Just before dawn broke, as we were drifting off once more, Ichabod whispered into my ear, “Ik hou van je.”
Tears welled in my eyes. “I love you, too,” I whispered in English.
28
Fears and Tears
I left early the next morning, albeit very reluctantly. Charlotte had assured me they did not plan to return until midday, but I did not wish to take the chance Mevrouw Jansen might choose to return early. Yet, prudent though I knew it to be, I could not imagine when I might see Ichabod again, to say nothing of when we might next be alone together.
I clung to him just inside the doorway, the front of my gown pressed against his still-bare chest. Inwardly I cursed all that separated us—society, circumstances, fabric.
“It is just over two weeks until All Hallows’ Eve,” Ichabod assured me. “The time will fly by, you will see.”
I eyed him disbelievingly.
“Very well,” he amended. “It shall pass intolerably slowly for me, as well. I was only trying to make you feel better.”
Sighing, I laid my head against his chest. “All will be well,” I murmured.
“All will be well,” he repeated, “and it shall be worth waiting for.”
I leaned up and kissed him, then turned and stepped out the door before I lost the resolve to do so.
I glanced furtively around, but it seemed that no one was about to see me leave. Relaxing slightly, I quickened my pace as I moved toward the road that led to home.
I had just arrived at the Albany Post Road when Brom seemed to materialize from nowhere. “Good morrow, Katrina,” he said, his normally smug face tight with some emotion I could not quite read. “And to what does the village owe your fair presence at such an early hour?”
His words were flirtatious, but his tone was accusatory. I felt like how an American patriot carrying secret messages must have when stopped and interrogated by British soldiers. “Not that it is any of your concern,” I said, hoping my tone sounded sufficiently haughty, “but I spent the night at Charlotte’s, and am on my way home. So if you’ll excuse me.”
I moved to walk around him, but he clamped a large hand on my shoulder. “How dare you!” I exploded, all the rage I had been working so hard to conceal forcing its way out. “Take your filthy hand off me, you devil!”
“What do you take me for, Katrina?” he hissed, bringing his face close to mine. “I know the witch and her witch mother are not home. So what have you really been doing?” Realization dawned on his face, and I saw the emotion tinging his features for what it was: anger. “He is there, isn’t he?” Brom demanded. “That good-for-nothing schoolteacher. Charlotte has been nursing him back to health, and you have spent the night with him!”
I wrenched away from his grasp. “How dare you!” I cried again. “How dare you make such an insinuation about a lady! I have not—”
“He is weak and worthless,” Brom growled. “A nobody. And you would give yourself to him? When I…” He broke off, his rage seeming to choke him.
“He is a hundred times the man you are,” I spat.
Brom flinched as though I had slapped him, and in the hurt look that crossed his face I saw the shadow of the boy he had been. Had I not been so violently enraged, I might have regretted my words.
“Never doubt that, Brom Van Brunt. I do not owe you anything, not my time, nor my body, nor my hand. Mark that well, and do not forget it.” With that, I succeeded in moving past him and continuing on home, at a near run. I did not stop to consider what Brom might have taken as an admission. Or a challenge.
* * *
I spent the darkening October days reading. I finally finished Macbeth, and its ending seemed a bad portent to my mind—the ambition of Macbeth and his lady had come to a bloody end; a warning from Master Shakespeare, it seemed, to those who would reach for what they ought not have. But I was merely reaching for a marriage to the man I loved—a perfectly respectable and reasonable thing for a young woman to want. It was not as though I sought to murder others for power.
Yet as the days grew shorter and grayer and colder, I found that reason did not occupy so lofty a place within my mind as it once had. When it was warm enough, I found myself aimlessly wandering alone through the woods that had once seemed like a haven and now seemed a menacing, unwelcoming bastion of threat. It was as though I was daring some disaster to befall me, daring the Headless Horseman to appear and make good on his threats—or to run into Brom Bones. I did not know which I feared most.
A week later, Ichabod returned for a music lesson. He excused his long absence to my father, repeating the Jansens’ story that he had fallen ill. He no longer needed a sling for his injured arm, though I fancied that I could see the outlines of a bandage beneath his shirt when he removed his coat.
Once we were alone, I fell into his arms, as though it had been months and not mere days since I saw him last. He held me wordlessly before pulling away for the business at hand.
“Shall we have another go at our song?” Ichabod asked, handing the music sheets to me. “Do you remember it well enough?”
I nodded, my eyes never leaving his. “I shall not soon forget that song,” I said. “If ever.”
He nodded once, and without further pleasantries strummed the delicate opening bars of the song. I started singing at my entrance, and soon he joined, and again we sang in harmony, the song about the gentleman and his lady love and all the things that stood between them but could not truly divide them. When we finished, I had tears streaming down my cheeks.
“Katrina,” Ichabod said, catching sight of my face, and rising abruptly from his seat. “Why do you cry?” He gathered me against him, murmuring softly in my ear. “Do not cry. What is it that has made you cry, my love?”
Yet I could not answer him, for I did not truly know. I did not know if it was the exquisite way our voices had blended together, or the hope and sadness of the lovers in the song and my inexplicable fear for them, or that my monthly course should have come four days earlier and had yet to appear.
Perhaps it was all of those things. And so I spoke of none of them.
29
All Hallows’ Eve
All Hallows’ Eve dawned, somewhat incongruously, with a bright, incandescent orange sun, bringing warmth to the now empty fields. Yet of all days, the Headless Horseman would be most likely to appear on this one, when the veil between the worlds of the living and the dead was at its thinnest; but with such brilliant sunshine I did not see how a creature of death and darkness could appear.
Thankfully, my mother and Cook kept me busy much of the day, helping to bake pies and decorate the house for the party that evening. Had I been sitting around, I would have driven myself quite mad with anxiety thinking about that night, when mine and Ichabod’s future would be decided. So engrossed in the tasks they set me was I that I scarcely noticed the sky cloud over, scarcely noticed the gray October afternoon that settled over Sleepy Hollow.
At four o’clock, my mother pronounced our work done, and sent me upstairs to get ready. First I took Nox out to the barn, where he would be confined with his brother during the festivities. Nancy was waiting, having already heated the metal rods to curl my hair. She spent nearly half an hour taming my long, pale hair into neat, fetching curls, and pinning the top strands away from my face, letting the rest hang freely down my back. Then she helped me into a brand-new midnight-blue gown, complete with lace trim at the sleeves and bodice. As she laced me into the gown, I could not help but let my hands rest on my stomach. My monthly course had still not arrived, and I was in a frenzy of doubt as to whether to tell Ichabod before he spoke to my father. If all went well, it would not matter. I could insist upon a quick wedding, before winter’s snows came. Early babies were not uncommon, after all. Time enough to tell Ichabod once we were safely betrothed.
And yet, what if—God forbid—things did not go according to plan? What if my father refused his suit? Ichabod would need to know, so we could plan what to do next.
I did not know how much time I had before my condition became obvious to all, but I knew it could be no more than a few months.
Of course, there was always the possibility that I was wrong, that my course was only inordinately delayed. Yet, whether it was the Sight or a mother’s intuition or simply the knowledge a woman has of her own body, somehow I knew I was with child, and that the child had been conceived that night at Charlotte’s house—in a proper bed, at least, if not the marriage bed—because I had forgotten to take my tea of herbs. I had been in the Jansen cottage, surrounded by all manner of herbs, and I had forgotten in my night of blissful, delirious happiness.
When Nancy finally pronounced me ready, I pinned on my most convincing smile and went downstairs to begin to greet the guests, playing my roles of charming hostess and fetching daughter and magnanimous heiress. Most of Sleepy Hollow would be in attendance, as my father believed in sharing his bounty with as many as possible.
When Charlotte came in with her mother, relief washed through me, and for the first time that evening my smile was genuine. While we could not speak just then, she squeezed my hand tightly and gave me a smile of reassurance.
Not long after came Brom, with his widower father. “Meneer Van Brunt, always a pleasure,” my father greeted the older man. “And young Brom. A delight to offer you our hospitality, as always.”
“The pleasure is mine entirely,” Brom said smoothly. He turned to me, that same anger still simmering beneath his features, and my stomach contracted with unease. “Miss Van Tassel,” he said, kissing my hand. “You look as radiant as ever.”
“Thank you,” I said stiffly. Even with my parents looking on, I could not bring myself to say more. Fear seized me. Somehow in all my planning for this night I had forgotten Ichabod and Brom would both be here. I tried to push these fears away. For what could either do or say in the rooms of a crowded party, before almost the entire village?
I did not want to find out. Excusing myself from my spot by the door, I darted into the parlor to find Charlotte. “Brom is here,” I hissed in her ear, clutching her arm. “When Ichabod arrives, you must take care that they do not come into too close contact.”
Charlotte nodded, casually raising her glass of mulled apple cider to her lips, as though we were talking of nothing more than village gossip. “You may rely upon me,” she said. “I shall be taking pains to avoid Brom as well, so Ichabod and I can avoid him together.”
Worry assuaged, I returned to the front entryway in time to see Ichabod step inside and hand his coat and hat to Henry. “Ahh, Mr. Crane,” my father said, shaking his hand vigorously. “I’m so happy we have the chance to extend our hospitality to you once again.”
“You are too kind, as ever, Master Van Tassel,” Ichabod said. He kissed my mother’s hand. “Mistress Van Tassel, both yourself and your home are exceedingly lovely this evening.”
“Away with you, dear boy,” my mother laughed. “And pray, eat and drink your fill, and enjoy the revels on this dark night of the year.”
Ichabod scarcely seemed to hear her as his gaze fixed on me. “And Miss Van Tassel,” he said, taking my hand and kissing it as well, his lips lingering a beat too long. Even here, even before my parents, and with everything I wanted at stake, the touch of his lips on my bare skin sent waves of heat through me. “You are a vision. I do not think I have ever laid eyes on a more beautiful woman.”
A blush rose to my face. “You do me too much honor, sir,” I said.
“I speak only the truth.”
My father cleared his throat rather pointedly, and my blush deepened. “I pray you enjoy the party, dear sir,” I said. “I trust we shall have time later this evening to converse at more length.”
“Nothing would delight me more,” he said, sweeping me a bow. With another nod to my parents, he stepped through the entryway and into the receiving room. Charlotte approached him almost immediately—bless her, she must have been watching for his entrance—and led him over to the table where bottles of wine and beer and jugs of hot cider were set out.
A few more guests came after Ichabod, but the stream of arrivals had slowed to a trickle. “You are an admirable hostess, as always, my dear,” my father said fondly. “Now go. Enjoy the party. I am sure you and Charlotte will have much to gossip of.”
If only you knew, Father, I thought wryly. I beamed at him and went back into the parlor. Charlotte and Ichabod stood toward the back of the room, far from everyone else which, as I well knew by now, had everything to do with Charlotte. Brom was the full length of the room away, speaking to one of his friends. He was, I noticed uneasily, casting angry looks in Ichabod’s direction every now and then. My stomach curdled uncomfortably.
I took a deep, calming breath, allowing myself a moment to take in the harvest-themed splendor of the room. Candles blazed from the chandelier, from wall sconces, and from candelabras, almost as though we were defying October’s attempts to darken our home and our spirits. Fabric garlands of gold and crimson and orange leaves hung along the walls, and hollowed out pumpkins with faces carved into them, more candles illuminating them from within, graced every table and corner. Their faces were by turns comical or menacing, and their eyes seemed to follow me no matter where I turned.
I poured myself some warm cider, mulled with rum and spices, and went to join Charlotte and Ichabod. “Charlotte, I trust you and Mr. Crane are enjoying yourselves?” I asked in English. As more and more newcomers arrived in the village each year, it had become the language of choice at our larger gatherings.
“Indeed we are, Katrina,” Charlotte said. “Though I do not presume to speak for the gentleman.”
Ichabod smiled with genuine appreciation as he took in the room around him. “I am enjoying myself very much,” he said. “What a lovely picture this room makes, Miss Van Tassel. My compliments.”
“I shall accept them,” I said, my tone more lighthearted than I felt, “for I toiled much of the day creating this very picture!”
Ichabod laughed and bowed slightly. “Then know your efforts are very much appreciated.” He cast his gaze around again. “A fitting celebration of the harvest, and yet there is a touch of the eerie, too, which is only appropriate for All Hallows’ Eve.”
“Indeed,” Brom’s voice broke in. I looked up, startled, to see he had approached us unnoticed. “And do you think, Mr. Crane, that any of us might receive a visit from the legendary Headless Horseman tonight?” His eyes narrowed unpleasantly. “I wonder, how would you react were you to be faced with such a fearsome apparition?”
“Oh, indeed,” Mevrouw Jansen said, coming over to interrupt—whether by accident or design I could not be sure, but I was grateful all the same. “For this is the night on which one is most likely to see him.” I shivered at her words, so close an echo of my own thoughts earlier that day. “Mr. Crane, I trust someone has told you the tale of our local specter?”
“Indeed, Mistress Jansen,” Ichabod said. “Katr—Miss Van Tassel was kind enough to so enlighten me early on in my stay in Sleepy Hollow.”
“I did,” I affirmed. “I thought it best to warn him, should he happen to encounter the ghost one night!”
“Very wise of you, my dear,” Mevrouw Jansen said, smiling.
“Well I, for one, do not fancy Mr. Crane’s chances were he to cross paths with the Horseman,” Brom said.
My heart increased its pace. There was a threat in his voice.
“Whatever do you mean, young Mr. Van Brunt?” Mevrouw Jansen asked him coolly, leveling an icy stare on him.
He faltered slightly under her gaze; for all his fear of Charlotte, he feared her mother much more, and even he did not dare besmirch her reputation—indeed, Dame Jansen’s standing in the community, particularly amongst its women, had been the only thing to protect her daughter from Brom’s rumor-mongering.
“I only mean,” Brom said, rallying, “Mr. Crane here is a rather bookish sort of fellow. I do not know that he has the—er—physical prowess to tangle with a su
pernatural soldier.”
Ichabod tensed beside me, but he did not respond.
“I do not know that physical prowess would matter much against a ghost of any sort,” Mevrouw Jansen said.
“Indeed,” Charlotte said, speaking for the first time since Brom had joined our circle. “And do you truly fancy your own chances against one such as the Headless Horseman, Brom?”
There was a very weighty pause indeed, for Charlotte, Brom, and myself were all no doubt thinking of Charlotte’s prediction for Brom the fateful day that shattered our friendship, the day when Brom had sought to master his fear and prove himself a man once and for all.
I see blood in your future, Brom Van Brunt. Blood and death. The Headless Horseman is your fate. The Headless Horseman is your end.
The rage Brom had been nurturing all night threatened to break through, and I shudder to think what may have happened were we not in a large company such as this. Thankfully others had come to join the conversation by then.
“Oh, Mr. Van Brunt, you could best even a ghost in a fight, I am sure of it!” cried Elizabeth van der Berg.
“Indeed!” exclaimed her friend, a girl whose name I thought was Sara. “Even the Headless Horseman!”
Brom glared at Charlotte a heartbeat longer before turning to his admirers with his usual smug grin.
“Wouldn’t it be something to see him, though?” Mevrouw Van Buren said almost breathlessly, drawing into our circle—though not without a wary glance at Charlotte. “I don’t know a soul who can claim to have truly seen him. Wouldn’t it be something, only to say that you had?”
I shivered again, thinking of my dreams, my vision. “I think it would be rather terrifying.”
“And most likely he is only a legend, in any case,” Mevrouw Jansen interjected.
“Quite right,” Ichabod said, though he did not look so certain. “I am, of course, only a newcomer to this part of the country, but I know Mistress Jansen to be a woman of the utmost wisdom, so I am inclined to agree with her on this point.”
The Spellbook of Katrina Van Tassel Page 19