The Confession

by Beverly Lewis

  Had it not been for the fact that the hired model was wearing the homespun getup he’d acquired from the best seamstresses in town, she might’ve been any young college student.

  For a moment, he recalled Laura in her prime—before the disease had left her gaunt and hollow eyed, a shadow of the vibrant beauty she’d been.

  Several times he caught “Katie” looking back at him as he attempted a lively conversation with Laura, juggling the frequent asides with Rosie and now Nurse Judah, who had come in from the hallway to join the group.

  It struck him that Laura seemed fidgety. Had she been adequately medicated? This was not a good time to risk a lighter dose, what with those horrid tremors and contractures erupting seemingly out of nowhere. Perhaps he should have a word with Natalie.

  He was about to motion the nurse to join him in the hall when Rosie spoke up. “We’ll be having the appetizers served here in a few minutes, sir.” She eyed Dylan with dark, probing eyes, growing even darker as she stared pointedly.

  So that’s how they’re going to play this, he thought, pulling his gaze away from Rosie and purposely concentrating on Laura.

  He waited.

  But her eyes remained fixed on her lap, more precisely, her hands. Yet he continued to regard her. Would she speak up—invite him at the last minute? Now was her chance if ever there was to be one. She could show her true colors, display her undying devotion to the man who’d brought her Amish daughter home to her.

  The waiting turned awkward; an annoyingly empty space of time ensued, one devoid of a response.

  So be it. She’d dug her grave … let her lie in it. This he thought without remorse.

  “Do have a wonderful evening, all of you.” His words slipped out, smooth and measured. He dared not look at “Katie” now. Neither Katie nor Laura.

  His wife desired an evening alone with her daughter, and he presumed to know the reason. For questioning, no doubt. For gaining an understanding of Amish life and its peculiar customs. For catching up on all she’d missed through the years.

  He almost sneered as he contemplated it. Thankfully, he’d already anticipated the cozy scene between mother and daughter. And Katie Lapp—model and actress—had been well rehearsed for just such a quiet evening alone with Laura. He had been over this business—what to say … how to respond—a million and one times with her.

  Tonight was the night. With or without him at the table, his wife’s supposed daughter was on the verge of pulling the entire woolen cloak over the eyes of the soon-to-be-deceased mistress of the Bennett estate. Conning her way into Laura’s good graces, she would inherit Katherine’s birthright, which would, in due time, be transferred to Dylan’s own hefty accounts.

  He could scarcely wait for a report of the evening. A play-by-play would be most entertaining, indeed. He stood and excused himself. Then, planting a guileless grin on his face, he went around the wheelchair, leaned over, and gave Laura a tender kiss on her cheek.

  Not exactly a victory kiss, he thought. Oh, but very close. That kiss would be forthcoming.

  “Good night, my darling,” he crooned. “Have a marvelous evening … both of you.”

  “Thank you” was all she said. Her manners were intact, obviously. Yet he knew without a doubt that she was most eager to get on with becoming better acquainted with Katie. Was ready for him to be gone, on his way.

  Irritated, he rushed up to his office and rang for a chauffeur. He’d misjudged the final outcome of the evening entirely. Thought he had Laura figured out better than this. “Fulton,” he thundered into the intercom, “have Theodore bring a car around to the front.”

  “Theodore’s busy presently, sir.”

  “Oh?”

  “I believe he’s en route with Mrs. Bennett’s commissioned artist—a Mr. Justin Wirth.”

  “Yes, yes, I know of him.” He was now feeling annoyed at Fulton, of all things. One delay after another.

  Justin Wirth, indeed. His sickly wife was certainly cunning when she wanted to be.

  “Shall I page Rochester for you, sir?” asked Fulton.

  “Rochester will do.” The new driver was rather young. Not his first choice on any given day.

  Intent on getting out for the evening, Dylan was rather looking forward to a fine dinner and a few drinks. Heaven knows he needed a diversion.

  Looking out over the grounds, he watched the snow as it fell. Heavier now and falling fast. Would it never let up? Just as well. There’d be no arguing with Alyson over staying on for Christmas if she was snowed in. Boyfriend or no.

  Laura’s “heir” would have no recourse but to fulfill her contractual agreement. In short, play the part to the finish.

  Besides wanting to figure out a way to get herself into Laura’s private suite, Katherine was eager to lay eyes on Katie Lapp. She knew, from recent experience, that she wouldn’t sleep a wink tonight if she didn’t get herself some answers. At least a sensible explanation to set her mind at ease.

  Therefore, she must determine if the Katie woman strolling the corridors of this house wore the Amish devotional cap. Finding out for sure had become an obsession as she spent her day working in the kitchen, assisting in dining room preparations for the feast, and, in general, filling in wherever Garrett or Fulton needed help.

  An unexpected turn of events came early in the evening when Selig asked for help shaping and rolling the hors d’oeuvres. “I’ll need someone to take this platter to Mrs. Bennett’s sitting room shortly.” He looked right at her. “Katherine?”

  When she realized he was addressing her, she replied, “Me? You want me to take the appetizers to the mistress?”

  Selig nodded. “They’re hors d’oeuvres, Katherine.”

  “Yes … I know.” Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed one of the housemaids coming out of the pantry. Rosie Taylor. The woman wore a most suspicious smile on her face and tossed a conniving glance at Selig as she bustled into the kitchen.

  Putting two and two together, Katherine felt just as she had the first time the wind had caught hold of her covering, making it stand straight out behind her little-girl head. Tendrils of loose hair had tickled her face that day. She was schtruwwlich, for sure and for certain. But never mind her unkempt hair; she had experienced total exhilaration.

  She felt the selfsame way now. Her Christmas Eve wish might be coming true after all. Katherine Mayfield, fancy English girl at heart, was about to lay eyes on her one true mamma.

  Glory be!

  Chapter Fifteen

  The smell of fresh pine was heavy in the air as she carried the silver tray down the marble hall. Her heart pounded so hard she thought it might lift the ruffle right off her maid’s pinafore apron.

  Ach, she hoped her hair was in place, lipstick on straight. How many times had she imagined this moment? Too many to count.

  And the dream last night, that unrelenting nightmare.… She must’ve dreamed it half a dozen times.

  Always, she was on the wrong side of an enormous door. That door, how it towered above her. Yet she could hear the sound of Laura’s voice behind it, inviting her, nay, pleading for Katherine to come inside.

  The door represented a blockade, as honest-to-goodness real as any she’d suffered in life. Yet the vision had persisted, its message one of despair. She had been kept from her real mamma by a door—a door of secrecy, a door of deceit.

  She shivered, thinking of the lengths her Amish parents had taken to hide the satin baby gown … to keep the secret hidden all the years of her life.

  Now … now she stood before a pair of wide French doors. Glass, with lovely rounded transoms overhead. Just inside, four women sat around a roaring fire, two of them with their backs to her, talking softly. A nurse, a maid—Rosie—a young Amishwoman, apparently, and a patient in a wheelchair …

  A sob caught in her throat. The woman in the wheelchair—was it Laura Bennett? How could it be that she looked so young and so very ill at the same time?

  It was Laura’s hair that c
aptured her attention. Caught it and pulled her gaze so intensely she found herself longing to touch it. What of the texture? Richly auburn in color, yet was it thick—so heavy at times the tresses weighed heavily on her scalp?

  The woman’s profile seized her as well. She couldn’t take her eyes off the fine nose, the delicate chin line.

  So many similarities.… Why hadn’t anyone noticed?

  Katherine tried desperately to control the joyful tears that threatened to spoil her view of the gathering. It was all she could do to keep the floodgate in check. But she knew if she gave in to one little drop, there’d be more tears than a body could count.

  Taking a deep breath and refusing to cry, she gradually regained her composure. She did it partly by turning her scrutiny away from the mistress and concentrating hard on the youngest woman of the group—the one wearing the Amish dress and unusual cap—the strangest getup she’d ever seen. Was this the woman who called herself Katie Lapp?

  She wanted to step in closer, see if the clothes might be similar to the ones worn by other church districts in Lancaster. Then she remembered she was supposed to be serving appetizers, not gawking at strangers, for pity’s sake!

  Overcome with rapture at seeing Laura even from this distance— the gladness all mixed up with apprehension—she was stopped suddenly by a slight commotion. The Amishwoman had gotten up out of her chair and was hurrying over in Katherine’s direction. The young woman looked frantic, as if, for all the world, she needed some air.

  Pushing past her at the threshold, Katie Lapp nearly knocked the tray out of Katherine’s hands. “Excuse me” came the muttered words.

  Katherine peered over her shoulder, wondering what was going on. Had someone said something to upset her? “Are you all right?” Katherine asked, turning to inquire.

  “Just feeling a bit … uh … oh, I don’t know. It’s getting too hot in there—so close to the fire.”

  Strange, she thought, no one else is complaining. In fact, when Katherine glanced back at the cozy threesome remaining—Laura Bennett snugly wrapped in an afghan—there was no evidence to suggest any of the other women were suffering from the heat.

  “Are you sure you’re too warm?” she pressed.

  The woman seemed to force a smile. “Maybe more lonely than anything.”

  “Lonely?”

  “You know, homesick. For my family. We Amish are very closeknit.”

  Katherine was caught off guard. She understood that feeling, all right. The woman looked so absolutely miserable. “Is there something I can do for you?”

  “No, there’s nothing anyone can do. But it would be wonderful to get my hands on a phone somewhere.” Her eyes lit up as she spoke. “That would be real nice.”

  Katherine’s ears perked up. The Amish didn’t use phones for the sake of carrying on a conversation or visiting. They got in their carriages and went off to see their friends and relatives. The bishops liked it that way—kept church members more closely connected.

  She was about to explain but caught herself. Shouldn’t be letting on what she knew about Plain life. Wouldn’t be right smart.

  “There are plenty of telephones in the house,” Katherine found herself saying instead.

  “Oh, I know. It’s just that …” Obviously frustrated, Katie flung her arms wide, bumping the tray. Quickly, the women righted it.

  “Here, let me take this for you,” the young woman offered, “since I ought to get back in there anyway.”

  “Oh no, it’s my job.” While still holding the tray, Katherine got a closer look at the woman’s dress. It buttoned down the front, of all things. Lancaster Amish used hooks and eyes, sometimes straight pins, but never, ever buttons!

  Then, somewhere between supposing and knowing, she got a bright idea. Squinting out at the thick snow flurries, she said, “Des is bidder kalt haus.”

  Katie looked at her with a wary expression in her eyes. “What did you say?”

  “I’m sorry, I thought you spoke Dutch,” Katherine replied, her heart in her throat.

  Katie mustered up a feeble “I used to.”

  “Well, then?” Katherine realized she was in way over her head, as Dat would always say.

  For the longest time, Katie stared at her. “My family hasn’t spoken Dutch in years,” she scoffed. “We ain’t Old Order anymore.”

  “Oh? What are you, then?” Katherine insisted, thinking she’d rather be asking, “Who are you?”

  Without warning, the young woman lunged for the appetizer tray, and without a backward glance, marched into the sitting room.

  Katherine stood there aghast—angry, too—unable to comprehend what had just taken place. But one thing she understood, for sure and for certain. This Katie Lapp was no more Amish than the man in the moon!

  Theodore didn’t ever remember a time when the roads had been this treacherous. At every intersection he applied a pumping motion to the brakes to avoid slipping and sliding. Thankfully, the streets were abandoned, as even those shoppers who had procrastinated till the eleventh hour had finally made their purchases. A few huddled here and there, waiting in shop windows for the bus or a taxi.

  Clocking his speed, he noticed the limousine was inching along at about nine miles per hour. Maybe less.

  “We’re going almost as slow as a horse and buggy,” he said, chuckling to the passenger in the backseat. “Appropriate, I suppose, as we’ve been entertaining an Amishwoman at the estate.”

  Theodore glanced into the rearview mirror at the young man.

  Justin Wirth was nodding. “So I hear.” He paused a moment, then—“I was surprised, and saddened, to hear of Mrs. Bennett’s failing health. She seemed quite well a few months back.”

  “It’s terribly unfortunate, and I’d be the first to say that the kindhearted mistress doesn’t deserve such a debilitating illness.”

  “Seems to me that finding her daughter might serve to raise her spirits.”

  “One would think so.”

  “How good of Mr. Bennett to locate the girl,” Mr. Wirth remarked.

  Theodore gripped the steering wheel. “Mr. Bennett, you say? He was the one to locate the Amishwoman?”

  “Didn’t you know?” came the reply. “Why, when Mrs. Bennett phoned me, she seemed quite pleased.”

  “Indeed?” He felt as if he might not be able to pry his hands free from the wheel.

  So Dylan Bennett had been responsible for finding Katie Lapp. Of course—it made sense. Perfect sense. He pondered the situation. The man was worse than devious. Worse.

  Why hadn’t he put two and two together?

  Natalie wheeled her patient into the bedroom to administer the evening shot. Supper would be served in a few minutes, and she was encouraged by the way Mrs. Bennett seemed to be feeling tonight. Rather a surprise after her exhausting morning.

  “Mr. Wirth is an absolute wonder,” the mistress remarked. “Braving the weather on a night like this … and coming out on such short notice—Christmas Eve on top of it.”

  It was obvious Laura was pleased. The color had risen in her face, and Natalie noticed a renewed sparkle in the brown eyes.

  “You’re very lucky, I’d say,” she replied. “The mother-daughter portrait will be a lovely gift for Miss Katie.”

  Mrs. Bennett turned abruptly. “You don’t think she will mind, do you?”

  “Having her portrait made? Why should she mind? She’ll love it.”

  Mrs. Bennett smiled. “Good.”

  “Your daughter seems to be having a wonderful time.”

  “Well … it’s taken longer for the two of us to warm up to each other than I’d ever anticipated. Perhaps because we have so many years of catching up to do.”

  Natalie was careful to guide the needle, inserting it into the bulging vein. Mrs. Bennett winced, and Natalie regretted for the hundredth time having to inflict yet more pain on the gentle woman. A soul who never complained, unlike many MS patients who often became irritable and hard to handle.

 
“Your pain’s nearly over,” she said softly.

  “I know,” said the mistress, blinking. “Yes, I know.”

  The words and the inflection in the weak voice took Natalie by surprise, and without further delay, she unlocked the wheelchair. “We have a party to attend,” she said, willing the lump from her throat.

  “And a portrait to sit for,” Mrs. Bennett added, more brightly. “A portrait with my own dear Katie.”

  Things seemed to be working out between the mother and daughter, after all. Surprisingly, Katie’s interest in Laura had taken a sudden turn, almost to the point that Natalie wondered what had been said or done to liven things up between them.

  Oddly enough, she felt she could accurately pinpoint the moment when everything had begun to change. Katie had come in from the hall, carrying the appetizer tray. She’d served her mother first, then glancing over her shoulder, seemed to be looking at someone.

  Turning, Natalie had noticed the new maid, apparently too shy to enter the mistress’s private quarters. For a moment, the young woman had gazed longingly from beyond the glass doors. And when their eyes met, Katherine had scurried away.

  Rosie observed the artist briefly as he set up his easel and canvas in the sitting room, off in the corner, to be sure; nevertheless, his paints and brushes and things were already scattered across the drop cloth beneath.

  What an interesting turn of events, she thought. A mother-daughterportrait sitting on Christmas Eve.

  Wouldn’t Mr. Bennett be surprised when he returned? The man was accustomed to having his way about managing the affairs of the estate—not giving in to what he would surely consider a whim of his dying wife. Rosie sincerely hoped Mrs. Bennett’s decision to hire the artist would not cause more conflict than merriment for the holidays.

  She shoved the gloomy thought aside and went about her duties, assisting in serving the mistress and the woman called Katie Lapp.

  The table was tastefully furnished in every respect. Small in comparison to the immense formal one in the dining room, yet charming, enhanced by the mistress’s favorite nineteenth-century floral dishes featuring a poinsettia and holly motif over a tablecloth of ecru lace.