Page 1 of The Horseman of Sleepy Hollow
1
Such an odd thing, the human head.
The center of all thought and impulse, of emotion and intelligence, set atop a column so slender that an awkward fall could snap it. Its construction, the way it joined to the body, was either an incredibly elegant design, or a rather foolish one. I could not decide which.
In this rosy gown, with my golden curls pulled halfway up, my neck looked altogether too slim to support my own head. But perhaps its fragility fit my appearance—the perfect Dutch doll, all curves and dimples, ready to be trotted out before my suitors again. I smiled at my reflection, gritting my teeth so hard my jaw ached.
What did my skull look like under my creamy skin and pink cheeks? I tried to imagine it—my pert nose disappearing, the flesh melting away. I would be an egg-shaped shell of bone, with a couple of empty eyeholes, delicate ridges of cheekbone, and grinning jaws.
"That dress is too low-cut, Katrina." My mother's voice startled me out of my dark thoughts. "I have always said so. It is not right for a God-fearing girl to wear such a thing."
I smiled, tracing my fingers over the tops of my breasts. They swelled upward with every inhale, a vision that would draw certain male eyes to me on this night. "I am no girl, Mother. At twenty, I am a woman."
She clucked her tongue at me, tugging the neckline up, moving the lace higher onto my shoulders. "You should be married by now, Katrina. You need to make up your mind, before your charms fade."
"I thought you wanted me to cover up my charms. Really, Mother, you should make up your mind."
My mother cupped my face in her hands, a little too tightly for comfort. "Katrina. You must accept a proposal soon. Once you are settled, no one will have reason to gossip about you."
I stepped back, pushing her hands away from my cheeks. "People talk about me?"
"They wonder why you are not yet married, why you continue to turn down proposals or ask young men to wait while you decide. I hear the whispers constantly, how you are a fearful coquette, a tease, a siren—" She drew out a delicate handkerchief and pressed it to her mouth, her eyes turning pink and watery. "Such rumors, Katrina. I will not have my only child spoken of in such a manner."
"And if I choose one of these fine country lads, the rumors will cease?" I arched an eyebrow.
"You will need to dress more modestly once you are married." My mother frowned at the scandalous length of my petticoat, which revealed my entire foot and ankle. "And you may not gallivant about the countryside with your friends, or tromp 'round with the farm hands, or run about on your own. You will need to stay quietly at home and tend to the affairs of the house, and set your attention to spinning and needlework."
"I do not 'gallivant,'" I protested. "And if I follow the farm hands around, it is because I want to learn all I can about how to run this place properly."
"Your husband will tend to that, once you are married."
"And whom would you have me choose?" I looked her straight in the eye, though I knew the answer she would give.
"Brom Van Brunt is a strapping and worthy man," she said. "Strong and keen-minded in matters of the land."
"You have been pushing him at me since I could speak." I wrinkled my nose, poking at the few freckles sprinkled across it.
My mother caught the expression. "You do not wear your bonnet as often as you should. And you do not listen to me now any better than you did when you were five, or ten, or eighteen. Yes, I would have you marry Brom. He is the best match in Sleepy Hollow—in the whole valley, or the towns beyond."
"And you are great friends with his mother."
Anika Van Brunt and my mother had been inseparable all their lives. They loved to tell us, their only children, how they were pregnant at the same time and gave birth on the same day, one at dawn and the other at dusk. Superstition flourished in Sleepy Hollow, trickling along its streambeds, hovering in quiet glades, whispering through the evening smoke from our chimneys, trailing misty fingers across the ponds and rain barrels each morning. And so it seemed to my parents, and to Brom's, that their children were destined to be paired forever.
If I had merely wanted a handsome man, with arms like a Greek god and the height of a hero, Brom would have been the man. He was striking in aspect, with prominent cheekbones jutting above the swath of his blond beard, and hair the color of ripe wheat waving down to his shoulders. He reminded me of a Viking of old—or what I imagined a Viking might look like. And his eyes—such an astonishing blue, vivid as the autumn sky over the orchard on a clear day. He and I made a gorgeous pair. With his physical strength and determined spirit, he could one day help me maintain and grow all the wealth my father had amassed.
Brom was the ideal choice for my husband. Which was why I resisted committing to the match, despite my amicable relationship with him.
"My friendship with his mother aside, he is perfect for you, Katrina," said my mother. She tucked away her handkerchief. "Come, enough preening. We must receive our guests."
"For the quilting frolic. Tell me, will there be any actual quilting, or merely a vast amount of match-making?"
My mother swatted my arm as we passed out of the bedroom together. "Mind yourself, Katrina Van Tassel. Remember who you are, and try not to shame us. Give Brom the assurance he deserves—the promise of his place in your heart. I have it on good authority that he may ask for your hand sometime tonight. If he proposes, you must accept."
She swept on ahead of me, leaving me no chance to argue.
"On good authority," I muttered. "From his mother, no doubt."
Not that I bore her any real ill will. Anika Van Brunt was a soft, sweet dumpling of a woman with a cloud of pale curls, like a halo around her smiling face. I liked her because she was not afraid to laugh, loud and long, even at jokes that made my mother blush. I wondered if her status as a widow gave her a little more freedom to enjoy such things. If her husband were alive, would he have laid a hand on her arm and instructed her to be silent? No one would ever tell me much about Cor Van Brunt, Brom's father. The gossips and schoolboys of Sleepy Hollow circulated a dozen stories about how he had met his end, each more fanciful than the last, until I no longer knew what was truth.
