I awoke early enough the next morning to see the mist coiling low outside my window. It slithered along the fields into the small stand of woods near the farmhouse, a grayish blue in the eerie morning light. Soon the sun would rise fully and burn away the fog, taking with it my ever-present fear that I might see a ghostly rider emerging from the mist.
But that morning my fears felt far away. At first I could not remember why I felt so happy. I had never been unhappy—save of late, when such nightmares had been plaguing me—but it had been some time since I wakened with such excitement at the thought of the coming day. Then my lips perked in a smile—Mr. Ichabod Crane, the music teacher. He was in our house, and would be commencing my musical instruction that very day.
Oh, that I could tell Charlotte, my dearest friend, about this: a handsome houseguest, and he was to teach me music, as well! But she had been away for the past two months, caring for an ailing aunt near Boston.
I rang the bell to summon Nancy, my mother’s and my chambermaid. She fancied herself more my meddling aunt than anything else. While I waited, I poured water from a ceramic pitcher into my small basin and quickly washed my face. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror and could not help but smile. I had never given much thought to my appearance, but suddenly I was glad that so many people considered me pretty.
When Nancy arrived, she looked down from her considerable height—she was tall for a woman, much taller than I, and had also grown stouter as she aged—and huffed at Nox. He lifted his head up and thumped his tail against the mattress at the sight of her. “I don’t know why you let that dog sleep in your bed, Miss Katrina,” she said to me in English. Nancy had been born a slave on a plantation in Virginia—though now she was free and paid a healthy wage by my parents—and English was still her preferred language, though she had picked up much Dutch since joining us. “Dogs are meant to be outdoors, not in a maiden’s bed.”
I grinned. “You say the same thing every morning, dear Nancy. And still Nox loves you.” As if on cue, Nox leapt off the bed and gave a lick to Nancy’s hand on his way out the door. Downstairs, Cook would let him outside so that he could do his business.
With Nancy’s assistance, I commenced dressing. I had her lace me into a light summer gown I had not yet worn; it was part of a brand-new wardrobe my father had purchased for me in New York City. I had consented to go along on the trip and be measured for new clothing only because my father always allowed me to purchase whatever volumes I chose from the bookshops. But now I found myself happy and relieved I had pretty things to wear.
Nancy raised her eyebrows. “My, my, Miss Katrina,” she said. “This fine dress just to spend the day at home?”
“Yes,” I said coolly. “I … have been wanting to wear it, is all.”
“I see,” she said, and thankfully did not comment further. “Shall I bring you something to break your fast, Miss Katrina?” she asked. “A busy day ahead of you, what with music lessons and all.”
“Yes, please,” I said. “And some tea to soothe my throat.”
Nancy left, and I quickly tied back the top strands of my hair with a ribbon. I frowned at myself in the mirror, twirling one long, wavy blond strand around my forefinger before letting it fall. If only this mop of straw would curl nicely, instead of insisting on this maddening in-between state, I thought. Then I broke into a laugh. Since waking I had put more thought into my appearance than I had in the rest of my life altogether, and suddenly I felt quite silly.
Nancy returned bearing a tray with a hunk of fresh cheese and some warm bread. A cup of tea stood steaming as well, and from the smell I could tell it had honey in it. “Will you be needing anything else, then, Miss Katrina?” she asked.
“No, thank you, Nancy,” I said. “But pray tell,” I added, unable to hold my curiosity in, “has anyone sent breakfast to our guest?” He had been put in a room just down the hall from me—only a few steps away, really—but it wouldn’t be quite proper for me to knock and inquire after his comfort myself, not as the unmarried daughter of the house.
A knowing look came into her eye, and I wished, not for the first time in my life, that she did not know me quite so well. “Ahh, Mr. Crane,” she said. “I believe your father has sent Henry to look after him.”
“Very good,” I said, taking an imperious tone that I knew Nancy would see through clear as a new window pane. “I just wish to make his stay as comfortable as possible.”
Nancy chuckled and patted my shoulder. “I’ll be sure to tell your mother what a fine hostess you’re becoming,” she said. “But mind you don’t make young Mr. Crane too comfortable, yes?” She turned and left my room, still laughing as she went.
I scowled at her retreating back before turning my attention to my meal.
Once I finished eating, I went downstairs and peeked into my father’s study. Empty. I debated briefly as to whether I ought to seek out Mr. Crane for our lesson, or wait for him to seek me out. I had just decided on the latter when my mother happened upon me. “Ah, Katrina, I was just coming to fetch you,” she said. “There is a visitor whom your father wishes you to greet.”
“Another visitor?” I said. “I cannot imagine that President Washington himself entertains as many guests as we do.” But my mother was already gone, no doubt headed outside to check on her flocks of chickens and geese—her personal pride and joy.
I headed out to the portico, where I could hear my father’s booming voice. I pinned on my charming daughter face. “Mother said you sent for me, Fa—oh.” I broke off when I saw who our visitor was and switched to Dutch. “Brom. That is, Mr. Van Brunt.”
Brom Van Brunt—nicknamed Brom Bones for his large frame—was the town’s favorite son. The girls wanted to be his wife, and the boys wanted to be him—or at least be a part of his merry band of miscreants. Brom and his crew got into more mischief and fights than anyone else in Sleepy Hollow, yet somehow his rough charm and good looks—he was tall, muscular, and blessed with pale blond hair, blue eyes, and a perfectly sculpted face—guaranteed his punishment was never worse than good-natured tongue clucking from the farmwives and tolerant chuckles from the men. It was infuriating, especially because once, as children, there had been no closer band of mischief-makers than Brom, Charlotte, and myself. But that was before Brom had done something that could never be forgiven.
“Miss Van Tassel.” Brom swept me an exaggerated bow, his cocky grin holding fast to his face as he straightened. “You are as blooming a beauty as any of the flowers in the meadow.”
I rolled my eyes, my father too busy beaming his approval at Brom to notice. “Well put, young man,” he said. “Katrina, what say you to such a fine compliment?”
“I would prefer one not so utterly trite,” I retorted.
“Well, we can’t all be that fusty old poet you read all the time,” Brom said, annoyance flickering in his eyes. “What’s his name, that Englishman … Shakeston?”
“Shakespeare,” I replied through gritted teeth.
“Yes, him.” Brom waved a large hand dismissively.
“Now, now, Katrina,” my father said. “Brom only means to give your beauty its due, as well he might. You look quite lovely this morning, my dear—I notice you have finally seen fit to wear one of your new dresses.”
The pleased look on Brom’s face made me wish I had dressed in an old sack. “It is most becoming indeed, Katrina,” he said. “You must have known I was coming.”
I was about to sharpen my tongue on him yet again when the door behind me opened and Mr. Crane stepped out onto the portico. “Ah, Miss Van Tassel, there you are,” he said. “I was just…” He trailed off awkwardly, having caught sight of Brom. “My apologies for the intrusion. I am Ichabod Crane,” he said, extending a hand. Brom eyed him before taking it. “I am to be the new schoolteacher.”
“Brom Van Brunt,” Brom said, glancing at me, then back to Mr. Crane. Reluctantly he switched to English. “And you lodge here, do you?”
“Just for the time being,” my father said. “Once he is more at home in Sleepy Hollow he will be lodging with his students, as is customary.”
“Indeed,” Brom said, releasing Mr. Crane’s hand and stepping back. “An honor to meet a man of letters. We’ve not had need for many of your kind around here, in truth.”
“High time that changed, if you ask me,” I interjected, hoping Mr. Crane had not noticed Brom’s barb.
“Indeed,” Mr. Crane echoed, his tone cooler. He turned to me. “I would not wish to interrupt your visit,” he said, “but I wondered if you might like to commence your music lesson?”
I could have kissed the man. “Yes, let us do so,” I said.
Smiling faintly, Mr. Crane extended his arm to me. I took it and let him lead me back into the house. “Perhaps I shall see you again soon, Brom,” I called over my shoulder to him.
But when I glanced back, he was not looking at me—did not appear even to have heard me—but was instead fixing a chilling glare on Mr. Crane’s retreating back.