Heritage of Lancaster County 03 The Reckoning

Beverly Lewis

1

..... THE

RECKONING

2

3

BETHANY HOUSE PUBLISHERS

4

The Reckoning

Copyright 1998

Beverly Lewis

This story is a work of fiction. With the exception of recognized historical figures, all characters, events, and the setting of Hickory Hollow are the product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is coincidental.

Cover by Dan Thornberg

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means--electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise--without the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright owners.

Published by Bethany House Publishers

A Ministry of Bethany Fellowship International

11400 Hampshire Avenue South

Minneapolis, Minnesota 55438

www.bethanyhouse.com

Printed in the United States of America by

Bethany Press International, Minneapolis, Minnesota 55438

ISBN1-55661-868-9

5

DEDICATIO

To Sandi Heisler, childhood friend and confidante... ever dear to me.

6

THE HERITAGE OF I-.ANCASTER COUNTY

The Shunning

The Confession

The Reckoning

The Postcard

The Crossroad

The Sunroom

The Redemption of Sarah Cain

7

ABOI TTHEA THOR

BEVERLY LEWIS is a former schoolteacher and the author of over fifty books. She is a member of The National League of American Pen Women--the Pikes Peak branch--and the Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators. Her books are among the C. S. Lewis Noteworthy List Books. Bev and her husband have three teenagers and make their home in Colorado.

8

9

the truth shall make you free.

--John 8:32

the Lord will bless his people with peace.

10

11

PROLOGIJE:

The Mistress of Ma eld Manor

Years ago, as a young Amish girl, I decided that I would age very gradually. Cheerfully, too. I'd become the kind of old grandmother who finds contentment in sowing simple, straight rows in her vegetable garden, whispering proverbs to her rutabagas.

After the untimely death of my first and only love, I feared I would grow old thinking only of Daniel Fisher. I would hoe my garden, weed my tomato plants, all the while missing Dan and wishing he'd never drowned on his nineteenth birthday.

Ach, I'm still a young woman, only twenty-two. My adult years stretch out before me. Yet I find myself thinking back to carefree childhood days in Hickory Hollow--giving my Plain past the once-over, so to speak. At the same time, I know that I am a shunned woman, an outcast from the People, my adoptive parents and brothers--excommuni- cated from those who loved and raised me. A sobering thought, true, but I have come to terms with what has been done to me and the necessity of die Meinding, at least from the Amish viewpoint. The pain of rejection gnaws at me each and every day. Yet in contrast, I cherish the memories

12

of my birth mother's words of love--for me.--spoken as she lay dying.

"I wish I had kept you for my own."

Revealing and bold, Laura's loving expression has begun to mend my broken heart. Daily I continue my search for her journal, the one she wrote before I was born.

I've begun to nestle down for the winter in my sumptuous new setting in Canandaigua, New York, truly celebrating the remarkable turn my life has taken. How very surprising it is, for often through my growing-up years, I had fantasized about the ways of Englischers--non-Amish folk-- secretly wishing I could taste just a sip of what I might be missing. And here I am: Mistress of Mayfield Manor.

A right dignified name, I suppose, yet the implications of such a title have me all but befuddled at times. The sprawling estate, every square inch of the rolling grounds and magnificent old-English mansion--one hundred per- cent--belongs to Laura Mayfield-Bennett's flesh-and-blood daughter.

And all this has come about because of an unexpected encounter with Dylan Bennett and his smooth-talking attorney. In just a single meeting with Mr. Cranston--Laura's own attorney--the idea that any part of the estate might rightfully belong to Mr. Bennett proved indeed to be laughable. Not only could he not gain Laura's wealth through deceptive means, but he might well have lost his own resources in an ensuing court battle had he continued to contest Laura's revised last will and testament.

No, the Schwindler left the state and his business affairs behind, including papers found in his personal effects proving that he'd employed and encouraged an impostor, a false daughter for Laura.

So the scoundrel is gone, and Katie Lapp--the former me--has also departed. No more holding fast to the rigid

13

rules, the restrictive dress code, the do's and don'ts of my past.

Still, if there is anything I might've done differently, it would've been to soften the blow somehow for Rebecca, my adoptive Amish mamma. I cannot stop thinking of her, missing her, wondering what Cousin Lydia really meant when she said "Rebecca's not herself" last time we spoke. Surely my leaving wasn't the only cause for Mamma's pain. The shunning decree--Bishop John's bitter pronounce- ment-had to have been the more grievous.

I have thought of writing her a long letter, telling her that I am safe; that little by little I am growing accustomed to the strange, modern world around me. And that I am, for the most part, happy. I fear, though, such an honest letter might stir up false hope of my return, and I would never want to put such a notion in her head. Not for the world. So when all is said and done, it's best for me to keep still, hoping that Rebecca and all the others will simply forget me. Though I am not so sure the People can forget.

For sure and for certain, they'll remember me as having been romantically linked to Dan Fisher. Our names will be eternally sealed in the cement of history, in the chronicles of the Amish community I once called home. The People-- Bishop John, too--will long remember the stubborn auburn-haired woman they so cruelly shunned and the young man with blueberry eyes who loved her. So . . . both Dan and Katie are lost to the Old Ways. One to death, the other to life.

Truth be told, had it not been for my artist friend, Justin Wirth, and my renewed hope of marriage, I might've gone ahead and lived out my morbid plan of growing old. Old, without the pleasant laughter of grandchildren. Forever puzzling over long-ago memory pieces, wondering what might have been ....

14

15

Daniel Fisher was roused from slumber by the song of morning birds. Sitting up, he imagined himself awakening in his own bed.

Upon further investigation, he realized that this room was not the upstairs bedroom of his New Jersey bungalow. Rather, it was a well-appointed suite of rooms in a Canan- daigua bed-and-breakfast establishment.

He stretched and yawned, shaking himself back from his dream, a dream as vibrant as any real day. In it he had seen Katie, his sweetheart girl, gathering daisies in a wide green meadow. She wore a blue Amish dress without the apron and no devotional covering on her head. Her auburn hair fell in waves, long and lovely, over her slender shoulders.

The sun stood high in the treetops, its intense rays blinding him, momentarily blocking his vision. When the light parted, he saw her look his way, smiling slightly. Then, unheeding, she turned and skipped barefoot away into a thin gray mist.

"Katie, wait.., wait!" He called to her again and again. Dan groaned, recalling the summerlike dream. Such visions had taunted him on many a night, but this portrayal of a young, seemingly reckless Katie gripped him anew.

16

His eyes fell on his Bible, near him on the bedside table. Reaching for it, he eased himself off the bed, sitting on the edge as he shuffled through its pages till he found the letter to Katie--one she would never receive. A confession from his heart to hers, it was a way to spur himself on to do what he must do this very day.

My dearest Katie,

I'm writing this to you in a bed-and-breakfast here in Canandaigua. I know from the map I purchased days ago that the mansion you now live in is only a few short miles from where I sit tonight. Lately, it seems that I am likely to lose my focus on the important things if I do not put my thoughts down on paper. And though I do not expect that we will ever really be able to talk the way we used to, I'm hoping that my visit with you might turn out to be a positive, good thing for us both.

Just last week, [ went to Hickory Hollow to visit with my parents--the first time in over five years. I met with my sister, too. It was from Annie that I first heard of your shunning and your subsequent leaving. There was pain in her eyes as she spoke of your yearning to find the mother who gave you birth,

If only God will allow me to see you for even a few moments and you would hear me out. Believe me when I say that I let you down, dear Katie, that I should have done something to right this wrong between us a long time ago. All these years, trying to fit in with the English world around me, I longed to know if you were all right--if you were safely settled in the Amish church--yet constantly wished for a gentle, perhaps divine way to say that I loved you in spite of my "death." And t always prayed that you might find the truth of God's grace through His Son, Jesus Christ.

Nothing matters now but meeting you face-to-face, hoping you will not be too startled at my return from the "grave."

]6

,i

17

Please forgive me for not making things known to you sooner. For running away from my religious disputes with my father and the People. For letting you think I'd drowned on that boat so many years ago. Please...

Sighing, he held the letter in his hands, glancing over at a pastoral scene in a gilded antique frame across the room. "You may never believe that what I did, I did for us," he whispered. "For our love..."

He slipped the handwritten letter back into the leather Bible, closing it thoughtfully. The matter is in God's hands, he decided and stood to walk the few steps to the washbasin, leaning hard against its porcelain surface.

Staring into the mirror over the sink, he ran his fingers through a scraggly beard. Though in no way a vain man, he turned sideways, surveying his profile. Which should it be-- with the beard or without?

He opened his shaving kit and pulled out his electric razor and a small pair of scissors he kept there. Leaning closer to the mirror, he picked up the scissors and thoughtfully opened and closed the blades a few times while he studied his face. The absence of a beard would clearly indicate his singleness--in the eyes of the Amish community, at least. Yet he'd come to realize that facial hair tended to make him look older--even, perhaps, wiser. Believable was the thought that came to mind as he stood there, scissors ready.

How will Katie react to seeing me alive? he wondered. He tried but couldn't begin to imagine the personal impact his appearance on her doorstep might make. She would be shocked, at best.

Never mind the beard, would she be happy to see him after so long a tim< after thinking he was dead and gone? More than that, would she understand? Would she forgive him upon hearing his story--the truth, at last?

18

He vacillated between trimming the beard and shaving the whole thing completely off. In the end it remained, neatly clipped and quite bold, marking the outline of his jaw. He dressed in his finest clothes: a dark business suit and his favorite maroon-and-blue striped tie. Stomach rumbling, he proceeded out the door and down carpeted steps to enjoy breakfast with the other B&B guests.

"A good Saturday morning to you, Mr. Fisher," the lady of the house greeted him. "How do you take your coffee?" "Black, thank you."

She led him through a sitting room where tufted antique chairs and cherrywood lamp tables were scattered about on a large area rug. An inviting fire crackled in the fireplace, warming the room and the intimate breakfast nook just beyond.

Through the expanse of windows, he glimpsed patches of a January sky, sapphire and bright off to the southeast, with brooding clouds gathering in the north. Wide-trunked beech trees stood ancient and stark against the snow-covered terrain. A shaft of sunlight teased the tip of a squirrel's tail as it scampered across the yard.

"Looks like we're in for an afternoon storm," said one of the guests, a stout, bejeweled woman, as Daniel took his seat at the table.

Her husband craned his neck to peer out the window. "Certainly does."

The guests introduced themselves all around, a total of six seated at the round, candlelit table. Daniel was politely curious and inquired about their homes and destinations. Two women--mother and teenaged daughter--had come up from Jersey for the weekend; another guest hailed from Kansas; and the only married couple present was from Florida, on their way up the coast to Maine on vacation.

Daniel spent most of his breakfast time chatting with the mother and daughter who were seated next to him. They