“I know,” she said, cutting me off. “I understand. But I will always be here for you.”
“Good,” I said. “Because I need you. I will always need you, but now I … I would ask your help again.”
She met my gaze levelly. “What is it?”
“Ichabod,” I said. I raised a hand at the look of surprise on her face. “I know he is never coming back. I have accepted that. Obviously. But I…” I took a deep breath and struggled to put into words the swirling, nebulous thoughts and decisions that had come upon me over the last few days, as memories plagued me at every turn. “I must know what happened to him. I cannot live not knowing the truth, and someday … someday my daughter deserves to know what became of her father. Whatever that truth may be.”
Charlotte held my eyes for a long time before she finally nodded. “Very well, then,” she said. “We will find out. We will find the truth. I swear it, on my very soul.”
“And I swear it on mine,” I said.
“And may the truth, when we find it, bring you peace.”
Her words sounded part promise, part benediction, and part warning.
40
Vows
I kept up the pretense of being a happy newlywed all through dinner with my parents and Brom’s father, and then again that night, after everyone had left, when we again performed the marriage act. Thankfully it was a brief affair once more, with little preamble, and soon Brom was snoring beside me. Brom had seemingly been too tired to make good on his threat to teach me to please him, in whatever odious form that might take. Soon enough I could announce that I was with child, and so all bed sport must then cease for a time.
And after the birth of this child, I would obtain more herbs from Charlotte, and not forget to take them this time. I would never bear Brom Van Brunt a child.
* * *
The next morning, Brom rose early and ate a simple breakfast of bread and cheese before leaving the house to see about hiring a manservant for himself. Without his blasted snoring to put up with, I was able to indulge in another hour or two of sleep after he left. When I finally rose, Nancy helped me bathe, and then we set about putting away all my clothes and personal effects. When we got to my books—which for now amounted to two boxes—I paused.
“We could get someone to come build you some shelves for in here, if you want them close,” Nancy said, surveying the bedchamber. “Or a bookcase for the sitting room downstairs if you’d rather.”
I ran my fingers over the spines. “No,” I said, almost to myself. “Let me…” Trailing off, I left the room and wandered down the hallway, past the bedroom that adjoined ours—already designated as a future nursery—and past the guest room, until I came to a tiny, poky room at the end of the hall. It was so small I had no idea why it had been built in the first place. All that was in it was a thickly upholstered chair—perfect for reading. I smiled as I stepped into the small room. It was plenty big enough for the chair, and two bookshelves on either side. I felt my heart grow full.
“Here,” I said to Nancy, who had come up the hall behind me. “I’d like some bookshelves in here—as many and as large as will fit around the chair.”
Nancy chuckled. “You and your books. But remember, you are a married lady now, Miss Katrina. You won’t have time for so much reading anymore.”
I turned to face her and smiled. “I shall make time.”
* * *
The next few weeks saw Brom and I settle into our house, and into our marriage. Well, Brom settled into marriage; I bore it as though it were a painfully itchy cloak I could not remove for fear of freezing to death. In truth, though, I was delighted with the house, and set about making it my own: arranging my furniture just so; going to Beekman’s shop near the church and buying new pots, dishes, cups, and mugs for the kitchen; I also chose the fabric for new curtains, which Nancy and I commenced sewing. I fancied taking a trip to New York City soon for new linens and candlesticks and the like, but it would have to wait until after my child was born. And, of course, the bookshelves. I hired the village carpenter, Meneer Albertsen, who came and spent two days building shelves into the tiny room at the end of the hall. They were simple wooden shelves, but served my purposes perfectly. And best of all, once I had placed my books upon them, I had more empty space than what was filled—space for so many new books, for such possibility.
Brom exerted his husbandly privilege less often than I had expected, for which I was grateful. The infrequency of the act, though, did not make it any more pleasurable or easier to bear. To my surprise—and secret delight—he found himself unable to perform on more than one occasion, though he always had some excuse: drink, or that he was especially tired that day. When he did manage to rise to action, it required some effort on his part. He touched and kissed all over my body, encouraging me to touch him in return. Once he tried to coax me to put my mouth on his member, which I outright refused. He had looked frustrated and nearly wild with denied lust, but thankfully had not forced me.
Charlotte and I did not speak of my wifely duties for perhaps the first two weeks of my marriage; we studiously avoided it. But one afternoon, she broached the subject. “And how are you faring with…” She hesitated, looking both embarrassed and somehow angry, as though she hated me being subjected to such a thing. “The … marriage act,” she finished uncomfortably. “He is not … hurting you in any way, is he?”
I shuddered. “No, thank God,” I said. “He delights in the act, of course, and seems to wish I would do the same.” A wicked smile crossed my face. “When he can perform, that is.”
Charlotte’s mouth dropped open. “You mean he … he is unmanned?”
I nodded, giggles escaping me. “Sometimes, yes! He was on our wedding night, and continues to be at times.”
Charlotte dissolved into laughter, and soon we were both cackling like a couple of old farmwives. “Oh, Mother Mary, how wonderful,” Charlotte said, wiping tears from her eyes. “He deserves it. And so do you!”
I caught the gleam of mischief in her eye. “Charlotte,” I asked curiously, more serious now, “you didn’t … did you?”
“What?” A look of comprehension dawned as she took my meaning. “Oh, no, of course not! Although,” she said, her own grin now wicked, “I could. If you wanted me to.”
As appealing as the idea was, Brom was my husband, and that gave him rights to my body. I did not like it, but it was true, in the eyes of God and man and the law. And he did not use me ill, even if I hated enduring the act, my own body crying out for the pleasure I knew would always elude me. Using herbs—or whatever other means Charlotte had at her disposal—to render him impotent did not feel right. In any case, drink or ill health or whatever it was seemed to take care of that already. “No, best not,” I said. “Though I shall keep it in mind.” I changed the subject. “And how does an unmarried maid like you know of such things?”
She rolled her eyes. “The women of the village come to my mother and me for help with such things. Both when they wish their husbands would cease their attentions—and when they need their husbands to, ah, harden their resolve.”
We both burst into laughter again.
“If only men knew how much of their lives were under the control of women,” I said.
“They are blissfully ignorant, and I say we let them remain so.”
“Perhaps it is best that way,” I said. “But oh, imagine their faces if they knew!”
After our glee died down, Charlotte grew thoughtful.
“I confess,” she said, “I am hoping that neither my virginal nor unmarried states last too much longer.”
“Oh?” I asked, instantly alert. “Dare I venture a guess that Giles Carpenter has persisted in his suit?”
A rare blush colored her cheeks. “He has,” she said. “And his attentions are hardly unwelcome to me.”
“‘Hardly unwelcome,’” I mocked. “More than that, I should think, for not a minute ago you were talking of surrendering your maidenhood to him!
Tell me, Charlotte, do you love him?”
She bit her lip, looking uncertain. “I think so,” she said. “But how do I know, Katrina? How do I know if this is love, and not … something else?”
“That is how I felt,” I said softly. “I knew it was love; but I was so scared I was wrong. Scared because it meant everything to me. And that was how I knew.”
She nodded slowly, considering this. “He comes to visit again in a few weeks,” she said. “He always makes up a pretext for some business here. But we … talk, and go for walks, and spend time together.”
“And so?” I asked. “When next he comes, shall I too invent a pretext and summon your mother to see me? Invite her to dine, perhaps, and my mother as well, so you might be alone with the gallant Mr. Carpenter?”
She smiled. “Perhaps. I do not know yet.”
* * *
When I returned from Charlotte’s house, I found Brom waiting for me, a scowl on his face. “I take it you were at the Jansen cottage?” he asked, without greeting.
“I was,” I said evenly, removing my cloak and hanging it by the door.
His scowl deepened. “I’ll not have you spending so much time there, Katrina.”
I gave him an incredulous look. “Oh?”
“No. I’ll not have it said my wife is … in league with that witch.”
My blood boiled at the word, but I forced myself to stay calm. “Charlotte and I have been friends since we were children,” I said, my tone measured. “As you well know. I doubt it is of interest to anyone in the village that we spend time together. It is hardly a new occurrence.”
“Be that as it may—”
“And how do you propose to stop me?” I flared. “Will you confine me to the house, and let the village gossip about that instead? Charlotte is my dearest friend, and no one shall keep me from seeing her. Indeed, I shall invite her to this, my house, whenever I see fit.”
“Now see here,” Brom began, his face red.
“And how do you propose to stop me?” I asked again.
His face turned an even deeper shade of scarlet. “I am the master of this house, Katrina.”
“Yes. And I am the mistress.”
I held his gaze for a long time, and if he thought I would eventually back down, he was disappointed. We remained that way, eyes locked, as though we were two beasts circling each other in a wood. At last, he looked away. “Very well,” he mumbled. “This is not worth creating disharmony between us. Not so soon after our wedding.”
I was surprised he backed down so easily, but I did not question it. I simply turned and stalked away. If you think there shall ever be true harmony in our marriage, then you are a sure fool, Brom Van Brunt.
* * *
Another two weeks passed, and I knew the time had come for me to announce my pregnancy. I told Brom first, and he was so excited that he spun me about the room in his arms. “A child!” he cried. “A strong, strapping son, no doubt! And in the first month of our marriage, no less!” He set me down, grinning. “I am well pleased you should be such a fertile bride. And to know that my seed is so strong.”
I almost laughed aloud. Given your performance record in the marital bed, I have my doubts about the strength of your seed, I thought. But no matter. Go on thinking that you are as fertile as Zeus.
Next I told Nancy, and she betrayed no surprise whatsoever. No doubt she had noticed that I had not bled the last couple of months, and had her own thoughts as to the identity of the father.
Then, of course, I told my parents, as we dined with them one Sunday after church. My mother wept with joy, and my father could not stop beaming. For the first time since Ichabod had disappeared, I felt a flicker of true happiness.
I would have a child. And I would love her with all my being. This, finally, was something to rejoice in.
* * *
As winter came on in force and settled in for a long stay, I found myself growing listless. The business of running the household did not occupy so much of my time as I had imagined—it was not, after all, a large household—and I had learned enough from my mother, Nancy, and Cook over the years that the tasks required of me quickly became second nature. There was the planning of meals and oversight of the kitchen, including going to the market for fresh foods whenever possible, though my parents had been good enough to share their bountiful harvest with us, as well as meat and sausages from the slaughter of the pigs. And seeing to the washing of clothes and linens—a hired girl came in twice a week to do that—and the mending, which I did myself, occasionally assisted by Nancy, if she had the time. Nancy also kept the house in good order and provided me with any advice I needed—and I needed a lot, it seemed. I also oversaw our stores of goods such as candles and firewood and would see to replacing them whenever we ran low.
Otherwise, I found myself with not much to do. Brom was not home often. He still assisted his father with matters on the Van Brunt farm as often as he could, and my father had given him a job of representing the Van Tassel business interests in New York. As such, Brom was often away in the city, taking the crops downriver to Manhattan on one of the sloops that plied the Hudson and seeing to the sale of our flour, corn, apples, and other crops and foods produced on the farm, as well as beer from my father’s brewery, and negotiating the best deals on products and goods my father needed. Papa’s thought was that Brom must familiarize himself with this side of the farming business if he was to inherit such an expanded holding later on. Brom enjoyed the work, though he lamented that it took him away from me so often. I could not have found a more preferable arrangement myself. He offered to procure for me whatever household goods I desired from New York, and I sent him back with a long list, knowing any desired trip to the city must be delayed on account of my pregnancy.
With so few demands on my time, I found myself reading quite a bit, of course, but all too soon I began to feel anxious for something more.
I found myself remembering the night Ichabod and I had spent at the Jansen cottage. Yet this time, instead of pain and heartache, I found the answer I had been seeking in the memory.
I recalled Ichabod’s words to me after I’d told him the story of the Woman in White of Raven Rock: You have a true gift, Katrina. A true gift for storytelling. You should write all these tales down.
At the time, I’d not taken his words seriously. What need did anyone have for such tales to be written down? And anyway, writing was a lofty, noble endeavor for educated city men, not a farm girl—even a wealthy farm girl—from Sleepy Hollow, a tiny, haunted village on the banks of the Hudson. But as I went about my daily tasks I would think of this story or that and say to myself, Oh, Ichabod would love that story, I must tell it to him, only to remember that he was gone. And I would go through the pain and anger of his betrayal all over again.
And so, since I could not tell him the stories aloud, I determined that I would write them down after all. I considered the idea for a few days, and when it would not leave me alone, I finally began. I got out a small, leather-bound book of blank pages I had picked out when in New York with my father simply because I had thought it a beautiful little book, knowing that I might find some use for it, eventually. Now I had just the right use.
I started with the stories I had told Ichabod: the tale of Mr. Phillips’s slave and the building of the church; the story of John Andre’s tree; the Woman in White. Soon I began to write down others that had come to mind of late: the tale of the Star Maiden, and of Mother Hulda, the old witch who had lived in the woods and was reported to have cast a spell over the whole village. And many more as well.
Even if no one ever read the book of tales I was creating, I would have it, my own personal labor of love, for myself and Ichabod. And for our daughter as well. She would inherit these tales someday, would grow up hearing them as I had. Though, perhaps, I thought with a smile as I bent over my pages, one hand on my quill and the other on my swelling belly, I would save some of the scarier tales for when she was older.
&nb
sp; 41
The Haunted Clearing
I had not forgotten about my vow to discover the truth about Ichabod’s disappearance. And once I was comfortable in my new house—if not in my marriage—and had made the announcement that I was with child, I felt myself ready to turn my mind fully to the task.
In late January, I brought up the topic with Charlotte again. “I have thought of a place where we might start our … project.”
“I was wondering when you would want to begin,” she said. “But I knew you would bring it up when you were ready.”
Warmth washed over me, at having a friend who understood me so very well. “I am ready now,” I said.
She nodded. “So where shall we begin?”
“I thought we might check the roads, or the forest, to see if there are clues that we missed.” The stream where Ichabod’s hat had been found had been searched, as well as the burial ground and woods immediately surrounding the area, but no further evidence had ever been found.
“Perhaps,” she said slowly. “But have you considered whatever clues there might have been may well be gone by now? It has been a few months, after all.”
I nodded. “I have,” I said. “But it is worth a look. It is a place to start. And if we need … other means, we can use those as well.”
Charlotte nodded at this.
In truth, I did not expect to find much in the woods or elsewhere. But it would be foolish not to look, at least. And what was more, I was hesitant to call upon Charlotte’s other gifts. I could not forget the terrifying vision I had experienced when she read the cards for me, nor could I forget their horrible prediction—one that certainly seemed to have come true, however it had come about.
Can it be I do not truly wish to know? I wondered. Can it be that I avoid the means by which I am most likely to find the answer because I am afraid of what I may find? But whatever it was could not be as awful, as unbearable as not knowing.
The Spellbook of Katrina Van Tassel Page 27