The day of the wedding dawned unexpectedly mild and sunny for early December—as if the weather was mocking me, I thought dejectedly as Nancy helped me into a bath and began the process of washing my long, thick hair. Nox was again banished to the barn, and I missed his soothing presence beside me. Once bathed, I sat in a chair by the large downstairs fire to aid with the drying of my hair. All too soon Nancy assisted me in donning my brand-new white underclothes—silk and lace, ordered special from New York—and my champagne-colored gown. It was from my last trip to New York with my father, back before I’d ever met Ichabod, long before any of this started. There hadn’t been time to have a new dress made, so my mother and Nancy had added some new lace and ribbons to this one.
Then Nancy put up my hair, weaving braids and ribbons in a crown about my head and leaving the rest to hang down my back. She curled the loose strands around a poker heated in the fire. When she was finished, she had me stand to look at myself in the mirror above my dressing table. “You look absolutely beautiful, Miss Katrina,” she said, taking in my reflection. “Just gorgeous.”
Her words, kindly meant though they were, caused my eyes to brim with tears. “There, there, darling,” she murmured softly. “I know. This isn’t an easy day.”
Thankfully, she said no more, for if she had I am certain I would have broken down entirely, and all the guests would see what an unwilling, miserable bride I truly was.
My parents were waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs as I descended. My mother gasped aloud. “Oh, Katrina,” she said. “You are a vision.”
I smiled what I hoped was the smile a beautiful, happy bride on her wedding day would wear. “Thank you, Mama,” I said.
My father kissed my cheek. “Just beautiful, my dear,” he said. I was surprised to see tears shining in his eyes as he stepped back. “We are all very happy today.”
I kept my smile pinned to my face. At least someone is happy today. Truly, the only unhappy ones on my wedding day were Nancy, Charlotte, and I.
“Thank you, Papa,” I said. I cleared my throat, trying to steady my nerves, which had begun to mount steadily ever since I’d come down the stairs. “Shall we go?”
My parents, Nancy, and I went out to the carriage waiting outside the front door. We climbed in and Henry snapped the reins, carrying us off to the village church, where most of Sleepy Hollow’s residents—and my bridegroom—were awaiting us. Awaiting me.
I took several deep breaths as the carriage rattled on, taking me closer and closer to the destiny I would not be able to escape. I chose this, I reminded myself. It is the best way. It is the only way.
I was determined not to think—yet—of what would come later that night. My skin crawled at the very thought of Brom in bed with me, of him … no. I must not think about it, or I would never be able to go through with the marriage vows. And for the sake of my child—Ichabod’s child—I must do it all.
Perhaps it would have been better if I were a naïve virgin on my wedding night, I thought wryly. I might have less cause to dread it.
And yet if I had been a virgin, I would not be in this position. I would not be marrying Brom at all. Perhaps I should have listened to all those rules about how unmarried women should comport themselves.
“You are very quiet, Katrina,” my father said, interrupting my thoughts. “And rather pale. Are you quite well?”
I very determinedly did not look at Nancy as I answered. “Yes, very well, Papa,” I said.
“Just nerves, I’m sure,” my mother said, smiling gently at me.
“Yes, very much so,” I said.
All too quickly, we had arrived at the church, and my father was helping me down from the carriage, while my mother and Nancy went inside to take their places in the pews. We paused just outside the doors. “Are you ready, my dear?” he asked, beaming at me.
No. “Yes, Papa,” I said, smiling.
He pulled open the doors, and we stepped inside.
The congregation rose as we appeared, and I could hear the gasps and appreciative murmurs as everyone took in the lovely picture I made. I tried to smile at them all, to glow and blush with the happiness they were all so sure I was feeling. None of them could know that inside, I was screaming; that in my heart I was crying and praying for someone to save me from myself and this decision I had been forced to make.
When we reached the altar, I could ignore him no longer.
Brom stood before the minister, dressed in a neatly pressed suit. The grin on his face was one part genuine happiness, one part smug triumph. And in that moment what I hated most of all was that, after everything, he had won.
Damn him. Damn him to hell and back. I shall never forgive him.
Nor, I realized, would I ever forgive myself.
Brom took my hand, his grin widening as our fingers touched. I looked down at the stone step that led to the altar so I did not have to meet his eyes as I stepped up beside him. Once we were both standing in front of the minister, I looked straight ahead. It was the only way I could endure it all.
The minister began the wedding service, and as he droned on I caught Brom sneaking glances at me out of the corner of my eye. I kept staring determinedly forward. I would not face him, face the life I had chosen, until I had to.
When the time came for the vows, and the minister had us face each other and clasp hands, still I cast my gaze modestly down. Hopefully Brom would merely think of me as the nervous, blushing bride.
“Do you, Abraham Van Brunt, take this woman, Katrina Van Tassel, to be your wife? To have and to hold, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?”
“I do,” Brom pronounced.
“And do you, Katrina Van Tassel, take this man, Abraham Van Brunt, to be your lawfully wedded husband? To have, hold, and obey, in sickness and in health, as long as you both shall live?”
I dreamed that Ichabod would fling the church doors open just then, announcing to all that he had come to claim me. He would come to save me from this choice I’d made; he would save me before it was too late.
But of course, that did not happen. Closing my eyes, I could only speak the words through clenched teeth. “I do.”
We exchanged the rings, and the minister pronounced us wed, in sight of God and man. Brom leaned forward and kissed me, and I was glad that it was only a chaste kiss, here in the church before the congregation.
Hand in hand, we made our way back down the aisle. I caught Charlotte’s eye as we walked, and saw that she understood my feelings completely. The unsmiling look she gave heartened me all the same, if only a little. For her, at least, I would not have to pretend.
I could not hide the tears that were streaming down my cheeks. I could only hope those watching took them for tears of joy.
* * *
We returned to my parents’ house for the wedding feast. Upstairs, one of the spare bedchambers had been prepared for us, and tomorrow morning we would move into the new house my father had bought for us. But I would not—could not—think beyond the feast just then.
Brom and I sat at a table on a raised dais in the dining room, with two long tables for the rest of the guests. Cook brought out each dish and served us first, before serving the rest of the company, assisted by the other servants. As early December was the time when the pigs were slaughtered, my parents had had an entire roasted pig prepared, which caused murmurs of appreciation among the guests. Several kinds of potatoes, fresh white bread, squash, and glazed carrots were also served. Nancy gave me a wink as she passed me, carrying jugs of wine and beer, and I smiled—the only genuine smile I had given all day.
Throughout the meal, Brom would occasionally lean over to kiss me—much to the approval of the guests—and to whisper in my ear. “Are you happy, my bride?” he murmured soon after we sat down. “Are you happy to be Mistress Van Brunt?”
My stomach twisted at the name unfurling from his lips. “Of course,” I lied with a smile.
The words tasted bitter in my mouth, surely poisoning me from within. Every word, every smile, felt like a betrayal: of Ichabod, of our love, of myself. Yet had I not been betrayed first? That I took no joy in my perfidy was no consolation.
The servants kept my glass filled with wine, and I imbibed liberally, for I would need it to get through what lay ahead. Brom, too, drank his first glass of wine, then called for ale; then, after dinner, my father had the brandy poured.
“To the bride and groom!” my father called, lifting his brandy glass. “To the new Meneer and Mevrouw Van Brunt, that their marriage may be long, fruitful, and happy!”
“Hear, hear!” the guests echoed, and everyone drank.
Interesting that happiness should be the last of the things I am wished in my wedding toast, I thought as the brandy burned its way down my throat. I hoped it would take me into oblivion.
* * *
After the feast came dancing, and then the moment I had been dreading arrived: it was time for Brom and I to retire. “Come, Miss Katrina,” Nancy said, finding me in the crowd. “Time for you to come upstairs, and I’ll help you out of that gown. Your husband will follow after.”
Charlotte appeared at my side. “Nancy, may I steal the bride away for just a moment before you take her upstairs?” she asked sweetly.
Nancy smiled. “Of course, honey.” She moved a few steps away to give us some privacy.
Charlotte took my hands in hers, quickly slipping me a small glass vial. “Chicken blood,” she said.
My nose wrinkled in disgust. “Whatever for?”
“For you to sprinkle on the sheets.” Her face darkened slightly. “You know … after.” She lowered her voice until she was barely audible. “So Brom will think you were a virgin.”
Finally I understood. “Thank you,” I murmured, my hand closing tightly around the vial. “I would never have thought of this.”
She smiled, and this time it was genuine. “I know, so that’s why I did.” She embraced me tightly. “Be strong,” she whispered in my ear. Then she drew back, gave me a swift, tight smile, and went to return to her seat. The crowd shied away from her as she passed, and I felt a flash of anger that she should still be treated so, at my own wedding feast. That I had married the man who had made her life this way.
I pushed the guilt aside, for it would not do me any good this night. I looked around for Nancy, and she caught my eye and motioned me to the doorway.
There were some shouts and ribald cheering as Nancy led me out of the room, and I glanced back to see Brom watching me lustfully, his face red and ruddy from drink. I shuddered as we left. I chose this, I reminded myself. And I must endure what is to come next above all else if I am to protect my child. I had said it to myself a thousand times since I’d decided on this course, but it did not make me any more eager for what was to come.
In the nuptial chamber that had been prepared, and bedecked with chrysanthemums and branches of evergreen, Nancy took down my hair and helped me out of the gown. When she was not looking, I slipped the vial into the drawer of the small table that stood beside the bed, where I could easily reach it once Brom was asleep.
Once undressed, wearing only my new silk underthings, I stood motionless in the center of the room. I tried not to remember that first night in the woods, the one that had felt as sacred to me as a wedding night, and far more holy than this one would be. I tried not to remember Ichabod removing every stitch of my clothing, his hands, his mouth, the feel of his bare flesh against mine …
I was snapped from my reverie by Nancy placing a light hand on my shoulder. I jumped, startled. “You all right, Miss Katrina?” she asked.
I nodded, but it took me a moment to speak past the dryness of my throat. “Yes. Fine.”
She pulled me into a tight hug. “It’s gonna be all right,” she murmured in my ear. She released me and stepped back. “I’ll see you in the morning, yes?”
I nodded, unable to speak.
She gave me one last encouraging smile and then left the room, my wedding gown draped over her arm, closing the door behind her.
Slowly, I got into the bed, pulling the covers over me. And I waited, staring at the ceiling, dread slowly encroaching its way up my body to choke me. If only it could be morning and this night, at least, might be over …
The one night Ichabod and I had spent in a bed together came back to me. I remembered the feel of my back pressed into the mattress rather than the hard ground as he thrust deeply and hungrily into me, remembered my back arching up to meet his thrusts as I cried out, drenched with sweat and pleasure …
I closed my eyes and shook my head where it lay against the pillow, tears leaking out of my eyes again. No. I must not think of that. Must not compare the wonder and glory of lovemaking to what would be, for me, a wife’s duty. It was strange to think the same act could take on such different meanings.
Soon I heard heavy footsteps in the hallway, and the door burst open. Brom came in, swaying slightly on his feet. “Wife,” he slurred. “Already waiting to welcome me into your bed, I see.”
He bent down to remove his boots and shirt. As he pulled off his breeches, I turned my gaze away.
Naked, he stumbled to the bed and got in beneath the coverlet beside me. “I have waited so long for this night,” he mumbled. He pressed his lips to mine, forcing my mouth open. I tasted the drink on his breath as his tongue probed my mouth, and did not respond. In his inebriated state, he did not seem to notice.
“Ahh, yes, my sweet,” he murmured. One hand moved up the inside of my thigh. I fought the urge to clamp my legs tightly together, but I forced myself to relax.
He shifted closer to me, his hands pulling up my silk shift. Apparently he did not wish to bother removing it.
Good. Let this be over with. I would not think of all the future nights when I would be expected to perform this duty again. Surely it would get easier with time; surely this first bedding would be the most difficult. Wouldn’t it?
“Ahh, yes,” he murmured again as his fingers reached the apex of my thighs. Made clumsy by drink, he shoved two fingers into me, probing roughly, and I did not bother to stifle my cry of pain.
He let out a small sigh, perhaps taking my exclamation for one of pleasure. He withdrew his hand, beginning to shift atop me. “Yes,” he grunted, then stopped. “Damn it,” he slurred. He reached down to take himself in his hand. “Come on,” he growled, moving his hand quickly over himself. He leaned down and kissed me again, harder this time, moving his other hand to grasp my breast.
I glanced down to see the issue, and nearly bit off my tongue in an effort to hold back my giggles. His member was limp, even as he tried desperately to rouse himself. It would seem that too much drink had unmanned him.
No matter how he kissed or pawed at me—even biting my neck in an attempt to arouse himself—he remained flaccid. Finally he rolled off me with a groan. “Damned brandy,” he murmured, closing his eyes. “Too much.” Within moments he was snoring.
I let out a sound that was half laugh, half sob. I had a reprieve, it seemed, and did not know if I was more relieved or anxious at this turn of events.
I turned on my side, my back to him, and curled into a ball. It was a long time before I fell asleep.