Page 4 of The Horseman of Sleepy Hollow
"No doubt, with that display of yours. I hope you do not plan to make a fool of yourself in that way once you are a married woman."
"What can I say? I love to dance."
"A married woman may dance, with restraint. Not with such abandon, such suggestive movements." He flicked the lace at the neckline of my dress. "Men will get the wrong idea."
I was about to respond, but a couple of Brom's usual companions shouted to him from across the yard, lifting a bottle they had doubtless purloined from my father's store. Brom grinned his approval and raised his hand in response.
"I would speak with you later, Katrina," he said. Then he went to join his friends, and I escaped inside.
Ichabod was clearing what was probably his second or third plate. I snatched it from him and grabbed his elbow as a knight might grab his trusty shield. "Come with me. The dancing is over—let us find something else amusing to do."
"But—there is still plenty of food—" Ichabod eyed the tables as I dragged him toward the front door.
"I will send you some of the leftovers tomorrow. Come."
"Very well." He cleared his throat noisily. "I had something to ask you anyway—a quiet moment alone will not be unwelcome."
Oh, good heavens. Was my entire evening to be ruined by lovesick idiots? I needed another distraction, and quickly.
I burst out of the front door and hurried down the steps of the piazza with Ichabod in tow, waving briefly to my father and several gentlemen who were smoking their pipes in the blue-gray gloom. Their faces glowed ruddy and joyful in the golden light from the house windows.
Out on the front lawn, the long shadows of the house, the out-buildings, and the trees had already darkened the landscape. Some of the boys, ranging in age from sixteen to nineteen or so, had started a fire in the stone pit near one of the barns. I tugged Ichabod toward it, eager to be among other people where he could not easily propose marriage to me.
Among those around the fire were a few of my dearest friends—we had played together as children and were as familiar as family now. Vajèn, a girl of eighteen with rosy cheeks and brown ringlets as glossy as a ripe acorn's shell. Maria, seventeen, skinny and pale, her knees bouncing with excess energy. Sascha, sixteen years old, with her flat blond hair in thin plaits and her wide green eyes fixed on Ichabod.
Dark-skinned faces mingled with the group, too. Out here, far from the older adults' judgmental eyes, some of my father's younger slaves could join us without fear of rebuke. I had known them for years as well, and loved them dearly. Indeed I showed my affection more openly than my mother said I should. But there was always an intangible wall between them and me—the harsh truth of my father's ownership, and of my status as his heir.
A few years ago, I had heard a traveling minister speak against the ownership of slaves. He claimed it was an offense against God. But other voices rose louder in defense of the practice, spouting arguments so numerous and ferocious that I was overwhelmed by the force of them, left confused about the lingering guilt in my heart. The minister was refused shelter and food at most of the homes in the valley, and had to seek overnight refuge at a house in the hills, the home of some distant Van Brunt cousin. He did not return to Sleepy Hollow again.
Not long afterward I asked my father if we could free our slaves, and pay them if they wanted to stay on as laborers. I was seventeen at the time.
My father smiled indulgently at me. "You have a good heart, Katrina. But if we did such a thing, our wealth would drain away faster than you can imagine. And see? They are happy as they are—in a place full of kindness and good things. Are you not happy here, Lucas?" He caught the sleeve of a boy my age who was passing by, carrying a bundle of tools to be mended.
Lucas looked into my eyes—and in his gaze I saw dignity, and sorrow, and a faint flicker of anger. But he smiled broadly and said, "Very happy."
He went on his way, and my father lit his pipe, nodding with satisfaction. "See there? I am nothing if not kind."
I said no more on the matter. My father was willfully blind to the truth, that kindness did not excuse his ownership of actual human souls. He could not see that Lucas had only responded with those words because he had no other choice.
Inwardly I resolved that when my father passed on, I would end slavery on the Van Tassel property—if the choice were mine alone. But if I married Brom or Ichabod, would they allow me to free our laborers? I could not imagine them agreeing to it. How would such a thing work? How would it affect the comfortable life of the Van Tassel household?
Until the decision was mine to make, I determined to be even more considerate and companionable to those serving us. And if something occurred that troubled me, and brought back the words of the traveling minister, I tried to rectify it, if amends were within my power. All too often, I was forced to crush the sense of wrongness deep into my soul, for a later time.
Still, most of my friends had already learned how I expected our laborers to be treated, and I was glad to see everyone sitting companionably together around the fire pit.
"Katrina, you are just in time!" Vajèn hailed me, her eyes sparkling. "The boys are telling tales of hauntings and murder and witches—such dreadfully lurid stories. You must hear them."
"Delightful," I replied. "But I will warn you, it is difficult to frighten me. I do not give credence to such tales."
Ichabod clutched my arm. "You do not believe in the presence of spirits, or the power of the occult?"
"Perhaps a little, I suppose—but ghostly riders? Witches who can turn people into toads? Spirits who do nothing but hang about in glades, waiting for travelers to pass by? It sounds dreadfully boring. If I were a spirit, I would float through the whole world and see the sights, instead of moping about in one place."
"But spirits are tethered to the spot where they died." Ichabod's voice turned shrill with eagerness. "And witches are capable of much more than toads. Half a moment, I want to show you something." He raced away, into the dark, toward the stables.
"What can he be going to fetch?" giggled Vajèn.
"I have no idea." I stared into the fire, hoping they would not expect me to make any further excuses for him. Life as Ichabod's wife would doubtless be one long chain of apologies for his odd behavior. Not that I minded his vagaries myself—but we would have to live among the people of Sleepy Hollow, and they preferred people who moved slowly and performed in ways that were both expected and respectable.
