“Oh? Are you experiencing some kind of discomfort? Nausea? Pain?”
The truth was, there had been no ill effects of her afternoon outing. “I’d just like to rest a bit … it’s been a tiring day,” she replied.
“We must be more careful from now on,” Natalie reprimanded softly. “You mustn’t overdo, Mrs. Bennett.”
Laura understood perfectly, for her most recent attacks had come on with excessive fatigue and emotional stress, so much so she had made the decision to move her rooms to the main floor, primarily out of concern for her husband.
A man of disciplined work hours, many of which were spent in his upstairs office suite, Dylan Bennett was easily distracted, and what with her needing constant medical attention, and with Nurse Judah and Rosie coming and going at all hours, she had relocated. More convenient for all concerned. Indeed, essential for other reasons unknown to her husband of nine years.
As a relatively new believer—Laura had become a Christian three years prior—she maintained her heavenly Father was in control of her very life and that of her long-lost child’s. More recently, she had begun to pray in earnest for God’s will as to hers and Katherine’s reunion—a reunion her husband might not welcome. A solitary afternoon would suffice for such a visit, but she knew in the depths of her being it must be soon … very soon, before the crippling disease advanced to claim her life.
The prayers and devotional time she enjoyed with other Christian women—Rosie Taylor, her personal housemaid, in particular—had become a thorny problem, presenting something of a nuisance for Dylan. Her husband, who did not share her newfound faith, had discouraged her from having Bible studies and prayer groups on the premises. Had he put his foot down and absolutely denied her this social and spiritual outlet, she would have obeyed, out of respect. She could only pray that Dylan would never resort to such a harsh measure.
During one such discourse, Laura had to gently remind him that the estate, in fact, was legally hers—her childhood home—having been left to her upon the death of her widowed mother, Charlotte Mayfield, twelve years earlier. The comment was not well received by Dylan, causing more of a rift between them.
Even so, Laura would occasionally invite a church friend or two for an intimate gathering, trusting that someday in God’s perfect time, Dylan might join her in the study of the Scriptures. More important, that he would come to find peace with the Savior for himself.
It had not occurred to her, however, that by making arrangements to alter her will, she might be adding fuel to the already stormy debate. In fact, not until Mr. Cranston, her attorney and private counsel, had mentioned it today had she even considered the matter to be an issue. Her ultimate decision was not borne of a vindictive agenda; she was merely following the footsteps of her sensible and loving mother. That was the extent of it.
But she must be discreet. And, for now, Dylan was not to be the wiser.
Natalie Judah went in search of her patient’s warmest slippers, moving quickly past the lovely dressing room area, complete with jacuzzi bath and vanity, toward the large walk-in closet. On the way, she grappled with her growing emotional attachment to the kind yet determined woman she had been assigned to nurse through a prolonged and difficult illness.
Laura Bennett. A woman with so little life left in her.
Nothing in Natalie’s medical training had prepared her for the intense empathy she had come to experience with her first in-home patient, a woman much too young to be dying. In fact, Natalie had found it practically impossible to maintain, as she’d been taught, a semblance of “professional detachment” in the face of Laura Bennett’s single-minded goal—obsession, even. So with all the nursing skills at her command, Natalie had determined to do her best to keep Mrs. Bennett alive to realize her fondest dream—to meet the daughter she’d given away at birth, the infant who would by now be a young woman.
Sadly, all this presented a real dilemma. The very objective that drove the poor woman had the capacity to further weaken her, both physically and mentally.
At times, her patient’s diagnosis tore at Natalie’s heart, for malignant multiple sclerosis was an explosively progressive disease. She did not have to be forewarned as to how the final stages would play out.
Laura gazed with interest at the live miniature twin Christmas trees perched on the cherry sofa table across the room on the very edge of her favorite Tibetan damask rug. Red velvet bows and long strands of wooden beads garnished the matching trees, resplendent even without tinsel or lights. She thought of all the Christmases she had missed with her daughter, the never-ending preparations, the gala events surrounding the season … hers, completely devoid of the laughter of children.
Had Katherine as a youngster fallen in love with the splendor, the music of Christ’s birthday? Laura sighed as her thoughts flew backward in time. What sorts of things did Amish folk do to celebrate? she wondered. Had Katherine come to know the truest significance of the blessed season? Laura could only assume so, for surely the Amish knew and loved the Bible as she did.
Letting her mind wander, she considered the Plain community she’d secretly visited last month while searching for signs of Katherine. What was the chance of an Amish family giving up one of their own kin—by blood or otherwise—to spend time with a stranger, and all in response to a desperate plea?
She thought back to the crucial letter, and if she had been able to stand and walk to her writing desk, she would have done so, for in the narrowest drawer lay a copy of her message to Rebecca, the adoptive mother of her child. Still, she knew it by heart—every word of it.
The baby girl I gave to you has been living in my heart all theseyears. I must speak the truth and say I am sorry I ever gave her away.Now, more than ever, because, you see, I am dying.
Once again, her eyes drifted to the identical Christmas trees. Their bows and beads dazzled her, and she knew why, as a girl, her favorite colors had been red and green. She stared deep into the dense branches, daydreaming of other holidays … the breezy, casual days of girlhood, years before her precious baby daughter was ever conceived.
Tears sprang to her eyes. Then, without warning, the colors began to blur. Laura felt the hideous muscular jerking, starting on her left side. Frightened and experiencing intense pain, she placed both hands on her thigh, praying silently for the tremors to cease.
When they did not, she removed her hands slowly from her upper leg, hoping to conceal her true condition from the brunette nurse who had just come into the room, carrying fluffy blue slippers. Laura squeezed her fingers together, locking them into a folded position, and pressed them hard against her lap.
Natalie was not to be fooled, however. “Mrs. Bennett, I really must give you a shot now … before your supper comes.” The softspoken woman stooped to remove Laura’s shoes, replacing them with her favorite house slippers. Nurse Judah rose and offered a reassuring smile, giving Laura the courage to accept the intimidating injection.
Then, before the drug was ever administered—while the nurse prepared the syringe—the dreadful dizziness began. During the past several days, light-headedness had frequently accompanied the frenzied trembling. It was at such moments she would lose control and cry out, fighting off her pain with the best antidote she knew. “Oh, Lord Jesus, please … please help me,” she would pray, whimpering.
Nurse Judah swabbed the vein gently. The moist cotton ball made a chilling, unwelcome path along the crease of Laura’s arm.
“Can you make a fist, Mrs. Bennett?”
It was all she could do to cooperate at first, but slowly Laura willed her body to relax, and as the medication entered her bloodstream, the morphine began to work its miracle.
After the uncontrollable quaking had ceased, a cloud of exhaustion gathered over her. In the midst of this heaviness, Laura thought of her long-lost girl and feared her own time was short.
Theodore Williams made his way out of the house to the limousine still parked in front of the grand entrance. Getting int
o the car, he thought of Mrs. Bennett’s insistence on being driven downtown today. She’d certainly not looked well; anyone could see that. But she seemed determined, at all costs, to discuss her last will and testament with Mr. Cranston.
Theodore’s suspicions could not be quelled—the ailing woman must have it in her mind that she wasn’t long for this earth, for it was the urgency in Rosie Taylor’s voice, when she’d phoned at noon on behalf of the mistress, that had alerted him.
“Mrs. Bennett will not be satisfied till you agree to take her,” the maid had said, stating quite clearly that no one else would do. “She insists on having you … and keep quiet about it, too.” It was the latter remark that worried him greatly.
A more kindhearted lady Theodore had never met, and because Mrs. Bennett was not one to engage in manipulation or deceit, he was moved to help her as he had on at least one previous occasion. The memory served him still—that dreadful day when it was discovered her husband, shrewd man that he was, had been careless with the dear lady’s accounts.
It was then that the mistress had taken Theodore into her confidence, a rather rare and ponderous position for an old Britisher solely in her employ. But he’d pulled it off—and quite successfully, too— arranging to drive her to an independent law firm, one completely divorced from Dylan Bennett’s own accounts and financial dealings. To this day, and as far as Theodore knew, the man had not the faintest knowledge of any of it. None whatever.
Prudence dictated that Theodore would continue to keep this tidbit as quiet as the present afternoon’s journey, when—he had a most ominous feeling—Mrs. Bennett had gone and altered her will.
He parked the black limo beside the white one, then opened his overcoat, reaching into his suitcoat pocket, where he pulled out the long linen envelope, unsealed. He would not investigate its contents, to be sure, and since it was too late to secure it in Mrs. Bennett’s safe deposit box tonight, he locked up the envelope in the glove compartment of the car and headed for the gatehouse.
I’ll take care of it tomorrow, he told himself. Yes, indeed. First thingtomorrow.
Chapter Two
Lydia Miller turned off Hickory Lane and onto the dirt driveway adjacent to the farmhouse. She parked her car in the detached garage bordering the converted barn, where her husband and two of their oldest sons had, years ago, set up a woodworking shop on the main level. She saw that the lights were still on in the office area. Noticing, too, the abundance of light streaming from nearly all the windows on this side of the house—upstairs included—she chuckled, making her way across the snowy barnyard, arms heavy with two sacks of groceries.
Katie Lapp’s certainly having herself a heyday, she thought. The electric bill was sure to reflect it.
Approaching the house, Lydia wondered what it might’ve been like to grow up Amish with few, if any, comforts of a modern home. The mere thought of gas lamps, battery-operated water pumps, and horses and buggies made her grateful for the decision her elderly parents had made long ago—choosing a conservative Mennonite fellowship over the Amish church.
When Katie opened the back door, Lydia almost forgot to address her by the new name but caught herself in time. “How was your afternoon … Katherine?”
A smile as bright as a rainbow crossed the young woman’s face. “I used the telephone today for the first time. Ach, it ain’t so awful hard, I guess.”
Lydia shrugged her shoulders. “It’ll be old hat soon enough.”
“Jah, I hope so.”
Setting her groceries on the table, Lydia turned to the sink and began washing her hands. Then, with Katie’s help, she put away three discounted boxes of dishwashing detergent and an array of other housecleaning supplies. “So … who’d you call, if it’s any of my business?”
“I talked to a lady operator in Rochester, New York … I—”
Glancing over at Katie, Lydia hurried to set her at ease. No need for the dear backward girl to divulge the entire phone conversation.
“That’s all right, really ’tis. You don’t have to tell me more.”
“Oh, but I want to!” Katie closed the refrigerator door and rushed to Lydia’s side. “I can’t believe what I did today! Honest, I can’t.”
Studying the young woman next to her, Lydia sensed the yearning. “So, tell me, what did you do?” she asked softly, wondering if her cousin’s daughter had already attempted to locate the ailing birth mother.
Katie pulled out a kitchen chair and sat down, touching her long auburn locks, flowing free in wavy curls. Her brown eyes sparkled, and Lydia noticed a trace of eye makeup. “There are forty-eight people with the last name of Bennett.”
“Forty-eight? Ei yi yi, such a lot of long-distance calls.”
“From what Mamma remembered, Laura lives somewhere near Rochester, I think. A city that sounds something like ‘Canada.’ ”
“Well, have you looked on the map yet?”
“Just the one in the phone book, ya know, to get the right area code.” Katie beamed, looking right proud of herself—proud in a good way, no doubt—being able to spout off modern things like area codes and such.
“How on earth will you know if you’ve located the right person?”
Katie nodded. “Could be awful tricky, I ’spect. But I have some gut … uh, good … ideas.”
Lydia sighed, feeling somewhat relieved. “Then you haven’t made any personal calls there yet?”
“Not just yet.” The hesitancy in the girl’s voice was evident. “I wanted to ask your permission first … let you know I’m willing to pay for all the long-distance calls I might hafta make.”
“Then we should get busy.” Lydia located a book of maps from the shelf under her corner cupboard. “Here, let’s have a look-see. Maybe we can find a city in New York that sounds like ‘Canada.’ ”
They put their heads together, leaning over the map on the kitchen table—Lydia’s, primly supporting her Mennonite cap; Katie’s uncovered hair shining, tousled curls springing free, at odds with her upbringing.
After searching and not finding anything, Lydia checked the index for cities in New York. Her pointer finger slid down the page as she calculated each entry. “Here’s one,” she said. “I wonder, could this be it?” She pointed to Canandaigua. “Sounds a bit like ‘Canada’ to me. And the population is rather small, so there shouldn’t be as many Bennetts to call.”
Katie laughed. “Ach, you rhymed just then.”
“I did at that.”
The two women chuckled merrily and set about preparing supper. Katie peeled potatoes while Lydia warmed up leftover ham and buttered green beans in the microwave oven.
“Have you thought of praying about your search?” ventured Lydia. “It would be a wise thing to ask our heavenly Father for His guidance. Don’t you think so?”
Katie kept peeling potato skins without looking up. “I don’t know how to pray thataway. Didn’t learn, really. Never thought it was the right sort of thing to be doing, neither.”
“Well, I believe I know just the person to teach you,” Lydia replied, an excited feeling welling up in her. “Just the one.”
Looking up, Katie broke into a shy smile. “Ach, really?”
“I wouldn’t fool you about something like that.” Lydia turned and went to gaze out the large bay window, framed in hanging ferns.
“My husband has taught many a soul to pray, Katie.”
“Katherine,” Katie reminded her.
Lydia was silent. For a moment, she came close to apologizing but let it go this time. She had considered the arrival of Rebecca Lapp’s only daughter as somewhat of a mixed blessing. The poor thing was really groping her way these days, insisting on a fancy name like “Katherine Mayfield.” Peculiar, it was. This, and the fact that hers and Peter’s home—dedicated to the Lord’s work years ago—and their close proximity to the Amish community, made it rather convenient for the young woman to run from her past and rent a room outside her church district.
Lydia wondere
d if she was doing the right thing by the shunned girl. And what of Samuel and Rebecca Lapp … and their sons? What must they be feeling?
The situation perplexed her, and she had the oddest sensation overall. While pondering earlier, she’d wondered why Katie had reacted so harshly to her parents keeping her adoption a secret. Was this what had caused the young woman to deny her own identity? Or was it the shunning—the heartrending way she’d been treated by the People— that had changed everything so?
Lydia shook her head, bewildered. She couldn’t get over the young woman’s worldly clothing. She’d lost no time in buying a fancy red wool skirt and that shiny satin blouse with swirls of red, blue, and gold flowers, of all things. She figured Katie must’ve surely shaved her legs, too, because she was wearing the sheerest of hosiery lately. And such a hairdo! All wavy, and oh, so much shorter than any Plain woman— Amish or Mennonite—would ever dare to think of wearing.
Katie’s shoulder-length hair bothered Lydia to no end—the girl was constantly fingering it and tossing it about. The usual head covering was missing. Of course, now, what with all of Katie’s bright-colored clothes, the veiled cap would look completely out of place.
She sighed and turned from the window, touching the back of her own cap, Mennonite in styling. Surely there was a devout Plain woman—called Katie—hidden away somewhere inside the newly modern girl.
Surely there was.
Katherine’s room was high in the house, situated under the eaves, and neat as a pin. The smell of lilac had already begun to permeate the room because of the many handmade sachets she’d brought with her from home.
There was a down-filled comforter all decked out with sunny yellow tulips, and a white-and-yellow striped bedskirt that fancied up the four-poster bed. The place was mighty large, yet different from anything she’d ever seen in an Amish household. And the maple furniture, every piece—thanks to Cousin Peter’s woodworking skill—matched the other: a triple dresser with wide, moveable mirrors; a tall chest of drawers with bright, colorful doilies; and two square lamp tables.
The Confession Page 2
