I was awake much of the night, waiting, watching from one of my bedroom windows, the one beneath the sloping eave which faced the small patch of woods at the edge of our property. I felt as though, having spoken of the Headless Horseman, I had somehow summoned him, must have done; that now he would be waiting for me for certain, with no dream to protect me.
My uneasiness gave lie to my earlier words to Mr. Crane, about logic and skepticism and reason. Perhaps it was the darkness of the night; perhaps it was that I was weary, in spite of which I could not sleep; but all those spooky tales suddenly seemed much more probable than they ever had before.
I usually turned to books when my mind was distracted, could lose myself in the words; yet somehow I did not think that Macbeth, with its witches and prophecies and bloody murder, would be quite the balm for a troubled mind that I sought.
At one point I heard a heavy tread move down the hallway and descend the stairs; it had to be Mr. Crane. A part of me longed to follow, to sit in the parlor or even the kitchen with him, just to be in the company of another person—and there was no one’s company I craved more than his, I realized. Yet the thought of doing so frightened me in an entirely different way than tales of goblins and spirits. Eventually I fell into a troubled sleep.
* * *
As the next morning was Sunday, we arose early, dressed, and ate a light breakfast, then piled into the cart to head to the church for services. I was pleased to see Mr. Crane was to accompany us, and my father voiced his approval as well.
“Ah, I am glad to see you are a God-fearing man as well as an erudite one, Mr. Crane,” my father said, as the schoolmaster clambered somewhat awkwardly up onto the back of the cart.
“Indeed I am, sir,” Mr. Crane said, once he had settled himself on one of the sideboards. “One is not a God-fearing man at his peril, it seems to me.”
My father nodded his agreement before snapping the reins over the backs of the two large draft horses hitched to the cart, and with a jolt we were off.
“Sir Nox does not attend the Sunday service, Miss Van Tassel?” Mr. Crane asked me with a grin.
I returned his smile. “Indeed he does not. I do not think he would find it much to his liking, and the minister would find such a congregant even less to his.”
Mr. Crane laughed aloud at this, and then we lapsed into silence.
I had hoped for further conversation with Mr. Crane on the journey—some two miles—but he was quite engrossed in the scenery, looking appreciatively over the acres of rolling farmland that alternated with the ever-present forest, sometimes encroaching directly on the road, and sometimes beaten back to make room for fields and crops and cottages. The evident delight he took in my lovely little niche of the Hudson River Valley warmed my heart to a degree I would not have expected, and so I did not wish to interrupt his reverie.
When we reached the church, my father tied up the horses to one of the hitching posts at the edge of the churchyard—just past the bridge over the Pocantico River, which skirted the edge of the church property—then helped down first me, then my mother. Mr. Crane climbed down last and, brushing off his coat, promptly offered me his arm. “May I have the honor of escorting you inside, Miss Van Tassel?” he asked.
I could feel my countenance light up at his words. “You may,” I said, taking his arm. My father, with my mother’s hand on his own arm, gave the schoolmaster another approving look and began to climb the hill that led up to the church. Ichabod and I followed a few paces behind.
“Did you sleep well last night, Mr. Crane?” I asked.
He glanced sideways at me. “About as well as I expected. I thank you for asking.”
Our eyes held for just a moment longer. Perhaps you would sleep better with me beside you, I thought, as all sorts of unseemly things tumbled through my mind. My face began to burn, and I knew I would never be able to say such a thing, only imagine that I might.
I looked away, hoping he had not noticed my blush. “You know, there is a rather eerie tale about this church as well,” I said, changing the subject.
“Is there?” he asked, a note of eagerness in his voice. “Beyond the presence of the Hessian’s body in the churchyard? I assume this is the burial spot you spoke of yesterday, yes?”
“Indeed it is,” I said, “though as I mentioned, he was buried in an unmarked grave, so the exact location of his remains is anybody’s guess. No, the story to which I refer has to do with the building of the church.”
“Then do tell it to me, Miss Van Tassel. I am most intrigued.”
“The church is over a hundred years old now,” I said. “It was built by Old Mr. Phillips, who owned much of this land and ran a large mill.” I pointed across the road, where some buildings were just visible amongst the trees—a barn, and a manor house. “He began construction on this church for his family and their tenant farmers, but work progressed slowly. Meanwhile, the little river here”—I pointed to the Pocantico—“feeds into the millpond and helps run the mill. During the time that construction on the church was begun and abandoned and taken up again, the river flooded on several occasions, causing damage to the mill and to the flour production.
“Mr. Phillips was in despair as to what to do, when one morning one of his slaves came to him. He said the answer had come to him in a dream: once Mr. Phillips finished building the church, God would prevent the river from flooding again. Mr. Phillips heeded the slave’s advice, and finished construction of the church posthaste. Since then, the river has not flooded.”
Mr. Crane nodded appreciatively. “Another fine tale, and well told yet again. It is a bit eerie, as you said, though certainly not as chilling as that of the Headless Horseman.”
I laughed. “I confess I do not know any tales as chilling as that of the Horseman. As for this one about the church, well, who can say if it is true or not, though most certainly do believe it.”
“Kind of the slave to so help Mr. Phillips, if it is,” Mr. Crane remarked, “given that he most certainly would have had reason to bear ill will against the man who claimed ownership over him.”
I smiled at this remark; it made me like Mr. Crane even more than I already did. “I have often thought the same thing myself.”
By this time, we were at the church door, despite our deliberately slow pace. “Where would you recommend that I, as a newcomer, sit, Miss Van Tassel?” he asked, pausing as we entered the plain yet lovely building, with its tall windows and stone walls on the outside and its whitewashed walls inside.
I placed my hand briefly over his. “Why, you shall sit with us, in our family pew, of course,” I said. “Come, I shall lead the way.”
I sensed his brief reluctance as I began to steer him toward the Van Tassel pew in the second row, but he followed me all the same.
* * *
I may have enjoyed a monopoly on Mr. Crane’s attention on the way in to the service, but the same was not true afterward. His appearance in our sleepy little village was occasion for much talk and excitement, particularly—I noticed sourly—among the female denizens. As the villagers gathered in the churchyard after the service to visit with friends and exchange gossip, a knot of admiring young ladies gathered about Mr. Crane. “I have heard that you will be giving singing lessons, Mr. Crane,” the simpering Elizabeth van der Berg said, practically hanging on his arm. “My father is agreeable, so you must come to teach me.”
“It will be my pleasure, miss,” Mr. Crane said. To my further annoyance, he seemed to be rather enjoying the attention.
“And me as well,” added Annatje Dekker.
I rolled my eyes and turned away, casting my gaze hopefully around the churchyard for Charlotte, to see if she had perhaps returned from Massachusetts. I spotted her mother, Mevrouw Jansen, chatting with my mother, but sadly Charlotte was nowhere to be seen.
“Come, Katrina,” I heard my father calling to me from the edge of the churchyard. I turned toward him only to see Brom standing beside him. I groaned inwardly and made my way over as slowly as I could. “It is high time we returned home for luncheon. I have invited Mr. Van Brunt to join us.”
“Oh, good,” I said, not even bothering to inject any enthusiasm or even politeness into my tone.
“Indeed, Miss Van Tassel, though for propriety’s sake I must pray you not indulge in any unseemly display of emotion,” Brom said.
I rolled my eyes, but my father merely chuckled. “Such a charming lad,” he said. “I do not wonder that the young ladies of the village are falling over themselves for your attention, Brom.”
“If that is true, then I pray you remain in the village where you are wanted,” I said.
“Now, now, Katrina,” my father said, of slight reproach in his voice.
“And indeed, I notice our new schoolmaster is the focus of much of the female attention today, in any case,” I went on, quite ignoring my father. “I hope this does not wound your ego, Brom.”
Brom scowled before quickly attempting to smooth out his features. “Yes, the music teacher,” he said, a note of bitterness in his voice. “And are you learning much from this … what is his name?” Brom asked. “Mr. Creighton?”
“Crane,” I said, annoyed. “Mr. Ichabod Crane.”
“Ah,” Brom said. “Strange name, that. Not from around here, is he?”
“He is from Connecticut,” I said.
“Practically a foreigner!” Brom said.
“We are all Americans now,” I said coolly.
“Hear, hear,” my father said, interrupting our bickering. “And proud to be so!”
“Indeed,” my mother said, appearing behind us. “Shall we adjourn home for luncheon, then?”
She gestured to Mr. Crane, and we all piled back into the cart, while Brom swung up into the saddle of his massive horse, Daredevil, to follow us.