Mevrouw Jansen laughed. “Oh, but you’ve a silver tongue, haven’t you,” she said to Ichabod. “It’s what comes of reading all those books, I expect.”
“Ah, Mr. Crane,” said one of the elderly village women, Mevrouw Douw. She joined our circle, grasping Ichabod’s sleeve in her gnarled hand. “As we are trading stories, I have one for you: have you heard the tale of Major John Andre, and his haunted tree?” she asked in her heavily accented English.
“Major Andre?” Ichabod asked. “The British officer who sought to assist Benedict Arnold in his treachery?”
“The very same,” Mevrouw Douw said. “He was captured with the plans for the fort at West Point secreted in his boot just up the road from here.” She pointed in the general direction of the spot, perhaps halfway between my house and the village proper.
“I did know that particular episode occurred near here,” he said. “I have not heard the tale of his tree as yet, though I have heard many wonderful tales since coming to Sleepy Hollow.” He flashed me a quick smile.
“It is a marvelous story,” Mevrouw Douw said, settling in to tell the tale. “You, boy,” she barked at Brom. She handed him her goblet. “Fetch me more cider while I tell it.”
Charlotte and I exchanged amused glances as Brom, looking like a chastened child, meekly went to do her bidding.
“Now, Major Andre’s tree,” she began. “You’ll recall, of course, that he was captured by a few brave American militiamen, and turned over to General Washington and the Continental Army. He was found guilty of espionage and sentenced to hang, as is the custom for captured spies.”
“He, of course, asked General Washington to have him executed by firing squad, as befits an officer,” I interjected. “But since he was found on American territory in civilian clothes and not his officer’s uniform, he was deemed a spy.”
Mevrouw Douw nodded approvingly. “Quite right. So instead, he was hanged, one October day in, oh, what year was it?” She appealed to the gathered company.
“1781, was it not?” said Meneer Van Brunt.
“It was 1780, I am sure of it,” Mevrouw Jansen said. “I remember it well.”
“Yes, quite right,” Meneer Van Brunt concurred.
“1780, yes,” Mevrouw Douw continued. “He was hanged, and buried nearby, with only some stones as a burial marker.
“Now, as I mentioned, he was captured quite close to here, beneath a tree beside a brook, a short walk from this very house. And ever since his death, those passing by the tree claim to hear him wailing and lamenting, begging passersby to listen.”
“They say he rails against his fate, against the poor luck that caused him to hang for Arnold’s folly,” Charlotte added.
“And some say he waits for Arnold’s spirit to join him in the afterlife, so that he might finally have his revenge,” I said, dramatically raising my eyebrows.
“Indeed,” Mevrouw Douw said. “And mind you keep your eyes and ears out for him, Mr. Crane. You’ll need to ride right past Major Andre’s tree on your way home, and it would be a dreadful thing if he were to mistake you for someone else.” She cackled.
Ichabod’s face paled slightly at these words, though his smile stayed in place.
Just then, my father interrupted. “Please, my friends,” he called. “My wife and I would like to invite you all to feast to your heart’s content. Cook, if you would!”
Cook threw the door to the dining room open and motioned the guests to move inside.
The party filed in, and gasps of surprise and delight arose at the sight within. The room was decorated in similar fashion to the receiving room, though, if possible, with even more candles, garlands, and carved pumpkins. It was a lovely display, but not quite so lovely as the feast laid out on the long dining room table, which was surely groaning under the weight of its bounty.
Cook, Nancy, Mama, and I had been cooking and baking for days, and it showed. The table was laden with dish after dish to celebrate the harvest: fresh corn bread, roasted chicken and duck, mashed squash and potatoes, carrots glazed in molasses, roasted vegetables, fresh cheeses, beef stew. And the pies: savory meat pies and pumpkin pies and apple pies and cherry pies and peach pies. And, of course, Dutch olie-koecken and doughnuts with their hole in the middle, baked with fresh cider from the apple crop. I glanced behind me at Ichabod and saw his eyes were wide with surprise at the feast, at my family’s generosity.
“Eat, drink, and be merry!” my father cried, and the guests all laughed and applauded and began helping themselves.
As it was each year, there were so many guests—and so much food—that it was not feasible for everyone to sit at one table. So, instead, the food was all set out, along with plates and cutlery, and smaller tables were arranged in rooms all over the first floor of the house. In some years, the weather had been so fine as to allow for tables out on the portico, but this year’s weather made that impossible.
I hung back, allowing the rest of the guests to serve themselves first, as did my parents. In the crush, Ichabod came up alongside me. “When should I speak to him?” he murmured.
I tensed. “After dinner and dessert, and only after the brandy has been served,” I whispered. “Some folks will start leaving around then.”
He nodded once, then moved toward the table.
Once the guests had filled their plates, I got one for myself, though it did not contain very much food—my stomach was far too unsettled to eat much. Still, I forced myself to take a slice of roast goose—for I knew I’d need to keep my strength up—as well as some mashed potatoes (one of my favorite dishes), a slice of apple pie (another favorite, especially the way Cook made it—with extra cinnamon), and a doughnut.
I joined Charlotte and Mevrouw Jansen at a small table in the back sitting room. I did not know where Ichabod had found a seat, but I knew I could not go look for him. It was just for a short time longer that we would need to keep up such appearances, I reminded myself.
I ate as much as I could, and kept my glass filled with mulled cider. Soon enough the rum began to relax me slightly, loosening the knots in my stomach. I laughed as Mevrouw Jansen recounted a letter she’d received from her frivolous younger sister in New York, and Charlotte told me of their visit to her mother’s friend a few weeks ago—and I, of course, pretended to be surprised to learn that they had visited West Point.
Soon the servants began clearing away the dirty plates and cutlery and glasses. We rose and meandered back into the receiving room, where my father now had the brandy set out.
“Ah, there she is!” he all but bellowed as I entered the room. “My Katrina! Isn’t she a beauty?” he crowed to his friends.
Farmers of my father’s age all, they nodded appreciatively, seeming to take my father’s words as an invitation to ogle me. I smiled tightly and crossed the room to him. “You are too kind, Papa, as always,” I murmured, kissing his cheek.
“She may even be the most beautiful woman in the state!” declared Meneer Stanwyck. “In all my trips to New York, I don’t know as I’ve seen her like anywhere!”
“You may be right,” my father said, eyes bright with amusement. “Why, once we were in a New York bookshop—you remember, Katrina, don’t you?—and we met no less a person than Alexander Hamilton, the Secretary of the Treasury!” I rolled my eyes, but if Father saw me he was not deterred. “He was most taken with Katrina, you know. Most taken. He’s a handsome young man, and obviously rather brilliant, too—they say he is President Washington’s right-hand man, and I say, better him than that puffed-up Vice President Adams, or that popinjay Jefferson, so enamored of France!” Here my father heaved a sigh. “Alas, he is married, of course, is Mr. Hamilton—but what a splendid match that would have been!”
“Oh, come now, Father,” I sighed.
“That he is, and I don’t think that even you, Baltus, can afford to dower your daughter as richly as old Philip Schuyler,” interjected Meneer Van Brunt, naming Secretary Hamilton’s father-in-law, one of the wealthies
t landowners in the Hudson Valley and likely the state.
“Perhaps not,” my father huffed, “but I still plan on making a splendid match for my Katrina all the same!”
Fretfully I searched the room for Ichabod, hoping that he still lingered over his meal or was in conversation with an acquaintance, and had not heard my father’s pronouncements. But of course he was there, and of course he had heard. He could not hide the stricken look on his face as our eyes met, and I could read his thoughts as plainly as though he had written them down for me to read: How can I ask for the hand of a woman whose father dreamed of marrying her to the Secretary of the Treasury?
I bit my lip and looked away. We would go forward, no matter what, and pray my father’s desire for my happiness would override his pride.
30
The Proposal
The brandy was flowing well, and guests were beginning to take their leave. I had thought the evening interminably long, yet now that our moment was here it felt as if it had arrived all too suddenly.
I moved to Ichabod’s side in the parlor. “I must speak with you,” I said in a low voice. “In private. Before you speak to my father.”
Glancing around to see if anyone would notice, Ichabod nodded once, then left the room. I left a moment later, following him to the music room.
I closed the door behind us. “I … there is something you need to know,” I said hurriedly. I had only just decided on this course of action, and now that I had embarked upon it, I could not go back. “I … I am with child.”
Ichabod staggered back, as though physically struck. He stared at me in disbelief, the blood draining from his face. “You…”
“Of course I … did not mean for this to happen,” I said, suddenly unable to look at him. “I had been trying to prevent it. But … anyway, it doesn’t matter now. No matter what happens tonight … you needed to know.”
A hesitant smile broke out on his face. “I will admit the timing is not opportune,” he said. “And I would have preferred our first child be conceived in the marriage bed. But…” He trailed off and kissed me, deeply. “It is wonderful news all the same.” He tried to smile again as we broke apart, but looked only nervous.
I could hardly blame him.
“Very well,” I said. “I suppose the time has come, then.”
“I suppose it has,” he said. “All too soon and not soon enough.”
After one last kiss, I turned and left the music room, returning to the parlor. Ichabod appeared soon after, strolling casually to my side.
“Now,” I murmured to him, watching as my father bade farewell to Master Stanwyck.
Squeezing my hand once, swiftly, he crossed the room to my father. “Master Van Tassel,” he intoned, somewhat formally.
My father spun around. “Ah, Mr. Crane!” he cried jovially. “A delight to see you, sir, an absolute delight. I hope you have enjoyed the party?”
“Very much, sir,” Ichabod said, still sounding a bit stiff. “Your generosity truly knows no bounds.”
“Not at all, my dear boy, not at all,” my father said, clapping him on the back.
Ichabod spoke again, hurriedly. “I wondered if I might have a private word with you, sir.”
My father looked somewhat startled, but recovered quickly. “But of course,” he said. “Here, take a glass of brandy”—he motioned for Cook, who was nearby, to pour Ichabod a glass—“and come with me into my study.”
Ichabod took the proffered glass and followed my father out of the room.
I felt like I might faint as I watched them go.
Charlotte materialized at my side. “Is it time already?” she whispered.
I nodded, reaching down and clutching Charlotte’s hand in mine. “Oh, Charlotte,” were the only words I could muster.
“Never fear,” she assured me. “Do not worry. All will be well, I am sure of it.”
Before I could ask whether she was speaking simply to ease my mind or had some other, more definite knowledge of what was to come, Brom was suddenly looming over us. “What is all this whispering about, ladies?” he slurred, breath reeking of drink.
“Nothing that concerns you,” I said.
“Ah contrary,” he said, butchering the French phrase. “I have the feeling it does concern me.”
“Well, it does not,” I snapped. “As shocking as it must be for you to realize, a great many things in the world do not concern you at all.”
“Katrina,” Brom said, and I was startled to hear a genuine note of hurt in his voice, a bit of pleading. “Why can’t you—”
But I didn’t want to hear whatever nonsense he had to say. “Leave us be, Brom,” I said, and dragged Charlotte away, into the now empty dining room.
When he did not follow us, I whispered to Charlotte again. “I … I am going to wait outside the study. I cannot bear it. I…”
Charlotte hugged me tightly. “Do whatever you feel you need to,” she said. “I shall be waiting here to congratulate you.”
I flashed a thankful smile at her, then darted off to lurk outside my father’s study.
And lurk I did, for quite some time, pacing nervously a ways down the hall from the door. What could be taking so long? Surely if it was good news, Ichabod would have emerged by now? Surely this meant Ichabod had been forced to reason, to persuade, perhaps to plead?
They had likely been closeted together for half an hour when Ichabod finally emerged. I froze mid-pace as he came toward me, his face ashen, stricken. “No,” I whispered.
“He … refused me,” Ichabod said. “He will not give his permission for us to wed.” Every word was spoken in a stiff, solid, even tone, as though it was costing him dear.
“What?” I demanded, my voice shrill. I grabbed his hand and dragged him down the hall, into the music room again. “What did he say?” I asked, once we were both shut inside. I screwed my eyes shut. “My God, I am going to faint.”
Ichabod gripped my arm tightly. “Do not faint, Katrina, I beg of you,” he said. “Listen to me. Please calm down—”
“Calm?” I shrieked. “Our whole future has crumbled around us and you wish for me to be calm? How are you managing to be so calm, might I ask?”
“Because one of us has to be!” he exploded at last.
His outburst startled me. I took a deep, shuddering breath, closing my eyes. “Yes. I am sorry. You are right. Please, tell me what my father said.”
He took a deep breath of his own. “He refused,” he said, his tone again stark and cold. “He said that I … that he knew me to be a fine and upstanding fellow, and intelligent, but he was concerned I cannot provide for you. Concerned that I cannot give you the life that you most deserve.” He lifted his eyes to mine, and the depth of sadness—and resignation?—I saw in them almost shattered the tenuous control I had over my emotions. “He’s not wrong.”
“Ichabod.” His name came out in an anguished gasp. “You know that is not true. You know that does not matter to me.”
“I tried to convince him otherwise,” he went on. “I told him I know your heart, and that we love each other. He … he was unmoved. Apologetic, but unmoved. He told me it is because he has your best interests at heart that he cannot give his consent.”
Tears slid down my face. “He is wrong,” I whispered. “Oh, he is so wrong. Did you … did you tell him about the child?”
Ichabod looked thunderstruck at the very suggestion. “Of course not.”
“Why not?” I demanded, frustrated even as a small bud of hope blossomed again in my heart. “If he knew … why, if he knew, he could not refuse! He must let us marry now!”
“I could not admit to him that we … that I … that I had dishonored his daughter,” Ichabod said. “Not after he had refused me. I could not admit I had been a fool and wastrel enough to get you with my child. How could I?”
“How could you not?” I cried. “How could you not claim your child, and the woman meant to be your wife? This child was conceived in love; there is no di
shonor in that!”
“Oh, Katrina,” he said, placing his hands on my shoulders.
“We … we must tell him!” I said, struggling to move away. “We must tell him the truth, and then he’ll have to let us marry!”
“The disgrace—”
“I don’t care!” I cried, weeping now. “I just want to be with you! Don’t you want to be with me?”
He embraced me tightly before answering. “Yes,” he said. “But, Katrina, it is not so simple as that. I wish it were.”
“But it can be,” I said, pulling away so that I could see his face. “If you do not wish to tell my father about the child, then let’s run away together. Tonight.”
“Now?”
“Tonight,” I repeated. “Before anyone can know we’re gone. We’ll leave them all behind and start a life together, whether anyone else approves or not.” I brought his hand to my mouth and kissed his palm. “Run away with me, Ichabod. Please. It is our best hope. It is our last hope.”
There was a moment of terrible silence.
“No, Katrina,” he said at last.
“But…” Tears began to well in my eyes again. “Why—”
“Hear me out,” he said, grasping my shoulders again. “Please. Let us not make any rash decisions tonight. We are both upset and weary. Let us wait until morning, when we will see things more clearly. Then we can decide the best and wisest thing to do.”
I wanted to rail at him, to reject his sound logic, demand that he leave with me that night, right then. But while our time was limited, we certainly had the luxury of a day or two to step back and evaluate our options.
I remained silent for a good long while, until I felt more in control. “Very well,” I said. “If you insist.”
“I do,” he said. “It is the right course. You know that as well as I do, Katrina.”
Childishly, I refused to agree.
“I love you,” he whispered. He kissed me. “Never doubt that.” He sighed and stepped back. “I should take my leave now.”
The Spellbook of Katrina Van Tassel Page 20