The next morning I found myself both dreading and eagerly anticipating my music lesson, scheduled for two o’clock that afternoon. Like a coward, I lurked in my bedroom much of the day, avoiding Mr. Crane—or Ichabod, should it not be? It seemed ridiculous to refer to him as Mr. Crane after our kiss—even as I longed to know what he might do and say now, in the light of day.
When the appointed hour came, I approached the music room with apprehension, my stomach feeling as if I had swallowed a mass of writhing worms. Still, I would be damned if I let it show. I held my head high and went inside.
Ichabod barely glanced at me from where he sat tuning his guitar as I entered, nodding briefly. “Miss Van Tassel.”
“Icha—Mr. Crane,” I corrected, stumbling into following his lead.
“Shall we begin?” he asked, strumming a few chords quickly.
“I—yes,” I said. “I suppose we should.”
We began with scales—again—and then he began to teach me a short, simple psalm. While it was a sight more interesting than scales, it was not enough to distract my racing mind. How could he simply pretend nothing had happened?
His words from the night before—of denial, of an unpalatable truth—threatened to repeat themselves in my head, but I shoved them firmly away. Surely that could not be all there was to it, not when we both felt so for each other …
But felt what, exactly? There was an attraction, surely—I found him handsome, and his mind even more so. I craved his touch. But was there more than that, for either of us? What more was there?
His words forced their way into my thoughts: 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 …
Love. Could he know me well enough to love me, truly? Surely love took more than a few days, a week, than even the fortnight he would be staying here? Yet the poets and playwrights spoke of love that was so powerful, so undeniable, that all it took was a single glance. I had always thought that foolish, romantic nonsense, but what if there was some truth to it?
And what did I feel for him? Love? Could I call it so? Would I marry him, should he ask for my hand?
“Miss Van Tassel,” Ichabod said, exasperated. “Kindly sing the notes on the page, if you would, and not ones of your own invention.”
I shook my head slightly, brought back to my somewhat uncomfortable reality by his sharp words. “My apologies,” I said, my tone cool. “I am a bit tired, you see. I find I hardly slept last night.”
At last he met my eyes, and I saw a flicker of something within them—but before I could determine what it might be, he looked away again.
“Be that as it may,” he said, “let us try this once more, if you please, and then I think we shall end for the day.”
We began again, my performance better, but certainly not what either of us considered satisfactory. Ichabod did not comment on it. “We shall revisit this next time,” he said, speaking to a point on the wall over my shoulder. “Our time is up for today, I’m afraid.” With that, he turned away from me to replace his guitar in its case.
I watched him, thinking he meant to say something else—to say whatever it was I was waiting for him to say—but when it became clear he was going to do no such thing, I turned and left, almost stunned.
Had he not corrected my final performance because he simply did not wish to be in the room with me any longer?
I couldn’t keep the thought away. But it could not be that. Not when he had returned my kiss so enthusiastically the night before. Surely it was only the strictures of society that stood between us.
And yet … if he truly felt for me, should any of that matter?
You have read too many books, a vicious little voice hissed inside my mind as I hurried back up the stairs, tears stinging my eyes. You are a romantic fool, Katrina Van Tassel.
Back in my room, I vigorously brushed the tears away and opened Macbeth again. A tale of tragedy and blood sounded like exactly what I needed.