Perhaps a month into our endeavor, Charlotte was waiting for me one night at her cottage with a steaming mug of tea. “Here,” she said. “Drink this.”
I eyed it suspiciously. “What is it?”
“It’s brewed with herbs that are thought to heighten the sixth sense and bring on stronger visions,” she explained.
I started. “And you are just giving this to me now? Why have we not tried this before?”
Charlotte sighed. “I had hoped that you might succeed without it. Too much of this mixture can make you very sick, so it must be imbibed sparingly and only in very small doses. It becomes a bit more potent if you mix it into wine, but unfortunately we do not have any. And perhaps it is best to start with tea, in any case.”
“Well, I am certainly willing to try it,” I said. I took the cup from her, then hesitated. “Charlotte … who is to say these visions are real at all? That they are not just my own imagination? The dreams, everything … it could all be fantasy and illusion on my part.” I knew it was not the first time I had asked these questions, but after so many failed attempts, so many shadowy visions with nothing new, I no longer trusted my own mind.
“The human mind is a very powerful thing,” she conceded. “Too powerful, sometimes, for our own good. But it is also capable of things most people cannot imagine. Your dreams of the Horseman have meaning, Katrina; they are more than mere illusions or even nightmares. I think…” She trailed off. “I think that Ichabod’s disappearance is in some way connected to the Headless Horseman, but perhaps not in the way we think.”
“In what other way could it be connected?” I asked, incredulous. “I suppose the Horseman could have just ridden him off? Scared him away? But I cannot believe he would have been so scared that he would never return for me, nor send word.”
Charlotte shrugged. “I cannot say. It is just a feeling I have.”
I nodded in acknowledgement of all this, and without further comment drank the tea Charlotte had handed me, wincing at its bitter taste.
My heart thundered in anticipation that night, thinking these herbs would finally reveal all to me. While I was disappointed in that regard, I did manage to see something new.
“Gunpowder!” I called, and found myself thrust out of the vision again. I was breathing hard, across the table from Charlotte. “I saw Gunpowder! Ichabod’s horse!”
“Where was he? Did you see Ichabod as well? Riding him?”
I frowned. “He … he had a rider, but I could not see who it was. I assume it was Ichabod. And he was galloping through the forest, fast. That is all I saw.” I shook my head. “In all these visions, I always see the forest. But why? There would have been no need for Ichabod to ride through the forest that night. The Albany Post Road would have taken him straight home from my parents’ house. And if he decided to flee, well, there was even less reason to ride through the woods. The road would have taken him north to Albany, or south to New York.”
Charlotte shrugged. “He must have had a reason, for it seems certain that ride through the woods he did. Perhaps, as we’ve said, he went for a ride to clear his head. And either he decided to leave, or … something else befell him.”
I remained silent. I did not believe Ichabod would have taken a leisurely ride through the woods on All Hallows’ Eve of all nights, not after all the tales I’d told him, after the stories exchanged at the party that night. But for whatever reason, he had. That much we knew.
We kept it up as the months passed, and though I wanted to ask Charlotte for more herbs, I did not, nor did she offer them again. I heeded her warning about the danger of such a potion and let it alone for the time being.
I sought visions on my own as well, without Charlotte, and also tried to see in a mirror. But I had no luck. It seemed that Charlotte was right: the fire seemed to particularly wish to speak to me. Yet I only ever saw scraps of new sights—a different angle on Gunpowder, more hoof beats, and once I caught a glimpse of the church, standing dark and silent amid the tombstones of the burial ground.
All the while, I recorded everything in my book. Every attempt, whether success or failure, was written down.
As fall and the harvest wore on, we consulted the cards again one night, and afterward a part of me wished we had not. Somehow, Charlotte turned over the same three cards as the last time: The Devil, The High Priestess, and Death.
“Very strange,” she said. “I do not recall ever getting the exact same reading more than once.”
I stared dejectedly at the cards. “It is not telling us anything we do not already know,” I said. “We are no further ahead than we were months ago.”
52
Giles and Charlotte
My parents held their annual All Hallows’ Eve party as usual—now a painful anniversary for me. A year had passed and I was no closer to finding the truth about Ichabod. Still, Anneke, Brom, and I were all there, as well as Nancy—attending as a guest and friend—and I pretended to be nothing more than a happy mother and wife, celebrating the harvest with my family and friends.
I was surprised when Charlotte arrived with none other than Giles Carpenter. I had not known he was in town, let alone that Charlotte would be bringing him to the party.
As always when I saw him, I felt both happiness—for Charlotte—and pain at the reminder of Ichabod. Yet I smiled and greeted him warmly. “So nice to see you, Mr. Carpenter,” I said. “And I need not tell you that you could have no one more lovely accompany you.”
He smiled at this. “Always a pleasure, Miss Van Tassel—forgive me, Mistress Van Brunt. I remember you as we first met, you see. But I am pleased and honored to be here. Your family’s generosity is truly remarkable, and I am fortunate to be one of its recipients.”
“Indeed,” I said. “Well, you must enjoy, of course. I hope we will get more of a chance to converse later.”
The look Charlotte tossed me over her shoulder as the pair moved away was one alight with happiness, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright. At least All Hallows’ Eve might be a happy night for someone. And if Giles noticed the way the villagers drew back guardedly from Charlotte, or were reluctant to include her in their conversation, he surely did not comment. Indeed, he looked as though he simply could not believe his great fortune in being there at her side.
In truth, I did not speak to Charlotte and Giles again that night, and they left shortly after dinner—though Mevrouw Jansen, I noticed, remained behind, and stayed much later. I asked my parents if we might stay the night rather than make the journey home in the dark, and they readily agreed. Brom was rather drunk, so the arrangement suited him just fine. Just as well that I did not need to explain my deeply superstitious fear of riding home at night on All Hallows’ Eve, and with my baby daughter. Ichabod Crane’s daughter.
I passed a mercifully restful night in my old bedroom—Brom I left to sleep off the drink alone in the guest chamber where we’d spent our wedding night—with Anneke beside me. We rose the next morning and breakfasted with my parents—Brom looking somewhat worse for the wear—before journeying home.
Brom, having recovered somewhat, spent the afternoon out in the garden with Anneke, and so I was alone in the parlor when Charlotte came to call.
I took one look at her—her glowing happiness of the night before heightened—and knew.
“Oh, Katrina,” she sighed, sinking down onto the daybed beside me. Her eyes sparkled. “Last night, Giles and I … we did it. We finally made love.”
I clutched my hands in hers. “Charlotte! I confess I suspected, since you are so incandescently happy.” I gave her a sly smile. “I trust it was an enjoyable experience?”
She blushed. “It was,” she said. “There was pain, and I bled, which I had been prepared for. And while I did not experience the overwhelming pleasure I have heard people speak of, I … it was wonderful. Just being so close to him, knowing that he loves me and I love him…”
I nodded. “I know just what you mean.” I raised my eyebrows suggestivel
y. “And the pleasure, too, will come. With practice.”
She grinned sheepishly. “I am most willing to spend time in practice, I can assure you. And Giles is only too willing to assist me.”
“I suppose I need not lecture you about taking your herbs.”
Her face sobered. “No, indeed. Though I would love a child of my own someday, if we wed. I have already taken them today, and will do so again tomorrow morning.”
“Ah, so another assignation is planned?”
She blushed again. “Yes. He is staying at the inn, so I will slip through the crowd up to his room tonight and hope no one notices me.” She sighed. “But then tomorrow he must return home. He wishes me to go with him, wishes us to marry at once. But I … as much as I love him and want to be his wife, I am still not ready to leave Sleepy Hollow.”
“And he cannot be persuaded to move here?”
“He … might be,” she confessed. “I do not know. There is so much to discuss.”
I squeezed her hand. “You must do whatever makes you happy. And White Plains is not so far away.”
“I know. And perhaps it would be worth it. Perhaps I would be this happy all the time, though I cannot imagine how that is possible.”
* * *
After the harvest, winter began to set in. Brom spent most of November in New York, seeing to the sale of crops from both the Van Brunt and Van Tassel farms, then returned home in December for the feast of St. Nicholas, the New Year, and to spend the winter months.
We celebrated St. Nicholas Day with a fine feast at my parents’ farmhouse after church, complete with sausage, cheese, coleslaw, mashed potatoes, and doughnuts. Brom’s father, Nancy, Mevrouw Jansen, and Charlotte also attended. I noted Charlotte’s aura of melancholy; Giles had not been able to visit in the past month. I knew all too well the unique pain and frustration of being separated from one’s lover when he was not, in truth, that far away.
Anneke, as the only child in the family, was showered with gifts by my parents, from carved wooden toys to hand-sewn clothes and a few books that would help her to learn her letters when the time came. She was far too young as yet, but would soon grow to need them, and I felt it only right that my daughter should have her first books at a very young age.
“God willing, we will have another grandchild to spoil at our St. Nicholas feast a year from now,” my father said, grinning at Anneke as she shook a new rattle in my arms. “A grandson this time, perhaps?”
Brom draped an arm around my shoulders. “We hope that it might be so,” he said, grinning. “Very soon we shall continue our endeavors in that area.”
I gritted my teeth behind my smile.
On New Year’s Day, Brom went out to call on our neighbors, as was customary, while I stayed home with plenty of refreshments on hand to greet those who called on us. The next day it was the ladies’ turn to go calling, and so I visited several houses in the village and chatted with many of the farmwives and their husbands and was offered food and drink. For whatever reason, this year I found the ritual more exhausting than ever.
After the New Year festivities had passed, Nancy and my mother pronounced it was high time Anneke be weaned, something Brom enthusiastically agreed with, as it meant that he could again exert his husbandly privilege. And so I procured the necessary herbs from Charlotte, praying his past difficulties would visit him once again.
Just after the New Year, Brom made his triumphant return to my bed. To my dismay, he had no trouble whatsoever. As soon as he removed his clothes, his member was hard and ready, and he climbed into bed and proceeded to bury himself inside me with no preliminaries. He thrust enthusiastically several times before groaning in his ecstasy, already spent. At least it was over quickly.
Once he had withdrawn and caught his breath, Brom rolled back over to face me. “I am sorry to have been so … brief,” he said. “But it has been a long time. It is difficult for a man to wait so long.”
I was surprised at the insinuation that he had not made love to a woman since before I’d announced my pregnancy—a year ago now. I had never expected him to be faithful, especially not with him spending so much time in New York, where female company was readily available for those with the coin to purchase it. Indeed, all the better for me if he exerted his energies elsewhere. I was not sure whether to believe him, but his eagerness seemed to support his words.
“I shall be sure to make it nice and slow the next time,” he said, kissing me.
I did not reply. Could he really think that I longed for his touch?
It seemed he did, for the next morning, before I could go drink my herbal mixture, he awoke and drew me toward him again, kissing and caressing me.
“Do you not wish to touch me in return, Katrina?” he breathed in my ear. “Have you not missed your husband in your bed?”
I returned his kisses as best I could, even taking his member in my hand, something that caused him to gasp in pleasure. It also caused him to enter me quickly, though this time he thrust much slower, deeper, enjoying each moment. I was ashamed and horrified to feel my body responding, my breathing quickening; to find myself enjoying the physical sensations of the act, though that shattering pleasure eluded me. After Brom finished, tears leaked from my eyes at this betrayal of Ichabod. Even if I had been the one betrayed first.
Afterward, once Brom had dressed and gone out, I mixed the herbs and drank them down greedily, finding in them today a certain kind of penance. As far as I was concerned, Brom’s rights to my body extended only so far. I chose to bear Ichabod’s child and only his, and I would not change my mind.
With nothing else to do that day, I bundled up Anneke and walked to Charlotte’s for a visit.
“I have been meaning to ask you,” Charlotte said, once we were settled, Nox happily allowing Charlotte to scratch his ears, “how is your writing project coming? I still want you to read me one of your stories, you know.”
“Well enough,” I said. “I do not have as much time as I would like, with this little one.” I gestured to Anneke with a smile. “And, in truth, I think I am running out of stories.”
Charlotte smiled. “Then you must make up your own, mustn’t you, so you will never run out of stories.”
“Perhaps I shall,” I said. The thought had occurred to me more than once. What would I write, if I could write anything?
Charlotte waved a hand at me. “Run home and get your book,” she bade me. “I will stay with Anneke. Then return and read us a story.”
Rising, I laughed. “Very well,” I said. “I will be right back.”
I dashed home, retrieved the book from its locked drawer in my desk, and returned quickly to the Jansen cottage, where Charlotte was studying Anneke carefully.
“Oh,” Charlotte said, looking up at me. “I had not noticed before, but … her eyes. They have changed.”
“Yes.” I sighed. It was a source of both great joy and great anxiety to me.
“They are green,” Charlotte said, unnecessarily.
“Yes,” I said again. “Just like Ichabod’s.”
“Yes,” she agreed. She studied my daughter’s face again. “Very like. Has Brom noticed?”
“I’m sure he’s noticed, but he has not remarked upon it,” I said. “And I hope that he will never guess at the truth. I am quite sure that he is convinced I came to the marriage bed a virgin.”
“Yes, perhaps you are right.” She hesitated. “And in any case, I do not think he spent much time gazing into Ichabod Crane’s eyes.”
I laughed. “No, I daresay he did not.”
“So all should be well, then,” she said. “And your child resembles her father in this way at least. Whether that makes you happy or causes you pain.”
“Both,” I said. I opened my book and began flipping the pages to choose a story, indicating that I was ready to leave the subject.
53
Ghosts
Giles’s next visit came and went, and though Charlotte was thrilled to have seen him, she h
ad no news to report.
“And how goes the practice?” I asked, arching an eyebrow.
She laughed. “Quite well,” she said. “I now know that pleasure of which so many speak.”
I grinned. “I am glad to hear it, and glad to hear Giles is as skilled and considerate a lover as Ichab—as his cousin is. Was.”
“I’m sorry. I know it must be difficult to speak of him,” she said.
“It gets more so every day,” I confessed. “Oh Charlotte, I am sorry. I do not wish to overshadow your happiness. That is the last thing I want.”
She patted my hand. “I understand. I understand how it must be difficult for you, too, to hear me speak of his cousin in such a way.”
It was, but I told myself that that mattered not, not in the face of my dearest friend’s happiness.
* * *
That night Brom turned to me in bed, and I acquiesced willingly enough. Yet I was surprised when he found himself once again unable, even though he had not consumed much drink that night; just a glass of beer with our meal. Not that I was complaining.
“Damn it all,” Brom swore, shoving me away as he finally gave up on his attempts to rouse himself. “Damn it all to hell.” Yet he slid a hand between my legs all the same and put two fingers inside me. “Yet perhaps my wife might still know pleasure this night,” he whispered in my ear, kissing my neck.
I opened my mouth to protest, but the words died in my throat as his fingers thrust and stroked. My breathing came faster, and my heartbeat increased. All thoughts were banished by the pleasure radiating up from my core, and soon I gasped aloud as it tore through me—not the almost unbearable ecstasy I had known before, but it felt good all the same.
Brom’s breathing hitched as he watched me arch my back in pleasure, and this sight sufficiently roused him. Removing his hand, he thrust himself into me, and I moved with him, this time pleasure coming to both of us.
The Spellbook of Katrina Van Tassel Page 33