“You don’t believe it, do you?”
“No,” she said, though she didn’t sound entirely convinced. “Do you?”
“No,” I replied, the same note of uncertainty in my own response.
She gestured upstream, to where some men had set out along the bank. “They are searching the stream,” she said. “In case…” She trailed off and bit her lip.
“In case they find a body,” I finished. “We will stay until they finish searching.”
Charlotte did not reply; she merely gripped my hand with her own, and we settled in to wait.
* * *
They did not find a body, and once the search had ended Charlotte took me back to her cottage, allowing for no protest. By then I was shivering uncontrollably, both from the cold and my own unbearable anxiety.
“Tea, I think,” Charlotte said. She steered me to the daybed and disappeared into the kitchen to boil some water. I sat, huddled within my cloak until my shivering began to subside. Nox laid himself on my feet, and I took some small reassurance from his warmth and proximity.
“I know how dire this seems, Katrina,” Charlotte said, after putting the kettle on. “But you must try to think objectively. There is a perfectly logical explanation for all of this. His hat might have flown off his head; the pumpkin likely means nothing; and his disappearance may be perfectly explainable, even understandable. Perhaps he has ridden off somewhere to try to clear his head after last night. He might have gone to see his cousin Giles. He may well have been in need of a friendly face and a sympathetic ear after last night. Or perhaps he is even now trying to make a plan for the two of you and wishes to finalize some arrangements before returning for you.”
The rational part of my mind knew that she might well be right, but I waved her words aside even so. “Perhaps, but above all, he must know that I need to speak to him. He must. After everything. And we are running out of time. He knows that.”
Charlotte’s brow creased in confusion. “What do you mean? Katrina, there is plenty of time. Your father has not yet promised you to anyone else.”
I groaned. She still did not know I was with child. I glanced around the cottage. “Where is your mother?” I asked, my voice low.
“Out, seeing one of the village women. She’s been out all day. Katrina, you’ve gone quite pale. What is it?”
I took a deep breath. “We are running out of time because I … I am with child.”
Charlotte gasped, one hand coming up to cover her mouth. “Oh, Katrina,” she whispered. “Are you sure?”
“I have only missed one course so far, but yes, I am sure.”
“One course need not mean anything, though,” she reasoned.
“I am sure,” I repeated. “I have never missed one before, but even more so than that, I … I am just sure. I can’t explain it.”
Charlotte nodded quickly, acknowledging what she of all people understood. “And so you needed to obtain your father’s permission and marry quickly,” she said, “so when the child is born, no one is the wiser about when it was conceived.”
“Yes.”
Charlotte sat back against her chair, her face ashen now as she comprehended the full extent of my predicament.
“And so Ichabod, knowing this,” I continued, “knows we do not have time to lose. Whatever we are going to do, we must do it now.”
“So you told him about the child, then.”
“Yes, right before he spoke to my father. I deliberated about telling him, but I decided that, whatever might happen, he had a right to know.”
Charlotte considered this for a long moment—too long. “Yes, I suppose that is true,” she said at last. “But surely you can afford another day, if that is what he needs.”
“He should know me better than that!” I exploded. “He should know that I need him with me, to reassure myself. He promised he would send word, and he has not. He is not even in Sleepy Hollow, that much seems certain. What am I to make of that?”
Charlotte had no answer to that, nor did I expect one. Instead she rose and returned with two mugs of tea. “But how did you come to be with child?” she asked once she sat down again.
I shot her an exasperated look. “Surely I do not need to explain it to you.”
“That is not what I mean,” she snapped. “Were you not taking the herbs I gave you?”
“Yes, I was, but one night I forgot,” I retorted. “And do not think you can possibly reproach me more than I have reproached myself, Charlotte. This is a complication that I did not need.”
Charlotte rubbed her forehead. “Let us not argue, Katrina,” she said at last, though I could still hear traces of irritation in her voice. “That is something else neither of us needs at this point.”
“Yes,” I said shortly.
We were both silent as we sipped our tea, as neither of us trusted ourselves not to further the argument. The tea was spiced with cinnamon and cloves, and the more I drank, the more relaxed I felt. I glanced up at Charlotte in question.
“Skullcap,” she said, before I could ask. “It will help calm your nerves.”
Wordlessly I took another sip. It was a long time before I spoke. “Where is he, Charlotte?” Even to myself, my voice sounded like a tiny, broken thing.
“You must not fret so, not when we do not have enough information,” Charlotte said. “If he has gone to see his cousin, no doubt he is riding back now, and will find all the fuss in the village to be quite ridiculous.”
“Do you really think so?” I asked, desperately wanting to believe her.
“It seems most likely,” Charlotte said, getting to her feet. “But we can write to Mr. Carpenter, just to be sure.” She glanced at the clock. “Of course, at this hour, by the time we write and send the letter, we likely won’t receive a response until tomorrow, but at least it would give us something to do. Some way of being sure, if perhaps Ichabod has decided to stay another day.”
He would not stay away another day, I objected silently, for he knows that I need him. “I suppose you are right,” I said, willing to go along with her plan—Charlotte was just trying to help, after all. And there was a chance, of course, that she was exactly right. Or so I tried to tell the leaden dread in my stomach.
Charlotte got a sheet of paper and pen, and I jotted a quick note to Giles Carpenter. “How will we send it to him?” I asked as I sealed it. “I do not know his direction.”
“I have it,” Charlotte said. “He left it for me after the duel—he asked that I write to him to let him know how Ichabod fared.”
I was not so lost in my own fear and uncertainty that I did not detect the faint flush in Charlotte’s cheeks, and the way her voice rose just slightly to a higher register. “Oh?” I said, raising my eyebrows. “He did, did he? And did you write to him?”
“I did as he asked,” she said primly. “I let him know his cousin was quite well and would make a full recovery.”
“I see.” When she did not elaborate, I left it at that. If there was more to the story, Charlotte would tell me in time. Or I would drag it out of her at some other, more convenient moment.
The letter written and addressed, Charlotte and I took it to the inn, where we found a willing messenger. “Am I to wait for a reply, miss?” he asked me as I handed him a few coins.
“Yes,” I said. “Do not leave without one.”
“Very good, miss. I’ll likely wait until morning to take the road back.” He grinned widely. “There’s a lass in White Plains I’ve been meaning to call on, anyway.”
I rolled my eyes at this as we bade him farewell. He could do as he pleased, so long as he brought me my reply in the morning.
After returning to Charlotte’s cottage to collect Nox and Starlight, I rode home, before it grew too dark. Yet I found I almost could not bear the thought of what awaited me: a full night of uncertainty, of having no idea where Ichabod was, or why he was there and not with me.
I arrived home in time to dine with my parents, and sat wooden
ly through the meal, hardly saying anything. Neither commented on my silence; no doubt my father, at least, thought I was still angry about his refusal of Ichabod’s suit.
After supper I pleaded a headache and went to my room, where I allowed Nancy to undress me and see me to bed. Practically as soon as I lay down, I rose again and went to the window, looking out over the river. When I finally got into bed, I buried my face into Nox’s fur and wept. He whined and craned his neck around to lick my face, and though it did nothing to fix all that was wrong, it afforded me a small measure of comfort.
33
God or the Devil
The next morning, I barely heard my excuse to my mother for why I was going to see Charlotte again. We had directed the messenger to take Giles Carpenter’s reply to the Jansen cottage, so Nox and I dashed to the village once more, me riding Starlight.
When she came to the door, she had an opened letter in her hand. “The messenger’s just been,” she said. With no further explanation, she handed me the letter and closed the door behind me as I stepped inside.
My eyes skittered over the page so quickly I almost could not make sense of the words written upon it. I forced myself to take a deep breath, and then read the letter slowly.
My dear Miss Jansen and Miss Van Tassel—
Thank you for your letter. Unfortunately, Ichabod is not here, nor has he been to visit me of late. The last time I saw him was the day I made both of your acquaintances. I confess your inquiry has greatly unsettled me. My cousin has no other relatives or friends in the area, and so I am at a loss as to where he might have gone. I shall write to his mother in Connecticut, to see if he has perhaps gone there for some reason. I will of course relay whatever I discover, and beg you to also keep me informed should you yourselves discover anything of his whereabouts. It is quite unlike my fastidious cousin to disappear without word to his loved ones, but nevertheless I am sure there is a satisfactory explanation to be had.
G. Carpenter
I lowered the sheet of paper with a trembling hand.
Charlotte’s eyes were wide with fear she could not conceal. “I … I confess I had not expected this,” she whispered. “I was so sure he must have gone to see his cousin. I did not even begin to think what else…” She trailed off.
I turned toward the door. “We … we could go to the Van Ripper farmhouse,” I said. “See if he has returned.” I no longer bothered to puzzle out why he had not come to seek me out or sent me word; all I cared about was knowing where he was.
Charlotte shook her head, and my hand froze on the doorknob. “No need,” she whispered, a note of near-agony in her voice. “As soon as I read the letter, I went to the schoolhouse to find him. Many of the students were just leaving when I arrived. He has not appeared to teach, and so they were returning home.”
I sank to my knees. “Charlotte,” I gasped, “where … do you think he…” I could hardly speak. “What … what do I do?”
She knelt beside me, an arm wrapped around my shoulders. “We wait to hear what Ichabod’s mother tells Giles,” she said, her voice faint. “And we … we wait. We wait to see if he comes back.”
Charlotte helped me to the daybed so I might lie down, and went to fix me some more skullcap tea. The whole while, all I could hear were her last few words.
We wait. We wait to see if he comes back.
If he comes back.
* * *
As I sipped my tea, Charlotte, good friend that she was, voiced every possible explanation for Ichabod’s disappearance, however unlikely. The only one she failed to mention, the one neither of us wished to speak of, was the one voiced by all the villagers at the bridge yesterday. When I could bear her reassuring chatter no longer, I left, for she was almost as nervous and unsettled as I.
Yet as soon as I arrived home and took to my room to endlessly pace the floor, I found myself wishing I had stayed at Charlotte’s. For here there was nothing to listen to but my own thoughts, and those were far, far more intolerable than Charlotte’s chattering.
Ichabod had disappeared, and no one knew where he was. Part of me clung passionately to the idea that his mother must know something. Yet the rest of me could not find such a scenario plausible, no matter how much I may have wished it. Why would he have left for Connecticut in the middle of All Hallows’ Eve night, on an old, broken-down horse like Gunpowder, with nary a word to anyone? Even if my father’s refusal had so succeeded in scaring him off and away from me, he would not shirk his duties at the schoolhouse. Not Ichabod.
Had some ill befallen him that night? An accident with his horse? Had he fallen into the river? No body had been located, but what if he had been swept away, swept under?
Or … it had, after all, been All Hallows’ Eve, the night when spirits and demons were said to be free to roam. Could Mevrouw Douw and the rest of the villagers be right? Could it truly have been the Headless Horseman? Had he appeared and somehow carried Ichabod off—or worse? Was such a thing really possible? I shivered, remembering how we had all spoken of the Horseman at the party, so casually invoking his name on that haunted night. And I remembered that terrible feeling all those nights Ichabod and I had spent in the woods, when I had been so sure that someone was watching us, that there was more lurking amongst the trees than nocturnal creatures.
The vision that had come to me in the candle flame came back to torment me in its every detail. Two figures in the woods, one chasing the other. The unmistakable sounds of a struggle. The whinny of a horse, and the sound of a blade—a great blade like the one the Horseman carried—being drawn from its sheath.
Charlotte had claimed I had the Sight, so what other answer could there be? I had sought answers beyond those readily available in the mortal realm. And this vision came upon me right before Charlotte drew the future card. Had I truly seen the future, and seen the truth of Ichabod’s disappearance? It was the Horseman, it had to be; Ichabod had come across the Headless Horseman on All Hallows’ Eve, and the specter had done him harm. That explained the broken pumpkin found beside his hat, for did the Horseman not carry a pumpkin in place of his missing head? If he … oh God … if he had taken a head to replace his own he would have no further need of the pumpkin, would he?
No. I must scoff at such superstitious nonsense, fit for the more simpleminded, certainly, but not someone like me; not someone educated and well-read. The Headless Horseman was a legend and nothing more; he could not appear and carry off mortal men, for such things were impossible.
But this foray into sense and reason did not bring me any solace, for all too soon I arrived at the least palatable answer of all: that Ichabod had never loved me, not truly, and after my father had refused his suit he fled, knowing he would never see a cent of my inheritance. He had taken his pleasure while he could, while I so brazenly offered myself to him, but when he saw there was no further profit to be had he left.
My stomach roiled and twisted as I recalled telling him of the child—our child—just before he spoke to my father. What if that had been the final straw? Otherwise he might have stayed, been willing to try again. But learning I was pregnant and that we were refused permission to wed had been too much for him. He had fled like a thief in the night rather than be forced to face his responsibility. Perhaps he had been recalling all the stories told at the party that night, and all the stories he had begged me to tell him; perhaps he had planted the pumpkin and his hat in the stream to fool the superstitious villagers. To fool me.
I cursed myself repeatedly as I replayed the moment I had told him of the child. If I had held my tongue, might he still be here with me now? Would withholding the news a bit longer have changed everything?
But did I want a man who would run like a coward at such an admission?
Oh, he could not have left me! Not Ichabod, not like this! I began remembering every passionate and tender moment we had shared together, the love in his touch and his eyes and his words. That was real; I would have known if it was not, would have seen it over
all those months. Again and again I kept returning to his words on the night we first made love.
God and the devil together forbid that I shall ever be without you again. A life without you would be no life at all.
Never stop saying such things to me … never leave me.
Never. I will die first.
I will die first. Somehow I could not shake those words, despite how, more and more, logic and reason seemed to indicate Ichabod had left me. Those words had not been a lie. They could not have been.
And if those words had not been a lie … then had God or the devil intervened?
Maybe there truly was a Headless Horseman …
He could not have left me. Could he?
* * *
The next few days passed in an agonizing haze. I either paced my bedroom anxiously, or I slept, a deep sleep, the sleep of the dead. It was only in slumber that I could escape my worries and my fear. Each time I lay down a part of me wished that I might not wake. Not unless I could wake to Ichabod by my side.
I scarcely ate, despite Nancy’s coaxing. My parents checked on me often but did not inquire as to the source of my distress. Likely by then my father had told my mother of Ichabod’s proposal and his own denial, and they assumed I was simply heartsick and would recover given time.
And, no doubt, the rumors from the village only fueled their belief in my heartbreak.
I only left the house to go to the village and meet Charlotte, to wander through the market and listen for word of Ichabod. It was the talk of Sleepy Hollow: the disappearance of schoolmaster Ichabod Crane, last seen on All Hallows’ Eve at the Van Tassels’ harvest party. No one had seen hide nor hair of him since—save for the very telling evidence of the pumpkin and hat at the church bridge.
It had soon become accepted as fact that young Mr. Crane must have run afoul of the Headless Horseman, out for his midnight ride. If the schoolmaster had somehow survived the encounter with his own head still attached—unlikely, in the opinion of the farmwives—clearly he had fled the area out of fear, never to return. And who could blame him?
The Spellbook of Katrina Van Tassel Page 22