Page 3 of The Horseman of Sleepy Hollow
"I agree. An honest and trustworthy man is a treasure, to be sure." I laid my hands on the top rail of the wooden fence and admired the plump-breasted ducks waddling beside the pond. The blue of the autumn sky colored the water azure and flecked it with snowy mirror images of the clouds overhead. Every bush rustled with twittering sparrows and robins, and from the tree across the pond echoed the shrill cry of a blue jay claiming his territory. Though the sun was warm, the breeze caressing my face carried the sharpness of coming frost.
And then something else caressed my arm—the long narrow fingers of Ichabod Crane.
"Katrina, I have something I would ask you," he muttered.
My heart dropped with dread. In avoiding one proposal, I had walked into another.
Ichabod opened his thin lips to say more, but at that moment music unfurled from the house, rippling across the fences and fields. Violins, fifes, and fiddles mingled in a melody too tempting to ignore.
"Ichabod!" I exclaimed, so loudly that he startled. "Shall we go and dance?"
"But—"
"You may ask me your question later," I said quietly, smiling at him and blinking my lashes. "But first, let us enjoy merriment and food with our family and friends."
"Our—family—" Ichabod's eyes glazed over with rapture. He did not speak as I hustled him back toward the house.
Of course I was deceiving him, leading him on. But he and Brom—they were forcing me into it, with their incessant pursuit of my affection. Some of the books I devoured secretly by night portrayed it as a very fine thing for a woman to have two suitors. The more men circling the heroine, the better, or so the stories hinted. But the reality of it was not very romantic. A constant fog of tension dulled the conversation whenever Brom and Ichabod were under the same roof. Even when I was with one of them, the shadow of the other loomed over our interactions. Each man spoke to me carefully, consciously, trying to impress me, trying to ferret out what traits of his rival I found most attractive so he could endeavor to emulate or surpass them.
It was exhausting.
When Ichabod and I entered the house, we found the second-best parlor already cleared for dancing. My father caught my eye and beckoned me forward. The flush of his cheeks told me he had already dipped into the good ale.
"Everyone! Here is my fair daughter, Katrina! Is she not beautiful? A worthy heir to all I own, alongside a good sturdy husband of course!" He knocked elbows with Brom, who stood nearby, frowning at the sight of me on Ichabod's arm.
"A good sturdy husband is a wondrous thing," I said. "But I am not married yet! And now, we dance!"
The other young lads and lasses of the valley cheered my answer. I whirled Ichabod into the center of the room and we began to dance, while other couples gravitated toward us like chickens to feed.
If I could have stolen the fire in Ichabod's feet for myself, I would have done it. The man transformed under the power of music. His lanky body turned loose and disjointed in the best way, curving sinuous as a snake, then snapping upright—his feet tapped a rapid beat against the floor—all his stiff manners were forgotten, lost in the joy of the dance. In his company I could let myself go too, swaying my hips and twisting my body in ways that the gossips would no doubt discuss over their tea and mending for weeks to follow. Ichabod and I were lightning, bursting white and hot in this sleepy circle of simple folk with their modest twirls and careful steps.
Whenever I danced with him, I wondered if maybe he was the right choice after all. If only I could ignore his harshness with his students, his lust for my father's property, and the foolish remarks he often made in company. If only he could always be like this, a demon of the dance, wild and untethered.
But when the music ended, he reverted to the prim schoolmaster, blinking and nodding to those who applauded his performance, visibly swelling with pride. When he looked at me, his eyes glistened with the certainty that he was rising in the world, that he was mere inches from claiming the prize he sought.
Me. I was the prize. The necessary accessory to wealth, and position, and generations of his progeny to grace the glades of Sleepy Hollow. I imagined our children—snipe-necked little things with pale eyes and lank hair like Ichabod. In my mind's eye they all looked like Ichabod, and none of them were like me.
After the dancing, we wandered to the long tables set up throughout the house and on the piazza. The good people of Sleepy Hollow knew how to throw a party. Roast chickens sat on trays, surrounded by steaming potatoes and carrots. There were platters of smoked beef and sliced ham, trays of frosted ginger cakes and golden fried doughnuts, bowls of pears and peaches and plums swimming in sugary juice, plates of grilled fish dripping in butter and sprinkled with sprigs of herbs, and pies issuing fruit-scented steam through their latticework of crust.
Ichabod practically drooled over the spread. He began heaping a plate, piling scoopfuls of potatoes atop slices of meat atop wedges of pie. Clearly he would not be filling a plate for his dance partner, so I took a plate myself and selected a few strips of beef, some peas and carrots, and a crisply cut slice of pumpkin pie, dripping with fresh cream. Then I walked through the house, searching for a quiet corner where I could enjoy my meal in peace.
Unfortunately all the rooms were filled with wrinkled, sharp-eyed grandmothers and lace-bedecked goodwives and jolly farmers. Children frolicked through the halls, rushing past the tables to snag sweets and then racing out the back door, hollering with victory. I followed the children outside to the back of the house and perched on the end of an upturned log, barely caring that my party dress would probably be smudged.
The children were playing some complicated version of tag amid circles of rope on the ground—a game I had not seen before. As I watched, I noticed one boy hunched into his coat collar, crooking his fingers into claws and chasing the others until they ran squealing into a rope circle for safety. One of the girls had draped a white scarf over her hair and trailed after the others, wailing. When she touched one of them, they had to freeze in place until the count of ten.
"The Horseman is coming, the Horseman is coming!" chanted the children in the circle. They broke and ran, while the boy in the coat loped after them.
The rules made no sense to me, but the vigor and joy in their faces made me smile.
Behind the children, above the golden fields and the jagged black line of the forest, violent streaks of color slashed the sky—a bloodbath of orange and dark purple and crimson. A brisk wind scoured across the worn dirt of the back yard, sending a fine layer of dust over my dancing shoes. I shivered and rose from the stump to carry my empty plate back inside.
"Are you hiding, Katrina?" Brom appeared in the doorway, blocking my path.
"I was watching the children play. It is endearing." I forced a smile and made as if to move past him.
He side-stepped, his broad chest inches from mine. "You should dance with me now."
"The dancing is over, Brom. And I'm tired."
