My mother and I went on to the market to procure some vegetables our farm did not grow, indulging in a lunch of fresh bread and cheese while there. The whole time, Charlotte’s warning would not leave my head. Could she be referring to this new relationship with Ichabod? She had said that I would know the meaning of her words eventually …
If that was all it was, then she need have no further concern. I was taking the utmost care. Had not Ichabod and I both decided we must proceed slowly? That we must not let our emotions run away with us? Just thinking of him brought on the physical desire to fling myself into his arms; yet I knew upon arriving home I could do no such thing. I would go up to my room, or help my mother with some household tasks.
I did not know how to be any more careful.
Perhaps if I had told Charlotte as much, she wouldn’t have felt the need to warn me.
I will tell her all, in my own time, I promised myself.
Our business in the village done, we made our way home with our purchases, as well as some remedies that my mother had procured from Dame Jansen. Upon reaching the house, I went upstairs to remove my bonnet, and found Ichabod coming toward me from his room. “Miss Van Tassel,” he greeted me, his proper tone belying the fire in his eyes. “I trust you had an agreeable day?”
“Most agreeable,” I said. As he made to pass me, I grasped his arm and pressed close to him. “Tomorrow after luncheon, our place in the woods,” I whispered. He nodded once, then I released him, stepping into my room as though nothing had happened.
* * *
The next day it rained; and no mere drizzle, but an unrelenting, pounding rain that lasted into the night.
We’d not had much rain this summer, and while I knew I should be grateful for the farm’s sake—“Thank God,” my father declared at luncheon, “I was starting to worry the crops would begin to dry up!”—I could not help but take it as a personal affront. That it might have been a bad omen was something I refused to consider, but the thought returned to nibble at the edges of my mind throughout the day.
I kept an eye on the window all morning, hoping the rain would subside by the afternoon, but no such thing happened. I was confined to the house, helping my mother with further mending and the making of some preserves in the kitchen. When Ichabod’s and my paths crossed, we were perfectly courteous and correct, but the frustration in his eyes was plain to me, as I’m sure mine was to him. How could two people living in the same house find it so hard to meet privately? It seemed inconceivable, yet there we were. And he would be leaving for his new lodgings in three days’ time. I did not know if that would be better or worse, but I dreaded it all the same.
He passed me in the downstairs hallway as he made his way up to his room for the night. “Tomorrow,” I said softly.
He nodded. “Tomorrow.”
I knew we had all the time in the world—our whole lives if we wanted; infinite tomorrows. Yet knowing this could not curb the desperation I felt to be in his arms again.
* * *
Thankfully, by the next morning the rain had abated, though our spot in the woods would be too muddy to be hospitable. Instead we decided to take a walk along the river, and if anyone inquired or thought it unusual, I could simply say I was showing him some of the Hudson River Valley’s most scenic views.
We made our way down the embankment upon which the house stood to walk right beside the river. Nox promptly ran ahead and splashed happily through the shallow waters, barking at ducks and gulls. Once we were out of view of the house and most of the farmland, Ichabod offered me his arm.
“I have been thinking,” I said as we walked, the sunshine brushing our faces with warmth, “you now know much of me and my life. But I know so little of you. Of your life before you came to Sleepy Hollow.”
He chuckled. “What would you wish to know?”
“Everything. About your family. Your life and home in Connecticut. Your education. How you came to be a schoolteacher. Tell me everything.”
He sighed, his smile dimmed slightly. “It is not much of a story, I am afraid. The life I came from is nothing like yours here, surrounded by such plenty, with such a family.”
“But it is your story, and so it is important to me.”
He sighed again. “All right, then. Even though I am not half the storyteller you are, I fear.” He cleared his throat and began. “My father was a carpenter. He made furniture—fine pieces, and he had many wealthy customers who bought them. He would also get work in building new houses, when such was needed.”
His face darkened somewhat as he continued. “I don’t doubt that my family would have been a prosperous one, had he lived. But as soon as independence from Britain was declared, he laid down his tools and went to fight for his country, with his fellow Americans. He died fighting the British at the battle of Saratoga.” Ichabod paused. “I know he was proud to give his life for his country, for liberty. Yet it was bittersweet that such a decisive battle for the Americans was also a devastating blow for my family.”
“Goodness,” I murmured. “You must have been very young when he died.”
Ichabod nodded. “I was only seven years of age. He was away fighting for a time before that, so I have only the vaguest memories of him.” He smiled. “I remember being in his workshop with him. He would show me his tools and how to put together pieces of wood to become a table, or a chair.”
I placed a hand lightly on his shoulder. “At least you have some memories of him.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “It is better than none. But the years after his death were very hard for my mother and me. My father had left us a tidy savings, but my mother wanted to hold on to it for as long as she could, so that I could continue my schooling. So she took in sewing, and laundry, and hired herself out as a cook or a servant whenever she could. As I got older, in between my schoolwork, I tried to take over some of the carpentry, but I did not have my father’s gift for it, unfortunately. My mother and I grew some crops and raised some animals, enough to keep ourselves fed and make a little extra money, but it was not a comfortable existence by any means.” He paused. “At times I was glad I had no siblings, so my mother need not worry about having another mouth to feed. Other times I thought it was a bit lonely, just the two of us. We had no other family, and our neighbors—kind though they were—had their own losses and struggles. We helped one another when we could, but that did not always amount to much.
“In any case, after I finished my schooling, I took a job as a clerk for a wealthy merchant in New York. I sent most of my wages back to my mother, and she was able to hire a farmhand to help keep up our tiny farm. I learned more about figures and calculations there than I ever had in the schoolhouse, and best of all, the man was possessed of an incredible library, which he generously put at my disposal. A stroke of luck, that. I read most of what he had, and he noticed. He asked me if I might tutor his young son, who was having difficulty reading. I did, and felt an enormous sense of triumph at helping the boy. My employer, recognizing this, recommended me as a tutor to others of his acquaintance, and soon I did a nice business tutoring children—boys and girls—in reading and writing and arithmetic. One of his wealthy friends, who owns much land further up the Hudson, I believe, heard of the post here and mentioned it to me, and I jumped at the chance to strike out on my own, as it were.”
He smiled. “My mother, I should mention, remarried while I was in New York—to a prosperous farmer who has combined her small holdings with his and is able to keep her in comfort. So now what I do not need for food and personal effects I save like a miser.”
“And what do you save for?” I asked.
“I once thought of going west and trying my hand at a homestead and farm on the frontier—they say there are fortunes to be made there, for men brave enough to try.” He stopped walking and turned to face me. “But of late I think that so long as I can provide a permanent home for myself, and for a wife, that shall be enough.”
I looked down and away from his earnest gaze, trying to hide my wide smile. “A most noble goal,” I murmured.
“I think so,” he said, his eyes never leaving my face.
We continued along the river, and our talk turned to other things: books we loved, places we both wanted to travel. We even stole a few brief kisses when we were sure no one was near enough to see us. What hung in the air around us the whole time were our hopes for a shared future, one that felt as though it might not be too far off.