“I could use your help presenting the Christmas cake during dinner at noon,” Rosie told Katherine. “You’ll light the candles. Of course, you’ll be careful not to utter a word either to the mistress or her daughter—attend only to your duties. Do you understand?”
Katherine cringed at hearing the phony Amishwoman being referred to as Laura’s daughter. Still, she couldn’t believe her luck— being asked to look after dessert in the grand dining room. “I’m to light the candles … on the cake?”
“Yes, Mrs. Bennett has been enjoying this tradition for several Christmases now; in fact, she’s the one responsible for it in the first place.” Rosie went on to explain that the cake was to be in commemoration of Christ’s birth. “A birthday cake, so to speak.”
“Oh” was all Katherine could say. Such a thing was strange to her—not having been given birthday cakes as a child growing up. Still, Lydia Miller had made them for her sons, and sometimes Katherine, along with the rest of her Amish family, would be included in the Mennonite frolic, enjoying a piece of cake—ice cream, too—with candles representing the appropriate year of celebration. So it wasn’t as if she were completely in the dark about it.
Smiling, she realized again her natural mother seemed to possess a childlike heart and a flair for fancy things. Just like me.
After all, birthday cakes were for children—English children— weren’t they? She was delighted Rosie had asked her to serve Laura Bennett on this special day.
She went about her routine work, grateful she had not been appointed the task of cleaning the Tiffany Room, where the dreadful impostor was staying. Surprisingly, Rosie had assigned the room to herself today, in spite of the fact that Rosie Taylor was clearly the mistress’s personal maid.
Before Laura’s breakfast was served in bed, she received a telephone call. The estate operator answered, patching Dylan through. “Merry Christmas, darling,” she heard him say.
“And to you,” she replied happily.
“You may have heard I wasn’t able to make it home last night.”
She nodded silently. Many nights her husband’s whereabouts were suspect. Nothing new.
Yet she listened as he continued. “Rochester and I have been holed up downtown—snowbound—waiting for the roads to open. Minutes from home but stuck all the same.”
“You’re stranded?” Instantly, she felt sorry for him. It was Christmas, after all. “You stayed in a hotel, I trust.”
“Yes, and I’m awaiting a tow at the moment. Should be home in time for the holiday dinner, though. At least, that’s our intention.”
“Well … I do … I do hope you’ll make it all right.” In spite of her faltering speech, she thought of telling him how lovely her evening visit with Katie had been, but she thought better of it.
“How are you feeling today, Laura?”
He sounded genuinely concerned, and she found her heart lifting, daring to hope her Christmas miracle might include some kind of reconciliation between the two of them. “I think I may be improving. It’s most extraordinary what’s happening … it’s the discovery of Katie, I believe. Getting acquainted with my daughter is putting me over the top, giving me a new lease on life. And I have you to thank for it, Dylan.”
She sighed, pulling the bed comforter close. Tears welled up unexpectedly. “I do so appreciate what you’ve done for me … about locating Katie, I mean.”
Anticipating a reply, she waited. Strangely enough, the line seemed to have gone dead. “Dylan … are you there?”
“Ah yes … yes,” he sputtered. “Glad to hear of your improving health. I’ll be home very soon.” And without saying good-bye, he hung up, giving the impression of being terribly rushed as their conversation came to a close.
Rushing home to her? She sighed again, choosing to dwell on Dylan’s timely present. A true and glorious Christmas gift.
“Please, tell us a story, Mam,” Elam pleaded. “Just a short one’ll do.” He sat next to his wife, Annie, leaning elbows on his parents’ kitchen table. His younger brothers, Eli and Benjamin, were finishing up their desserts, helping themselves to seconds and thirds of ice cream. They’d had the noon meal early, at their usual time, in spite of Christmas.
“Ach, my stories are for the womenfolk,” Rebecca replied, waving her hand the way she always did.
“No, no,” Annie chimed in. “Not necessarily true. You’ve told many a story right here round this table, Mam.”
His mother looked downright haggard and pale, far different from the rosy-cheeked woman he knew. Her hazel eyes had always been clear and alert; today they seemed cloudy and, jah, sad.
If only his sister hadn’t gone and gotten herself shunned, none of this would be happening with Mamma. Katie’s fault, he thought as angry thoughts crowded his mind.
Benjamin spoke up. “Tell us about the time the horses ran off with ya. Now, that’s a gut one.”
The rest of the family, even Samuel, joined in the chorus, attempting to get Rebecca to loosen up her tongue. Too long since any of them had heard her go on and on with one of her stories. Much too long.
Elam was worried. From everything Annie had told him, he wondered if his mother might not be losing her mind. Still, he had to try to get her talkin’ ’bout the past … any part of her life she deemed worthy to recite.
“ ‘There was once a girl named Rebecca,’ ” began Elam, prompting her. “ ‘She was out in the potato field, doin’ the plowing for her Pop when—’ ”
“Elam, now stop right there! You daresn’t trick me into storytellin’ thataway.”
His face stung with the rebuke. “Sorry, Mamma. I just thought—”
“Don’t be getting yourself into trouble by thinkin’. Do ya hear?”
“It’s all right, Rebecca,” his father spoke up. “Our son meant no harm.”
“Dat’s right. Honest, I didn’t, Mamma.”
“My storytellin’ days are behind me,” declared Rebecca. “And nobody, not you, not any of the family, can make me start again.”
Elam was silent, hoping she might go on to explain herself, to tell the family gathered here what was so awful troubling to keep her from sharing the stories she’d always held dear. But his mother clammed up right then and there, and that was the end of the discussion.
Eli and Ben got to talking about Jake Stoltzfus, Mary’s uncle, who’d headed out to Indiana somewheres already, even before the holidays. While they gabbed, Elam daydreamed, watching Annie snuggle their baby son close.
Out of the blue, Mamma leaped clean out of her seat, ranting on about hearing a baby crying. Annie shot him a concerned glance, and he caught the bewildered looks of the others, too. It was as if their mother had gone daft before their very eyes.
“Baby Daniel’s sound asleep,” Annie said softly, reassuring her.
“No, it ain’t my grandson I heard,” replied Rebecca. She cocked her head, listening as she stood in the middle of the kitchen floor. “There … don’tcha hear that?”
Elam shook his head. “Why not sit down and rest a bit, Mamma. No one’s crying.”
By now Samuel had gotten up and gone over to wrap his long arms around the glassy-eyed woman. “Come on, now, Becky, let’s have ourselves a little chat.”
“No, no … no,” came the frightening reply. “There’s a baby upstairs a-cryin’. I hear her, Samuel. I do!” She was pushing her husband away now, the glazed look spreading across her tear-streaked face. “My little daughter needs me, don’tcha see? Ach, my baby needs me so.”
Elam fought back his own tears, hot vexing ones. Just look what Katie had done to their precious mamma. Look what she’d done to all of them.
Chapter Nineteen
As far as Fulton was concerned, Theodore’s plan was splendid. They’d simply wait for the master of the house to return. If he was marooned somewhere in town, as his phone call to his wife had indicated, Master Dylan would be fidgeting about now, anxious to get home to oversee his underhanded plot. And, no doubt, to enjoy t
he lavish Christmas feast.
Meanwhile, Rosie had decided to do some plotting of her own, astute woman that she was. In the last-minute preparations, she might inadvertently question the woman who called herself Katie Lapp.
“Do be careful, my love,” Fulton said in the privacy of their quarters. “I’ll not have anyone scolding or picking a fight with my sweet pea.”
“Oh, now, you mustn’t worry. Miss Katie Lapp, whomever she is, has nothing to say to me!” And she was off down the hall to tend to her duties.
When he encountered the artist coming down for breakfast, Fulton greeted the man with generous praise. “I hope you won’t mind, but I had myself a peek,” he admitted. “Last evening.”
Justin Wirth smiled, his blue eyes shining. “It’s not always possible to keep a project under wraps, I’ve found.”
“Especially at Christmas?”
“The most fickle of seasons, unfortunately.” The young man was as cordial as he was comely.
“Do keep up the good work,” Fulton said with a knowing wink, excusing himself. He was eager to assume his tasks today—the Lord’s birthday. To assist God almighty with some “housecleaning”—well, just a bit. To help right the wrongs of this manor, he and his good wife, Rosie.
Mary Stoltzfus thought it would be nice to deliver her home-baked sweets before the bishop’s family had their Christmas dinner. She’d heard through the grapevine that the meal was set for twelve-thirty sharp. Later than many of the holiday meals served up at dairy farmers’ homes in the Hollow.
Somehow, she would plan to make an honest excuse to run an unexpected errand, tell her parents and grandmother she’d be back in a jiffy. ’Course, they’d all know what she was up to, but that wouldn’t do no harm, really. Most everyone in Hickory Hollow felt mighty sorry for John Beiler and his five motherless children. Woe be it unto her not to help spread Christmas cheer to the only widowed bishop around these parts.
So, trying not to think much about her best friend and all that Katie had gone through to keep from marrying the good Bishop, Mary selected several dozen each of angel gingerbread and sour cream chocolate cookies, packed them carefully, and took them in her father’s carriage to the bishop’s.
Little Jacob answered the front door. “Hullo,” he said, letting her in, eyes wide. “Merry Christmas to ya.”
“Same to you, Jacob.” She stood there in the front room, feeling mighty awkward now that she was here. Still holding her basket of sweets, she smiled down at the beautiful boy with wheat-colored hair and the bluest eyes she’d ever seen.
“Didja bake somethin’ for me?”
“Jah, for you and your brothers and sisters.”
“Daed too?”
She nodded.
“ ’Cause my father needs some gut home cookin’, ya know. He needs to find us a mamma awful bad.”
“Oh?” The youngster’s words surprised her.
“Jah, ’cause after Katie went down to you-know-where, we just kept on waitin’ round for the Lord God to send us someone else. So far, we ain’t seen no one pretty as your girlfriend.”
“Jacob!” The bishop came rushing in the room to snatch up his young son and carry him back into the kitchen.
She heard bits and pieces of the reprimand but was glad to know the little fella wasn’t in too terrible much trouble, bein’ only four and all.
In a short time, she was handing over her basket of goods to Bishop John, saying, “Merry Christmas to all of you.”
“It was gut of you to pay us a visit, Mary. Thank you kindly.” The bishop’s voice sounded softer, more compassionate than at any Sunday Preachin’ service. Soft as a breeze in summer. She wished ever so much she might stay and linger in its tenderness.
“Ousting Katie Lapp is the least of our worries,” Theodore whispered to Rosie in the hallway. “What’ll we tell Mrs. Bennett?”
“Well, I’d hate to add to her misery, poor soul,” she said, brushing back a strand of graying hair. “But, according to the nurse, the mistress seems to be improving … ever since she and the young woman started getting on so well. Even I can see the progress she’s made. So you have a point. Running the impostor off may not be such a wise move at the moment.”
Theodore mulled it over, stepping back to lean on the banister railing. “We may not have long to work out the details—that is, if you plan to confront the Amishwoman this morning. Do you?”
“That’s just it—she’s not Amish,” Rosie informed him on a triumphant note. “She’s an actress or model from New York City. Can you imagine?”
Theodore scratched his head. “You took some liberties with the master’s files, I do believe.”
Rosie nodded sheepishly. “Fulton and I happened upon a random file marked ‘Katie Lapp’—and … well, we couldn’t resist a peek.”
“Unscrupulous rogue,” he whispered.
Turning to go, Rosie called over her shoulder. “Better wait to decide until after I have a chat with Natalie. She’ll know what best to do for the mistress.”
Heart sinking, Theodore walked down the hall and into the kitchen. They’d had their chance while Dylan was out. Could’ve sent the Amishwoman packing right after breakfast. A delay could cause unnecessary tension among the domestic staff for the holiday. In fact, he was most certain it would.
Already this morning, word had spread through the ranks that Mr. Bennett and Rochester had gotten themselves stranded in town somewhere—the best limousine thrust into a snowbank.
He stifled a laugh, thanking his lucky stars. It might’ve been him stuck overnight with that snake, Dylan Bennett.
Time was of the essence. He scurried to his post.
It seemed providential, almost. Katherine had gone outside to shake rugs from the butler’s pantry when she’d happened upon Theodore Williams. He was whistling as he worked, shoveling the snow off the back steps and walkway.
When he noticed her, she was surprised that he stopped what he was doing to speak. “A fine Christmas morning, isn’t it?”
“Yes, and a good thing to see that the worst of the storm is over.” She shook one of the smaller rugs a bit longer than necessary, wondering if the old gentleman would return to his work.
She was pleasantly surprised when he struck up a real conversation. “It’s high time we got better acquainted, you and I. Yes”—and here he seemed to mutter to himself. Then he came out with it. “I do believe I owe you an apology, Katherine.”
“Whatever for?”
He offered her that faint yet grandfatherly smile. “For not properly welcoming you to the Bennett estate.”
“Thank you.” How truly good of him, although she could see no reason for him going out of his way to say such a thing. For a moment, she thought again of her Dawdi David. Mr. Williams’ words rang out as soundly and confidently as those of her Amish mamma’s father.
The gentleman struggled to pull up his coat sleeve with a gloved hand, studying his watch. “I best keep shoveling. It’ll be dinnertime before we know it. Season’s greetings to you,” he said, as though dismissing her.
“Merry Christmas, Mr. Williams.”
He chuckled. “Please, call me Theodore.”
She said nothing in response, only smiled back at the man. The pitch of his voice, the way he looked at her—all of it—unnerved her more than she cared to admit.
Dan Fisher thought it terrific to have been invited to dinner at the home of the boss and wife. Owen and Eve Hess were his dearest friends in all of Jersey. No finer Mennonites around. He felt blessed of the Lord to have been privileged to work alongside such genuinely devout and caring people.
Sharing office space in Owen’s firm had been a godsend from the start. Not many established architects would’ve given a farm-boy-turned-draftsman a job fresh out of college. Yes, Owen had been kind to him all these years, assisting Dan in establishing an ever-growing clientele. Yet as generous a man as Owen was, Dan had never spoken of his Amish background. Or of the sailing accident that had trigger
ed the ripple effect in his life.
Thinking he ought to ask ahead for some time off after the New Year, he’d volunteered to work overtime during the holidays. And the good man had agreed. “You haven’t missed a day since you came to work for me,” Owen had pointed out.
So everything was in order to return to Hickory Hollow for a visit. Only one problem could he foresee: telling Owen how to get in touch with him while there. He’d rehearsed various ways of revealing where he was going. To visit old friends … to see his only sister …
What could he say without divulging his past? He didn’t know exactly how to handle the situation. Perhaps it was time to reconsider the long-kept secret. Not that he was ashamed of his heritage, not in the least.
But things were complicated, did not appear on the surface as they truly were. Nothing about that day five years ago could be described in black or white; nothing about his impromptu decision was simple.…
The storm had come out of nowhere, else he would’ve stayed ashore—never even rented the sailboat. Mercilessly, the squall had tipped the boat, tossing him overboard. From that point on, everything had become muddled up in his mind.
The very reason for going to Atlantic City had been to give himself opportunity to think. To contemplate his future with the Hickory Hollow church. And even though it was a relatively common thing for a baptized Amish boy to hire a Mennonite van driver to take him to the ocean on a birthday spree, he’d felt somewhat awkward going it alone that day.
Thankfully, the driver had known of him from his birth, being Peter Miller’s brother-in-law, a God-fearing Mennonite who lived only a few miles from Hickory Hollow. And oh, how they’d talked— practically the whole way to the shore. Mostly about religion, especially in regard to Dan’s points of contention with the Amish church.
It wasn’t unheard of for professional drivers to take Amish folk here and there in their fancy cars or vans. For a price, of course. And Dan had paid dearly, but not so much in terms of the cents-permile quote to his final destination. His payment had come in costly denominations of love lost: relationships with dear ones, family and extended family—church members he’d known and loved all his life. Paid for with a single report from the Coast Guard.
The Confession Page 16