Lizzie Borden (8 page)

“That damned property.”

“I told her I’d speak to you about it. Perhaps. . .” Abby suddenly felt on shaky ground. She looked down at her needle.

“Perhaps what, woman?”

“Perhaps another piece of property would be more palatable.”

“But we decided on that property because of its location. Sarah needs more than a roof over her head.”

“I know. I just hate. . .”

“
Finish
your sentences.”

“I hate to see you persecuted because of your generosity.”

Andrew Borden sighed and seemed to sink deeper into the mattress. “Perhaps she’ll move to New Bedford.”

Abby snickered, careful to make only the tiniest of sounds, sounds she could excuse if she were called upon to defend them. Emma would never move out: She would fear that the household would not be able to run according to her way of doing things without her assistance. Without her direction. Without her meddling.

Abby kept stitching, her stomach easing up a bit, and soon Andrew was snoring.

If Emma knew all the facets of Andrew’s will, she would have a fit. The thought of Andrew dying before her was abhorrent, but she would
love
to see the look on Emma’s face as the attorney presented Andrew’s last will and testament at a reading. Emma would discover that the bulk of his estate, of course, was divided between her and Lizzie; but a generous third—a
generous
third—was left to Abby for her old age. And Abby, of course, would leave her estate, including any assets obtained from Andrew’s estate, to her heirs, namely Sarah, her half-sister. And there were others—significant people in Andrew’s success—to whom he meant to leave some money.

But Emma thought that everything Andrew worked for all those years somehow belonged to her and her sister. As if they had ever done anything to deserve his generosity.

As Emma saw it, she and Lizzie should inherit everything, should Andrew die before Abby, and Abby should be put out of the house instantly, penniless. After raising both girls. After putting up with them through their teenage years, through their young maidenhoods, through their coming of age, and even now, for Emma, at least, through their middle ages. Even so, Emma would leave Abby without a cent. Oh yes, Abby knew Emma’s mind. And it was not a pretty sight.

When she was finished the shirt, she roused Andrew. He hrumphed himself awake, then dressed and left for the office. Abby followed him downstairs, stoked the fire and put the flats on the woodstove to heat; one good pressing and his new shirt would be fit to wear.

While she waited for iron to heat up, she snacked on the cookies Emma had made the day before. She enjoyed the silence of the Borden house; well, she enjoyed the
empty
silence of the Borden house. Usually the house was filled with people and it was still silent, but that was more of a cold silence than an empty one. She didn’t care for the cold silence. It made her edgy. It made her frantic, sometimes, to fill it, but she didn’t know how.

“I wonder where that Maggie has got to,” she said to the woodstove, and just then, the maid came around the corner, broom and dust pan in hand.

“Maggie?”

“Yes?” The Irish girl rolled her eyes at the insistent use of her predecessor’s name instead of her own. She was through trying to correct this odd family; if they hadn’t gotten it in two years, they never would.

“What have you been up to?”

“I swept the stoop, Ma’am, keeping the snow from turning to ice. I was going to warm up a bit in here and then get to dusting the sitting room.”

“Oh. All right. Have you seen Lizzie?”

“She’s in her room, the last I knew, Ma’am. I freshened the sheets in the spare bedroom and heard her rocker.”

“Fine.” Abby spat on the irons. They sizzled. She set the ironing board up in the dining room and commenced to iron the silk shirt. It came about beautifully. Probably the finest silk shirt she’d ever made.

She ironed and thought about Lizzie. There had been a rift in the family several years ago—again over money—again over property—again over the girls’ inheritance—and again over Abby’s relatives and their share of it—and ever since that time Lizzie had followed Emma’s lead and begun to call her Mrs. Borden. It was not so much that Emma did it; Emma had been fourteen when Abby married Andrew, and Emma had always called her Abby. But Lizzie had been but four years old when Abby entered the family, and had called her Mother. There was no other word like “Mother” to the ears of a spinster, and to have that so cruelly taken away in her latter years was a heartache Abby couldn’t quite abide. For that, she would never forgive Emma.

Abby met Andrew when she was forty-two years old and a spinster. She, had, of course, given up all manner of hope as regards raising a little girl, and then along came Andrew Borden, staid, staunch, rich (as rumor had it), and two daughters, one still a baby. He took her walking after church one day, and the next Sunday he picked her up for church in his buggy, both girls dressed up in their Sunday best, and they rode to church like a family. Abby was thrilled. For once, hope blossomed in her heart, that she would have a family. She would be able to raise a little girl—two, actually. That day, he invited her to be his wife. He needed a mother for the girls, he said, and he would make a proper husband, and promised to be a good provider.

Abby was overwhelmed with the idea of having a family of her own, and she agreed before he had finished speaking. They were wed the next day, and she came to live in the Borden house.

He made no false promises to her—he never lied—and if she had it all to do over again, she would probably jump at the opportunity, just the way she had. Only. . . only she might have looked a little bit closer at that fourteen-year-old Emma before she agreed to take her position by Andrew’s side.

She thought of Lizzie up in her room, and wondered if there was something she could say to her. She could walk up the stairs, knock on Lizzie’s bedroom door and say something, she could say something soft and gentle, or something clever—except that Abby was not a very clever person, not nearly as clever as Lizzie, and they both knew it—she could say something that would touch Lizzie’s heart and have it healed.

But there wasn’t anything. There wasn’t anything she could say.

She’d been over this and over this—a million times in the past few years, trying to reach back to the daughter she had raised. The daughter who thought her older sister had raised her. The daughter who mistakenly believed that blood was thicker than love.

Oh, Lizzie. I want to come up to your room and play
.

But she finished her ironing instead, and left the board up for Maggie to put away. She filled a plate with cookies and took them and the shirt up the back stairs to her room.

Abby hung the shirt on a hanger, then pulled it to and fro until it hung just right. Then she hung it on the closet door, ready for Andrew to wear in the morning. And tomorrow when he put it on, he’d never notice that it was new, nor that it was handmade. Abby shook her head. Andrew was preoccupied, as always.

Then she straightened the bed.

Maybe Emma
will
move to New Bedford. That was a wonderful idea. Even more wonderful, it was Andrew’s suggestion. She wondered if giving Emma money would really encourage her to go. The breath caught in her throat. Then the three of us can be a family again—it’s not too late for Lizzie and me. We’ve shared too many memories for there to be an irreparable chasm between us.

Abby sat on the freshly-tidied bed and felt a tear coming on.
I wish Emma would never come back.
She began to nibble a cookie.
I hope she stays at least a month this time
, she thought, finishing that cookie and starting another,
and when she comes back, perhaps she’ll be sick to her death.

When the last cookie had been eaten, and the crumbs brushed from her bosom, she went back down to the kitchen for more. She loaded up the plate again, leaving five behind. She looked at the plate and remembered happier times, when she and Lizzie might have shared a plate of cookies and a session with Lizzie’s paper dolls. Oh, how Lizzie loved to play pretend with those dolls!

Maybe this is just the thing, Abby thought. She arranged the cookies nicely on the plate. She’d just knock on Lizzie’s door and say, “Lizzie? I’ve brought you a cookie.” Lizzie’s enthusiasm for paper dolls had of course faded, but she loved her cookies just the same now as she did then. Perhaps the two of them could get in some good chatting, some girl talk over a plate of cookies.

I wonder. Should I bring a tray with tea as well?

No. Don’t make it look too contrived. Make it look casual. Make it look like a spur of the moment decision. This plate of cookies reminded me of you and paperdolls, Lizzie, and I wanted to bring it up to you.

Emma never played with paper dolls. Emma mooned over her dead mother and spoke of death, destruction and hate. Always had, even to the day.

Carrying the plate, Abby went through the dining room to the front hall and looked up the stairs toward Lizzie’s room. She would just go knock on Lizzie’s door and offer her a cookie.

Slowly, she started up the stairs, but at the top, she looked at the door so firmly closed, and Abby knew it was locked. Lizzie would have to be interrupted from whatever she was doing—reading the book from her English friend, probably, and they would share a cookie and have nothing to say to each other. Or, perhaps Lizzie wouldn’t even open the door all the way. She would probably just open it four or five inches, just enough to see who it was and what she wanted. Then a hand would snake out of the open doorway, take a cookie, she would mutter a thank you,
she would call me Mrs. Borden
, and close the door again. And lock it.

No, Abby thought, perhaps the time is past for that kind of gesture. Perhaps Lizzie will come back to me when she is a little older.

Abby passed by Lizzie’s door and went directly into the guest bedroom, where Maggie had swept, dusted and freshened up.

A pattern for a new housedress was cut out and lying atop the sewing machine. Abby put the plate of cookies on the bed, took one off the top, and sat at the sewing machine.

She looked at the fabric, a heavy corded cotton; it will make a fine town dress. It’s too bad it will be as large as a tent. She ate another cookie and sighed. Then she opened the sewing machine, threaded it with the proper color of thread, ate another cookie and began to pin pieces of the dress together.

If only Mrs. Warren had had those twins this morning.

~~~

When Andrew came home from work, his brow was furrowed and his temper short. Maggie fixed a nice supper of boiled meat and potatoes, then fixed herself a plate and retired to her room. Abby and Andrew ate in silence in the dining room.

“Seen Lizzie?”

Abby shook her head and helped herself to another portion of potatoes. They had just gotten a bowl of fresh sweet butter from the tenant at the farm, and it was wonderful on these boiled spuds. “I had hoped she’d come down for supper, but. . .”

“Did you call her?”

“No. Maggie did, I’m sure.”

“She usually comes down when I come home from work.”

“I know she does, Mr. Borden. Perhaps I should check on her. Perhaps she’s ill.”

Andrew nodded, then loaded his fork up again. Abby knew her potatoes would be cold by the time she returned. She smashed the butter down into them, then excused herself.

No one had set a fire in the sitting room, no one had even lighted the lamps. Abby got the matches from the mantle and lighted the lamps, then a candle and carried it up the dark stairs.

“Lizzie?” she called at halfway up.

There was no answer.

“Lizzie? Supper is on the table. Maggie has made one of your favorites.”

Still no answer. Abby puffed the rest of the way up the stairs, then knocked on Lizzie’s door.

“Lizzie, dear, do come down for some supper.”

Then the door opened, and Lizzie stood there, looking slightly glassy-eyed in the light of the candle that Abby held.

“Lizzie? Are you ill?”

Lizzie smiled warmly at Abby. “Not at all, Mother. Not at all.” Then she looked around the hall. “Supper? Oh, I missed my afternoon with Father. I’m sorry. Tell him I’ll be right down.”

“You haven’t been ill?”

“No, I’m fine. I’ve been, uh, reading.” She rubbed her face and then brushed at the skirt of her dress. “Let me freshen up a bit and I’ll be down.”

“I’ll keep a portion warm for you.”

“Thank you.” Lizzie pulled the bedroom door shut and Abby heard her lock it.

Abby turned around toward the stairs. She felt as if she’d been told some absolutely fantastic, unbelievable news. She felt like blinking and shaking her head in disbelief.

While Lizzie had always been a nice girl, a courteous girl, a conscientious and polite girl, there was a new dimension here that had been missing for quite some time. There was a warmth that hadn’t been present—not since she was a child. There had been a concern in her eyes. Lizzie had known she’d missed her afternoon “session” with her father, and had been apologetic. That was uncharacteristic in these latter days.

And she’d called Abby “Mother.” Mother. Again. At last. Mother.

Yes, Abby thought. We must do something to keep Emma away. When Emma is gone, everything is right.

Abby fairly floated down the stairs. “She’ll be right down,” she said to her husband, and touched his neck affectionately as she passed behind him. She pretended not to notice that he swiped at her hand as if the touch were from a troublesome fly.

Abby fixed a plate of food for Lizzie, then put it in the bun warmer on the cookstove. By the time she’d come back from the kitchen, Lizzie rounded the corner, smiling at her father.

“So,” Andrew said. “Decided to finally come join the living, eh?”

“I’m sorry, Father. I was reading. I became quite engrossed.”

“Oh? So engrossed you forget to eat? So engrossed you forget your family?”

“I’m sorry.”

Abby fetched the warmed plate and set it before Lizzie. Lizzie whispered a thank-you and began to eat. She ate as if she hadn’t eaten in days.