I did not see Ichabod at dinner that night, for which I was fervently grateful. The more I thought about it, the more I felt it was for the best that he was leaving our house soon, and I would no longer see him as often. It would be better for both of us.
That night I tossed and turned, trying, rather futilely, to sleep. I could not leave off thinking of the moment in the kitchen, and his coldness that day. No doubt he regrets his words to me, I thought, regrets my kiss—and that he kissed me back. I could not quite bring myself to regret kissing him, however—even as recalling it caused me to flush with a heat that was at least partially shame. I must save what fond memories I had and otherwise think no more of him.
I must have fallen asleep at some point that night, for again I dreamed of the Headless Horseman. The vision that met me was different than the one that usually came. Still he faced me from the edge of the woods, astride his horse and with the burning pumpkin beside the horse’s hooves. The sheathed sword remained at his hip, but this time, an axe was tucked into his belt as well. I had not seen the axe before. As always in these dreams, Nox was not beside me, though I never ventured out into—or near—the woods without him.
Strangest of all, I could see Ichabod within the woods, just behind the Horseman. He was looking in my direction, his lips moving as though speaking, calling out, but I couldn’t hear him. When I tried to move toward him, the Horseman moved to block Ichabod from my view, as if to cut me off.
I awoke with a start, in the dim light of dawn.
Try though I did, I could not get back to sleep, and lay awake as the sweat from the dream cooled on my brow and chest. Why had the dream altered, after so much time? And what could it possibly mean? Or perhaps it was all moonlight and foolishness and did not mean anything. I was never so grateful to see Nancy as when she finally came in to help me dress, and I could give up the pretense of sleep.
Thankfully, I was not needed for chores that morning, so as soon as I broke my fast I took my book out into the woods, to my usual reading spot, Nox on my heels. Some time away from the house was just what I needed.
I shivered briefly as I stepped onto the forest path, the dream still fresh in my memory. Reaching down and patting Nox’s head firmly, I resolved to put that confounded dream from my mind once and for all and think only of pleasant things.
I did make a success of it, if only briefly. I reached my favorite spot and settled in on the bank, opened my book, happily losing myself in Macbeth. All too soon, I heard the cracking of twigs that could only mean someone was approaching.
Nox, who had been dozing in the sunlight that filtered through the leaves, lifted his head and growled a warning. I lowered my book—I had never encountered anyone in my trips here, and it seemed unlikely I would do so now. Someone must be coming to seek me. My heart quickened, sending hope pounding through my body.
Indeed, it was Ichabod who stepped through the trees and into the clearing. Upon seeing a friendly face whom he recognized, Nox thumped his tail against the ground twice in greeting then lay back down, resting his head on his paws. I set my book on my lap and looked up at Ichabod, waiting for him to speak.
For a moment, doubt seized me. Perhaps he had not come to seek me at all. Perhaps he had merely returned here to read alone, and now, finding me, would turn back.
“Katrina,” he said, by way of greeting. I saw that he had not brought a book with him—only himself, in his breeches and shirtsleeves, his hair tied back at the nape of his neck in the summer heat.
“Ichabod,” I replied. “What brings you here?”
“May I sit with you?” he asked after a long pause.
“Indeed,” I said. “We do not stand on ceremony here.”
A ghost of a smile flickered across his face and was gone, and he lowered himself to the grass—keeping, I noted with some dismay, a quite respectable distance from me.
Thus seated, he was silent for a moment more, and I felt my impatience and curiosity and hope and dread bubbling up within me like some potion created by the three witches in Macbeth. Just when I thought I could stand it no longer, he spoke again. “I saw you come out here, and wanted to speak with you. Privately.”
“I gathered as much,” I said.
He sighed. “I wanted to apologize.”
“For your cold behavior yesterday? I should think so. It certainly warranted an apology.”
“No,” he said, frustrated. “That is, yes—you are right. It does indeed warrant an apology, one I am most willing to proffer. But that is not what I meant.”
“Oh? I can think of nothing else for which you need to apologize.”
He sighed again, a harder edge to the sound this time. “Katrina. Please do not do this.”
“Do what?” I demanded.
“You know precisely what and are being deliberately obtuse.”
“I wish to hear you say it,” I shot back. “Explain to me why you think you need to ask my forgiveness. I should like to hear the words.”
“Very well,” he said, sounding angry now. “I wish to apologize for everything I said to you the night before last, in the kitchen. It was inappropriate. Nor should I have…” The tips of his ears turned slightly red. “Nor should I have returned your kiss. I should have ended it, as any gentleman must.”
My own anger rose to match his. “And I tell you again that you have nothing to apologize for. I was a willing participant in our conversation, and more than that in our kiss.”
“Katrina.” My name came out as a half sigh, half groan. “Surely you can see why none of this can be. Why it would be better for both of us if that night had never happened.”
I was silent, gathering my thoughts. Despite my earlier determination to put him from my mind, to forget about him henceforth, what I truly wanted was very different from that. I wanted him. And I could deny it no longer.
“On the night in question,” I said at last, “you accused me of always getting everything I want. And you are right. I have never been denied anything, and as such have very little practice with it.” I met his eyes. “I have no intention of starting now, not when I finally know what it means to truly desire something. I realize now that I have never really wanted anything before. The meanings of such words have shifted within my mind, until it feels as though my entire heart has been disassembled and put back together again, slightly different than it was before.”
He did not speak. His body tensed as if trying very hard not to take me in his arms. “You speak to me in poetry,” he said, his voice so soft it was almost a whisper.
“Should it not be so, between lovers?”
His head jerked up. “We are no such thing,” he said. “We cannot be, no matter how much either of us would wish it otherwise.”
“And why not?” I asked, the sound of my heart pounding in my ears. “If we both wish it to be so, what should stop us?”
“I can’t … how can I ask for your hand?” he demanded. “I have nothing to offer you. I am an itinerant schoolteacher, without land or even a house of my own. Why should your father even entertain my suit? He will think me nothing but a fortune hunter.”
“Who said anything about marriage?” I asked. “I am speaking of love, a different matter entirely.”
“Katrina…” He trailed off, frustration creeping back into his voice. He got to his feet. “What are you asking of me?”
I rose as well. “I am asking you to kiss me,” I said, “and what comes next can be whatever we wish it to be.”
“How many times must I tell you it is not that simple?”
“How many times must I tell you it can be?”
He closed his eyes, as though struggling with himself, and I waited as one poised atop a mammoth cliff to see what the outcome would be. To see if I would fall or soar.
Suddenly, swiftly, he closed the distance between us and took me in his arms, pressing his lips to mine. It was just as glorious a kiss as our first, yet somehow sweeter, as well. One kiss may not mean anything, after all. A second kiss, though … surely that was no accident or mistake or moment of weakness.
His hands roamed over the curve of my waist through my dress as my lips parted beneath his. He drew my hips tightly against his own, and I felt a thrill of warmth and pleasure in the depths of my stomach, and lower. I wanted to be closer to him, to feel every inch of him, even as I thought I might drown completely in all the many sensations of this moment. It was too much, and not enough.
Finally I understood what the poets and songwriters spoke of. I knew what it was to have a man take me in his arms because he loved and desired me, what it was to feel the same for him, so that our feelings amplified each other’s, and yes, I realized as his arms tightened around me, yes, this is what lovers’ legends are made of. This feeling.
He drew away and caressed my cheek with his hand. “Katrina,” he whispered, his eyes searching mine. I leaned forward to kiss him this time, and so we began again.
When at last we surfaced, I could not say how much time had passed—surely it had to be hours, or even days? But no, the shadows cast by the leaves above us had not changed, though the same could not be said for the two of us.
I clung to him, my head resting against his shoulder, never wanting to leave this place. I would spend my life anywhere so long as it was with him, I thought dreamily. In the end it was this thought that caused me to draw away. All the things I had read of love and passion had, too, carried a warning of the dangers to be found in falling too fast, in falling too far.
“And so what shall we do now, my Katrina?” he whispered against my hair.
Despite the sobering thoughts that lingered, I glowed at his words. My Katrina. “We shall do whatever we like,” I replied.
He chuckled, and I could feel the sound in his chest. “I can think of one thing I would very much like to do,” he murmured, “but that is no doubt the last thing we should do.”
I was silent, both nervous and excited by his words. I was not so sheltered that I had not managed to glean the details of the act of love, but I had never had reason to think about it much before.
But I thought about it then, and what it might be like, and even as the thought scared me I realized I might want that, too.
I released him and stepped back. “No doubt you are right,” I said.
“Katrina,” he said softly, his voice deadly serious now. I looked up to meet his eyes, green as the forest we stood in. “I … we should not be speaking so. Not when I have not asked for your hand.”
I struggled to compose myself. “Is that what you are going to do?”
He studied me carefully. “Is that what you want me to do?”
I closed my eyes. How had we gone from sharing kisses in the woods to speaking of marriage? Because Ichabod is an honorable man, I thought. He would march back up to the house and ask my father for my hand right now, if I wished it. “I … I do not know yet,” I forced myself to say.
Oh, it was easy to daydream about it: Ichabod declaring his love for me and presenting his suit to my father; to see us becoming man and wife, perhaps taking a small cottage in town; to imagine us making love each night then waking up together; having children …
I swallowed. It was all too much. I wanted it all, and it scared me. How could I want so much, so soon? How could I be swept away so fast? Was falling in love always this way?
He was right; I had always gotten everything I wanted. So I must be certain I truly wanted it, and that he truly wanted it. Better men and women than us had had their heads turned by a few kisses in a wooded glen.
“Not … not yet,” I said at last. “Let us wait, and … see.”
He sighed. “You have kept a cooler head than I, I see,” he said. “Yes. You are right. Though God knows how I shall live under the same roof as you and continue to be a gentleman.”
I smiled, though it quickly faded. “You are leaving soon.”
“Yes. I must.”
I took his hand, for I could no longer bear not to touch him.
“And what shall we do?” he asked again, tightening his fingers around mine. “Shall we go strolling arm in arm, to let the whole world know we are courting? Shall I call for you to walk into the village with me?”
“I would like nothing better,” I said.
“Nor would I,” he said.
Yet we both knew it could not be. Not while he still resided with us, anyway. My parents may have been lax, but not so lax as to let their houseguest court their daughter under their own roof.
After he had gone … maybe then. Maybe then the time would be right. We must wait.
We went hand in hand until we reached the edge of the woods and came within sight of the house, and then forced ourselves to separate.