He nodded again to the both of us, then let himself out.

  As soon as he was gone, we burst into giggles. “Who would have thought Mr. Ichabod Crane was the bashful sort,” Charlotte said, once she had somewhat recovered. “Did you see how red he turned?”

  “I did,” I said, mastering myself. “But … that is one of the things I love about him.”

  “I wonder that he managed to do the deed at all, seeing as he is so shy,” Charlotte added, sending us both into a fresh fit of laughter.

  “I promise you, he is much bolder when it is just us,” I said once our giggles subsided. “But not … not too much so.” I sighed, remembering. “If that makes any sense.”

  “It does,” Charlotte said. “He does not take you for granted, and that endears him to you.”

  “Why, that is exactly so,” I said. “I had not thought of it that way, but you are quite right.”

  She smiled. “What are friends for if not revelatory insights?” She made to move toward the kitchen. “I can persuade you to stay for some tea, I hope, since you are here?”

  “Of course.” I impulsively reached out and took her hand. “Oh, Charlotte,” I said, my tone hushed. “How I wish that you could feel this way. How I wish that you had someone like Ichabod.”


  She drew her hand away roughly. “I do not think the chances of that happening in Sleepy Hollow are quite likely,” she said coolly.

  “Oh, but surely—”

  “I do not need your pity, Katrina Van Tassel.” With that, she swept into the kitchen, and when she returned a few minutes later with a teapot and cups on a tray, she was collected once more. I did not bring up the subject again.

  18

  Fear and Ecstasy

  Over the next three days, I kept myself as busy as I could to pass the time until I would see Ichabod again. In addition to helping my mother with mending and with tending her flock of geese, as well as going on walks with Charlotte, I spent much time helping my father inspect the crops, something that always delighted us both.

  “This summer could do with more rain,” my father said one day, squinting up at the cloudless blue sky. We were mounted on our respective thoroughbreds, riding along the edge of the wheat field. “I’ve half a mind to begin bringing in the winter wheat now, but I’ve heard tell it may rain next week.”

  “You’d be right to bring it in now,” I argued. “It is ready and perfect as is. More rain might be good, yes, but you also risk leaving the wheat another week under the sun if it does not.”

  He studied me from under the wide brim of his hat. “I think you are right, daughter,” he said. “Very well. I’ll tell George to begin the harvest tomorrow with such field hands as we have, and I’ll ride into the village to secure some temporary help.”

  I smiled. “You will not regret it, Papa.”

  “You have such sound judgment in these matters, Katrina. I would be a fool not to listen.”

  * * *

  At last Ichabod returned for another music lesson. Being in his company was wonderful, of course, but I wanted more; wanted to touch him, kiss him; wanted him to kiss and touch me.

  At the end of the lesson, as he was packing away his things, I leaned in close. “Three nights hence,” I whispered in his ear. My monthly courses would be over by then. “Midnight. Meet me at our spot in the woods.”