The Spellbook of Katrina Van Tassel Read online

  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.

  7

  Declarations

  My mostly sleepless night in no way put me in the mood for a luncheon with Brom Van Brunt, and only the presence of Mr. Crane convinced me to attend, rather than pleading illness or exhaustion.

  “Mr. Van Brunt, is it not?” Mr. Crane asked, extending his hand to Brom as we all sat down. “We were introduced recently, yes?”

  “I believe so,” Brom said, shaking his hand briefly before turning away to engage my father in a conversation about farming—something upon which both men could discourse for days.

  I smiled warmly across the table at Mr. Crane, and he returned the smile wholeheartedly. Perhaps he enjoyed my company more than that of the village girls, I thought happily. Just then I realized Brom was watching me. My father was holding forth about the apple crop—which we expected to be very good this year—not noticing that his guest’s attention had shifted. Normally I would have asked Brom loudly what he found so fascinating about my face, attempted to fluster him, but I was so flustered myself that I merely looked down at the plate Agnes, the kitchen maid, had just put in front of me. Anger began to stew within me, as though Brom had bested me somehow, as if he somehow knew a secret I had never confessed.

  “Yes,” Brom said loudly, causing me to start, addressing my father though his eyes were still on me. “My father expects quite a good harvest this year as well—one of our best yet.” Thankfully he looked away, focusing back on my father. “Unfortunately, though, my father has been thinking to increase our yield by purchasing some slaves, so it has fallen to me to dissuade him.”

  My father frowned. As many of our neighbors used slave labor to work their farms, he tried to speak of his views only in select company. It was a point of pride to him that all our Negro servants and field hands were free men and women and were paid the same wage as the white people he employed. “Why would he wish to invite that peculiar institution into his home when he already has a prosperous farm?” my father asked. “Why now?”

  Brom shrugged. “He wishes to seize this chance to try to do better, to make our gains permanent, I suppose
,” he said. “I believe I have convinced him otherwise, though.”

  “Well done,” my father said approvingly. “How did you manage that?”

  Brom gave a hard smile. “I told him that, should he purchase any slaves, the moment the farm comes under my control I would free them all. He did not like the idea of my very publicly undoing his work. As you might imagine.”

  Brom glanced over at me, and for once, a knowing and sympathetic look passed between us. It felt almost as though we were children again, friends; back when Charlotte and I used to fetch Brom to come play with us and heard his father yelling at him, telling him he was a worthless idiot, a boy with a too-soft heart who would never make a man. It was no wonder Brom spent most of his childhood running wild with the two of us rather than at home.

  And no wonder, perhaps, that now he strove to be a man in every way he felt defined the word.

  “I applaud you, Mr. Van Brunt,” Ichabod spoke up. “As contrary as it is to man’s nature to court discord with one’s father, on an issue of such importance there can be no other course.”

  Brom nodded, a look of grudging respect on his face.

  Ichabod turned to my father. “I do greatly admire how you have managed to run such a successful enterprise here without any slave labor at all,” he said. “Would that you might be an example to our fellow countrymen, especially those to the south.”

  “Slavery is a scourge,” I said, “and everyone in this country must come to see that. Else how can we profess to be a nation of free men and women?”

  Ichabod’s eyes met mine. “I have no fonder hope than that all should come round to this way of thinking, Miss Van Tassel.”

  “Nor I,” echoed my father.

  “Nor I,” said Brom.

  “Nor I, certainly,” added my mother.

  “I wish you the best of fortune with your harvest this year, then, young Brom,” my father said. “Should you need any advisement, I hope you will come to me.”

  “I should be honored, sir,” Brom said. “For of course, our farm cannot compare to the yield of yours.” He learned forward slightly in his chair, glancing between my father and me. “Imagine, though, if two such farms as ours were to combine, what profit might be reaped?”

  My head came up sharply, and I glared quite openly at him, the warm feelings I had just a moment ago gone. I turned to face my father, expecting him to condemn such talk as forward and inappropriate, and was horrified to see a gleam in his eye. “Indeed,” he said, leaning back in his chair, “an interesting thought, Mr. Van Brunt.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  I dared a glance at Mr. Crane, only to find him looking—rather deliberately, it seemed—down at his plate, and away from me.

  “I rather disagree,” I opined to the room at large. “I do not find any interest whatever in this particular thought of Mr. Van Brunt’s, though I do have many related thoughts of my own I might share.” I saw a small smile on Mr. Crane’s lips.

  Brom’s face darkened. “It is hardly seemly for a woman to have more thoughts than a man,” he said, as though this were some sort of sensible defense.

  “I’m afraid I must disagree with you there, Mr. Van Brunt, if I may be so bold,” Mr. Crane spoke up. “Does not this new nation need all the thinkers and people of intellect it can get, man and woman alike?”

  Brom scoffed and took a swig of his beer. “Men build nations, not women. I would expect a scholar such as you to be more aware of the way of the world, sir.” He spat the last word scornfully.

  “And any scholar of history knows that the human race would be nowhere without its women,” Mr. Crane said calmly.

  “Well spoken, Mr. Crane,” my mother said, delighted.

  “Far be it from me to disagree with so learned a fellow,” my father said, raising his glass. “To women!”

  “Hear, hear,” I said, grinning triumphantly at Brom.

  We all raised our glasses and sipped, and I glowed inwardly at the look of frustration on Brom’s face. However he had imagined this afternoon going, this was certainly not it.

  Still, I took a warning from his words. I had long known he considered himself a suitor for my hand, but this was the nearest he had come to openly declaring his intentions. More alarming still had been my father’s reaction—it seemed plain he would entertain a proposal.

  Papa is just like the rest of the village, I thought crossly, applying myself to my meal. Unable to see Brom for who he is.

  Mr. Crane, though, saw Brom as he was—that much seemed certain, now. Another reason to quite like the man.

  Thankfully the rest of the meal passed with no further controversial topics, and my father invited Brom to inspect the fields with him. I could only hope our guest was not mentally measuring a profit before it was turned.

  “Miss Van Tassel,” I heard Mr. Crane say in a low voice as the rest of us rose from the table. “If I may—”

  “Katrina, do not forget you must help me with the mending and embroidery today,” my mother said, clearly not having heard Mr. Crane. “You will have to leave your book for another time, I’m afraid.”

  I paused, glancing back at Mr. Crane, wanting very much to know what he had been about to say. “I shall bid you ladies good afternoon, then, and thank you for your company and the fine luncheon.”

  “You are very kind, Mr. Crane, and most welcome,” my mother said. “Shall we expect you for dinner as well?”

  “Not tonight, I fear, for I am to dine with the family of one of my future students,” he said. “I do believe it shall be my first lodging place once I have quit your kind hospitality.”

  “Indeed,” my mother said, “though you are welcome here for as long as you like.”

  He bowed to her. “You are generosity itself, madam, and as such the last thing I intend to do is overstay my welcome.” With that, he left the room without looking at me again.

  I remained rooted to the spot, almost aching for his gaze to fall on me again.

  “Come, Katrina,” my mother said, not noticing my distracted state. “The sewing pile only grows larger, I’m afraid.”

  Since the weather was fine, we took our sewing out onto the portico and sat in the two chairs my father had made especially for us. It was from my mother I inherited my affinity for nature, though she often lamented that, as the lady of a great farm, she no longer had the time for idle ramblings in the woods as she once did.

  Nox appeared from his morning frolics and collapsed into a comfortable heap at my feet. Once we were settled and had begun our sewing, I spoke. “I quite forgot Mr. Crane will be leaving us soon,” I said, hoping my tone was a casual one. For, though I felt utterly stupid, it was true. Somehow I had come to think he would remain with us forever, that I could have all the time with him I wished. “Once he no longer boards with us, will he still give me my music lessons?”

  “Why, certainly,” my mother said, focused on the seam she was sewing. “If you would like to continue, I am sure your father will not mind.”

  “I would, very much,” I said.

  “Then you shall.” She changed the subject then, and I could not tell if the new topic was prompted by our talk of Mr. Crane or not. “What think you of Brom Van Brunt?”

  My hands paused mid-stitch. “I should think my opinion of him is plain enough.”

  “I know well how young girls like to play the coquette, Katrina.”

  My head snapped up. “Surely you know me better than that, Mother. And you know the very real reason I have to dislike Brom Van Brunt.”

  She sighed. “I do, though I hoped I might be wrong, and you harbored more affection for him than you seem to.”

  I froze at this. “What are you saying?”

  “Your father favors young Brom’s suit,” my mother told me plainly. “He likes him, and thinks he would be a logical choice for your husband and to inherit the farm after us. He can combine his father’s holdings with ours, as he alluded to today.”

  “I … I didn’t know Fath
er took him so seriously,” I said, struggling to keep my voice from breaking.

  My mother’s eyes returned to her sewing. “I thought it best that you knew, so you might act accordingly,” she said. “I admit it would be a good match, but not if you would be unhappy with him.” She patted my hand. “I will speak to your father. Whatever fanciful notions he has of expanding the Van Tassel holdings through your marriage will be nothing if it is not what you want.”

  “Do you truly think so?” I asked. I knew my father loved me dearly, but he was also ambitious and proud of the family name and reputation.

  “Why, of course. Really, Katrina, when has your father ever set himself against anything you wanted? Including,” she added with an indulgent smile in Nox’s direction, “letting you keep that dog in the house.”

  I smiled. She was right; I could not rightly recall my father denying me anything. Surely he would not start now, not with something as important as my future husband. I let out a half-sigh, half-laugh, and felt Brom and his suit recede from my mind.

  “But,” she went on, “know that you are an heiress to extensive holdings, and so your father and I expect a good match. A man with something to bring to the marriage, and not a fortune hunter. But surely we can accomplish this and make you happy at the same time.”

  “Surely,” I said, relieved at my mother’s support. For there were plenty of men with prospects who were not Brom Van Brunt.

  But as I bent over my embroidery once more, a new worry intruded. I knew very well whom I did not want as a husband, but that left the question—one my father very well might pose—of whom I did want. And what could I say then?

  8

  The Kitchen

  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.