Page 2 of The Horseman of Sleepy Hollow
One element most of the stories shared was Cor Van Brunt's lack of a head when he was found. Some said wolves attacked him. Others blamed the woman in white, a spirit who was rumored to haunt the deepest places of the wood. But the most salacious of the tales blamed the elder Van Brunt's death on a shade with a particular connection to Sleepy Hollow—the Headless Horseman. Tales of the Horseman's gory deeds pre-dated the colonies' war for independence. Some said he was a bold and bloody Hessian who slaughtered scores of men until a cannon blasted off his head.
The idea that the ghost of a battle-dead Hessian stole the head of Brom's father never rang true with me. Yet I had never dared to ask Brom or his mother for the real story. I did not wish to press an old wound and cause them pain.
As I moved into the front hall of our sprawling home, I saw Anika Van Brunt greeting my mother. Her smile broadened when she noticed me, and I found myself smiling in return. She held a basket full of quilting squares and supplies, and behind her towered Brom with two more covered baskets, probably packed with delectable treats for the evening's festivities.
The sight of Brom triggered a frightened flutter in my stomach. If he asked for my hand this evening, I could not refuse him outright without shaming him and his mother, and enraging my own parents.
If he did have plans to propose tonight, I must do my best to avoid him.
He made as if to approach me, but then his mother and mine steered him off to the kitchen to deposit his baskets.
And while he was gone, my salvation arrived, in the spindly shape of the schoolmaster, Ichabod Crane.
Ah, Ichabod. He stalked the lanes and meadows like a strutting rooster, proud of his flock of mediocre students, whom he flogged with disturbing regularity. He had a large nose and a low forehead, a thinning mop of lank brown hair, and a body that stayed rail-thin no matter how much he ate—and the man could eat. My mother always sighed and checked the larder's stock every time she saw Ichabod approaching our home, which he had done often of late, under the guise of teaching me how to sing.
Today he looked especially awkward, with a lumpy cravat knotted at his neck, draped in a fine greatcoat he must have borrowed for the occasion.
"Miss Katrina!" He sauntered over to me, his pale green eyes sparkling with excitement. "Such a merry gathering this will be! I hope I may claim the honor of your company for a dance or two!"
"You may have all of them, Ichabod," I said recklessly. "And call me Katrina."
Ichabod swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing dramatically. "It isn't proper, miss."
"But I command it, and therefore you must obey."
"Of—of course, Miss—I mean, Katrina."
"Good boy." I leaned in and kissed his cheek—just a peck, but he reacted as if I had slapped him, pressing his palm to his face and looking completely overcome.
His reaction delighted me.
To be truthful, I liked playing with my suitors when they came to visit. If the gossips of Sleepy Hollow knew half of the wicked things I did, my reputation would be ruined.
When Brom passed time with me, I loved watching his cheeks redden and his eyes burn as my fingers crept over his thigh underneath the book we pretended to read. My father, who would often smoke his pipe at the other end of the piazza, had never noticed. And I took care to only touch Brom's thigh, never letting my fingertips creep further inward.
I loved the way Ichabod's voice would lurch into a higher register when I ran a finger along the neckline of my dress and tugged it ever so slightly lower while he was giving me my singing lesson under the elm tree.
I played similar games with the other men who came courting—whispers and stray touches—seemingly accidental, always intentional. It was a kind of power, one that I craved. But it was never quite enough, because I did not love any of them.
Maybe, if I could have mashed Brom and the schoolmaster together into one man—Brom's height, strength, and good looks, along with Ichabod's intelligence, voice, and dancing skills—then I would have had the perfect man, one worthy of my body and heart. But I knew no such convenient magic.
Brom emerged from the kitchen, so I seized Ichabod's elbow and ushered him out the front door. "You must come and see the ducks and the geese, Ichabod. They are fatter than ever, and will make for delicious holiday feasting this year. And the squashes and pumpkins have grown since you last visited—they are immense, truly! Come and look at them."
"Of course, dear Katrina, of course!" He hurried along beside me, waving amiably to the other neighbors who were arriving.
I had known he would not protest a tour of the farm. After all, Ichabod was more in love with our land, our wealth, and our house than he was with me. Avarice had glowed in his eyes from the moment he set foot in our home, shortly after his arrival in Sleepy Hollow. On that first day, he ogled the neatly-hung tools along the piazza and eyed the china and silver in the parlor's corner cupboards. He had looked at my figure and at my family's glossy furniture with the same degree of lust.
And yet I could not hate him. He was so very earnest about everything, so intent on working hard and making everyone in the valley like him. He was a man who came from little, with an eye to making much of himself by sheer force of will. I could not help but respect his ambition.
Ichabod tugged on the lapels of his coat, squaring his shoulders as if walking at my side were the greatest honor in the world. Or perhaps he was imagining himself as the proud owner of all that he saw. Clearly he had taken pains to look his best this evening.
"Your boots are so brightly polished," I remarked. "How did you keep them so clean during the long walk here?"
"I did not come on foot," he said, lifting his chin. "I came on Hans Van Ripper's horse, Gunpowder."
"What?" I smothered a laugh with my hand. "Gunpowder? That old firebrand is more devil than horse. He is more likely to throw you than to see you safely home, Ichabod. You must borrow one of our horses for the return trip."
"No, no." Ichabod shook his head. "I promised to return Gunpowder to his stable, safe and sound, and that is what I will do. What is a man, if his word cannot be trusted?" He opened his pale eyes very wide, as if to indicate that I should take special note of what he just said.
