Love Lost
This is a piece written in two halves, giving both Ichabod's and Katrina's point of view of the events after the church battle until Ichabod makes his final deduction about who the guilty party really is....
Just for the record I am of the view that Katrina had no idea Ichabod suspected her, although some people have argued this with me. Firstly, she had no way of knowing his suspicions, and secondly I think if she believed that was the reason he left, she would have gone after him. In my opinion she thinks that he left because he couldn't solve the mystery.
And if you recognise the title that's because it is the name of the track from Danny Elfman's wonderful score that accompanies these scenes.
Katrina's eyes did not fly open in panic or horror, but she awoke gently as she would any other day. And yet she lost no time in recalling the shattering events of the night before.
Her father...
She swallowed a fresh wave of nausea as the memory of his gruesome death assaulted her once more. For a very small moment she thought she would pass out again. Secretly she wished she would because she'd rather enter a world of bleak ignorance than have to face the constant image of her beloved father's face as the fence post pierced his chest, or the sound of the Horseman's sword as it fell.
A noise from outside pulled her back from the darkness however, thankfully giving her mind something else to focus upon.
It sounded like coach wheels and she arose quickly and curiously, despite leaden legs, and crossed to the window. Her first thought was perhaps that it was a well wisher come to give their condolences, but she immediately reasoned that none that knew her father lived so far out as to warrant a coach ride and as far as she was aware, her step-mother had had no other relatives.
Yes, she had almost forgotten about that unfortunate woman. The Horseman had claimed her life too. Whilst she had never grown to love the woman who had taken her mother's place, she had had no quarrel with her and her heart fell a little more.
In the yard below, she frowned slightly at the only vaguely familiar looking coach but had no difficulty in recognising Van Ripper at the reigns. The reigns held a greying Belgium horse.
Gunpowder.
The one that Ichabod had ridden in loan from poor Mr Killian.
Her heart fell to the very deepest pit of her stomach - and seemed determined to continue going as if to abandoned her completely - when she caught a glimpse of the unmistakable silhouette of her New York Constable sitting so stoically in the back of the coach.
It seemed however that she was wrong to ever consider him 'hers' at all. Wrong to think she affected him in anyway or that her growing feelings for him were reciprocated. He was leaving her. And he was leaving her alone when she needed the reassurance of his gently gaze most of all.
The coach pulled away and he never glanced back.
Dumbstruck by the betrayal, she watched him go.
She blinked a few times, disbelief washing over her. How could she have been so wrong about him? Maybe her father had been right and her silly tales of romance had addled her brain. Deep down she had always held a secret desire that one day a brave, handsome hero out of one of the stories would find his way to her heart. She believed once that she had found him in the seemingly ideal Brom Van Brunt. But try as she could to be overjoyed and content - the way anyone should be when they found themselves attached to the affections of such a man - she always felt as if she were missing something. The very moment she had laid eyes on Ichabod she knew exactly what it was. As she had pulled the blind fold away and caught his gaze for the first time she had felt such a spark of certainty that it had almost startled her. She had never felt that when looking upon Brom and even though she did not know the stranger's name or business, she knew with a certainty that was entirely new to her that the rather startled looking man standing in front of her was the one she had been waiting for.
But in the stories the heroes never abandoned those they were destined to be with. They never left and broke their hearts when they needed them the most.
The tears that threatened to come were forced back down. Tales of romance were just that, she admitted with a hard realisation. Fairy stories. Make believe fantasies designed to distract you from the harshness of reality for a short time. Life, she had learnt all to hastily, was precarious. Too much so to waste what little they were granted on folly and whimsy. He obviously didn't care for her more than as a piece of his investigation and she would think no more on it. She was just a silly little girl who had been affected by tales of romance in a way that made her see more into what he had clearly considered no more than an acquaintance.
But it must end here. This life was a harsh, practical one, and she must start to abide by that. From now on she would force her heart to stay silent and let her head rule her instead.
With a sudden cold determination she turned from the window and set about dressing. She was Lady of Van Tassel now. The house, the land, the responsibility were all left to her by her father's will. The Van Garret land too she supposed was bequeathed upon her as the only surviving member of his kin. Her father had worked hard to build their reputation and earn the trust of the people, and she would not let that die.
Like she had let him die....
She had tried, but she hadn't been able to protect him. She hadn't been strong enough, clever enough or wise enough. But by God would she have strength now.
Having dressed, she straightened her bed until the sheets were crisply flat and moved downstairs. There was much to be done. Her father had acted as landlord and banker to the village and she would need to find his book of accounts to make sure that things were kept in order. That would surely be in his study.
Passing the parlour, wondering if her numbers were good enough to be able to work his accounts, she was struck by a cold chill. Nothing sinister, but a genuine cold. The fire had burnt itself low.
Minutes later she returned with a fresh bundle of wood. It was cold out today, and if she could keep this room warm it would be pleasant enough to come and work in.
As she knelt, placing the first dry sticks onto the dying embers, something in the ashes caught her eye. Cautiously, she prodded at it with the poker.
It was the remnants of a book. Most of it had burnt away, but part of the cover and some metal corner plates had survived and she recognised them without much difficulty.
Ichabod's ledger.
Why had he burnt it? Because with her father dead he had no more suspects and so he left, admitting defeat? Or perhaps because he did not want to take back proof of his failure to his superiors? Maybe he meant to cover it all up, saying that her father had been the guilty one but he had died. Or maybe, he simply wished to take with him no memories of Sleepy Hollow. That there had been nothing here worth the coming for after all.
She placed the remaining logs on and stood, but could not tear her eyes from the hypnotic, teasing dance of the fire's steadily growing flames. They seemed to draw thing out of her which she did not wish to consider.
It hadn't been only her imagination, however much she tried to convince herself of her mistake. He had told her. Told her that her kiss had made it worth the coming here. They had so nearly shared a second in the woods before Young Masbath had interrupted them. And then there was the conversation they had when he had found her secretly reading. The way he had accepted her gift despite his reservations and scepticism. How wonderfully charming he had unwittingly been during their ride to the broken down cottage. And that beautiful cardinal toy that he had so enchantingly shown her.
What had he said to her when he had found her there, burning the evidence he had collected against her father?
She had told him to find another suspect and leave her be.
'I cannot -- not the one or the other and I am heartsick with it'.
It had been an confession of what she secretly thought he felt for her. It was what she had been holding her breath for in anxious anticipation since she had given him that kiss on account. But anger had dulled any memory of affection she harboured and she had ignored his words, instead accused him of being heartless and of not caring for her.
At the time, she was so hurt that he could betray her so, that she tried to force herself into believing that he had suspected her father all along and that he had only ingratiated himself to her in order to stay close to him and see what he could discover. It was far easier to bare pain when it was dulled by the fire of anger.
But even as she had sat in her room all day, refusing his constant requests to see her, she could not bring herself to truly believe so ill of him. Surely such a gentle countenance did not have such cold, ruthlessness in it? That was the main reason she did refuse to she him - if she had seen him she knew she would have had no choice but to forgive him no matter what he had said or thought of her dear father. He had a face that she would not be able to bear ill will at for long.
'Good-bye, Ichabod Crane! I curse the day you came to Sleepy Hollow! '
Those were the last words she had ever spoken to him. Spoken in anger as she had furiously reared her horse and rode away, tears of fury and hurt burning her cheeks once she was sure he would not be able to see them.
Had he believed her? Had he left because he thought she hated him, especially since it had been so conclusively proven that her father was innocent? Had he left in shame? Or guilt?
Katrina shook her head as she moved away from the fire. What did it matter? He was gone and no amount of wondering why would bring him back.
He had left her in this huge house all by herself.
Alone.
Without trying to stop herself Katrina sunk to the floor and began to sob, wrenching her heart out with each one, hoping perhaps if she did then this pain she felt would go and she could be at peace once more. First her mother, then Brom, then her father and now Ichabod. All who she loved were gone. All who cared for her had been taken away. When she needed him most, when he was the last good thing she could cling on to, he had abandoned her. She was alone and afraid. In need of comfort when she had no one to give it and no one to turn to. No one to care for her.
She wanted to be brave and strong like her father would have had her been. To fight not wither. But all she could find was despair and heartache.
Eventually, she managed to regain enough composure to drag herself to the armchair, turning it away from the dancing, happy fire that seemed to be mocking her now, pleased with it's work. Instead she sat, being careful to keep out of the weak sunlight that poured in, and stared out of the window, passed the orchard that was dead with winter and to the point in the road where he had disappeared. Where he had left her.
Time passed unknowingly and she thought that she would soon have no more tears left to give. But they wouldn't stop and she gave up trying to make them, letting them just run their own sombre paths down her cheeks.
She could be strong when she wanted to, yes, but not alone.
Her words had been a lie. She hadn't cursed the day he came. She had rejoiced, for while Brom was a good man and a good friend, to marry him would be to settle for less than her romantic notions required. Ichabod was not as brave as Brom, nor as self assured, practical or confident. Yet some magic in his words, a spell hidden in the intelligent, gentle gaze of his eye had bewitched her. For the briefest moment she smiled. Perhaps there was a some witch in him too.
She remembered the ease with which he had spoken to her the night she had watched over him. How he had awoken from the Horseman's wound and could only think of apologising to her about what had happened to Brom, despite the pain he himself was in. His concern for her welfare over his own had shocked her slightly and she had thought on it long and hard as he fitfully slept, before catching him in an embrace as he bolted out of a nightmare.
The things he had told her about his mother, the way he had opened his heart and spoken with such sincerity, had won her over completely if she not had been so before. It was at that moment she knew that without doubt, sense, rhyme or reason that she loved him.
It was said 'it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all', but she could not believe it so. It seemed that the loss of love shattered you. Tore up your heart. No amount of love beforehand could be worth the utter misery of an intensity that seemed destined to never fade.
By heaven did she love him. She always would and it seemed it would be her undoing.
A noise from the hall disturbed her thoughts. She frowned as she rose to investigate, wondering who it could be before the answer struck her.
Young Masbath.
Feeling terrible, she realised she had not given the boy a second thought since she had awoken. Like her he was now alone in this world. The notion that they may be able to be alone together, brightened her spirits just a little.
The figure who stepped out of the shadows and into the firelight was not that of a young boy though, but a woman. A woman dressed in a resplendent gown, looking like one of the evil queens Katrina had read about in her books.
Lady Van Tassel. Her supposedly dead step mother.
Katrina's mind stammered, thoughts finding it difficult to form, let alone words. But she was dead....The Horseman...
"Dear step daughter..." Lady Van Tassel purred in a voice that sounded very pleased with itself, "You look as if you've seen a ghost."
Katrina didn't know what she was, ghost or otherwise, only that a supposedly dead woman was talking to her. The whole thing was too much for her over worked nerves and blackness began to encroach on the edges of her vision.
The last thing Katrina realised was that whatever the woman had in store of her, there would be no one coming to her rescue.
Then she gave in to the blackness, praying that she would know no more as her eyes rolled up and she fell senseless to the floor.