The Confession Page 4

  “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 before 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 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 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.

  Chapter Four

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

  He need not question his fate; he would be forced to scramble for a new residence if that Katherine person ever did appear on the scene. Not that he couldn’t afford to settle into something comfortable and elegant, but this place … this was home, and he was just stubborn enough not to relish giving it up. No, after nearly ten exasperating years, the Bennett estate belonged as much to him as to his wife, he felt.

  He took a long, deep draw on the cigar. I will not be dethroned, he decided and began to jot down the specific plot he planned to set in motion.

  He was glad he’d taped the phone call from that country bumpkin— the Amish girl from somewhere in Pennsylvania, or so she’d said. Such a brassy creature, calling him here in search of Laura.

  What was it—something about his being married to her mother? That Laura had been searching for her? If such a thing were true, and this Katherine or Katie Lapp—as she had so ably prompted him— had received word from Laura… . Well, time was of the essence. He must act quickly.

  Finished with the cigar, he let it continue to smoke on the crystal ashtray, creating a gray haze about him. Then, leaning back, he watched the wispy tendrils curl and climb toward the high, molded ceiling. How like his own gradual ascent to fame and fortune, he recalled with satisfaction… .

  Laura Mayfield had been so naive when first they met twelve years ago. At twenty-six, she was virtually an innocent, to the point of exuding a refreshing coyness. He remembered this because on occasion she would blush, and over the slightest innuendo. This trait had taken him completely by surprise, perhaps because the girl—having grown up in opulence—seemed reticent to socialize and mingle with high society. She despised crowds—disorganized ones, that is. But the congestion of students in a classroom, for example, was an entirely different story. Stimulating, she’d say.

  By sheer accident, Dylan had made her acquaintance at the University of Rochester, during the spring semester. She was taking a class in English literature—for the fun of it—and he a refresher course in economics.

  As it turned out, his encounter with Laura had been a lucky break for him, which is not to say there was no attraction between them. He was smitten with her petite figure, her lush auburn hair—and her money. She, after an initial reservation or two, seemed convinced she had found her one and only true love, the man destined by heaven to marry her and cherish her for the rest of their days.

  To that end, they pursued their fascination with each other, talking for hours at a time. While Dylan would have much preferred to demonstrate his passion, Laura was a stickler about keeping things on the up and up. Insisted on a “pure and honorable relationship.”

  Being the gentleman—and the pauper—he was, he’d determined to bide his time. Conquest would be all the sweeter for the waiting.

  It was during one of their discourses on soul-fed intimacy that he came to learn of Laura’s desire for children. “I want as many babies as we can clothe, educate, and adore,” she said with the brightest grin on her guileless face.

  “Children?” He’d nearly choked.

  “Why, yes. Isn’t it a grand thought?”

  Anything but! Children were a nuisance—a liability in his book. Nothing could be more distasteful than the thought of noisy, little diapered mopheads skittering around underfoot.

  No … children had never been a part of his agenda. Not even as an addendum. And although it seemed entirely possible that voicing his opposition might very well terminate his comfortable relationship with the beautiful and wealthy Laura Mayfield, he cringed at the thought of satisfying her desire for motherhood. Cleverly, he tempered his response, cloaking his true sentiments, never revealing his plans to have a vasectomy—before the wedding.

  It was months later that Laura made herself completely vulnerable to him, confessing her mortal sin. She described —in a rain of anguished tears—how, during her junior year in high school, she had become intima
te with her first boyfriend. The outcome was an unwanted pregnancy, a baby girl born out of wedlock. “I gave away my precious baby,” she whispered as they sat in his parked car. “I gave Katherine to an Amish couple.”

  He was floored. “Why Amish?”

  “It’s a long story. One you must hear someday … when I’m ready to tell it … all of it.”

  He thought it over. So this was the reason for Laura’s obsession with children. He remained silent, saying nothing to arouse her suspicions.

  When she began to cry again, he stroked her hand, taking great pains to capitalize on this opportunity. He moved away from the steering wheel and put his arm around her. Sorrowfully, she leaned her head on his waiting shoulder.

  Then ever so slowly, he traced the outline of her regal chin and with breathless anticipation, leaned close enough to smell her lovely scent. “I’m so sorry, my darling,” he whispered seductively. “What can I do to make you happy?”

  Laura, her guard down, smiled through her tears, permitting his touch to soothe her, much to his delight. She allowed him to tilt her face and brush his lips against her delicate cheek. He felt her body relax as he made his goal the crook of her mouth. And he moved cautiously, enticingly, toward her lips, relishing the blissful sighs she made with his each caress.

  At last a tiny gasp escaped her, and she turned to him, fully responding with the suppressed desire of one long-deprived. Their lips met, and Dylan’s hands cupped her face.

  One kiss led to another … and another, and he quite happily viewed the situation as a breakthrough. Perhaps now things had the potential of steaming up a bit as they prepared for their marriage.

  Laura, however, did not allow him to kiss her again until their wedding night—an interminable wait. The event took place one month after Laura’s ailing mother passed away, over two long years after they had first met at Rochester. And with eyes wide and focused on his bride’s rich legacy, Dylan moved his meager possessions into the grand estate that was soon to bear his name.

  And why not? Laura’s notion—renaming the old Mayfield mansion as part of her wedding gift to him—was an ingenious one, and Dylan made no attempt to convince her otherwise. Since he was not interested in producing sons and daughters to carry on his name, what an excellent way to secure his future.

  Thus, the magnificent manor had become the Bennett estate, and the master of the house managed his accounts—and those of his wife’s—with a passion equal to his desire to dominate the pretty, red-haired Laura.

  Two years later, however, when she had not abandoned her maiden name but had insisted on keeping it hyphenated, their romance began to wane. Laura had surprised him, emerging as a much stronger and more dynamic personality than he’d ever supposed. She’d begun to volunteer frequently at one of the elementary schools in town.

  Around the time of their fifth wedding anniversary, when Laura had still not conceived a child, she succumbed to deep depression. Playing it safe, Dylan did not enlighten her as to the reason, letting her think she was barren. Soon after, she ceased her work with children, began to withdraw from life in general, and one day, although she kept her accounts in her own name, willingly signed over all financial records and ledgers to Dylan for safekeeping.

  Evoking the past always exhilarated Dylan. Today was no exception. He had triumphed, in a sense, or at least he’d thought so. Had met his financial objectives in less than ten years. Yet now it seemed to appear his wife may have, in actuality, outwitted him in the final round.

  He felt as if he’d been whipped. Spying his gym bag in the corner where he’d dropped it yesterday, he wondered if a brisk swim at the club might not do him good—just the thing to boost his spirits.

  Thinking again of his scheme—his ticket to this estate and the Mayfield fortune—he put out his cigar and rang for the butler.

  Fulton Taylor was quick to respond, waiting in the doorway of Dylan’s office suite. “You rang, sir?”

  “I did.” Dylan leaned back all the way in his swivel chair, inhaling thoughtfully before speaking. “About the matter of hiring an additional housemaid.”

  “Sir?”

  “Since you are to be in charge of interviewing applicants, I intend to trust your judgment implicitly.” He studied the tall young man with the dark hair and determined jawline. Dylan’s trust was well placed; the fellow had an uncanny ability to size up a person. “I suggest you get on with the business of hiring someone immediately.” He swept a glance at the calendar.

  Fulton nodded, presenting an air of self-reliance. “Will there be anything else, sir?”

  Dylan waved his hand as if to brush the issue from his mind. There were other matters to attend to—more urgent details to finalize and finesse. He dismissed the butler.

  Then, turning his chair at an angle, he unlocked the file drawer to his left and reached for a folder marked “Katie Lapp.”

  Chapter Five

  Mary ’n Katie. For always, they’d agreed once.

  How well Mary Stoltzfus remembered. She’d made the promise to her best friend, and ’twasn’t anything she or anybody else could do now about breaking it. Katie was shunned, and from the looks of it, she’d gone away for good.

  And it was no wonder! Bishop John had made it quite clear the sinner was not to be spoken to—not even by her own family! The severest shunning in many years, the worst Mary had known since her earliest years of school. Unheard of for Lancaster County.

  The community as a whole had begun to rally, but only at a snail’s pace. If the rest of the folk felt the way she did about Katie’s leaving, she suspected it could take as long as months or even years to heal over the gaping wounds—long as nobody picked at the scabs.

  Mary opened the smallest drawer of her dresser, the only sizeable piece of furniture in the room besides her bed. By lantern light, she located the handwritten address of Katie’s Mennonite relatives, Peter and Lydia Miller, the place where her friend had said she’d be staying when she’d come to say good-bye.

  “S’pose I could write her,” she whispered into the dimly lit bedroom, wondering what she would tell her dearest friend. Would she say she’d spent most of the week in bed, sick at heart and of body over Katie’s leaving? Would she tell her how lonely it was in the community without her pea-in-a-pod best buddy?

  The more she dawdled over what to write, or if to write, the more prickly she felt. “Probably not a gut idea,” she muttered to herself, got into bed, and sat there in the darkness, knees drawn up to her chest. Contact with a shunned person could result in that person being shunned, too. The very notion was enough to give a body a case of hives!

  An icy finger of fear tickled her spine, and she pulled the covers around her. Before undoing her hair knot, Mary rubbed her bare feet against the icy cold sheets, creating enough friction to warm them a bit. Then, loosening her hair and letting it fall over her back and shoulders, she slid under several of her mamma’s heaviest quilts.

  She said her silent prayers, thinking about Katie bein’ just down the lane, probably cozy as a bear in hibernation, sleeping in her Mennonite cousin’s modern house. Central heating and all….

  Sometime in the night, with only a sliver of moonbeams to light the room, Mary awakened. For some reason her thoughts turned from Katie’s predicament to Chicken Joe and that sweet talk of his … how many Singings ago? After that, he’d up and quit her for pretty little Sarah Beiler.

  Puh! They’d probably be hitchin’ up come next November during wedding season.

  The thought of such a thing near broke Mary’s heart, but because she was one who wanted to do the right thing by a person, she’d never confronted the fella. Just let things be. Still, it seemed she might never meet someone to love her. Someone who wanted to marry a right plump wife who could cook, bake, and keep house to beat the band.

  She rolled over and stared across the room at her “for gut” Sunday dress and thought of another fella—a grown man, really—who might be feeling just as sad and empty in
side as she was this very minute. Someone who deserved far better than to be left standing alone, without his bride, on his weddin’ day. Standing there in front of all the People … without Katie.

  Bishop John had come to mind too many times to count these past couple’a weeks. Mary was ashamed to admit it to herself, but she liked the widower. Liked him too much for her own good, maybe, and if truth be told, had secretly admired him for several years now.

  Still, she didn’t know how she’d go about handling five children, ages four to eleven, that is if she ever did manage to catch John Beiler’s eye. Probably wasn’t something she should go on worrying over, neither. Probably was no chance in Paradise of the forty-year-old widower pickin’ her for his Liebschdi. Not her bein’ Katie’s best friend and all.

  The way she saw it, if the Lord God heavenly Father wanted her to get married, well, He’d just have to send along the right man. Because, here before long, she’d be turning twenty-one—awful old to be lookin’ to get married, ’specially in Hickory Hollow. Jah, she’d best keep her dreams about ending up with handsome Bishop John to herself. Nobody’d ever need to know about that.

  Not even Ella Mae Zook suspected. Hickory Hollow’s Wise Woman would not approve, most certainly. And if she ever did come to know about it, Ella Mae would be sure to suggest that Mary put the bishop out of her mind straightaway.

  Himmel … no sense entertaining idle thoughts over something that would never happen, most likely.

  She sighed, making an effort to cease her ponderings. If she’d known how to pray her private wishes and dreams to God, she would’ve. Right then and there. Just like Katie’s Mennonite relatives talked so boldly in their prayers.