Page 44 of The Horseman of Sleepy Hollow
Our interludes of late had been so infrequent—and observed so closely by my parents, and the laborers, and any passing neighbors—that the idea of having him all to myself for a lifetime brought tears to my eyes. I could not bear it if my father refused. If he denied his blessing, I would leave Sleepy Hollow with Eamon and marry him elsewhere. Nothing could keep us apart—no human or angel or devil from Hell, and no curse-begotten collar of magical servitude. I had killed for Eamon already. I swore to myself, with my hand onDoctor Faustus, that I would leave no sin undone if it meant that he would be mine.
My father did give his blessing; though truthfully, if Eamon had not been a physician, I do not think he would have allowed it. My mother was reluctant to relinquish her dream of Brom and me, but it was difficult to resist Eamon's low voice and quiet courtesy, or to deny his medical skill. And his face—well. The beautiful dark eyes had an eloquence of their own when he told my mother how much he loved me.
Once my mother and father agreed to a thing, they plunged into its execution with their hearts and their coin-purses open. They planned a feast to celebrate the engagement—a feast that dwarfed all feasts ever held in Sleepy Hollow—a feast to which every neighbor for miles around was invited, from one end of the valley to the other.
It was a glorious affair, with more pastries and roasted meats and delectable dishes than that fateful quilting party. Ichabod's eyes would have popped from his head at the sight of such sumptuous fare. I trailed slowly along the tables, plate in hand, finding it all suddenly unappetizing. Not a dish was present that did not remind me of the skinny schoolmaster and his heaping helpings, and the relish with which he attacked his meals—and the blood-slicked spike of wood piercing through his throat.
Nausea roiled in my stomach. I set down my plate and walked away, fighting the urge to lift my knuckle to my mouth and bite it until it bled. Instead I walked to Eamon's side, where he stood talking of governments and wars with the men of the valley. I took his hand and squeezed it as hard as I could.
"If you'll excuse me, gentlemen," he said abruptly, cutting off one man in the middle of his complaints about the President.
Their startled mumblings pursued us as Eamon led me out the back door of the house and away from a crew of gamboling children, to the shadow of a tall hedgerow. Frost bit the inside of my nose, but even its freshness could not cure the horror curdling my insides.
"Breathe," Eamon said, tucking aside wisps of hair that had escaped from my coiled braids. "Breathe deep and slow."
I tried, but my stomach revolted, and I heaved its meager contents into the grass. My face burned with shame, and my throat with acid, but Eamon only rubbed my back and murmured, "That's it. Get it all out. Is that better?"
"A little."
He gave me his handkerchief to wipe my mouth. "I was sick after every kill."
"You were?"
"Yes." He wrapped an arm around me and walked me a little distance from the soiled spot. Our shoes crunched against the dry brown grass. "Do you want to talk about what troubled you?"
"Ichabod," I said slowly. "The way he used to love feasts and parties. He ate so much food, Eamon. Plates and plates of it. I can't eat from those tables without thinking of him."
"I see. What if I made you some toast? Might you be able to stomach that?"
"I think so."
"Then consider it done. I'll find you a seat first."
He escorted me indoors and installed me in a cushioned chair in the parlor. I tried to smile at the other women in the room, but I knew that my pallor and weakness would only feed the gossip mill. They were probably already convinced that I was with child.
One of the women scooted her own chair nearer to mine. "Feeling poorly, are you, dear?"
"A little."
"Where did your handsome doctor go? He should take care of you," she simpered.
"He is going to make me some toast."
She laughed, her hand fluttering to her heart. "How very odd! You have servants for that."
"He likes to do things himself."
"Indeed. You must tell us more about him."
"Yes, do," chimed in another.
"We're all so curious," added a third.
A movement in the doorway caught my eye—Sascha, beckoning to me. I seized the chance gratefully. "Excuse me, ladies."
I walked out of the room with as much dignity as I could muster.
Sascha huddled against the wall outside the parlor, holding something in her skirts. "Can we go to your room? I have something to show you."
