The next morning, I barely heard my excuse to my mother for why I was going to see Charlotte again. We had directed the messenger to take Giles Carpenter’s reply to the Jansen cottage, so Nox and I dashed to the village once more, me riding Starlight.
When she came to the door, she had an opened letter in her hand. “The messenger’s just been,” she said. With no further explanation, she handed me the letter and closed the door behind me as I stepped inside.
My eyes skittered over the page so quickly I almost could not make sense of the words written upon it. I forced myself to take a deep breath, and then read the letter slowly.
My dear Miss Jansen and Miss Van Tassel—
Thank you for your letter. Unfortunately, Ichabod is not here, nor has he been to visit me of late. The last time I saw him was the day I made both of your acquaintances. I confess your inquiry has greatly unsettled me. My cousin has no other relatives or friends in the area, and so I am at a loss as to where he might have gone. I shall write to his mother in Connecticut, to see if he has perhaps gone there for some reason. I will of course relay whatever I discover, and beg you to also keep me informed should you yourselves discover anything of his whereabouts. It is quite unlike my fastidious cousin to disappear without word to his loved ones, but nevertheless I am sure there is a satisfactory explanation to be had.
G. Carpenter
I lowered the sheet of paper with a trembling hand.
Charlotte’s eyes were wide with fear she could not conceal. “I … I confess I had not expected this,” she whispered. “I was so sure he must have gone to see his cousin. I did not even begin to think what else…” She trailed off.
I turned toward the door. “We … we could go to the Van Ripper farmhouse,” I said. “See if he has returned.” I no longer bothered to puzzle out why he had not come to seek me out or sent me word; all I cared about was knowing where he was.
Charlotte shook her head, and my hand froze on the doorknob. “No need,” she whispered, a note of near-agony in her voice. “As soon as I read the letter, I went to the schoolhouse to find him. Many of the students were just leaving when I arrived. He has not appeared to teach, and so they were returning home.”
I sank to my knees. “Charlotte,” I gasped, “where … do you think he…” I could hardly speak. “What … what do I do?”
She knelt beside me, an arm wrapped around my shoulders. “We wait to hear what Ichabod’s mother tells Giles,” she said, her voice faint. “And we … we wait. We wait to see if he comes back.”
Charlotte helped me to the daybed so I might lie down, and went to fix me some more skullcap tea. The whole while, all I could hear were her last few words.
We wait. We wait to see if he comes back.
If he comes back.
* * *
As I sipped my tea, Charlotte, good friend that she was, voiced every possible explanation for Ichabod’s disappearance, however unlikely. The only one she failed to mention, the one neither of us wished to speak of, was the one voiced by all the villagers at the bridge yesterday. When I could bear her reassuring chatter no longer, I left, for she was almost as nervous and unsettled as I.
Yet as soon as I arrived home and took to my room to endlessly pace the floor, I found myself wishing I had stayed at Charlotte’s. For here there was nothing to listen to but my own thoughts, and those were far, far more intolerable than Charlotte’s chattering.
Ichabod had disappeared, and no one knew where he was. Part of me clung passionately to the idea that his mother must know something. Yet the rest of me could not find such a scenario plausible, no matter how much I may have wished it. Why would he have left for Connecticut in the middle of All Hallows’ Eve night, on an old, broken-down horse like Gunpowder, with nary a word to anyone? Even if my father’s refusal had so succeeded in scaring him off and away from me, he would not shirk his duties at the schoolhouse. Not Ichabod.
Had some ill befallen him that night? An accident with his horse? Had he fallen into the river? No body had been located, but what if he had been swept away, swept under?
Or … it had, after all, been All Hallows’ Eve, the night when spirits and demons were said to be free to roam. Could Mevrouw Douw and the rest of the villagers be right? Could it truly have been the Headless Horseman? Had he appeared and somehow carried Ichabod off—or worse? Was such a thing really possible? I shivered, remembering how we had all spoken of the Horseman at the party, so casually invoking his name on that haunted night. And I remembered that terrible feeling all those nights Ichabod and I had spent in the woods, when I had been so sure that someone was watching us, that there was more lurking amongst the trees than nocturnal creatures.
The vision that had come to me in the candle flame came back to torment me in its every detail. Two figures in the woods, one chasing the other. The unmistakable sounds of a struggle. The whinny of a horse, and the sound of a blade—a great blade like the one the Horseman carried—being drawn from its sheath.
Charlotte had claimed I had the Sight, so what other answer could there be? I had sought answers beyond those readily available in the mortal realm. And this vision came upon me right before Charlotte drew the future card. Had I truly seen the future, and seen the truth of Ichabod’s disappearance? It was the Horseman, it had to be; Ichabod had come across the Headless Horseman on All Hallows’ Eve, and the specter had done him harm. That explained the broken pumpkin found beside his hat, for did the Horseman not carry a pumpkin in place of his missing head? If he … oh God … if he had taken a head to replace his own he would have no further need of the pumpkin, would he?
No. I must scoff at such superstitious nonsense, fit for the more simpleminded, certainly, but not someone like me; not someone educated and well-read. The Headless Horseman was a legend and nothing more; he could not appear and carry off mortal men, for such things were impossible.
But this foray into sense and reason did not bring me any solace, for all too soon I arrived at the least palatable answer of all: that Ichabod had never loved me, not truly, and after my father had refused his suit he fled, knowing he would never see a cent of my inheritance. He had taken his pleasure while he could, while I so brazenly offered myself to him, but when he saw there was no further profit to be had he left.
My stomach roiled and twisted as I recalled telling him of the child—our child—just before he spoke to my father. What if that had been the final straw? Otherwise he might have stayed, been willing to try again. But learning I was pregnant and that we were refused permission to wed had been too much for him. He had fled like a thief in the night rather than be forced to face his responsibility. Perhaps he had been recalling all the stories told at the party that night, and all the stories he had begged me to tell him; perhaps he had planted the pumpkin and his hat in the stream to fool the superstitious villagers. To fool me.
I cursed myself repeatedly as I replayed the moment I had told him of the child. If I had held my tongue, might he still be here with me now? Would withholding the news a bit longer have changed everything?
But did I want a man who would run like a coward at such an admission?
Oh, he could not have left me! Not Ichabod, not like this! I began remembering every passionate and tender moment we had shared together, the love in his touch and his eyes and his words. That was real; I would have known if it was not, would have seen it over all those months. Again and again I kept returning to his words on the night we first made love.
God and the devil together forbid that I shall ever be without you again. A life without you would be no life at all.
Never stop saying such things to me … never leave me.
Never. I will die first.
I will die first. Somehow I could not shake those words, despite how, more and more, logic and reason seemed to indicate Ichabod had left me. Those words had not been a lie. They could not have been.
And if those words had not been a lie … then had God or the devil intervened?
Maybe there truly was a Headless Horseman …
He could not have left me. Could he?
* * *
The next few days passed in an agonizing haze. I either paced my bedroom anxiously, or I slept, a deep sleep, the sleep of the dead. It was only in slumber that I could escape my worries and my fear. Each time I lay down a part of me wished that I might not wake. Not unless I could wake to Ichabod by my side.
I scarcely ate, despite Nancy’s coaxing. My parents checked on me often but did not inquire as to the source of my distress. Likely by then my father had told my mother of Ichabod’s proposal and his own denial, and they assumed I was simply heartsick and would recover given time.
And, no doubt, the rumors from the village only fueled their belief in my heartbreak.
I only left the house to go to the village and meet Charlotte, to wander through the market and listen for word of Ichabod. It was the talk of Sleepy Hollow: the disappearance of schoolmaster Ichabod Crane, last seen on All Hallows’ Eve at the Van Tassels’ harvest party. No one had seen hide nor hair of him since—save for the very telling evidence of the pumpkin and hat at the church bridge.
It had soon become accepted as fact that young Mr. Crane must have run afoul of the Headless Horseman, out for his midnight ride. If the schoolmaster had somehow survived the encounter with his own head still attached—unlikely, in the opinion of the farmwives—clearly he had fled the area out of fear, never to return. And who could blame him?
The worst part was I could not even be certain they were wrong.
Days passed, and soon I could hardly bring myself to leave my room, let alone the house. Finally Charlotte came, with another letter from Giles.
“Ichabod’s mother has not seen nor heard from him,” Charlotte reported, sitting beside my bed. Nox lay across my legs, seeking to protect and comfort me. “Her last letter from him was dated mid-October, well before All Hallows’ Eve.” She handed me the sheet of paper. “You may read it for yourself if you wish.”
I scanned the page listlessly. Sighing, I let it drift to the floor. My last hope—flimsy as it had been—was dashed. I scarcely felt the pain of it; my heart was already in so much agony that one more wound hardly made a difference.
“He sent another note, as well,” Charlotte offered. “Giles, that is. Almost as though he were unsure whether to send it when he wrote this letter.”
“What did it say?”
“He asked if I thought he should come to Sleepy Hollow, if there was anything he could do here.”
It took almost more energy than I had to shrug. “He needn’t bother. He knows nothing we do not already know. What would be the point?”
“He … well, he suggested he might ask around, inquire of the villagers if they knew or had seen anything. As Ichabod’s cousin, he has cause to ask questions. We do not; not in a manner that would be appropriate.”
I could not have cared any less what was appropriate or not under such circumstances. “Given the volume of gossip, we would hear straightaway if anyone knew something,” I said. “They would be falling all over themselves in their haste to be the center of the gossip mill.”
Charlotte narrowed her eyes at me. “Well, certainly it could not hurt to have Giles come ask a few questions,” she said. “What else do you propose we do?”
I had no answer to that.
Charlotte, however, seemed to interpret my silence as hostility. “And has it occurred to you that perhaps I might wish to see Giles Carpenter?” she asked.
The selfish, merciless brat in me wanted to rail at her for finding some measure of happiness in my anguish, for using my tragedy to further her own romantic prospects. The rest of me, though—the part that was a good friend—knew no matter how hard it might be for me now, I was happy for her, happy she had found someone to take a shine to. For too long her romantic prospects in Sleepy Hollow had been nonexistent, thanks to Brom’s slander. A handsome gentleman from another town was just the thing.
But I was too lost in my own pain to tell her that. “Have him come, if you wish,” I said, sliding down in the bed again and turning my back to her. “You do not need my permission.”
* * *
Several more days passed, and still there was no sign of Ichabod, and still the villagers could talk of little else. When it occurred to me that lying in bed brooding all day was likely not helping my state of mind, I forced myself to ride into the village again, leaving Nox at home, for even he had begun to look at me with worry in his eyes.
Luckily, I found Charlotte alone. Giles Carpenter had indeed come on her invitation, and though he was staying at the inn, I had no doubt he had called on Charlotte many a time since his arrival.
“Katrina,” she said, sounding surprised when she opened the door. “Come in. I’m glad to see you up and looking…” She trailed off.
I gave her a wan smile as I stepped inside. I knew what I looked like; my face pale and drawn, with dark shadows under my eyes; I was thinner as well, from eating very little over the past week. “It is all right,” I said softly.
She nodded and motioned for me to sit. I settled myself carefully in a chair, as though my bones were brittle and fragile now, liable to break. “Has Giles discovered anything through his inquiries?” I asked.
Charlotte reluctantly shook her head. “I’m sure you were right. If anyone knew anything they would have added it to the gossip mill long ago,” she said. She covered my hand with hers. “I am so sorry, Katrina,” she whispered.
I shook my head, tears springing to my eyes. Good Lord, was there an endless well of tears inside me? “I did not expect anything else,” I said quietly. “He has left me, it seems. He must have. I have been over it and over it and—”
Charlotte tilted her head thoughtfully. “He may have, I suppose,” she said. “But it makes no sense. If he had simply left of his own accord, why hide from Giles or his mother?”
I shrugged listlessly. “Who knows? Perhaps he did not want to admit that he impregnated the woman he claimed to love and left her.” I wanted so desperately to believe that Ichabod had not left me, but what else could have happened? “And if he did not leave of his own accord, where is he?” I demanded. “If he met with some sort of accident, surely someone would have found further sign of him. If he…” I shuddered. “If he fell from his horse and broke his neck, they would have found him beside the road. But he has simply vanished, almost without a trace.”
Charlotte was silent for a long time. “You don’t think…” She trailed off and bit her lip. “You don’t think the legends are true?”
“I can think of little else,” I confessed. “One moment I am sure he has left me, and the next I think it must be true, that the Horseman is real and rides in the night.” I paused. “Do you remember the vision I had?” I asked.
She nodded, sadness pooling in her eyes. “I do,” she said softly. “I wondered if you did.”
“As I said, I can think of little else.” I put my head in my hands.
“And you … you actually saw the Horseman?” she asked. “In the vision?”
I lifted my head. “I did not see him, not clearly,” I said. “Just shadows. But I heard the horse, and heard him draw his blade…” I moaned softly. “And I’ve dreamt of him … of him standing between me and Ichabod … oh, Charlotte, what else could it mean? I … I do not think I ever believed, not truly, but … it must all be true, mustn’t it?”
She had no answer for me.
* * *
A short time later, after I had calmed down a bit and Charlotte had made us some tea, insisting I take a biscuit with mine, she brought up a subject I had been desperately trying to avoid. “And so … what of the child?”
I was unable to meet her eyes. “I don’t know.”
She stared hard at me until I had no choice but to look at her. “What do you mean, you don’t know? Surely you realize that you must decide, and soon.”
I rose to my feet in agitation. “What choice do I have?” I asked. “I must wait and hope Ichabod comes back, that we may marry and our child be legitimized.”
Charlotte waited a long time before saying quietly, “And if he doesn’t?”
I turned my face away from her.
“I am sorry, Katrina,” she said firmly, “truly I am, but you must face the facts. He may never come back. And so you must protect yourself.” She took a deep breath. “I can make you a potion, you know.”
I stared at her, uncomprehending.
“A potion,” she clarified, “to rid yourself of the child. It is easy enough to do. You will likely be sick for a few days, but better that than you are found to be with child and unwed.” She frowned at me as I continued to stare at her in shock. “Why are you gaping at me like that?”
“I…” My mouth was dry as I attempted to speak. “I cannot. I will not. I…” I crossed my arms over my belly. “This is Ichabod’s child. Ichabod’s and mine. I … I cannot simply rid myself of it.”
“Katrina, what choice do you have?” Charlotte demanded. “You know well what will happen if you are discovered pregnant out of wedlock. Your parents may be indulgent of you, but they are not so indulgent as to let you stay at home and raise your bastard.”
“How dare you—”
“I dare because that is what this child is, and all anyone here will ever see it as,” she said. “What kind of life is that, for the child or for you?”
“I just … I cannot,” I said again.
“I do not see as you have a choice.”
“Ichabod may still come back.”
Charlotte looked at me, for the first time, with true pity in her eyes. “He may,” she allowed. “But that seems less likely every day. And so you must make a decision before your condition becomes apparent to everyone.”
“I cannot do it,” I said stubbornly. “No matter what. Not his child.”
“So you lied to me before.”
“What? When?” I asked, confused.
“When you said you did not know what you were going to do about the child. You lied. You do know. You mean to have it, no matter what it may cost you.”
“Charlotte,” I said, my voice anguished, “this child may be all I ever have of him. Can’t you understand that?” My voice broke as I articulated to her what, until now, I had only felt down in my very bones.
“I can,” she conceded, “to a point. Where I confess I begin to lose my understanding is why you wish to keep any pieces—let alone a child—of a man who would abandon you when you need him most.”
“We do not know for certain that he abandoned me,” I retorted hotly.
Charlotte met my gaze evenly. “No,” she said. “That is true. We do not.”
I turned away from her, the tears spilling down my cheeks now. Yet was not the idea of him leaving preferable to that of him having been murdered by a vengeful specter? At least the former would mean he still existed; that he was still out there, somewhere, alive and well.
“I … I cannot decide anything yet,” I said at last. “I need more time.”
Charlotte nodded in concession to this point. “I can well understand that,” she said. “But you do not have too much time, Katrina. I know you know that, but I think it behooves you to hear the words anyway.”