The Confession

by Beverly Lewis

  Except Laura Bennett’s daughter, thought Laura, grateful for this day. And for the love.

  The hour was late when Natalie came to check on her. “You seem to have enjoyed yourself,” the nurse said, preparing to take her back to the dressing area.

  Smiling at her daughter, Laura reached for Katie’s hand. “I’d say one of the best days of my life.”

  Katie smiled sweetly. “For me, too.”

  She felt her throat constrict with emotion. “We’ll have another lovely time tomorrow. The best Christmas ever.”

  “I’m counting the hours,” Katie said, standing to leave.

  The women hugged briefly, then Laura watched, with failing eyes, her dear one depart for the Tiffany Room upstairs.

  Tomorrow’s the day, she decided. I’ll tell Katie about my family—hergrandparents—and all that is to be hers … on Christmas Day.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Dylan Bennett, sitting in the plush armchair of a hotel lobby, gazed about him at the crowd of stranded travelers mobbing the area, arranging for a room. Just his luck—lousy timing to boot!

  Not to worry, he told himself. His aspiring New York actress could handle herself quite nicely, with or without him at the estate. He smiled, commending himself on a choice pick. The girl could go far—maybe even Hollywood, after this stint.

  Now, if he could just obtain a luxury suite—the kind he’d first requested. Because of crowded conditions, the place was packed, the best rooms taken. He might’ve easily succumbed to the offering of a simple room for himself and Rochester, the bumbling idiot who’d driven them into a snowbank. But given the circumstances, he’d rather lounge … and fume in the elegantly furnished sitting area. In the meantime, he would consider his options: either wait out the storm, or hire a tow truck to pull the Mercedes out of the ditch. Anything to keep from sharing cramped quarters with Rochester.

  Fact: Apparently, no end was in sight for the ferocious Christmas Eve blizzard, howling lionlike as it dumped a record-breaking blanket of snow on the city. No hope of obtaining even the most primitive of tow trucks at this hour. Had he not just heard from the bellhop that roads east of Canandaigua were impassable—County Road 10 having been blocked off moments earlier by highway patrol—he might have seriously entertained the notion of summoning Theodore, his senior chauffeur, to retrieve them.

  Alas, he was stuck … trapped only a few miles from home. And to top it off, the phones in the entire place were tied up. All of them. He could kick himself for leaving his cell phone back home. So here he sat, a man of means … displaced, unsettled, and waiting, waiting for some loser to get off the phone.

  Glancing across the atrium, he noticed Rochester lingering near the phone booths. Present assignment: to signal Dylan when a telephone was available. Just reward for the young, inept chauffeur. The lad had much to learn, he decided.

  He checked his watch. Nearly midnight. Was his wife resting now, happy as a lark? Had she enjoyed a satisfactory evening, become comfortable enough with Katie to reveal the generous plan for her daughter’s future?

  Knowing how Laura adored Christmas—her religious beliefs being what they were—he suspected that if things had gone well, tomorrow might be the day he’d been waiting for. Waiting was the name of the game—in business and in matters of life—and legacies.

  Annoyed that he might have to spend the holiday marooned, he reached for The Wall Street Journal. Rochester would just have to call to him when the next phone was available. In the meantime, before he dialed up the estate, before he disguised his voice to address whomever answered, and before he spoke with drowsy Miss Katie Lapp, impressive impostor, he’d have a look at a few stock prices, just to pass the time.

  The clock on the mantel chimed twelve times, wakening Dan Fisher out of a deep sleep. He’d drifted off at his desk, and although the angle of his head in relationship to his neck was creating an annoying crick, he stayed put for a few more minutes.

  In spite of this being the night before Christmas, he’d spent the entire evening composing a letter to his sister. Had he not been thoroughly exhausted afterward, he might’ve headed upstairs to bed. But emotionally spent, he’d fallen asleep with his head resting heavily on his hands.

  Slipping back into a half dream state, the images before him were as real as the day the sailing accident happened. And always the same.…

  He found himself face down, regaining consciousness on a sand reef, having been swept up by the ocean below. How he’d gotten there, he did not know, but he knew one thing sure: he was alive when he should have drowned!

  Swimming to shore had been excruciating … he thought his arms might give out after more than an hour in the swirling waves. Attempting to make headway toward shore, yet not seeing, not knowing where he was in the midst of the vicious storm, at one point he thought of allowing the ocean’s fury to roll over him, bury him at sea. He contemplated merely breathing in the deadly salt water, receiving the ocean into his bursting lungs … succumbing … relinquishing the will to live, to stop the pain, the horrid wrenching in his chest.

  But he had survived. By God’s almighty hand, he was alive!

  The half-hour chime jarred him to life again thirty minutes later. This time he picked himself up, left the study lamp lit, and ambled toward the stairs.

  He looked back at the letter.

  The letter.

  The startling message would change everything, would rearrange his family’s very existence—maybe even alter the lives of the People.

  Shatter yesterday, awaken truth.

  With the fracturing of years would eventually come the Ban and Meinding—excommunication and ultimate shunning.

  His.

  By returning to confess to his father his grave deception concerning his accident, yet at the same time refusing to return to the Amish community—by doing that, he would be setting himself up for high jeopardy. Exposing himself to an Amish bishop’s decree. This by the mere mailing of a letter.

  The envelope, contents inserted, lay diagonal on the desk, unsigned, and as of yet, undated. Still, he was certain of one thing: This message must be the one mailed to Annie. None of the previous rough drafts were acceptable to him. Yet he wondered how his sister would take the news, worried that quite possibly, after reading and discovering he was alive after all, she might faint … or worse, fail to believe the honest words he’d written.

  He hoped rather she might study the handwriting. Look past the words, the English-sounding phrases learned from his years out in the world, find her “deceased” brother buried between the lines. The one who’d long loved her, missed her, wished things had turned out far differently for all concerned.

  Falling into bed, he knew what to do about the timing of the letter. It was imperative Annie receive it when she might be most likely to fully concentrate on his request—to consider meeting him face-to-face. He must not procrastinate further. Each day counted, in God’s eyes and in his own. Too much time had passed and there was much to set right. Yet he was reluctant to disrupt his sister’s Christmas, would not intrude upon it for the world.

  For him, the most difficult part—composing the letter—was finished. He would wait and send it immediately after New Year’s Day.

  Settled about his decision, he slept, conjuring up joy-filled dreams of his former sweetheart girl and the bittersweet Hickory Hollow days of yore.

  Along about one-thirty, Katherine awakened with a start. Somewhere in the house, a telephone jangled. At last, it stopped, and she sat upright, uncertain of her precise whereabouts for a moment.

  Commotion outside her bedroom door followed shortly, and she crept out of bed to lean her head against the door.

  “Miss Katie,” someone was whispering. “Can you come downstairs? You’re wanted on the telephone.”

  Curious, Katherine opened the door a crack. She saw the phony Amishwoman emerge from her room at the end of the hall, far removed from the servants’ quarters.

  “Who’s calling
at this hour?” the impostor said sleepily.

  There was more whispering, and, although Katherine wasn’t totally certain, she thought it was the butler who was delivering the message. When the man turned, she saw Theodore Williams’ face instead. The old gentleman lumbered down the hall to the long, grand staircase.

  What on earth is going on? she thought. It was the middle of the night, for pity’s sake!

  Closing her door a bit more, allowing for only the slightest of a crack, she waited for the senior chauffeur’s footsteps to fade before opening the door wider again. Just in time to see the strawberry blonde, in a flurry of flaming red slippers, hurry down the hallway, turn, and dash down the stairs.

  Katherine closed her door and rushed over to the dressing room where a walk-in closet swallowed up the few items of clothing she’d brought from Lydia’s. There she donned a blue terry cloth bathrobe and slip-on house shoes.

  Directly, she passed through the dimly lit hallway and made her way down the stairs. Not to appear nosy, and to avoid being noticed, she sat halfway down the steps, near the landing, listening. But the house was silent as the moon.

  She held her breath in hopes of lessening the noise of her own breathing. Then, getting up, she tiptoed farther down the steps, straining to hear.

  In the distance, coming from the library, perhaps?—she heard the faintest of sounds. Someone’s voice.

  Grateful for Garrett’s guided tour that first day—pointing out the mansion’s corridors and general layout—she knew enough to enter the opposite side of the enormous library room, there being two separate entrances. She slipped in without being noticed, glad for the dark hue of her blue robe.

  Bookshelves, housing hundreds of volumes, loomed tall above her, like windmills, their vanes breathless in the darkness.

  She listened as the impostor spoke. “You expect me to pull this off by myself?” came her peppery words. “I’m only here because you hired me.”

  Hired?

  Katherine was aware of her own heartbeat. Not only did she feel it pumping inside her chest, she felt the pulsing … no, the throb-bing … in her ears.

  “Yes … yes, I can handle Christmas dinner, but I’d feel better about things if you were here … at least in the house.”

  The pause was much longer than before, as though the person on the other end had much to say.

  Who’s calling this late? Katherine wondered.

  Then the revealing words pierced her through—words that made the hairs on the back of her neck prickle. “But I can almost feel it— I’m that close. Tonight your wife told me, in so many words, she has some big news. Probably about the money.”

  Your wife? Who was Katie Lapp talking to?

  Suddenly, Katherine knew. The fake Katie was on the phone with Mr. Bennett! But … what did she mean about “the money”?

  Her heart pounded wildly, though she refused to stand by, privy to a possibly wicked, greislich scheme. An innocent, dying woman’s money must surely be at stake. Letting herself out, Katherine waited in the darkest corner of the hallway for the woman to finish her loathsome chat.

  No wonder, she thought. No wonder Dylan Bennett had had such a chilling effect on her when first she’d called here.

  Her mind spun in all sorts of directions. Such connivings and finaglings! Something, something must be done to set the record straight. She must move in where angels fear to tread. Yet what could she say or do to prove she was truly Laura’s daughter—and Katie was not?

  She had no proof. Or did she?

  She remembered the little lilac sachets she’d brought from Hickory Hollow—so like the ones she’d found in the bureau drawers here. Would they be enough to persuade the mistress?

  How she wished she could sit down with the Wise Woman. Ella Mae would gladly help her decipher the situation, if only Katherine had not been shunned.

  She couldn’t leave New York and return to Pennsylvania. No, she must stay put, stay here in her mother’s house. Protect Laura Bennett’s money, estate, or whatever it was, from falling into the wrong hands. Do something to bring a black-hearted soon-to-be-transgression to a screeching halt.

  Do something.…

  Just ahead, in the darkened hallway, a figure emerged from a curtained entryway. She wondered who on earth was lurking in the corridor. When the shadow evolved into a man—a man with a determined stride—she was reminded of the senior chauffeur, Theodore Williams.

  What was the old gentleman doing? Snooping?

  She stood glued to the spot, unable to think of what she might do to get his attention without alerting the imposter. Well, by the looks of things, she wasn’t the only one who’d just overheard a most suspicious telephone conversation.

  Katherine waited until the hallway was completely clear before heading back toward the stairs. As she was about to reach for the banister railing, she stopped and thought of her ailing mother, the dear, unsuspecting woman. What lay in store for her?

  Turning, she made her way toward the south wing, in the direction of Laura’s suite of rooms.

  Wide awake, with no hope of falling back to sleep, at least not tonight, she tiptoed down another long passageway. Her destination was the tall French doors. As she crept through the darkness, she thought of the artist’s portrait and knew she must see the canvas for herself.

  At once, Katherine realized she was standing on the spot where she’d first encountered Katie Lapp, the “Amishwoman” who hadn’t understood even a few simple words of Dutch. The woman who was concocting something evil with Laura’s husband, of all things!

  Silently, Katherine moved through the open glass doors and into the formal sitting area. A lovely dinner table, displaying two crocheted place mats, was situated off to the side near a fireplace, embers dying fast.

  To her right, she spied an easel where a large canvas, now draped, had been erected. Wondering if this was the commissioned work Rosie and Garrett had spoken of yesterday, she stole over to it, careful not to bump into several brushes drying on the floor.

  With a steady hand, she pulled back the sheet and peered at the unfinished painting. Stepping aside, she allowed the window’s snowy reflection to cast a silver glow over the canvas.

  She caught her breath as she studied the art. Off to the right side of center, Laura’s outline was evident. What seemed odd was the hollow space directly in the middle. Was this to be the spot for Laura’s daughter? If so, why hadn’t the artist sketched in at least something there?

  Katherine tilted her head, wondering what it would be like to pose for a portrait. To be painted alongside her natural mother. Her rightful place!

  Anger rose up in her. Ach, she must devise a way for Mr. Wirth to paint the correct person in the designated location on the canvas: Laura Bennett’s true daughter—Katherine herself. Otherwise the portrait would be a lie. As deceitful as the man named Dylan D. Bennett, she recalled from the phone book in Lydia Miller’s kitchen.

  Thinking about Mr. Bennett’s name, she wondered if the middle initial might not stand for Devil. She couldn’t imagine what sort of man would plan to hurt his own bride in such a way, a desperately ill wife at that. A wicked, wicked man, for sure. Not in the sense he would dish out harsh treatment according to a religious ruling, as Bishop John had done, not that sort of man. But a sneaky, conniving person. For sure and for certain.

  Shivering with emotion, she redraped the canvas, remembering she had been accused of being that way herself—more conniving than any of the People in all of Hickory Hollow.

  But not anymore. She was different through and through because of who she was—Katherine Mayfield, the upstanding daughter of a kindhearted woman. She figured that because of Laura Bennett’s close connection with the Almighty, she, too, was somehow linked to righteousness. Hadn’t this been the real problem all along—trying to measure up to the Ordnung without knowing who she really was?

  She thought of her Amish mamma, how gentle and honest Rebecca had always seemed. Yet how sadly mistaken Kathe
rine had been, discovering that the woman she thought of as her angel-mother had in all truth been a liar, had kept from her supposed daughter a secret so painful it gouged out an instant wedge between them.

  Jah, Rebecca Lapp had been a wonderful-gut storyteller, all right, in every sense of the word. The secret of Katherine’s so-called “adoption” had been so devastating, it jolted her right out of the place she’d called home.

  Now she lived here, safely under her birth mother’s roof, and she resolved to do everything in her power to halt this treacherous scheme. That horrible thing Dylan D. Bennett was cooking up with the impostor Katie, even at this very moment!

  She left the large parlor room silently and hurried back upstairs to her own quarters. Then before going to bed, she gathered up the potpourri sachets from each of the drawers and placed them on her pillow. The smell of lavender sweetened the dreary wee hours and soothed her soul.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Theodore slept fitfully that night, tossing about, even punching his pillow off the bed at one point. His dreams were anything but good ones; nightmares best described the visions of villainy he experienced.

  Upon arising, he thought nothing of traipsing across the hall to the room where Fulton and Rosie Taylor made their marital love nest. Lightly, yet firmly, he knocked on their door.

  The sleepy-eyed butler came promptly. “Theodore? Is everything all right?”

  “Not on your life. I have to speak with you … immediately.”

  Fulton put his hand on the doorknob, pulling the door closed behind him. Wearing his white nightshirt and nothing on his feet, he stepped into the hallway. “What is it, Williams?”

  “How quickly can you dress?”

  Fulton nodded as though he understood the urgency. “Give me three minutes.”

  Satisfied his friend had taken him seriously, Theodore added, “I’ll wait for you in my room, and don’t bother to knock.” He sighed. “What I have to tell you must be kept in strictest confidence.”