I was speechless. Whatever I had expected him to say when I confronted him, it was not this. Instead of the unrepentant sinner I had believed him to be since the moment I learned the truth, I found that he had instead been suffering all along. He had done this horrible thing and it was eating him alive from within. It had made him an impotent drunk.
A fitting punishment, though not all he deserved.
I remembered, pain ripping at my heart anew, that evening months ago when we’d had our picnic in the garden, and he’d confessed his fear that he would lose everything, lose our family. Now I knew why he was afraid. And I knew that what I, too, had wanted to hold on to that night had only ever been a lie.
“And yet you married me,” I pointed out. “In spite of this remorse you claim to feel, you married me all the same, and quite happily, too. You married me knowing you had slaughtered the one man I truly loved.”
He laughed, a hollow sound. “How could I not, after what I had done to win you? I thought, at first, that it would be worth it. It would become worth it. To the winner went the spoils, I told myself. I would become happy again, once I finally had you. And I was, at moments. But it never lasted.” He shook his head. “How wrong I was.”
“And you never took my feelings into consideration, obviously,” I raged. “How I would feel if—when—I found out. Your supposed guilt, your regret, is all focused on you, and how this horrible thing you did has ruined your life. You wish you had not done it so that you could be happy again. What of me? What of the happiness and peace I had begun to find? Oh God…” I broke off, literally choking on my words. I wanted to vomit.
“I wish I had not done it for every possible reason there is!” Brom protested. “Every minute of every day. But it is done. I cannot go back. Cannot take it back, though God, how I wish I could.”
“And what did you do with … with his body?” I forced myself to ask. “And Gunpowder? Did you … oh, God.” I felt the blood drain from my face. “That body they pulled from the Hudson. The man who had been stabbed. That … that…”
Brom nodded grimly, done keeping any secrets. “Yes. That was him. It must have been, in any case. After he was … after, I took his body to the Hudson and dumped it in. I could not think what else to do.” He took another deep drink. “The horse I hid in my father’s barn until I could sell him off to a man who was passing through. My father never noticed.”
“And all of the villagers thought Ichabod had been carried away by the Headless Horseman,” I whispered. “No one thought any more of it, except as a frightening tale to tell by the fire on an autumn evening. They all but gave you a safeguard.”
Brom laughed mockingly. “There is no Headless Horseman. I am what haunted those woods on All Hallows’ Eve. I am the Headless Horseman.”
I see blood in your future, Brom Van Brunt. Blood and death. The Headless Horseman is your fate. The Headless Horseman is your end.
I shivered. It had come true. It had all come true, every word.
“Thank God for this village and its superstitions,” he added, putting the bottle again to his mouth.
“I do not think God has anything to do with this endeavor,” I said. “And you…” I began to laugh, the sound sharp and shrill. “Before I agreed to marry you, I asked if you had done anything to scare off Ichabod Crane. And you swore to me you had not. You liar. You liar.” It seemed such an inconsequential thing to get angry about, after everything, but for some reason it mattered to me just then.
He grinned, a ghost of his old cocky grin. “I did not lie. I did not scare him off, after all. I did much more than that.”
I wanted to fly into a rage at him again, at the ghastly way he played with the definition of truth, but I could not. Suddenly, the wrath drained from me, and I felt tears shoving their way out of my eyes again.
Outside Nox, weary of scratching at the door to be let in, howled.
Ichabod was dead. Murdered. He was dead, really and truly gone.
And I was married to his murderer. I had betrayed him threefold.
The sobs wracked my body, and I did not think they would ever stop.
Brom, still drinking determinedly from his bottle, did not seem to notice. “I see him every time I look at you,” he said again, his voice flat. “I see him every time I look into Anneke’s face.”
I froze. Did he know? Or had his guilt simply poisoned his love for the child he thought his own?
I wasn’t to know.
I drew myself up to my full height, though I couldn’t have made much of an imposing sight with my tear-streaked face and swollen eyes and muddy dress. “Get out, Brom,” I said. “Get out of this house.”
“Where do you expect me to go?”
“I do not know, nor do I care!” I shrieked. “Go to hell, where you belong! Just get out, and do not come back!”
I expected him to argue, to protest that this was his house, and I his wife, bought and paid for in blood, and he would not leave. Instead, he staggered out the door on drunken, unsteady legs. I heard him clomp down the stairs, and held my breath until I heard the front door open and slam behind him. Only then did I exhale.
Anneke began to wail in the next room, and Nox started barking, adding to the cacophony. My eyes welled again and, my whole body trembling, I moved, shakily, to the nursery next door. “Mama, Mama!” she cried when she saw me, reaching her little arms up for me. I picked her up out of her crib and sat down in the chair with her, clutching her tightly, shaking. I did not feed or change her. I could do nothing except hold her, with all my might, until her crying, and my own, ceased.
59
The Ambition of Macbeth
Once Anneke was again fast asleep, I went back into my bedroom to find Nancy waiting for me.
“What on God’s green earth is all the racket?” she demanded. “Where is Brom? What…” Her eyes widened as she caught sight of me, my eyes red, my expression devastated, and with dirt and mud still streaked on my face, in my hair, my clothing. She paled. “Good Lord, Katrina,” she whispered. “What has happened?”
I began shaking again. “He … he killed him. Brom killed him.”
“Who?” Nancy asked, though from the look on her face she already knew.
“Ichabod Crane,” I whispered.
She wordlessly vanished from the room, returned later with a basin of warm water. She propelled me to sit on the edge of the bed, and I did so obediently, like a child. She dipped a cloth into the water and began to clean my face, wiping away the dirt as I continued to weep.
Afterward, she put me in a clean shift and tucked me into bed as though I were as small as Anneke. “Sleep now,” she said, kissing me on the forehead. “Sleep. The world will look brighter in the morning.”
“The world is all darkness,” I whispered. If she heard me, she did not respond, only went silently out, closing the door behind her.
Nox, having finally been allowed into the room, jumped onto the bed and, after licking my face, curled up close beside me. It was the first night since Anneke had been born that he had not slept outside her door. He knew, in that strange and uncanny and wonderful way that dogs have, that I needed him more just then.
I wrapped my arms around his warm, furry body, unable to stop trembling. I would not be able to sleep that night.
Now that the noise outside of me had quieted, I could hear Charlotte’s voice inside my head, repeating over and over. Do you feel at peace? Do you feel at peace?
Peace was the last thing I felt. I recalled, too, Nancy saying to me, before I’d left—a different woman, a lifetime ago—there might be some things I would be better off not knowing. I had scoffed. I had not believed her. I had thought nothing could be worse than not knowing what had happened to Ichabod.
But this was worse. Much worse.
I could never escape this knowledge, never outrun it. I could never forget that the one man I ever loved had been murdered in cold blood because I loved him. Because he loved me.
He was dead b
ecause of me.
If Ichabod had never come to Sleepy Hollow, if we had never fallen in love … if I had denied him, denied my own feelings, refused to act upon them, as a well-brought up young lady ought, then he would still be alive. I had killed him as surely as if it had been my hand that plunged the dagger into his body.
To think there had been a time when I thought Ichabod leaving me was the worst thing that could have happened. What a fool I had been. What I wouldn’t have given for that to be the truth I now faced.
And I was bound for life to Ichabod’s murderer. Fitting, I suppose, since I was his murderer as well. Brom’s lust and ambition had brought us to this, and now we both had blood staining us, a veritable Lord and Lady Macbeth. I would go mad like her, unable to forget the blood on my hands; doomed to wander the halls crying, Out, spot!
But the desire for power was what was supposed to bring one to a bad end. Not love. Never love.
It was not fair. It was simply not fair.
I began to cry again, quietly.
For the first time in two years, I thought of Ichabod’s last words to me, what he said before he had left the farmhouse on All Hallows’ Eve night.
All will be well.
I began to sob harder. How wrong he had been. Nothing had been well since that moment, nor ever would be again.
Do you feel at peace?
To think, that I had ever thought such knowledge could bring me peace.
* * *
I must have slept at some point, if only because my body could no longer stay awake. When I awoke, sunlight was peeking through the curtains. It was much later than I usually rose. And there were a few brief, blissful moments in which I did not remember. But all too soon, my hideous new reality invaded my mind once again.
I got out of bed, moving like an old woman, my entire body hurting, and went next door to the nursery. But the crib was empty. Nancy must have gotten Anneke up and dressed and fed, so that I might sleep longer.
I was not about to squander such a gift. I went back to bed and pulled the covers over my head.
“Oh, Ichabod,” I whispered into my pillow, tears leaking from my eyes again. “I am sorry. I am sorry. I am sorry. I am so sorry.”
And Charlotte. Charlotte had known, and never told me. Yet if there was one blessing the light of day had brought me, it was relief of my anger at her. She had wanted to protect me, she said. And well she might. It had been nice, in hindsight, to have been shielded from the knowledge that Ichabod was dead because of me.
From downstairs, I heard Anneke babble on, and Nancy’s approving voice in response.
A voice inside me whispered: You have your daughter to think of. Ichabod’s daughter. And if you would seek to atone, what better way than to care for her as best you can?
It couldn’t be that easy. I turned over and tried to go back to sleep.
60
The Mystery of Brom Bones
“Katrina. Katrina! Wake up!”
Someone was shaking me, and Nox was barking. I groaned and opened my eyes. “What…?”
As I blinked sleep from my eyes, I saw Charlotte standing over me. And it all came rushing back again. “What is it, Charlotte?” I demanded.
“You must come with me. Quickly,” she said, pulling the coverlet off of me. “Get dressed.”
I sat up. “What do you mean? What is going on?”
“I know that you are upset with me right now, and rightfully so. But there is something you need to see.”
“Oh, now you want to show me things?” I spat, but my rage was blunted from what it had been the night before.
She flinched. “I suppose I deserve that. But please, just come.”
“What is it?” I asked, getting out of the bed and crossing the room to my wardrobe. “What’s happened?”
“I … I cannot tell you. You just need to see.”
I paused and glanced at her. “You’ve had a vision?”
“Yes.”
I pulled a dress and petticoat from the wardrobe. “Quick, help me dress.” Charlotte laced me into my clothes, and we started immediately for the stairs, Nox bounding behind us. “Let me just get Anneke and—”
“No.” Charlotte’s sharp tone stopped me. “No. Leave her with Nancy. This is not something she should see.”
“Charlotte, what…”
“Just come.” She took my hand and practically dragged me down the stairs and out the door.
She led me down the road toward the church, and when she started toward the path that led to the clearing, I stopped. “No,” I said. “I am not going back there.”
She shook her head. “Don’t worry. He’s not there. We needn’t go that far.”
He?
Soon I realized we were not the only ones coming to see whatever spectacle Charlotte wished to show me. I saw a few people from the village up ahead of us on the path, and soon there were more behind us, as well.
A crowd had gathered in the middle of the narrow path up ahead, and everyone was conversing in low voices. A few women were weeping. Charlotte’s steps slowed as we reached them, and I did the same. I still could not see what everyone was looking at.
Then someone saw me. “It is her! Let her through!”
“What is going on?” I asked. As if in answer, the crowd parted. I gasped, the breath freezing in my lungs.
In the middle of the forest path was a body. A corpse. And the cause of death was quite obvious, for his head was gone. Not merely separated from his body, but nowhere to be seen. Gone.
And it was Brom.
I knew in an instant, knew his body—as a wife would—even without his head, his face. He was still dressed in the clothes he’d been wearing last night, when we had screamed at each other.
And he was dead. Beheaded.
I remained stock still, gawping at what remained of him. The gathered villagers were watching me, waiting for me to burst into tears, to sob and tear my hair and scream and wail at the sky, or perhaps to faint.
But I did none of those things. I simply stared down at his headless corpse, silently. Nox cautiously approached the body and sniffed at it, then growled and backed away, hackles raised.
Without a word, I turned and walked away, Charlotte and Nox both following on my heels.
Though it would never bring Ichabod back to me, justice had been served.
* * *
They made excuses for my reaction in the village, of course, not that I cared. They said I had been in shock, poor thing, and with such a young child to care for, too. But I was glad he was dead. He deserved it, for what he had done, for killing Ichabod and marrying me anyway and making me, almost, start to love him. And if feeling such a thing was enough to consign me to hell, then I would see Brom Bones there.
The villagers also knew exactly who to blame for Brom’s murder. It was obvious; there was only one culprit: the Headless Horseman. Brom had been too brash, too bold for his own good, they said. He had run afoul of the Hessian, and not even Brom Bones could escape him.
If Charlotte and I were less certain, it was not by much.
“But you did not see who did it?” I asked her, once we were back in my house, a cup of calming tea in both our hands.
She shook her head. “I saw a sword separating his head from his body,” she said calmly, as though discussing the weather. “I did not see who wielded the sword.”
We were both silent for a while. “Could it have been a suicide?” I asked. “He was guilty over what he had done. He was eaten up with it. Maybe once I accused him, told him that I knew…?”
Charlotte gave me a hard look. “Is a man really capable of cutting off his own head? And even if he somehow did it himself, what then became of his head?”
I shrugged. “Animals, maybe? Stranger things have certainly happened. Who else could it have been, then?”
“I do not know.” She glanced up at me. “The ghost of Ichabod Crane, I suppose.”
“Aye, perhaps,” I said bitterly. “Would that
he had killed the wretch before I married him. In that case, he shall be coming for me next, for I killed him just as surely as Brom did.”
“Katrina, no,” Charlotte said vehemently, setting down her tea and taking my hands in hers. “This is part of the reason I did not tell you. I knew you would blame yourself, I knew it. But you are not to blame, and that is the truth. It was Brom’s hand that wielded the blade, and Brom and Brom alone is the guilty party.”
I shook my head, beginning to weep again. “Brom killed him because he loved me and I him,” I said, tears dripping onto my skirt. “For that and no other reason. If Ichabod had never come here, had never met me, if we had never fallen in love…”
“No,” Charlotte said, with even more force this time. “Do not spend the rest of your life tearing yourself apart over this, Katrina. Please. I beg of you. Ichabod died because of Brom’s hate and jealousy and desire and selfishness. For no other reason. Do you hear me? You are not to blame.”
“But I could have … I should have saved him, somehow … should have made him stay with me that night … should have realized…”
“There is nothing you could have done, Katrina. Nothing. Brom turned evil, somehow. That little boy who was our closest friend died long before the man met his grisly end in the woods, and none of us noticed until it was too late.
“So this is what you will do,” Charlotte went on, tightening her grip. “You will raise your beautiful daughter, your and Ichabod’s daughter. For you have not lost him, not truly. A part of him is in Anneke. So you will raise her the best you can, and tell her all about her kind, warm, generous, intelligent, handsome, loving father.” Charlotte’s amber eyes filled with tears as well. “And someday, when she is old enough, if you choose to, you can tell her how he met his end—bravely, and with her mother’s name on his lips.”
The Spellbook of Katrina Van Tassel Page 37