As he withdrew, the shame began again to burn me, but this time I pushed back against it. Brom had treated me well thus far, and more importantly, he was good to Anneke, loved her with all his heart. I married him out of desperation, yes, but that did not mean I must be miserable all my life, did it? My true love had left me, so was I not allowed to find some pleasure with my husband?
Surely I was, but guilt still dogged me.
“Perhaps soon we shall have a son,” he said, as he lay next to me, spent. “Perhaps we have already conceived him.” The hope in his voice made me feel ever guiltier as I crept downstairs while he slept and drank my herbal mixture.
* * *
Spring came, and Brom was home in Sleepy Hollow for most of it, assisting his father with the planting on the Van Brunt farm, and helping my father oversee the planting of the Van Tassel farm as well. He was quite busy, and usually left the house before dawn only to return after dark, too tired to do more than bolt down a hearty meal, give Anneke a kiss, and collapse into bed, only to rise and do it all over again the next day. The only break in his routine was Sundays, when all work must cease and we went to church as a family, and dined with either my parents or his father or both after the service.
I continued my forays into divination, sometimes with Charlotte, sometimes without. The more time that passed, the more frustrated and upset I felt, yet there was no escaping that both of our lives had grown busier, different: mine with Anneke, who began to crawl and then walk and so needed constant watching, and Charlotte with Giles, who came to visit more and more now that they had become lovers. They continued to be happy and to delight in each other’s company, yet no betrothal came to pass. Though I raged at her hesitance to take the very thing I had wanted more than anything else, I was selfishly glad that she was not planning to leave Sleepy Hollow with him.
I had little more success with my visions. Sometimes I would see a scrap of something not seen before: the coat Ichabod had been wearing that night, or the flash of a blade, a large dagger, no longer just the sound of it being pulled from its sheath. That shook me a great deal, but still it told me nothing I did not already know from that first vision, almost two years ago now.
One night in May, I finally asked Charlotte to give me the potion to help bring on visions again. She paused before rising reluctantly and heading for the stillroom. “I suppose it can’t hurt,” she said. “I had been wondering when you were going to ask again.”
“I wanted to, but wasn’t sure if it was wise,” I said, following her. “But perhaps it will grant me something new, now that I have been practicing.”
I watched closely as she gathered the herbs, committing to memory the labels on those jars—nightshade, nutmeg, valerian, and eyebright—as well as the amounts of each that she used. As she made the tea, I quietly excused myself and went back into the sitting room, where my book waited. Opening to a page in the back, I wrote down the recipe for the concoction.
She returned with the mug of steaming tea, and I eagerly drank down the bitter mixture. Then I positioned myself in front of the candle at her table and went through the ritual that was, by now, second nature: deep breaths, eyes closed, then opening them slowly and gazing into the heart of the flame.
At first, I saw nothing. Then, slowly, the flame seemed to expand around me, and I fell into its center, and this time the vision was different …
I saw Gunpowder again, with a rider astride him, and beside him—close behind him—was a rider on a dark horse. My breath caught in my throat, but I did not move or make a sound, fearful of disrupting the vision.
Then the scene flickered and changed, and I saw before me the clearing in the woods, the Horseman’s clearing. The hoof beats of the two horses grew louder behind me; this was their ultimate destination.
Suddenly I was back to myself again, gasping in my chair at Charlotte’s table, trying to catch my breath as though I had been keeping pace with the two horses through the woods.
“Katrina!” At once, Charlotte was on her knees beside the chair, one hand on my forehead, the other grasping one of my hands. “Breathe,” she said, her voice low and soothing. “Calm yourself. All is well. You are safe.
“Tell me when you can,” she said, stroking my hand. “What did you see? Did you see…?”
I shook my head. “I did not see … everything,” I said. “But I saw more.” I quickly told her of the dark horse and its rider, and Ichabod and Gunpowder—how they had been heading for the clearing, for whatever reason. “Whatever happened, happened there,” I said. “Oh, Charlotte, he was being chased, or driven away, or some such. He did not leave, not of his own accord.”
Charlotte paused before speaking. “Perhaps,” she said neutrally.
I remembered the body that had been pulled from the Hudson, the corpse that had been stabbed or shot or its throat slit or all three, and shuddered. I no longer knew what to hope for.
“You must give me some more of that herbal potion,” I said. “Just a bit more. I’m sure that if you do, I’ll see the rest.”
Charlotte was shaking her head before I’d finished speaking. “It would be too much, Katrina, too much in one night. Too much for a week, even. I cannot.”
“Charlotte, please. I’ll see the rest, I can feel it, and then after tonight I won’t need it ever again—”
She rose to her feet. “No, Katrina. I will not. Do not ask me again. I know this is important to you, but it is not worth your well-being.”
“It has already cost me my well-being,” I all but shouted, but I could see that she was not to be moved. “The not knowing. Can you not see that?”
“Do not tear yourself apart over this, Katrina,” Charlotte said, an edge of iron in her voice. “You have your daughter to think of, if you will not think of yourself.”
“Very well, then,” I said petulantly. Suddenly, a new idea occurred to me. “If you will not give me any more of the potion, then will you do me another favor?”
Charlotte looked wary. “What is it?”
“Will you ask Giles to write to Ichabod’s mother again?” I asked. “That will no doubt let us know if Ichabod simply left, at least. If he had, he would not be hiding from his mother.”
Charlotte’s expression cleared. “Yes, I surely can. I wonder that we didn’t think of it sooner. I’ll have him write as soon as he may,” she promised. “You should go home and get some rest. You are no doubt very taxed by everything that has passed tonight. Best to sleep, and let the herbs pass through your body.”
That night my dreams were vivid and bloody, but thankfully I did not remember much of them when I woke.
* * *
Giles worked quickly—as he no doubt did with everything Charlotte asked him to do—and two weeks later we had an answer to our query.
“Ichabod’s mother has not heard from him,” Charlotte said, handing me the letter as she stepped into the house. “Not a word since before All Hallows’ Eve, the year before last. She has mourned him and given him up for dead, it seems.”
I scanned Giles’s letter; it said more or less what Charlotte had just told me. I had thought there were no intact surfaces remaining on my heart, but at this, I felt another crack splinter through it. “He is dead, then,” I said, my voice emotionless as I fought back tears. How did I still have any left to cry over this man? “He is dead, or in hell. Carried there by the Headless Horseman.” A tear splashed down onto the letter, blurring its ink even as it could not erase its message.
* * *
That evening, as dusk was falling, I left the house alone and walked to the old schoolhouse. Even now the villagers swore it was haunted by the ghost of Ichabod Crane. I did not know if this was true, but as I stepped into the worn-down building, the front door hanging precariously off of its hinges, I intended to find out.
“Please,” I whispered into the still room. A few broken desks and chairs littered the floor, but it was otherwise empty. I walked to the center of the room and began to speak louder, m
y voice echoing around me. “Please, Ichabod. If you are really here—if you really haunt this place—show yourself to me. To me, of all people. Your love and the mother of your child.” My voice wavered, thinking of Anneke and how she now walked so proudly, if unsteadily, on her chubby legs. “She is beautiful. And you are not here to see her. So let me know where you are. Please.” I fell silent, waiting, listening for a sign. A part of me thought if Ichabod’s ghost waited for me anywhere, it was surely at our clearing by the stream near the Van Tassel farmhouse. But I could not bear to go there. So I was here instead. “Please. Please!” I cried. I was shouting now. “Show yourself to me! Where are you!” I collapsed onto the rotting floorboards, sobs wracking my body.
Suddenly I thought I heard something, the strains of a familiar melody, a song perhaps. Could it be…? I froze, straining my ears to better hear it.
Perhaps it was in my head, for it was less certain, less real, than any of the visions I’d had. But I thought I heard a man’s voice, familiar as my own body yet hollow as an echo, singing the song of the lotus flower, the willow tree, and the star-crossed lovers.
54
Warmth
Anneke’s first birthday came and went, and soon she was speaking. Her first word was “Mama,” and next was “Nancy,” much to that noble lady’s delight, and her third was “Papa.” A close fourth was “Charla,” which her godmother knew undoubtedly was meant for her. Soon she had a whole slew of words at her command, both English and Dutch. Sometimes I gazed at my happy little girl with her blond ringlets and bright green eyes and couldn’t believe it had been a year already since I’d borne her. At other times it seemed as if I could see the woman she would grow into one day, as full of light and hope as I’d once been, and I did not know if this was second sight or just a mother’s wish.
Spring wore into summer, and Brom found more excuses to stay home with us, cutting down on his time in New York. And I found I did not mind. I had begun to like having him home; I laughed as he capered about the house on all fours with Anneke on his back and blinked back tears of tender affection as he sat beside her until she fell asleep. I even enjoyed when he would give me a quick kiss as we passed each other in the house, or before he left on some errand for the day. He carved little dolls and toys for Anneke to play with, and I found myself remembering how, even as a boy, he had been skilled enough to make such things for Charlotte and me.
I hovered much over Anneke, concerned always with her health as summer wore on—three years ago now had seen a horrible epidemic of yellow fever in many of the cities, and I scanned the news sheets from New York as often as I could for any new mention of disease. But there were none, and Anneke continued to be hale and healthy. The news was all of politics—of George Washington’s decision not to seek another term as president, and what that would mean for our young nation. Debate raged even in our sleepy hamlet. How could the country go on without him, the only leader it had ever known? Who could fill his shoes? No one, it was concluded. And so everyone in the village was in one of two minds—the country would forge ahead without him, or it would crumble. There seemed to be no middle ground, or at least none anyone was willing to entertain. For myself, and for my daughter, I prayed this idealistic yet flawed nation would endure for centuries.
* * *
One night, Brom had Nancy make us up a picnic to take out into the garden, where he spread a sheet over the ground and brought out the food: chicken and bread and cheese, along with some ale. Nothing elaborate, but a lovely meal all the same. We enjoyed our food in the warm summer evening air as Anneke raced around the garden, chasing Nox, and babbling importantly to him and to her dolls.
Brom caught my eye and grinned. “Do you think she is telling them stories?”
I returned the smile, admiring his fine features—he was a most handsome man, after all. “Perhaps. Even at her age, she has a great deal to say.”
“Just like her mother,” Brom said. “You remember, do you not, how when we were children you used to make up such wonderful stories to tell us? You had no shortage of them.”
In truth, I had forgotten. Long before I had learned well the folktales of the Hudson River Valley, I had made up my own, just as I had been thinking of doing again. “I have not thought about that in a long time,” I said. I laughed. “Some of them were quite chilling, were they not? The air must be very haunted here in Sleepy Hollow indeed, for me to have come up with such tales as a child.”
Brom shuddered. “I never told you this, but I was always terrified by your tales. Often enough I would lie awake at night after you’d told one, dreading the appearance of some specter at my window.”
I laughed again, surprised. “Truly?”
“Truly. But I could not admit to being afraid, could I?” He paused, eyes filled with the truth behind what he had said: his father had never brooked any fear or weakness from his son, so Brom had never been able to confess fear to anyone. For a moment my mind flickered to Charlotte’s prediction, and Brom’s reaction. Perhaps the only way that he knew how to admit his fear then was to accuse her of something others would fear as well, so he would not be alone in his terror. I frowned, feeling sympathy toward him where before there had only been anger and disdain. It did not excuse what he had done to Charlotte, but it explained it.
“No,” I said at last. “Though most people would believe you incapable of fear, Brom Van Brunt.”
He reached out and cupped my chin in his hand. “They are wrong,” he said, his voice low and urgent. “There is so much I fear.” With his other hand, he gestured at Anneke, the garden, the house. “I fear losing you, and Anneke. All of this. I fear losing everything we have, everything I have wanted for so long.”
This time it was I who leaned forward and kissed him—and only because I wanted to. He kissed me back, and I felt more at peace than I had in many, many months.
We were interrupted by Anneke dashing over to stand before us. “Look!” She held out her dolls for our inspection, as though we had not seen them before.
Brom drew her onto his lap and kissed her golden curls. Our eyes met over the top of her head, and suddenly I was afraid of losing all we had built together, too.
* * *
That night, with Anneke fast asleep, Brom and I undressed one another, and I climbed eagerly into bed, pulling him down atop me. I ran my fingers down his muscled chest, kissing him back deeply, feeling desire and happy to feel it.
He ran his hands over my body, and I sighed with the feel of it. I wrapped my legs around his waist, urging him on.
Yet nothing happened. He froze, his body tight above me, and groaned with frustration. “Damn it. Damn it.”
“Not again,” I said. I was surprised—in a way, I had begun to think his difficulty stemmed from my reluctance to engage in the marital act. Surely now that I was eager, and freely returning his kisses and caresses, he should be more successful.
But that did not seem to be the case. “Damn it,” he muttered again through gritted teeth.
I reached down and took him in my hand, stroking him lightly, trying to help. But he remained limp.
He shook his head, and I withdrew my hand, crestfallen. “It is no use,” he murmured. He sighed again. “I am sorry, Katrina. So sorry.”
I was about to ask how I could help, but instead he turned his attention to pleasing me with his hands, and I decided to let the matter drop.
* * *
In late August, Charlotte burst into the garden as I was helping Anneke toddle about. “Katrina!” she cried. “Oh, Katrina!”
Anneke stopped mid-stride where she had been running after Nox and clapped her hands. “Charla!” she cried.
I scooped her up in my arms. “That’s Tante Charla to you,” I told her fondly. “What is it, Tante Charla?”
Charlotte positively radiated happiness. “Giles,” she breathed, almost unable to speak in her excitement. “He has proposed! And what’s more, he is moving to Sleepy Hollow!”
My mou
th dropped open, and I set Anneke down again so I could properly hug Charlotte. “Oh, this is the best news! Why did he finally decide to move here? What has happened?”
“He has been trying to convince me to move to White Plains, but I have been hesitant, as you know. To be honest, I likely would have given in soon. But now, he is going in on a venture with some other men to open a new tavern here, and he will be selling his in White Plains. Apparently, he has been working on this for a while, but everything is finally official. He did not wish to say anything before in case it did not work out, but it has! It has, and it is done, and he is moving here, and we are going to be married!” Charlotte clapped her hands and jumped up and down like a girl, more carefree than I had seen her in years.
“Oh, Charlotte!” I drew her into a tight embrace again. Tears pricked my eyes. “I am so, so happy for you,” I said. “Happier than I can say. You have everything you want now!”
She beamed. “I do, everything that I have wanted and thought I would never have. We will not be able to marry for a time, of course,” she said. “He will need to finalize his affairs in White Plains and get his business started here, then find a house for us. So it will be some time yet, but my mother has agreed, and his parents, and we are to be married in the church here as soon as he is settled!”
“I almost cannot believe it,” I said. “It is perfect; other than the delay in the nuptials, of course.”
“I almost cannot believe it, either!” she cried. “It will be worth waiting for, I know it, and worth all this time and indecision.”
“Of course it will,” I said. “Giles is a lucky man, and you a lucky woman, to have him. It is not any man who will leave his business and move to his wife’s hometown.”
“He is more rare and precious than a fine jewel,” Charlotte agreed. “I can only hope to deserve him.”
“Deserve who?”
“Papa!”
The two of us looked up as Brom entered the garden, Anneke running to him. He had been in New York again and I had been expecting him back that day or the next.
The Spellbook of Katrina Van Tassel Page 34