Lizzie Borden (7 page)

There was no trouble guessing what Emma did when she was alone in the hotel room. Lizzie shivered to think of it. Her sister. Her flesh and blood. Her surrogate mother. Emma, the woman who raised her, the woman she had always looked to for guidance and inspiration. Emma.

Emma drank. She drank and whenever she drank, she also got into trouble.

Emma always came home from New Bedford sick, bruised, in pain and reeking of alcohol.

Lizzie marveled at her older sister. She couldn’t imagine going off alone the way Emma did. She always tried to picture it in her mind. Where would she go to find liquor? True, it was a commonplace enough item, yet ladies didn’t frequent saloons and taverns. Was it purchased in a regular store? And what did Emma do, once she had her bottle? Where would she go? Would she carry it around in a paper bag, to sit in her hotel room and guzzle? Did she use a glass, or did she swig straight from the bottle? Did she wake up in the morning, wash her face, brush her teeth and begin again, or did she moan and roll over, search blindly for the neck of her bottle and continue, never really beginning, never really ending? Was it her companions that bruised her so? What would happen if somebody happened to get overly rough with Emma? What if some day she just didn’t come home?

Lizzie had no idea what really went on in New Bedford, and it was the activities she conjured up in her imagination that worried her so much. Lizzie joined the Women’s Christian Temperance Union when she realized what Emma was doing. She hoped legislation would be a way of averting her sister’s seemingly inevitable downfall. Lizzie went to the meetings, Emma forefront in her mind, and she prayed for Emma’s soul.

At dinner, Andrew Borden drew his white eyebrows together when Lizzie told him that Emma had gone to New Bedford to visit friends.

“Again?” He asked, his voice thunderous and disapproving.

Lizzie nodded, her eyes on her plate.

“Who does she know in New Bedford?”

“I don’t know, Father.”

“It seems that Emma gets upset about the least little thing and then goes running off to New Bedford to do whatever it is she does up there that lays her up at home for a week afterward. I don’t like it, Lizzie, I don’t like it one bit. One of these days she’s going to do something to bring shame on the Borden name. And I won’t stand for that. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Be sure you tell her that.”

“Yes, Father.”

“Drat the girl!” Andrew threw his napkin onto the table. “Does she think she has no responsibilities here at home? Does she think she can just up and leave us to assume her duties?”

Lizzie remained silent.

“Is she airing family laundry?”

“I don’t think so, Father.”

“Be sure you tell her, Lizzie.”

“I will, Father.”

There was a long silence at the table. Then, just as Lizzie finished and readied her dishes to take into the kitchen, Andrew Borden spoke again. “And what have you been doing all morning?”

Lizzie sat back in her chair. “Reading.”

“Reading what?”

“I received a letter, and a book, from Beatrice. In England. Remember the package you brought from the post office?”

“Oh. A book. Is it worthwhile? Will it teach you anything practical?”

“I think very much so, Father, only I’ve just begun, so I can’t tell too much about it yet.”

“This is a good friend of yours, this Beatrice?”

“Be-AT-trice, Father. Yes, she’s a wonderful friend. We carry on quite a lively correspondence.”

“I should imagine. I can’t imagine what you women do day in and day out to keep yourselves occupied. I should go mad without the challenges of the business world. And Lord knows, you don’t do too much around this house, the lot of you. I can never find a cleanly pressed handkerchief to save my soul.”

“I’m sorry, Father, I’ll try to get some pressing done this afternoon.”

When it was clear that her Father had had his say about the state of the household, Lizzie cleared the table, did up the dishes in a hurry and ran back to her room. She could barely wait to get back to the book Beatrice had sent. Such a book! It was better than anything she could ever have imagined.

And Beatrice had inscribed it, just inside the cover.

“To my darling Lizbeth, so all your heartfelt desires may come true. Affectionately, Beatrice.”

“Affectionately, Beatrice.” How Lizzie wished to send something to someone signed, “Affectionately, Lizbeth.”

Lizbeth.

Beatrice knew that her name was Lizzie, she’d been born Lizzie Andrew Borden, but in one of her first letters, she’d written, “My dear Lizbeth, I know that is not your true name, but it is ever so much more romantic, don’t you think? Lizzie brings to mind a whole different style of woman than you, so if you don’t mind, I shall keep you in my heart as Lizbeth, and it is on that ground that we shall meet via our letters.”

Lizzie had fallen in love with the name immediately. Not “Elizabeth,” a name so popular it was almost vulgar. Not “Lizzie,” which, Beatrice was too kind to say, sounded like a barmaid, chambermaid or whore. No. “Lizbeth.” Different. Daring. Wonderful. If only she could be a Lizbeth in true life, and not a Lizzie.

She sprawled on her bed, her room a rumpled mess. Lizzie always allowed herself the luxury of a messy room when Emma was in New Bedford. No one would enter her room for any reason, and so there was no reason to keep it neat. It was great freedom to throw clothes on the floor and not pick them up for the sake of neatness, but only for practicality, and Lizzie would only pick them up when she wanted to. A small, distinct pleasure.

She unlaced her shoes and let them drop quietly onto the floor and picked up the book. Beatrice’s letter fell out from under the front cover, to lie on Lizzie’s chest. She ran her hand over the dark cloth cover of the book and set it aside. She picked up the letter and began to read:

My Dear Lizbeth:

There are many people in this world who are content to let life do with them as it will. There are few who set their sights on particular goals and never rest until the goals are accomplished. Those who do can be divided into two groups: 1. Those who strive for personal and selfish gain; and 2. Those who strive for the betterment of their fellows.

I send you this book, my darling, because I believe I know you well enough to know you have the interests of your family and your community at heart. You are a soft, sensitive, lovely woman, and with the proper training, there are no limits to the things you can accomplish.

The program outlined in this book is a simple one. If you follow the rules explicitly, I guarantee that you will discover powers deep within yourself that you never knew existed. You will begin to take charge of the direction of your life and cease to be swept about by the winds of change blown by others. Let your winds do the sweeping.

But one word of caution. This is a serious work. Approach it with respect.

And may the moon and the stars be yours.

Affectionately, Beatrice.

Lizzie refolded the letter and laid it on her chest. Then she picked up the book again. She couldn’t tell in the light whether it was maroon or black in color. It was a very slim volume, as slim as any volume of poetry ought to be. It felt nice to the touch. It was new. It smelled new.

On the title page was written: PATHWAYS. There was no author, no date of publication, no publisher. The second page had two short paragraphs.

You hold this book as the result of a friend’s love and regard for you. It outlines a program of growth which demands rigorous self-discipline. It will take more than your passing interest to follow the exercises outlined, but if your desire is strong enough and your sincerity pure, you will succeed.

Do not read ahead. Practice each lesson daily. Do not advance to the next lesson until you have mastered the first, by doing it daily, without exception, for an uninterrupted period of thirty days. Begin to master your life by practicing each lesson in the same place at the same time every day.

Lizzie read those paragraphs over and over again. She tried to squeeze another ounce of meaning out of them, but couldn’t. She wanted to open the book and begin to read, read it straight through, and she wondered why they advised against that.

They
. Who were these Pathways people?

Would the program frighten her? Would it intimidate her? Would she think it a waste of time? Would she think it too easy? Last night, she had puzzled over these questions until midnight or later, trying to glean some knowledge about the author or authors of the book without actually reading it. She studied the cover, the binding, the quality of the paper.

But now, with dinner over and a long span of time on her hands in which to do nothing but iron some handkerchiefs for her father and worry over Emma, Lizzie turned the page.

It was time to begin.

After dinner, Abby Borden made sure that Maggie would be in charge of preparing supper, then she retired to her bedroom and picked up her hand sewing. The long afternoon loomed empty before her. Andrew was sure to come up in a moment, quizzing her about Emma’s departure. She felt sick to her stomach, a familiar sickness, a regular sickness, considering her dealings with Emma and Lizzie.

If only the twins had been born this morning, she thought, there would have been a little brightness in this dreary January day. Abby loved a good birthing. Especially twins. When twins came, there was twice the joy. Birthings were terribly exciting, filled with midwives, parents, grandparents, neighborly ladies and other children, cousins and ruckus. Abby always fed the whole lot. It made her feel good, it made her feel useful, it gave her a chance to do something constructive in the community.

She had been looking forward to it so much. But no, Mrs. Churchill had been mistaken; Mrs. Warren was not in labor at all. Just a touch of indigestion. Doctor Harding thought it would be at least another two weeks. So Abby left her a casserole that Mrs. Warren couldn’t eat and took home a disappointment for company.

Abby slipped the needle in and out of the fabric; she was making Andrew a new silk shirt, and no sewing machine could detail the collar and cuffs the way she could.

Growing older complicates life. One day you’re saving for your old age and the next day you’re dividing up everything you’ve saved among all the relatives biting and scratching for a piece of it.

She wished Andrew would retire. He no longer needed to work for the money—it was for his mental stimulation that he continued to keep his irons in all the fires. Abby would have liked to do a little traveling, but that didn’t interest Andrew at all. He was a homebody. At least he’d reduced his obligations at the office; some days when he came home at noon for dinner he just stayed at home; other times he came home, ate a bite and then went back until four or so.

Abby was grateful to have a husband in good health. She could live with a lot—including stepdaughters—if she didn’t have to nurse a sick husband for years.

She glanced at the clock, anticipating him. He’d gone out after dinner for a pipe, gone to stand on the landing of the back stairs in the cold, tamping his ashes out into a black pile which would continue to grow until spring.

She heard his heavy step on the back stairs.

Her muscles tensed.

He unlocked the bedroom door and came in, closing and locking it behind him.

“Have a little lie-down?”

“Yes,” he said, “I think I will.” He slipped off his shoes and suit coat and lay on the freshly made bed. Abby rose and covered him with the wedding-ring quilt she’d made for their wedding bed. “Did you speak with Emma this morning, Abby?”

“She came down to breakfast while I was making a casserole for Mrs. Warren.”

“How was her mind?”

“She was agitated, I think, Mr. Borden. She spoke again of the property you’ve generously decided to give to my Sarah.”