Chapter 8
Back up in my room, the diary is sitting on the corner of the dressing table where I left it last night.
With the weirdness that seems to be stalking present day Sleepy Hollow, I find myself wanting to know more about its past. The smooth leather cover calls to me, and I reach for it, flipping to the next entry.
Dearest diary, what a whirlwind the past few days have been.
My soldier came back.
He appeared just after noon. I was sitting by the fire, about to complete my cross-stitch when the doorbell rang.
Mr Smithers was the one to answer it, of course, but I could just see the doorway from around the corner.
And there he was, my soldier, asking if I was available and if he could escort me to the local market for a turn about the stalls.
I confess, I felt my stomach flutter at seeing him again.
Mr Smithers made him wait whilst I dressed properly, but soon he and I took a carriage into the town proper, with my handmaid Lucy acting as chaperone.
The autumn air was most agreeable, crisp but clear and with the smell of fallen leaves in the air.
And the fair itself was a sight to behold, bustling with merchants and townsfolk.
There were scarves and bonnets in fashions from overseas, and silver and gold trinkets which caught my eye.
There were stalls with sweet cakes, stalls with roasting nuts which perfumed the air, and stalls with freshly cut flowers.
My soldier purchased a long-stemmed red rose and presented it to me with such chivalry.
“A rose for the fairest flower here,” he told me, and I was shocked at his boldness.
I told him so but could not suppress my glee.
As we walked back through the clamour of town, I clutched my red rose and felt happier than I had in a long time. By this time, the sun was just setting, casting a golden light across the market stalls.
But it was short-lived, for it suddenly occurred to me that my soldier was just passing through this little town of ours, and that soon he and his troop would move on to pastures new.
Diary, I rather fear I cast a bit of a shadow across the whole outing, as when I found the strength to ask how long he had left in Sleepy Hollow, he too looked sad.
He was unsure, but apparently they had set up camp not too far out of town.
He said that usually erecting the camp instead of the more temporary shelter meant they were likely to stay a few weeks.
It seemed to me as if they were awaiting instruction from someone above his sergeant and general.
During the carriage ride home, although I did not want to waste what precious time we had left together, we were both quiet. I can’t say for certain, but I think we were both lost in thoughts of when he may be called up to leave.
Outside the house, Lucy climbed down from the carriage first, sending me a knowing look over her shoulder, saying she would go ahead and prepare the house for my return.
Diary, I feel my cheeks blush even now. As I was thanking my soldier for such a glorious afternoon and my delightful rose, he leaned forward. Grasping both of my hands in his much larger ones, he leaned in and kissed me. It was soft and gentle. Only lasting for a moment.
He pulled away, climbing from the carriage and offering his hand to help me down. Taking my gloved hand, and bowing deeply, he promised to see me again.
I cannot wait.
October 13, 1819
Dear diary, it has now been three whole days since that wonderful market visit, and I have not seen nor heard from my soldier since.
I keep thinking of our kiss. Of the butterflies in my stomach. Maybe he does not feel the same way.
Lucy says I mustn’t fret, and that he must surely be busy with whatever duties it is a soldier has to take care of. She says she could see clear as day that he was smitten with me, and that he will certainly be back when time allows.
I am not so sure. By accounts, the encampment is still set up on the outskirts of town. If he is still here and so close, why has he stayed away for so long?
October 20, 1819
Diary, it was a full week before I saw my soldier again.
This morning, as I was having my bath, Mr Smithers knocked on the bathroom door and informed me through the thick oak that I had a visitor. Diary, my heart leapt at the thought that it could be my soldier. I sent Lucy out at once to check, assuring her that I could finish bathing myself.
It was him. Lucy rushed back into the stone bathroom as I was wrapping myself in a soft towel.
She barely bothered to knock, though she knew I would not mind.
She had the biggest smile and was in a rush to tell me it was my soldier.
He was downstairs in the vestibule, with a whole bunch of fresh flowers for me this time.
He had asked if he could take me to see the new exhibition gallery at the Miniott Estate, which had just opened to the public.
Diary, just last week I had remarked how much I had loved the stalls filled with artwork, and that I had always admired the talent. My soldier must have remembered to plan out such a day.
The gallery itself was marvellous, set in a room with tall windows throwing light upon the canvases of various size, shape and colour. I confess, Van Tassel Manor seems dark and gloomy in comparison to this light and airy building.
There were landscapes so vivid, I felt I could walk in them, and portraits so lifelike that I thought the people inside may step down from their gilded frames.
My soldier was fascinated with one piece in particular, a scene of a stormy sea, the dark waves wild and crashing.
He stared into my eyes and told me he thought it to be an exploration of “the beauty of passion and chaos.”
The way he views the world is so different to anyone I know. He surprises me with his insights, and I could have listened to him talk about the other pieces for hours.
After we had thoroughly perused the gallery, refreshment was served in the gardens. Lucy and I admired the shapes that the evergreen trees had been cut into, ready for the coming winter months.
My soldier suggested we venture further and walk around the grounds a bit, for there were woods and a small lake on the estate to be seen.
Somehow, on our way out of the gardens, we became separated from dear Lucy, but my charming soldier reassured me we would find her again soon, after a short walk in the grounds.
He offered me his arm, which I took with some hesitation, aware of the watchful eyes of other guests as we departed.
The woods were much cooler than the lawn outside the gallery had been, and my chivalrous soldier took off his jacket to drape around my shoulders when I confessed that I felt a chill.
Thankfully, it was only a short walk through the dense trees, where I held my soldier’s arm for balance with one hand and my skirts up with the other to avoid the undergrowth.
Soon, we emerged from the trees, back into the glorious autumn sunshine.
The lake spread out in front of us, the still surface sparkling in the mid-afternoon light.
As we stood there, admiring the view, the warmth of the sun bathing us and a gentle breeze carrying the scent of falling leaves, I couldn’t believe that I had lived in Sleepy Hollow my whole life, but had never realised what beauty lay right on my doorstep.
Well, dear diary, how to carry on? I feel my cheeks heating now at the mere thought and can’t possibly put into written words what happened next.
My soldier took me by the hand and led me down to the water’s edge, his hold firm yet gentle.
The air was still and the world seemed to go quiet around us.
I can’t even recollect hearing the call of birdsong.
He reached out to brush a stray strand of hair behind my ear, his amber eyes reflecting the golden light of the sun.
His touch sent a shiver through my whole being.
Then, ever so slowly, he leaned in, his lips brushing against mine with a tenderness that took my breath away.
His lips lingered on mine, sending waves of warmth through me. And as he pulled back ever so slightly, his gaze still locked on mine, I knew this would be a moment I would remember forever.
He leaned back in, pressing his lips to mine once more.
This time, I felt his hand lifting my skirts, running along the skin of my inner thigh.
His fingers found what they were searching for and began to rub in smooth circles, soft at first and then more insistent.
We stayed like this, wrapped together at the water’s edge until the light that glittered across the surface of the lake also danced behind my closed eyes.
I close the diary softly. It’s hard to believe that this past Katrina is younger than I am now.
The way she writes is far more elegant than anything I could put together, with her vivid description of sparkling lakes, I could almost be there with her.
And at just sixteen, she was taking carriages to estates to view artwork that’s probably on display in a museum right now.
I can’t help but feel a pang of jealously.
The way this Katrina writes about two loving parents buying gifts for her birthday and preparing for fabulous balls that brought the whole town together.
The one parent I have left has barely spoken to me since I got here.
Katrina’s life seems to be full of dancing, bustling town markets and fine art.
She’s even getting more action than I am from this gorgeous unnamed soldier.
Her Sleepy Hollow seems like a much nicer place to be.