Heritage of Lancaster County 02 The Confession (18 page)

Fulton rubbed his chin. "By all means, instruct Katherine not to converse with either the mistress or Katie, except as needed for courtesy's sake. Then we'll see what happens."

Like a schoolgirl on the trail of a mystery, Rosie put her hand to her throat. "Oh, I do hope this works out. Nothing would please me more."

Flushed with anticipation of the daring scheme, she hurried inside.

While the mistress and Katie dined in quiet splendor down the hall, the servant staff and Nurse Judah gathered at the long kitchen table--an antique--bearing intricate

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carvings along its sides, and far removed from Mrs. Bennett's intimate suite.

It was to be a quick supper. Enjoyable, though. Katherine hadn't remembered seeing all the domestic help in one room before, least not all at the same time. Wasn't as if she were being presented formally to them, but it came mighty close.

Several, including Nurse Judah and Garrett Smith, shook her hand, welcoming her to the "busy Bennett place," as Garrett put it. And she wasn't absolutely sure, but it almost seemed that he'd slanted her a quick wink.

She noticed the older gentleman--Theodore Williams-- who moved about the kitchen in ceaseless silence, and after one rapid assessment, she pegged him as the most interesting person in the room.

Appearing rather subdued, the chauffeur located a vacant chair near the bay window overlooking the east gardens, now buried in snow. It was already too dark to investigate just how deeply the ground might be covered.

With an air of reluctance, Mr. Williams sat down. He turned his head to face the window and remained in that position for a time. She watched him for what seemed a solid minute or more, before the man sighed audibly and tendered a faint smile when their eyes met.

What's bothering him? she wondered. Something was, 'twas plain to see. Ach, the weight of the world seemed to rest on the man's slight frame.

Years ago, her Amish girlfriend, Mary, had told her you could tell things about a person's face--whether or not they were telling the truth--when they talked. But this man wasn't saying a single word. She didn't know why on earth it was so important for her to know if he could be trusted. No reason, really, she decided, and went about the pleasant chore of buttering her baby peas, carrots, and baked potato.

The roast pork was so tender, she cut off bite-sized por-

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tions with only her fork, paying close attention as Natalie Judah, the sweet-faced nurse, explained what was taking place in Mrs. Bennett's quarters. "Katie and her mother seem to have broken through the first icy layer.., and I'm not sure what has made the difference."

Panicky feelings surfaced, yet Katherine dared not speak up. Not now. She'ct just have to wait and listen. Yet sin stirred within her soul--the sin of jealousy. She did not want an impostor "breaking the ice" with her mother, and she didn't want to be sitting here enduring a report about it, either!

Still, she fount/herself helpless to listen as Natalie continued. "I was beginning to wonder if they would ever click--those two--after their shaky start yesterday."

Katherine caught a curious exchange of glances between Rosie and her husband. What was that peculiar look that passed across the butler's face?

Discreetly, she stole additional glimpses at the husband- wife duo sitting up the table from her. She was not disturbed by the frequency of what seemed to be secretive looks shared. Oh, she'd seen her Amish parents do th same thing, and often. People connected by love often passed silent intimacies with their eyes.

She knew it to be true, for she and her darling Dan had experienced something quite similar in their teen years. Especially during house church, while sitting on those hard wooclen benches for three hours on a Sunday morning. A rather bittersweet circumstance for a girl who could scarcely sit still, yet a girl in love. The sweet part was that the men sat segregated from the women, which made it possible for Dan's doting blue eyes to dance for her, offering love messages only sweethearts cherish ....

Attempting to rid her mind of past lovely things, she tore her bread in half before buttering it. She savored the first bite, thinking how nice and even she'd cut the loaf tonight,

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with the aid of electricity, of course.

Natalie was talking again, and Katherine found herself hanging on every word, occasionally peering down the table at Mr. Williams. Why wasn't he entering into the conversation about the mistress and the Amishwoman?

Naturally, if someone wanted to be rude, they might be asking her the same question. But it had been drilled into her--her whole life--to "fade into the woodwork," so to speak, when elders gathered at the table or any other time. And with a quick look round at her new friends and colleagues, it was clear she was the youngest person present. Not only that, but she was a woman.

Rebecca had taught her total submission to a man's au- thority-under God, of course. Sitting here, enjoying Christmas Eve supper in the house of her natural mother, Katherine supposed--even though she was a woman grown and out on her own--that she was still attempting to throw off deeply ingrained practices. Customs so much a part of her, she could not shake them off at will or on a mere whim, either one.

Had she not been a paid employee, she might've had the nerve to speak up and enter the conversation. Especially when it came to the part about Katie's leaving the room so suddenly this evening. "And lo and behold, if Mrs. Bennett's daughter didn't turn around in the hallway and return with a tray of hors d'oeuvres," said Natalie. "I couldn't believe it!"

"Well, of all things." Theodore broke his silence, looking up, then wiping his face with his folded napkin.

Katherine sat spellbound. Oh, she wanted to explain the situation. Tell them--all of them--that Katie Lapp, or whoever she was, had pulled the tray out of Katherine's own hands and flounced back into the mistress's room with it. That the young woman hadn't understood a stitch of Pennsylvania Dutch, not even a simple comment about the weather being bitter cold.

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She wanted to tell them she thought Katie Lapp was an impostor, wanted to holler it out into the frigid New York air.

Tonight, though, the cat had her tongue, no getting around it. So she sat there, enduring perpetual speculation about this and that and thus and so till she thought she might burst.

It was moments later she realized Mr. Williams had spoken, as much as to agree with Natalie Judah that the Amish- woman had done something completely out of order. Katherine worried that what might follow could be a reprimand, and rightly so. Would the old man turn and speak to her next?

She was fairly sure he didn't know it was she who'd been assigned the tray of hors d'oeuvres. Relieved, she reached for her glass of ice water and sipped slowly, letting the coolness soothe her throat as it trickled down.

Due to the snippets of information she'd overheard in the past twenty-four hours, she had come to understand that Mr. Williams was the mistress's favorite chauffeur. Rosie had even hinted that the gentleman was aiso Mrs. Bennett's confidant. This knowledge intrigued her, for the man had grandfatherly qualities. Some of them even reminded her of Dawdi David, her mamma's father, long deceased.

Pondering this, she wondered: What secret things does Mr. Williams know about Laura Mayfield-Bennett? Had Katherine been more confident of her place in the household, she might've taken him aside and pumped him full of questions.

When dessert was served, she focused her attention on the couple with the ongoing parade of darting glances. Jah, Rosie and Fulton Taylor seemed to know something they weren't letting on to anyone. Might be, they were just the folk to help her.

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Laura realized, much later, that Dylan had not returned home from his supper outing. Strange that Katie had been the one to mention it.

"Dylan's in good hands," she reassured her daughter. "We hire only the best of help, drivers included."

That seemed to suffice, and they went on talking about casual, carefree things--becoming more and more comfortable with each other.

Rosie hurried in from the hall and began to clear away the holiday dishes. "You've had a long day," she warned,

cocking her head in that concerned way she had.

"Long but happy."

"But tomorrow will be another full day--exchanging gifts and dining."

Smiling at her daughter, Laura replied, "I wish to soak up every minute I have left with my girl."

Then, not wanting to put a damper on things, she did not bring up the matter of her husband's delay. Never said a word, even though her personal maid appeared altogether eager to engage in small talk. Especially with Laura's daughter. So eager was she that Rosie slipped once and referred to Katie as Katherine.

Laura promptly reminded her of the woman's nickname. "She wants to be called by her Amish name."

"Yes, I'd just forgotten." Rosie blushed, "Please, do forgive me, Katie."

The young woman nodded agreeably. "That's all right. I've been called many things in my life."

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, pre-

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paring 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--her grandparents--and all that is to be hers ... on Christmas Day.

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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 wow, 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 rec-

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ord-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 will 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.

179 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.