That night I found myself once again restless and unable to sleep. I got out of bed and walked to the window, gazing out as if daring the Horseman to appear, to show himself to me in my wakeful state.
Before he could appear, though, and before sleep could claim me, I heard footsteps in the hallway again.
This time I did not hesitate. I whirled away from the window and pulled a dressing gown over my night shift, that I might be at least somewhat decent, and went to my door, opening it as silently as I could, leaving Nox looking at me quizzically from the bed, and followed my fellow insomniac down the stairs.
At the bottom of the staircase, I paused, listening to the footsteps move softly toward the back of the house. I moved silently down the hallway, past the parlor and music room and into the kitchen.
I opened the door to find Mr. Crane within, pouring himself a glass of milk from the pitcher Agnes always left out for us.
He started when I came in. “Miss Van Tassel,” he said. “My apologies. Did I wake you?”
“Not at all,” I said, stepping fully into the dim room, lit only by the single candle he had carried with him and the dim glow of the embers in the banked cooking fire. “I was awake already.”
“Ah.” He took a sip of his milk and did not comment further.
“And are you unable to sleep this night as well, Mr. Crane?” I inquired, when he seemed unlikely to further the conversation.
“Indeed,” he said. “It is an affliction that troubles me from time to time.”
Again he fell silent, and I began to feel somewhat irritated—and, I realized, nervous.
“Have I done something to offend, Mr. Crane?” I asked at last, once the silence stretching between us had grown unbearable. My heart began to pound as I spoke.
He sighed. “No. You … no. Not at all. I should … I should not take out my own disquiet upon you.”
He seemed to me handsomer than ever, dressed only in his loose shirt and breeches, his hair falling about his face. I could see the muscles in his arms flex through his thin sleeves as he braced them against the high tabletop in between us, belying his scholarly life. No doubt he had grown up on a farm as well, or been trained as a craftsman of some sort. I looked at him, intent, wanting to know how he had grown up and what he had learned and whom his family was. I wanted to know everything about him.
“If there is anything troubling you, Mr. Crane, I want to assure you that you may speak freely with me,” I said. I moved closer to him and covered his hand with my own, caressing it with my thumb. “I hope that we have become friends, yes?”
What madness was making me manifest these feelings that I had only begun to identify? But I could not stop myself. The talk of my marriage, as well as the reminder that Mr. Crane would soon be leaving, had spurred me into action.
When he did not move or reply, I slowly withdrew my hand from his, my face burning. I should leave. There was no good to be had in trying to force him to talk to me. I was just gathering my courage to bid him goodnight and walk out of the room with my head held high when he spoke. “I … it is none of my business,” he said. “I should not be asking you this.”
My heart quickened its pace. “You may ask me anything you like.”
He hesitated briefly before continuing. “Brom,” he said. “That is, Mr. Van Brunt. He is your suitor, then?”
I started. “Not if I have anything to say about it,” I said, my voice cool. “He thinks himself so, but he is quite deluded if he believes I would consent to be his wife.” Feeling as though my heart was beating in my throat, I forced the next words out nevertheless. “Why do you ask?”
His head came up slightly as he met my eyes. “As I said, I should not have. It is none of my affair.”
“But you did ask,” I pressed, “and I would know why.”
“Katrina,” he sighed, looking away, and a pleasurable shiver ran through me at the sound of my given name falling off his tongue. “I cannot.”
“You must,” I whispered, “for I must know.”
“It is not that simple,” he said, suddenly angry. “Not for me. You have been given everything you wanted all your life, and the world does not work that way for the rest of us. Men like me—men without power, money, land, influence—we cannot always have what we want. We must step carefully, must work for everything we can, must threaten no one.”
“But … surely not,” I protested. “This is a great new nation, now; any man has the chance to rise, to—”
He laughed shortly. “The revolution changed many things, but not everything. Who is to say this American experiment will last? I hope it does, and that it becomes everything you wish it to be, Katrina. But not enough has changed, not for poor men. Why, even now, men in Pennsylvania are beginning to rise up over the tax on whiskey.”
“But the funds that taxes bring in are necessary for the running of the government, are they not?” I asked, momentarily diverted by the chance to debate. “We are no longer taxed by a foreign body that does not consult us, but by our own representatives, at least—”
Ichabod shook his head, cutting me off. “That is rather beside the point for me, right now.”
“I don’t understand.”
“No, of course you don’t,” he said. “What I am saying is, even in these new United States, a man like me cannot come into the home of a wealthy, influential man, accept his food and hospitality, and then speak of love to his virgin daughter. It is not right. It is not acceptable, no matter what I may want—”
I cut him off by stepping close to him and pressing my lips to his.
He stood still, as if stunned, then began to respond, hesitantly at first, then hungrily. My mouth opened beneath his, and I moaned slightly, deep in my throat, all thought obliterated.
I had been kissed once before—Brom had stolen a kiss, in fact, when we were fifteen years old. As soon as his lips had touched mine I had drawn back and slapped him so hard my hand left an imprint on his cheek. He had (thankfully) never tried such again.
That had not been a real kiss, not like this. This kiss had passion and fire and hunger and flavors of things I had only ever read about in books, but never felt myself.
He leaned into me then, pressing my back against the edge of the table, his lean body against mine. I gasped against his mouth at the feel of him, and knew he could feel the curves of my hips and breasts in turn. Dressed as we were, in only the flimsiest of nightclothes, such contact was indecent. Yet it thrilled me even so, perhaps because of that.
Without warning, he broke away. “Katrina,” he breathed, stepping back. “My God. We … we cannot. This is what I am saying.”
I closed my eyes as if to deny his words. But I knew he was right. We had already gone far enough, could go no further. Not without terrible consequences. “Ichabod Crane,” I said aloud, after I’d regained my breath. “You asked me about a man you believed to be my suitor, and I think you did so because you wanted to know what my feelings toward you might be. Now you know.”
With that, I turned and left the room while I was still able, going back up to my bedchamber and closing the door behind me. I longed to know what might have happened had I stayed, yet that was precisely why I had to leave.