The Confession

by Beverly Lewis

  Waiting until talk of the oil painting had diminished some, Katherine inquired about her application form. “Has Fulton decided anything permanent about me yet?”

  Rosie smiled. “He’s upstairs just now. But you should be getting your formal acceptance any moment, I would think.”

  “I’d be most grateful,” she murmured and resumed her work, filling the pie. As she did, her thoughts took wings, and she saw in her mind’s eye a little girl, pulling a chair across the kitchen floor to the countertop. The youngster crawled up on the chair and stood tall as she could, watching her mamma make pies. With great interest she remained there until Rebecca asked if she wanted to help pinch the crust down around the edges. Of course she wanted to. And she had. She’d done a right fine job of it, too, her Amish mamma had said.

  Katherine stared up at a row of gleaming copper pots hanging from the massive hood over the gas range. What was Rebecca doing today? Was she entertaining the womenfolk … making pies?

  She wished she’d quit thinking about Hickory Hollow so much. This was her home now. This beautiful, fancy place.

  Fulton Taylor, a man of few words, rang the bell, summoning his wife. Rosie arrived swiftly, somewhat out of breath, he noticed.

  When they were alone, he showed her Katherine’s application. “What do you make of it?”

  Rosie took the sheet from him and followed his pointed finger as he read the name out loud. “Katherine Marshfield. Seems a bit odd, don’t you think?”

  “Hmm, Marshfield. It does seem rather strange.”

  “Who is this new maid we’ve brought into the house … so close to Christmas?”

  Rosie shook her head. “I don’t know, Fulton. But there’s something peculiar about her. That is, something about her that reminds me of someone.”

  “You may be right.” He nodded thoughtfully. “Though who it could be escapes me.…”

  Rosie jumped in. “Just this morning, Nurse Judah mentioned how unusual it was that the new maid’s last name so nearly resembles the mistress’s maiden name—Mayfield.”

  “The name is one thing … but the birth date … quite another.”

  “What do you mean?” Rosie peered at the application, getting her nose down close to the paper. “Dear me, I need my reading glasses. Can’t see much of anything without them.”

  He rattled off Katherine Marshfield’s date of birth. Then—“What do you remember of Mrs. Bennett’s journal? Didn’t you record some entries for her a while back?”

  “Only when she was feeling her worst. On three separate occasions, I believe.”

  “And wasn’t there a place in the journal for important dates?” he asked, feeling edgy now. “I rather remember your mentioning it.”

  “Yes … why, yes! June fifth is a most important date in Mrs. Bennett’s book. I noticed it in all three entries. Her baby daughter was born that day.”

  His wife’s face flushed with color, and he watched as she rushed to the desk drawer. Still holding the application, he waited for her to locate her bifocals.

  Rosie hurried back to his side to study the page. Her forehead creased with deep lines as she read. “It looks like … can it be? Katherine Marshfield’s birthday is the same as Katie Lapp’s!”

  They were silent, staring at one another, mouths agape.

  It was Rosie who spoke first. “The Amishwoman doesn’t look the least bit like Mrs. Bennett—not at all. The thought struck me straightaway.”

  “Both are redheads,” he observed.

  “But nothing close to the same color.”

  He went to sit on their double bed, saying no more.

  Rosie hovered near. “Something smells rotten to me. I intend to investigate. Are you in?”

  “It may be best to wait,” he suggested calmly. “Let things play themselves out … without interference from us.”

  Rosie squinted at the application once again, shaking her head before removing her glasses. “Why not push for answers? Today … before the artist comes to paint the Christmas portrait.”

  He folded the application in half and placed it inside his white butler’s jacket. “Keep your eyes and ears open, Rosie. But say nothing at all, do you hear?”

  His wife grinned back at him. “Yes, sir.” She saluted him comically.

  “Very well, then.” And he was off like a drum major to oversee supper preparations.

  Lydia Miller was quite astonished to find Rebecca Lapp and the woman’s great-aunt standing on her back steps. “Welcome,” she said, opening the door wide.

  “Merry Christmas, Lydia!” they called out in unison.

  “And a Merry Christmas to you,” she replied, showing them in.

  Once their wraps were off and they’d gotten themselves settled in her living room, Lydia offered her visitors something warm to drink. “Hot chocolate, maybe?”

  “Tea for me, please,” said Ella Mae.

  “Hot cocoa would be nice,” replied Rebecca.

  Scurrying off to the kitchen, Lydia wondered what was on their minds. Goodness’ sake, it was Christmas Eve, or at least would be in a matter of hours. And the cold … the ladies had braved the harshest winds and dropping temperatures to make this trip.

  “It’s been such a long time since we’ve come,” Rebecca commented when Lydia was back from the kitchen.

  Lydia sat down in an overstuffed chair. “What’s kept you away?” She felt suddenly awkward. Shouldn’t have said it that way, probably.

  She noticed Rebecca’s sidelong glance at Ella Mae and realized that Katie’s mamma must’ve caught the message. “Oh, I didn’t mean to say anything hurtful, not at all,” Lydia spoke up quickly.

  “You’re an awful kind woman to take my girl in like this.” The words seemed to stumble out of Rebecca’s mouth. “I couldn’t have hoped for a better place … not if I’d planned it myself.”

  Lydia couldn’t be sure, but she thought the woman’s lips trembled. “Peter and I … we were happy to do it. Glad to help Katie out … anytime.”

  She could’ve said more, much more. Could’ve asked why they’d shunned the young woman so harshly, not allowing the People to speak to her. But she kept her lips shut. This was none of her business. What the Amish did in the Hollow was not her concern.

  Now Rebecca seemed to be fidgeting, looking about the room with anxious eyes. Was she searching for Katie? Was this the reason for the visit?

  Lydia’s heart ached with the desperate situation at hand. Should she say anything? she wondered. Should she break the disappointing news to her poor, dear cousin that Katie was already off to New York?

  When the water was hot enough, she excused herself and went to the kitchen. What would the Lord have her do or say to Rebecca?

  It was very nearly a prayer, her thought was. More than anything, she wanted to lift the dejected woman’s spirits. Set her heart free of worry, free of care. If the Amish allowed part-singing, now would be a good time to burst forth with hymns of praise, thanking the Creator God for His tender mercies over the lives of His children. She thought of such a hymn and hummed it silently.

  Soon the hot drinks were ready. She found her favorite handpainted serving tray—so nice and sturdy it was—and placed three cups on it. “A little something to warm you,” she said, heading back into the living room.

  She served them, yet prayed without speaking, asking the Lord for wisdom and guidance while her Amish relatives sipped hot cocoa and tea here in her house. Here, without their dear Katie near. On a quiet Christmas Eve afternoon.

  Rebecca felt the heat seep through her ceramic mug—not plastic as were her cups at home. Was Katie also enjoying the fine and fancy things here at Cousin Lydia’s?

  Gazing around the room, she realized that her wayward daughter had for sure and for certain gotten a taste of the English lifestyle. She noticed the wall-to-wall carpeting, the comfortable sofa and chairs, even an overstuffed footrest, of all things! And there was the electric lighting, with a right fancy glass lamp next to her on a round
wooden table—something Peter had made with his own hands, probably.

  Framed family photographs and paintings decorated the walls, and, ach, those worldly floral drapes at the windows.…

  ’Twasn’t the first time she’d laid eyes on Lydia’s frills and things. Shameful, these Mennonites … branches off the original Swiss Anabaptist faith. Too bad they hadn’t followed Jacob Ammann’s teaching back in the late 1600s and “stayed in Jesus.” Too bad they’d gone and let electricity and cars corrupt their lives.

  Nevertheless, her Katie had run to this Mennonite home. She’d come here and rented a room, told her mamma all about it before ever leaving the Amish farmhouse. Yet being the obedient woman she was, Rebecca had heeded the stern shunning decree given by Bishop John—harshest one she’d known in all these parts. Only other place she’d heard of not being allowed to talk to a shunned party was somewhere out in Ohio.

  “I suppose you want to know how Katie, er … Katherine is doing,” Lydia said out of the blue.

  Because she had been ordered by Samuel not to speak their daughter’s name, Rebecca thought most carefully how she should answer. Oh, how desperately she wanted to talk about her daughter. To know how she was doing here. She felt as if something were filling her up, wanting to spill out of her, something starving deep within. “It would be awful nice to know, jah,” she answered. “Is she well?”

  “To tell the truth, Katherine’s had the hardest time dealing with her pain, but having the guitar did help her out quite a bit, I think,” Lydia remarked. “Singing is good for the soul.”

  “Oh” was all Rebecca could say. Sounded like an insult to her, and she hoped Lydia wasn’t going to dicker over doctrinal differences. Now wasn’t the time.

  Lydia continued. “Katie’s gone, left yesterday—headed up north to find her natural mother, but you probably figured that was gonna happen sooner or later.”

  “Jah, I did.” She looked down, shaking slightly, and welcomed Ella Mae’s gnarled hand on hers. The warm and tender touch reassured her, let her know that someone cared. Someone wise and old loved her in spite of the actions of her headstrong daughter.

  “I believe your Katie will be all right,” offered Lydia, coming over to stand beside her. “Peter and I have been praying. So are many others. God cares for His own.”

  Rebecca nodded. She wouldn’t let on to a Mennonite that the Lord God heavenly Father was listening in on her prayers more than He’d ever have time for Lydia’s. Reason being, the Millers and their church friends and relatives had left the faith of their fathers. How on earth did they expect God almighty to hear and answer prayers from the lips of unrepentant souls?

  “Well, I hope ya have a nice Christmas with your family.” She forced a smile for her cousin.

  What she really wondered was how Katie would manage, off in some strange place for the holidays. ’Course, she said nothing of the kind, didn’t even ask to be reminded of the exact city the girl was headed to. Wasn’t any of Lydia’s business how or what she was thinking concerning her daughter most nearly every hour of the day … and night.

  “Will Elam and Annie be having Christmas dinner at your place?” she heard Lydia ask.

  “Jah, they’ll be spending all day tomorrow with us—baby Daniel, too.” She turned to the Wise Woman, just then realizing that Ella Mae had said not a word the entire visit.

  The old woman let out a gargled sigh and smiled. “Better hope for clear weather so’s everyone can get to where they wanna go.”

  Rebecca noticed the snow was still coming down awful heavy, and she placed her mug and spoon on the coffee table in front of her. “Looks to me like we’d best be headin’ on home.”

  “Do keep in touch,” Lydia said. “And don’t wait so long between visits.”

  Rebecca helped Ella Mae up out of the cushiony seat. The elderly woman stood tall, not without several squeaky grunts, however. Then waiting for her aunt to stand in one place for a moment, regaining her equilibrium, no doubt, she offered her arm. The last thing she wanted was for Ella Mae to fall and break another hip. Not at her advanced age. Not on Christmas Eve.

  “Are you ready?” she asked the Wise Woman.

  Lifting a finger, Ella Mae paused a moment before speaking. A strange film came over her eyes. “The Lord blesses those who bless Him—and you, Lydia Miller, have taken a young one into your care.” Then she quoted from the Scriptures in her husky little voice. “ ‘Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.’ ”

  The verse pricked Rebecca’s heart. Like sharp stones stuck inside an old work shoe, they stung her.

  Chapter Fourteen

  It was Rosie who first noticed the backs of Katie Lapp’s hands. She had just wheeled Mrs. Bennett into the sitting room, where appetizers were soon to be served. Surprised that Katie had not so much as turned to acknowledge her mother’s arrival, she went over to where the woman was standing before one of the tiny Christmas trees. “Your mother’s feeling some better since she rested.”

  Katie did not respond. Holding one of the lavishly wrapped presents, she seemed lost in thought.

  As Rosie rescued one of the delicate tree decorations dangling from a low-lying branch, she got a closer look at the young woman’s hands. Odd, she thought. They appeared to be terribly rough and raw, where just this morning they had been white and smooth as silk. One of them was bleeding slightly—on the middle knuckle.

  “Miss Lapp?” said Rosie.

  “Oh, uh … I’m sorry. Must’ve been daydreaming.” Katie seemed startled. “Did you say something?”

  “Well, I noticed the cut on your hand and thought to offer you some salve. Nurse Judah must surely have some around here.”

  “Oh, it’s nothing,” Katie said, her face showing more awareness now. “Rough hands come from doing chores all day long. You can imagine.”

  Rosie didn’t believe her, not for one second. Nary a flaw had she seen on the woman’s hands earlier.

  “Don’t the Amish have any modern conveniences?” she asked.

  Katie smiled, showing perfectly straight white teeth. Almost too white, too perfect. “Nothing to write home about.”

  “Excuse me?” Rosie said, glancing at Mrs. Bennett who seemed content enough to sit where she could admire her daughter. Thankfully, the mistress was too far away to catch their whispered conversation.

  “I’d rather not talk about my life with the Amish,” Katie said abruptly.

  The response took Rosie aback. Lowering her voice again she went on. “Are things going well for you in the Amish community?”

  “Good as can be expected” came the reply. “But I’m here to spend time with my mother. At least for now.”

  Rosie nodded. “Yes … yes. Your mother.” She turned and paused to glimpse the lovely, frail lady in the wheelchair situated near the mahogany mantel.

  Almost unconsciously, she began to compare the two women—the set of their eyes and the color of their hair—as Katie made her way across the room to Mrs. Bennett. Without being conspicuous, Rosie studied the young woman who still seemed rather muddled. Or was it something else … reluctance to join them, perhaps?

  The more she observed, the more she wondered if it was possible Mrs. Bennett’s daughter resembled her natural father instead of the mistress.

  She dismissed the idea as ridiculous. Anyone could see that Katie Lapp was not the mistress’s daughter. Had not a single physical trait in common. Saddest of all, Mrs. Bennett might never see the truth for herself. Not the way her eyes seemed to be failing a little more each day. Nor the way she’d freely consented to hospital admittance … whenever the time came.

  The young Amishwoman had not a speck of Laura Bennett in her! Not her gentle spirit, her sweet ways … not a bit of it.

  Rosie wanted to announce a prayer meeting on the spot, wanted to call down the heavens. Poor Mrs. Bennett would need the Good Lord’s help for the days ahead—not only to come to grips with her dying but to deal
with something far worse. The fact that an impostor, in the form of a quaint Amish girl, was living right here in her own house!

  But who was to reveal the deceit, get to the bottom of things? My, oh my, how would the bitter truth affect the dear missus herself?

  Dylan noticed her immediately upon entering the parlor area of Laura’s suite. She very nearly blended in with the Christmas trees on either side of her. Would have, too, had she not been wearing that frumpy black apron over her long green dress. Amish green the seamstress had aptly described the fabric wrapped around the long bolt at the fabric shop.

  He noticed, too, her slumped stance … the droopy face. Was she missing Christmas with her boyfriend?

  He wanted her to stand erect, to behave as if she were enjoying herself. Excellent posture and a pleasant facial expression went a long way toward playing a convincing role. She was being paid well enough!

  “It’s nearly Christmas Eve, isn’t it?” he announced, fingering the lapels of his suit coat. The question was rhetorical—mindless small talk—primarily for Laura’s benefit. Perhaps she would feel a stab of guilt for not including him at her party and relent.

  He was well aware of her lovely attire. She was dressed to the nines for an evening of exquisite dining and intimate conversation with “Katie,” the clever actress otherwise known as Alyson Cairns. Had Laura had a change of heart about wanting him seated at her table?

  The actress strutted over and sat down across the sofa from him, casting occasional shy glances around the festive room. Those innocent expressions seemed only to emerge when either Rosie or Laura spoke to her, he noticed. The sensual parting of her full lips and those smoldering eyes—they were for him. Embarrassing, though it was.

  What was going through her mind? he wondered. Certainly not the task at hand—portraying herself as an innocent Amishwoman … Laura’s daughter. He frowned, hoping she was not discouraged with her role.