Lizzie Borden (38 page)

She wondered if Beatrice was there, and knew she could not possibly face her friend looking the way she did. In fact, she should never be out in public looking like this.

She walked up the Hill, turned down Enid’s street and walked past her house, but refused to turn her head to look. The fury had dulled to an ache in her heart, and her throat caught every time she thought of it. Treachery lived there, and perhaps an underlying motive for Enid’s involvement with her. Still, Lizzie couldn’t help but feel that Enid had cared for her, had cared for her deeply, and was selling her only marketable commodity for her sons.

Lizzie wanted to believe that. And she did.
Somewhat
. But did she have to sell to Lizzie’s
father
?

The evening deepened and Lizzie found herself out by the river. Decent folk were not out after nightfall, particularly womenfolk, particularly women alone, but even though Lizzie could hear her father’s admonitions in the back of her mind, she discounted them as the ramblings of a foolish old man. He had never been credible, why should he be credible now?

The air cooled perceptibly by the river, and Lizzie listened to its rushing, and the frogs and crickets as they came out for some cool air after the stifling heat. She pulled her skirts tightly around her and sat down in the long grass up the bank. She should have her fishing pole. She could probably sneak home, go into the barn for it, and come back here and fish all night with nobody ever knowing. No one would ever miss her.

But if she went home, she would want a shawl, so she’d have to go into the house, and she would see that same old mutton broth on the dining room table and that would make her sick. And she would smell the heat of the sick people in the house and that would make her sicker. And she would look at her father and the anger would come up again, and the worry over Emma, and the anxiety over Beatrice, and. . .

She pulled the sleeves of her shirt closer and wrapped her arms around herself. She would have to go home eventually, she knew, particularly since the cool of the river was becoming a chill and the sky was definitely darkening.

The evening star shone brightly above the glowing horizon to the west. In the east, the sky was a deep blue, stars beginning to twinkle.

Eventually, she stood up, shook out the cramps in her legs and walked slowly toward home. A coach passed her, and she hid behind a shrub so no one would see her. She tried to concentrate on happier thoughts, but there was nothing in her future but more of the same. More of the same, God-awful life she had always known. More of the same.

While she was walking, she saw the telltale brightening, not much more than a heightening of light and shadow, and she felt as though there were two of her, as if her “other” were walking side by side in step with her, seeing the same things, their visions so closely coordinated that there was little difference, except a feeling, a very odd feeling that she was not quite right with herself.

She walked through the yard of their neighbor to the rear, and climbed over the fence into the Borden yard.

She took a pear from the ground, and ate it, wondering if she should really go into the house or if she should sleep in the barn.

The house was silent and dark. She chose the house. She went through the front door and directly up the stairs to her room.

The door to the guest room was closed, so Uncle John must have arrived.

Her slops had been emptied and her washbowl freshened, so Maggie had been up and around.

Lizzie locked her bedroom door behind her, took the key to Emma’s bedroom from her dresser and looked in. The room had been put right again after Andrew’s search.

She took off her clothes, dropped them onto the floor and got into bed.

She didn’t sleep. She listened to the house and waited for something terrible to happen.

Thursday, August 4

The neighbors’ rooster woke Abby up at inconvenient hours of the morning, and most days she had nothing but unkind remarks about it. But on this particular morning, she waited to hear it, and when she finally did, it signaled to her that morning had come, and though it was still dark, she got out of bed.

Lizzie had come in late again, and Abby worried about the girl. Plus the fact that John Morse had arrived, and his presence in her house still made her nervous, even after almost thirty years of his visits. She never seemed able to forget that she was not Andrew’s first wife, not his first choice, and his life was still filled with that other woman. She could never forget that.

So while the presence of another person in the house changed the atmosphere, Emma’s absence changed it again, and then  Lizzie’s actions changed it yet again, and Abby had lain awake listening to the walls. She wondered at the sickness that had scared her half to death, scared them all more than any would admit, scared her more than any idle threats could have. Abby lay awake almost all night long, listening and wondering. Worrying.

But with the crow of the rooster, she slipped out of bed, lit a candle, dressed quietly so as to not wake her mate, and went down to the kitchen to make a nice breakfast for her family. Somehow it was important, it was
very
important that John Morse know that her family was a good family, a normal family, and that she was a good wife.

John Morse was Sarah Borden’s brother. Sarah Borden, wife of Andrew, mother of Lizzie and Emma. John had business in Fall River and was not an uncommon visitor, but his visits always seemed to last too long. He was a fine guest, a creative conversationalist, and he and Andrew had business dealings that they never seemed to tire of analyzing. Abby liked to have Andrew thus entertained; there were no other friends in Andrew’s life, not really, and it pleased her for him to have company. Except that John Morse always reminded her that she was Andrew’s second choice in a wife, and not the mother of his children.

She couldn’t bear to start a fire in the woodstove. It was just too hot. The night air had not cooled the house at all. To start a fire in the stove would mean the heat in the kitchen would remain in there all day long. But she would have to, if she were to make fresh coffee.

She took the lid off the stove and looked down inside. There was a half-burned mailing tube inside. A few things clicked into place.
Emma!
Emma had burned that thing that Andrew had looked for, and then she had left town.

Abby pulled the charred remains from the stove and looked at it. The label, written in Andrew’s hand, said Fairhaven.

Abby brought the candle closer and looked down inside the tube. Something thick had burned in there, some papers. But they were mostly ash. Abby thought it best to not mention this incident to Andrew, at least until after John Morse had gone. She wanted no scene, she wanted everything to appear normal.

She gathered up some bits of newspaper and kindling, put the mailing tube back into the stove and lit it. Just enough for coffee, she thought. She filled the enameled pot with water, added a handful of coffee grounds and a pinch of salt, and put it on to boil. She looked in the cupboard and found a whole plate of store-bought cookies.

She took one and nibbled it while she thought what else she would feed John Morse for breakfast.

She took the leftover mutton gravy from the table and put it on the stove to warm and began to mix up some biscuits. There would be pears to go with it.

Morning light peered through the windows as Abby finished mixing the biscuit dough. She blew out the candle and adjusted the coffee pot on the stove.

Then she listened, again, to the house. It seemed to have a presence of its own these days, something different, something new.

She wondered what Emma was doing in Fairhaven, she wondered what Lizzie was doing outside at all hours, she wondered about the new feeling in the house, and she wondered why on earth she couldn’t just ask the girls those questions.

She took a moment for a small prayer, asking God to keep everything normal in the house, at least until John Morse was gone, so he would speak kindly of the Borden family to his friends and neighbors. She prayed that no irate tenants would be knocking at the door threatening her husband, she prayed that nobody would be stealing anybody’s jewelry, she prayed that no fits of rage would be on display, she prayed that Sebastian wouldn’t be lurking about, she prayed that the milk would be good.

It seems as though there is a lot of evil about just now, she thought, listening to the presence in the walls.

Hoping that John Morse wouldn’t notice those changes, she began to roll out the biscuits.

Abby puts on a fine feed for John Morse, that’s a fact, Andrew thought as he wiped his lips on his napkin and set it next to his plate. “I best be off,” he said, then stood, shaking hands with his brother-in-law. “Will you be back for supper?”

“I will,” John Morse said. “I’ve business in the country this morning.” He checked his pocket watch. “And I had better be on my way. I’ll be back by supper.”

“Fine. We’ll talk over the property then.”

“Good.”

Andrew donned his hat and black coat, even though it was already high in the eighties at eight o’clock in the morning. He left the house and took a deep breath of the thick, humid air.

He walked toward the bank with slow steps, trying to concentrate on too many things at once.

First on his mind was the date. It was Thursday, which meant he had only this day and part of the next to live through until he could again see the Widow Crawford. For all her wily ways, her disturbing relationship with Lizzie, and that disastrous visit to the house, Fridays with the Widow Crawford continued to be a high point in his week. He had given consideration to breaking it off with her—but that had lasted the briefest of moments. There was no reason to break it off with her. She was discrete, and that visit to his home was motivated by empathy for Lizzie. Oh yes, the Widow Crawford. Enid Crawford. Friday.

Next on his mind was John Morse and the peculiar investment proposal he had brought with him to Fall River. John Morse and Andrew had invested together before, sometimes based upon the idea and research of John, sometimes at the behest of Andrew. But this time, this affair, was entirely unconventional, and while it had not been Andrew’s experience that John suggested investments lightly, Andrew would have to give this serious consideration. All of their joint endeavors had made money, and they still owned property together, another profitable venture. But he would wait and see about this property. If they would build an inn according to John Morse’s plans, it would require much capital, much supervision and a close eye on hired management. Andrew wasn’t sure he had that much left to devote to such an investment project. There were other things in life. Like Fridays. There was more to be discussed. Andrew didn’t have all the information from John yet. That would come in the evening, after supper.

Next on his mind was his will. And Emma. She had taken it  and gone to Fairhaven, as sure as he was walking to work. What on earth could be on that girl’s mind? He would have to have a new will drawn up, and that would be both time consuming and expensive, damn her eyes. And with John Morse in town, he couldn’t do it until next week. Damned inconvenience.

And then there was Lizzie. Andrew had felt a change coming over Lizzie in the past weeks. There was something very strange about the girl, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. It was just that. . . when he went home, and Lizzie was there, the house didn’t feel as it used to, or as it normally did. There was just something a little odd about the place. As if someone else was there, too. Like Lizzie had a friend over, and she didn’t want anyone to know. The house felt a little different, perhaps there were too many footsteps for one person, or one extra set of noises. Something added.

And then there was that blasted maid washing windows. It seemed that was all she did this whole summer. Someone was always having her wash some windows or another. It was positively unnerving to be resting, or working quietly, then to turn around and see the maid staring in from outside, with a washrag in her hand. He wished she would quit it.