Heritage of Lancaster County 02 The Confession (4 page)

She heard the phone on the other end ringing in her ear. Once... twice.., a third ring.

Then--"Hello?" a strange voice said.

"Ah . . . I . . . could I speak to Laura Mayfield-Bennett, please?" Her knees were shaking along with her voice.

"Well, I think you may have the wrong number," the voice replied.

"Oh, sorry." Quickly, she hung up.

Not to be discouraged, Katherine picked up a pencil and drew a single neat line through the name. "I'll just try the next one," she said, as though saying the words out loud might give her a bit more confidence.

But she hesitated, staring at the telephone. She thought of Cousin Lydia's kind suggestion of asking the Lord for guidance. Maybe she oughta get up the nerve to do it. Or ask Cousin Peter before she tried.

When she finally redialed the Canandaigua operator, someone new was on the line, and she had to go through the whole rigmarole again.

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This time the name given was a Clifford M. Bennett. She dialed the new number. The phone rang and rang--ten times at least--before she halted it by hanging up. So she made a tiny question mark beside that name and repeated the process.

Next... Dylan D. Bennett.

Quickly, she cleared her throat and took a deep breath, trying to look on the bright side of things. Using the phone like this was a very good thing for her to be doing, she thought. Good practice.

But she wasn't prepared to have someone answer, not immediately on the first ring. "The Bennett estate," a confident female voice answered. "How may I direct your call?"

Suddenly, Katherine felt ill at ease. Her mouth went dry, and she was caught completely off guard, hearing a woman answer the phone this way. She almost wondered if she'd gotten hold of her natural mother by sheer luck!

"Is Laura Mayfield-Bennett at home, please?" she managed.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Bennett is not available' at the moment. May I help you?"

Katherine felt her heart racing and sat down quickly. Oh my, now what? she wondered. This woman talking to her on the other end of the line . . . this woman holding the telephone receiver up there in New York somewhere . . . she was saying, in so many words, that Laura Mayfield-Ben-

nett--her mother, her real mother--lived there.

The Bennett estate ....

"Miss? Is there someone else you wish to speak to?" "Oh, I'm sorry," Katherine said, rallying. "Yes, there sure is. Could I... I mean, would it be all right if I talked to... her husband?" She glanced at the name and number on her scratch pad. "Mr. Dylan Bennett?"

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"Let me see if he's available." A short pause, then--"May I ask who's calling?"

"Oh... just tell him that Katherine Mayfield, his wife's daughter, is on the line. And... thank you. I thank you very much, I really do!"

The next voice she heard was mighty professional. The way it sounded took her aback--near frightened the wits out of her. And when she began to explain who she was and why she'd called, she forgot all her well-rehearsed "English" speech, and some of the words tumbled out in Dutch.

"I beg your pardon?" the man said. "Who did you say you were?"

"I'm Katherine, jah, Katherine Mayfield. I ain't for certain,

but I think you might be married to my roam." There was silence. Long and nerve-jangling.

"Hullo?" she said. "Could ya please tell her I called--uh, tell Laura, that is? It's ever so important."

"I'm sorry, miss. I do believe you must have the wrong number." The voice sounded oh so much different now. Cold and awful stiff. It reminded her of Bishop John's voice when last he'd spoken to her, informing her of the consequences of the shunning.

"But I don't have the wrong number . . . do I? I mean, someone just told me--someone right before you got on the line--said that Laura, your wife, wasn't taking calls. Does that mean she's getting worse . . . because if she is, I wouldn't wanna disturb her. Not for anything."

"Excuse me... was someone here expecting your call?" he demanded.

"Ach, I wouldn't be surprised. Laura... uh, my mother has been looking for me. Came to Hickory Hollow just last month, as a matter of fact."

"I see" came the terse reply. "Is there a number where she may reach you?"

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"Oh yes.., yes, there is." Katherine studied the Millers' number printed out just above her on the telephone. Because she had not memorized it, she recited slowly.

That done, she instructed him to have Laura ask for ei-

ther Katherine or... Katie Lapp when she called back. "Because the people I'm staying with sometimes forget my new name, and I'd really hate to miss--"

"Katherine... or... Miss Katie Lapp," the man interrupted, repeating the names slowly as if writing down the information. "Very well, I'll see that my wife gets your message."

"Thank you"--and here she glanced at her list--"thank

you, Mr, Dylan Bennett."

"Good-bye," he said curtly and hung up.

"God be with you," she whispered, still holding the phone, warm in her grip.

What kind of man had her real mother gotten herself hitched up with?

Katherine shivered, recalling Dylan Bennett's voice in

her ear. Such a stern-sounding man, she thought. Panic seized her, and so as to disconnect herself completely from him, she promptly hung up the phone.

Rebecca Lapp had asked the Lord God all too often to bring her Katie back to her. But she knew without a shadow of a doubt it would have to be the heavenly Father's own doing--His and His alone. And there'd have to be a startling change in the wayward girl for her to repent on bended knee.

Ach! Such a willful soul her Katie had become. But neither her daughter's past nor her present had kept Rebecca from dropping to her knees many a time throughout the day--always, though, when Samuel and the boys were out

41 milking or away from the house.

She understood full well that Katie's return to Hickory Hollow would have to be the providence of God, because just last week, Samuel had made a fiery announcement. He'd said no one in the Lapp household must ever utter Katie's name. "We will not be speaking of her again--not ever again . "

His decree had come out of personal grief, she understood, and, jah, righteous indignation. Rebecca did not feel unkindly toward her husband for it, yet his words hadn't discouraged her from thinking of Katie. Which she caught herself doing ever so often these days. My, oh my, had it been nearly one week now already.., since Katie had gone to stay at Lydia Miller's house?

Rebecca refolded the kitchen towel and went to sit in the front room. Katie was on her mind a lot, it seemed. And she missed her. Missed her like a cripple might pine for an amputated arm or leg.

Himmel, life had changed so terrible much, she thought. Reaching for her hand sewing, Rebecca wondered if she oughtn't to stop by and visit her Mennonite cousin. A quick visit wouldn't hurt none, especially this close to Christmas. And maybe, just maybe, she'd catch a glimpse of her dear girl at the same time. That is, if Katie hadn't already up and gone to New York.

Rebecca teetered a bit on her hickory rocker before resuming the embroidery work. No, she couldn't do it. Samuel--the bishop, too--would disapprove. Besides, it might be too soon to visit thataway. She must wait out die Meinding, hoping and praying that the harshness of the shunning might bring Katie back to the church and to God.

Yet if the truth be known, she herself was suffering from a wicked sin--jealousy. And not just a twinge of it, neither. Ach, she'd had a greislich time of it, trying ever

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so hard to turn her thoughts away from Katie and her stubborn desire to search for the "English" woman named Laura Mayfield-Bennett. Such a fancy, modern lady she must be.

Rebecca's mind raced near out of control at the possibility of her precious girl taking up with the likes of a worldly woman. Sometimes she thought her mind might be slipping, and she tried desperately to hide her ongoing obsession with Katie's satin baby gown.

But if she could just touch it, hold it and stroke its gentle folds, then and only then could the past catch up with the present and things go on as always--before Katie got herself shunned and left the Amish community.

Here lately, the haunting cries of an infant had caused her to get up and rush down the hall to Katie's old room. Some nights she sat beside the empty bed long into the wee hours, holding the baby dress next to her bosom. She'd even quit praying in German and told the Lord God heavenly Father that she wished He'd never created her. That she herself had never been born.

Jah, it might've been better thataway....

Immediately following breakfast, Theodore hurried to the limo garage behind the estate. He opened the door and, much to his displeasure, discovered the black car was gone, apparently in use. This agitated him considerably, and he walked back and forth on the snow-packed walk, thinking what to do.

Mrs. Bennett was counting on him. He must not let the mistress down, especially not out of pure carelessness-- putting that important document in a locked glove compartment. He should have retrieved it at the earliest op

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portunity and put it elsewhere for safekeeping, as he'd promised.

Back inside, he hung his overcoat and hat in the large utility room near the kitchen. Several housegirls were cleaning counters and sweeping the floor as he came scuffling inside, still wearing his boots.

Garrett Smith, his nephew and head steward, stood in the pantry doorway, consulting in hushed tones with Fulton Taylor, the impeccable butler--Rosie's husband.

But it was Selig, the assistant cook, brewing a fresh pot of coffee, who caught Theodore's attention. "Looks like you could be usin' a strong cup of coffee, my man. Here, try this. It's plenty hot--and black."

Theodore accepted the steaming mug gratefully and seated himself next to the bay window. Such a thoughtless deed 1're done, he fumed, kicking himself mentally. What if the junior chauffeur needed something from the glove compartment? Why hadn't he taken the unsealed envelope along with him to his room last night?

"Two cubes?" Selig asked, waiting with sugar prongs poised.

Theodore nodded. "The usual, thank you." Lost in his thoughts, he stirred, then sipped the dark, sweet brew.

Moments later, Selig came back to the table, pulled out a chair, and settled into it. "Have you heard? We are to be

hiring more help."

"Oh?"

"The master mentioned it to Fulton at breakfast, just be* fore Mr. Bennett left for town."

Theodore shifted nervously. So it was Master Bennett who had been in need of the black limousine first thing. Feeling rather dazed, Theodore asked, "Why more help?"

"It seems Mr. Bennett wishes Rosie to assist Mrs. Bennett exclusively. The mistress, poor thing, seems to be failing rather quickly, and I... well, I do believe, if I may be

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so bold to say it, that the master is quite uneasy these days."

Not knowing how to respond, Theodore said nothing. Dylan Bennett, he suspected, was far more concerned with his wife's money and the status of the estate, should the saint of a woman expire, than with the state of her health. He'd known the man much too long to be fooled by any such benevolent charade.

No... something else was in the hatching; he could almost guarantee. As for Rosie having been appointed to tend to Mrs. Bennett, he mused over the apparently thoughtful gesture for a moment and decided that naming Rosie as Mrs. Bennett's personal maid was, quite possibly, the kindest thing her husband had done for her in months. Nay, years. There might be hope for him yet.

Nevertheless, things didn't set well. Why hadn't Dylan Bennett allowed his wife the benefit of Rosie's ministrations when the mistress had first requested her?

None of it made sense, and he glanced at the clock, eager for his employer's return.

Eager? One of the few times, to be sure! Theodore chuckled, unashamed.

Midmorning, Mr. Bennett returned at last.

Theodore waited the appropriate length of time before rushing back outdoors, hauling up the garage door, and inspecting the contents of the black limo's glove compartment.

Reaching inside, he located the important document, then turned it over to determine if it had been tampered with. Difficult to say, especially since the flap had never been sealed, the papers slipped snugly into the body of the envelope instead.

Nevertheless, he could feel his pulse slowing to normal and he sighed, resting more easily. What were the chances

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of someone searching the glove box? No one but Mrs. Bennett, her attorney, and himself even knew of the existence of the envelope.

But ... he would be more careful from now on, he promised himself. For Mrs. Bennett's sake, if for no other.

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Dylan Bennett lit up an expensive cigar and puffed for a moment before closing the double doors to his professional suite at the estate. Turning, he walked the width of his expansive office and stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out over acres of rolling lawn, newly draped in a foot of snow, and enormous frost-covered evergreens to the north. A genuine old-fashioned blizzard had presented itself during the night, creating a picturesque winterscape.

He pulled up his swivel chair and sat down, rehearsing the events of the morning. The agency contact had been satisfactory, promising to facilitate what he had in mind, thanks to a resourceful colleague.

Laura's condition was definitely on his side. In actual- ity--before his very eyes, it seemed--his wife's health had begun to decline. Most rapidly in the past three weeks. Just today, he'd discovered--entirely by accident--exactly what it was Laura had planned at her demise.

He grimaced at the irony of the situation, for the latest version of his wife's bequest was now quite clear. She had named her long-lost daughter the sole heir to her fortune.

Good thing--for him--that the daughter had not turned up. Not unless he took into account the backwoods female

47 who had had the gall to call him, claiming to be that daughter. She'd probably gotten wind of Laura's terminal dis- ease--through one source or another--and fabricated the whole thing. Still, where did that leave him?