“I have a new song for you to learn,” Ichabod said, one day in mid-September. Preparations for the harvest were in full swing around us, and my help could certainly have been used about the household, but my father allowed me to continue my lessons uninterrupted.
“Oh?” I asked with a smile.
“Or, rather, a new song for us to learn,” Ichabod clarified.
“I can’t wait,” I said, as he handed me the song sheet.
I had grown much more adept at reading music under Ichabod’s tutelage, and I could already hear the lovely, wistful melody in my head. The lyrics—bittersweet and beautiful—told the story of star-crossed lovers by a willow near a stream. It was so perfect for us—fitting, yet would not attract suspicion if overheard—that I began to wonder if he had written it himself.
Before I could ask, he took up his guitar. “Perhaps you’d like to warm up with a scale, and then attempt the song?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, reluctantly putting the sheets aside.
He guided me through some scales, then gestured for me to pick up the song again. “Try to sight-read the lady’s part, if you would,” he said.
“And you?” I asked. “Have you already learnt the gentleman’s part?”
His eyes, green as spring moss, held mine. “Oh yes,” he said. “I know it very well.”
He played the opening bars, then nodded for me to begin. Voice hesitant, then growing in strength, I sang of how a lady waited by the banks of a stream under a willow tree for her lover to come to her. I almost could not sing past the emotion that constricted my throat, but I pushed forward, knowing Ichabod would soon stop me for corrections.
But he did not. Instead he played on, into the next verse, and began to sing himself. Somehow his voice sounded all the more rich and beautiful and resonant as he sang the gentleman’s response, how he would never be far for his lady love to seek, how he would bring her a rare lotus flower to match her beauty. At the chorus, I joined in again on the melody, and his part switched to the harmony. Still we did not stop.
The third verse had us singing together, intertwining melody and harmony, passing the parts back and forth. The lovers promised their devotion, come what may. The song then ended with the chorus again, and so deep was I in the emotion of the piece that I almost didn’t notice my melody change slightly at the end. I only just caught it, landing in a wobbly sort of fashion on the correct note.
Ichabod played the final measures, and then looked up and met my eyes again. Tears threatened to overflow from my eyes. “Where … where did you find this song?” I asked, my voice hushed as though afraid to disturb the holy forces that had come to occupy our space.
He set his guitar down and rose. “I knew you would like it,” he said.
“It is perfect,” I whispered.
He stepped close to me and kissed me, deeply, albeit briefly. When he drew back he stayed close, cradling my face in his hands.
“And does the teacher have any criticisms for his pupil?” I asked, trying to make my tone light, but the weight of the emotion still in it—still in me—made it waver and crack.
He kissed me again. “No,” he said, his voice rough. “You were flawless. Exactly as I had dreamed.”
It wasn’t until later I realized that he had never answered my question about where the song had come from.
* * *
We ended our lesson early that day, though for the next few lessons all we did was sing that song together. Ichabod would have me repeat phrases here and there, under the guise of correcting. In reality we savored the repetition of each verse, each word, each note. We sang it together countless times, the duet our own secret form of lovemaking.
We continued to meet in the forest, as the weather still remained warm enough that we could brave the night air. Yet in each moment we spent at our spot by the stream, I felt the ticking of the clock. Soon we would no longer be able to meet here, and what then?
Early October favored us with a brilliantly warm and sunny day. After my lesson, I threw caution to the wind. “It is a fine day, Mr. Crane,” I said as we left the music room. “Would you favor me with a stroll?”
His eyes sparked with both concern and excitement. “It would be my honor, Miss Van Tassel,” he said, offering me his arm as we began to move toward the front door. “As you know, many of my students are not in classes just now for the harvest, so I find myself with an overabundance of time, something to which I am quite unaccustomed.”
We left the house without anyone seeing, though we sought neither to hide nor advertise our actions. “And how is dear Miss Jansen?” Ichabod asked as we made our way, arm in arm, toward the woods. “She is well, I trust? It has been some time since I have seen her in the village.”
“Well indeed, though she has been busy,” I said. “She and her mother have much work to do gathering herbs at this time of the year, so they are stocked with everything they might need before winter.”
“Indeed,” he said. He smiled down at me. “They do good work, the both of them.”
I beamed at his approval of my friend, almost as much as if he had complimented me. “That they do.”
As we moved deeper into the trees, our words and actions grew less formal. Ichabod slid an arm around my waist, pulling me closer, so that our hips touched as we walked. My pulse spiked at such an intimate gesture in broad daylight. I pushed aside my uneasiness about the forest—ever-present, now, between the dreams and visions and eerie experiences of the night—and leaned into him, reveling in the simple closeness.
“Someday,” Ichabod said, “we shall walk close together like this everywhere we go, and those who see us pass will know us for the most loving husband and wife that has ever been.”
I stopped and kissed him, briefly. “That they will,” I said. “And I do not know how you could have known it, but those were my very thoughts as well.”
He smiled. “It does not surprise me that we are of one mind, my love.”
We walked on to our spot by the stream, where Ichabod took me forcefully into his arms, pressing my back against a large tree and kissing me deeply, hungrily. I let out a soft moan myself in feeling.
His hands wandered down over my waist, and for a moment, I thought he meant to hike up my skirts and have me right up against the tree trunk—and I would surely have let him. But to my dismay, he paused. “We should stop,” he said, his voice low in my ear as he struggled to regain his breath. “We cannot … it is the middle of the day. Anyone might come along.”
I considered convincing him otherwise. In all the times we had come here, day or night, no one had ever happened upon us. Surely today would be no different? Yet I recognized the wisdom in his words and sighed, mastering my desire. “Yes,” I said, my voice cracking. “You are right.”
He moved back and I stepped away from the tree, the two of us brushing our clothes and hair back into order. He removed his cloak and spread it on the ground so we could sit. I spread my skirts around me, resting my head on his chest. I could hear his heart was still pounding furiously as he kissed my hair.
I sighed and looked up at him. “I cannot bear any more of this,” I said. “I know I have said it time and again, but truly I am at my wits’ end now.”
His arm about my shoulders tightened. “What shall we do, then?” he asked quietly.
I met his eyes without wavering. “You must ask my father for my hand soon,” I said. “So we need not go on like this much longer. Do you not agree?”
He kissed me. “Oh, I agree,” he said huskily. “But…” He leaned back, and I could all but see his rational mind take over. “Are you sure, Katrina? Are you sure at last? After all this time, it would not do to misplay our hand.”
I was not. I had no reason to believe my earlier concerns were any less valid now. I only knew I could no longer abide the waiting and uncertainty. I had to know what our future would be. And if the worst should happen, and my father should refuse Ichabod’s suit, then we would have to decide on some other course of action.
But I had to believe he would not refuse, not when he saw how truly we loved each other, how happy Ichabod made me. He could not.
“Yes,” I said. “We have nothing to gain by waiting much longer. Only time together to lose, as it grows colder.”
“I suppose you’re right,” he conceded. He squeezed me tightly. “And when shall I speak to your father? Shall we march back up to the house so that I may ask him now?”
“No,” I said, suddenly panicked that my future might be decided within the next hour. “Not today. I…”
Ichabod chuckled. “I spoke only in jest, Katrina,” he assured me. “I shall need some time to prepare what to say.” He kissed my forehead. “Not that I have not already thought on it a great deal.”
“Yes,” I said, relieved. “Let it be…” I thought quickly. “Let it be the night of All Hallows’ Eve.”
He gave me a quizzical look. “All Hallows’ Eve? Hardly an auspicious night, that.”
I shook my head. “It shall be, I think. My father holds a large party on that night every year, to celebrate the harvest and lift everyone’s spirits going into the dark winter. You will surely be invited. My father will be in a jolly mood, and so as the party comes to an end you shall ask for a word with him.” My voice gained confidence as I spoke. “He will not refuse you. If he has doubts, I shall be there to assuage them, to make certain he knows this is what I want above all else.”
I had spoken these words assuredly, yet I was no more certain than I had ever been. A traveling schoolteacher, with no home or land of his own, was not the match my parents wanted for me. But they could be made to change their minds, couldn’t they?
The uncertainty on Ichabod’s face melted away as I spoke. “A good plan,” he said. “As good as we are likely to have, I think.”
I nodded. “All shall be well, my love. We must believe only in that.”
He kissed me again, and I responded hungrily. I was just rethinking our previous decision when a most aggressive and unwelcome voice shattered the peace of our hidden sanctuary, as violent as a gunshot. “What in the name of God goes on here?” the familiar voice demanded in English.
Ichabod and I sprang apart as though our skin had burned one another, and leapt to our feet. We turned to see Brom Van Brunt within our little clearing, fists clenched and rage in his eyes. “Keep your hands off of her,” he said, striding across the clearing toward Ichabod. He grabbed Ichabod’s shoulders and shoved him, nearly sending him into the stream. “You lowly, no-account—”
“Brom!” I shouted. I grabbed his shirt and dragged him away, nearly tearing the fabric. Brom was a great deal larger and stronger than me, but I caught him by surprise, and he stumbled back. “Stop this, now! Do not lay another hand on Ichabod, or I swear I’ll—”
Brom recovered himself and wrenched away from me. He charged at Ichabod again and landed a hard punch on his cheek. I screamed in horror, and tried to grab Brom again.
But Ichabod did not need my help. His slender frame made him much quicker than his opponent, and he easily ducked Brom’s next punch and landed one on his jaw in turn, sending Brom sprawling back. He rubbed his jaw angrily. “Why, you little—”
I took advantage of this break in the action to run between them. “Stop!” I cried, holding out a hand in each direction. “For the love of God, stop it now!”
To my surprise, they obeyed me. They stayed where they were, breathing heavily as they eyed one another warily, like two wolves locked in battle for control of the pack.
I turned to face Brom, though I did not move from my peacekeeping position. “Leave, Brom,” I said shortly. “Now. Your intrusion is most certainly not welcome.”
Brom ignored me, addressing Ichabod. “You dare,” he said through gritted teeth. “You dare come to Sleepy Hollow, a nobody from nowhere, and put your filthy hands on the woman I mean to make my wife.”
“I think the lady may have something to say about that,” Ichabod all but snarled, and the edge in his tone took me by surprise. I had never seen him so enraged before. “She seems to much prefer my suit to yours.”
“Why you…” Brom made to charge Ichabod again, but I stepped in front of him protectively.
“No,” I said. “If you wish to strike Ichabod, you must go through me.”
Brom laughed shortly. “You hide behind a woman, then?” he taunted Ichabod, still ignoring me. “This shall not help your suit in the eyes of her father, I shouldn’t think. And he is the one who matters.”
Ichabod stepped around me. “I do not need you to fight my battles for me, Katrina,” he said tautly.
But I would not stand aside. “How many times must you be told that I will not marry you?” I all but shouted at Brom. “And if you think my father is so enamored of you that he would wed me to you against my will, then think again.”
“And yet I do not think Master Van Tassel will smile so favorably on the man who seduces Miss Van Tassel in the woods,” Brom said smugly. Finally he looked at me. “Katrina, you are the wealthiest heiress for miles around; do you honestly think your father will permit your betrothal to a penniless, itinerant schoolteacher?”
I faced him squarely. “It does not matter,” I said coldly. “Not to you, anyway. For I would not marry you if you were the last man in Sleepy Hollow. Not if you were the last man in all of New York.”
As soon as the words left my mouth, I wished they had not. For I saw the rage ignite on Brom’s face again, and I realized all too late who the target of that rage would be: not me, but Ichabod.
“Since you seem to show no shame for your dishonorable actions,” Brom said to Ichabod, his anger boiling just beneath his voice, “then meet me as a gentleman. Dawn. The empty field two miles past the church.”
Slowly it dawned on me what he meant. “No,” I said quickly. “No. No! I will not allow it. I will never—”
Yet the two men continued their ridiculous game of honor as if I was not there. “Very well,” Ichabod said. He stepped forward, past me, and shook Brom’s hand. “I accept your challenge.”
“No!” I shrieked at the two of them. “I forbid it! I forbid you to duel over me!” I seized the front of Ichabod’s shirt. “Ichabod, listen to me! You must not do this stupid thing, do you hear me?”
Brom chuckled. “He has no choice,” he observed. “He cannot be talked out of this by a woman—not if he is a man of honor.” He leveled a wicked grin on me. “But as I am somewhat in doubt as to Ichabod’s honor”—he spat the name like a curse—“I shall add some further motivation.” He met Ichabod’s eyes. “Should you fail to show tomorrow, I will tell Master Van Tassel of what I witnessed.”
Ichabod’s face was hard as stone as he nodded.
“And these are the words of a man of honor, then?” I growled at him, releasing Ichabod. “You will blackmail your opponent into meeting you?”
“As I said, I can’t be sure he will do what’s right,” Brom said. He gave a mock bow. “Our business here is concluded for today, then.” He sneered at Ichabod again. “I shall see you at dawn, Crane.” With that, he turned and left the clearing.
As soon as he was gone, I spun to face Ichabod. “Do not do this,” I said in a low voice, so that Brom might not overhear. “I beg of you, Ichabod. Do not do this foolish thing.”
He looked at me as if seeing me for the first time since Brom had entered the clearing. “Oh, Katrina,” he said, his voice soft. He caressed my cheek. “I have to.”
Tears sprang to my eyes at the stupidity of it all. “But you don’t,” I said. “You don’t, not really.”
“Katrina, you heard him,” he said, raising his voice. “Even if I were inclined to disregard my honor altogether, if I do not show, he will tell your father about us. And we cannot have that.”
“But you could die,” I said, tears now spilling freely from my eyes. “What is any of it next to that?”
“I will not die,” he said. “I will fire into the air, and so will he, and the honor of each of us will be satisfied. That is how it is done.”
“But what if he does not?” I demanded. “What if he decides to get his rival out of the way, and—” I broke off with a choked sob, unable to bear even the image in my head.
“What would you have me do, Katrina?” he demanded. “Kill him? Kill a man who was once your friend, no matter what he is to you now? It is not in me to kill a man, let alone kill one for the most commonplace crime of being a braggart and a fool. And say I could and did do it. What then? I will be the disgraced outsider who has killed the village’s favorite son. That would hardly endear me to your father.” He shook his head. “No, Katrina. I cannot even consider it.”
“You would not consider killing a man even to save your own life?” I demanded.
“It will not come to that,” he said, exasperation evident in his voice now. “As I said, we will both discharge our pistols in the air, and that will be an end to it.”
“Then why bother?” I asked, trying to employ logic. “What is the point? If it does not mean anything—”
“It does mean something,” he corrected me. “I have to do this, Katrina. I have no other choice.”
I let out a scream of frustration. “Men are such fools!” I shouted at him. “Utter, utter fools, do you know that?”
He did not speak; he merely stepped forward and took me in his arms, holding me until I quieted. Part of me wanted to storm from the clearing, refusing his comfort.
But I could not. Not when I did not know what the dawn might bring.