Emma and my "supposed" argument happened on the same afternoon of the "egg incident." Several people had come 'round to visit me, and one of them told a story of a man not being able to break a hen's egg. There was some trick to it -- something to do with the way you must hold it in your two hands, as you tried to break it. I cannot remember the "how" of it now, for the whole thing seemed insignificant to me.
Mrs. Reagan procured an egg, and several of us attempted to break it, but we were all unable to do so. Afterwards, I commented, "Well, that is the first time I could not finish something I set out to do."
Now, neither my visitors nor I found anything incriminating in the statement. Even Emma, who had become my severest critic, apparently saw nothing evil in it. After all, is it not admirable to succeed in almost all of what you try to do?
However, my tormentors, who had heard of it from Mrs. Reagan, saw this as obvious evidence of my guilt. Apparently, it clearly illustrated how determined I could be once I set my mind on doing something -- no matter how despicable -- like butchering my parents.
I suppose, the only good thing that might be said about the preliminary hearing -- at least from Mr. Jennings' point of view -- was that we were able to hear just what so called proof the state had amassed against me.
From what I understood, they had several axes and hatchets -- none of which could they unequivocally say was the murder weapon. They had disagreeing statements about whether I had been wearing a medium blue dress with a darker blue design, or a darker blue dress with a slightly lighter design when I found my father. Also, there were my contradicting accounts of where I had been when Father first arrived home, and my reasons for going out to the barn. And, of course, my complete lack of emotion.
Testimony also covered how we, as a household, had all been ill several days before the murders, Abby's hysterical trip to Doctor Bowen's, and my, probably equally, hysterical rant at Alice Russell's the night before the murders. Several people spoke about my "hatred" -- for that was the awful word they used -- of my stepmother. Oh, and, of course, the falsehood about me trying to buy poison the day before the murders.
Some evidence presented, I thought supported my innocence. A horse and buggy, as well as several strange men, had been seen in front of the house during the morning. Statements from several people cited seeing an agitated young man hanging on our front fence. But, perhaps the one I felt was most important involved the man who sold ice cream in the neighborhood. He said he had seen a woman -- not our girl Bridget, for he had sold her ice cream a number of times -- coming from the direction of the barn, walking toward the house at exactly the time -- as established in my repeated statements -- I returned to the house and found my father. I had called up to Bridget only moments later, and neither she, nor Mrs. Churchill, saw even the tiniest speck of blood on me.
Now, in my mind, it seemed there was more than enough evidence in my favor to warrant the dismissing of the charges. However, even I, as naïve as I was, realized they would not be dropped, since it was Judge Blaisdell who originally decided I was guilty.
So, I was not surprised by Judge Blaisdell's judgment, but by his demeanor, as he announced it. The man cried as if he were my own grandfather or a beloved uncle. With tears streaming down his face, he proclaimed, "That while I would like nothing more than to pronounce you innocent and release you, I find that you are probably guilty, and shall remain in custody until your trial."
Mr. Jennings scowled and muttered his disapproval of the judge's involvement. Emma, who had been inattentive at best, and often appeared bored to the point of dozing, roused herself and stared at me, unmoved. While my friends and supporters within the courtroom were aghast at his decision and wept openly, I merely resigned myself to my fate.
Chapter Seven
And so, once again, I found myself in Mrs. Wright's gentle care. At least, I could take some small solace in that. As she had before, Mrs. Wright prepared the cell immediately next to her quarters. There, she continued to act more as a companion rather than a jailer.
She had noticed during my initial stay in Taunton, the food had not agreed with me. It was exceedingly heavy and often unappealing. On several occasions I had actually become ill after eating. She spoke to Emma about this, and they arranged for the hotel restaurant to send my meals in to me. I found great relief in this.
The grand jury was not to be held until the end of the year -- November, or even December. It was possible for them to dismiss the charges against me, and while I kept the possibility of being home and free before Christmas, that was still months away. I was to remain imprisoned -- for no matter how kind Mrs. Wright was, or what extra pains she took -- that is what I was. So, I asked my sister to bring me some more of my things, and since Mrs. Wright was an old acquaintance, I especially wanted our few photo albums.
Emma, however, still acted superior to Mrs. Wright and took every opportunity when she was beyond hearing to make snide comments about her, her husband, and their family. I found this most annoying since Mrs. Wright was nothing but kindness itself to me. So, after several weeks of repeatedly speaking to her, Emma appeared to acquiesce and stopped her haranguing. However, it took yet another week for her to bring me the photographs.
Mrs. Wright almost became another mother to me -- if one so mature as thirty-two could be said to have need of another mother. She did her best to keep people away -- especially when we were out taking the air walking around the outside of the building on pleasant days. I soon saw she did not care for the way Emma reported to me what every newspaper said about me.
Now, it had never been my way to argue with my sister. Emma was ten years my senior and had had the care of me when our mother had died sometime before my third birthday. Even after Father had taken Abby as his wife, once Emma completed her schooling and returned home for good, I had looked to her for guidance and advice. So, I am telling you the honest truth when I say it did not occur to me to think Emma had anything but my best interests in mind.
One evening, after I finished eating and Mrs. Wright had gone for the night, I pulled out one of the albums Emma had brought and looked through it. I quickly turned past the dour photo of my Uncle Hiram and of a surprisingly young Uncle John in his Union Army uniform.
I flipped through the book, stopping briefly at the wedding photo of Father and Abby. I turned back several pages and stared at the studio portrait of my mother as a young lady. I studied her features in the wedding picture of her with my father. But, no matter how long I considered her face, I could not remember her.
I wondered about her -- her likes and dislikes. What would it have been like to have a mother? How would she have altered Emma and my personalities? How different would our lives have turned out?
I also spent time gazing at the picture of Baby Alice. My other sister had been born when Emma was about five, but only lived two years or so. That made me think about how things would have been had she lived. What would have been like to have a sister still older than me, yet young enough to relate to?
Later that night, I was started awake from a dream. It was not a nightmare exactly, but it did leave me with a certain uneasiness. I had risen up from my bed, wrapped an afghan around myself, and settled in the rocking chair Emma had provided for me. There I sat thinking.
I still was unable to form a conscious image of my mother, or remember having had the dream before... yet there was still something both familiar and comforting about it.
I was a tiny child, tied to my chair at the kitchen table with a large, stiffly starched white apron. Emma and Mother were near the stove. Emma was also wearing one of Mother’s aprons, tied up under her arms with the ties wrapped around her tiny frame. Mother was standing well back, as if whatever was bubbling therein could dangerously splatter out and burn them.
The back door was open, and I could see the leaves were changing, their brilliant colors of crimson and gold littering the yard. Even though there was a cold draft coming in through the screen, the kitchen
itself was overly hot. But, it was filled with the aroma of apples, cinnamon, and clove.
Now, throughout my life, I had always found the scent of apples cooking filled me with an unexplained comfort and contentment. Perhaps, this was not a dream at all, but a memory -- the one memory I had of my mother.
As I slipped back into my bed, I decided to ask Mrs. Wright about life on Ferry Street -- about my mother.
*****
Mr. Jennings arrived early the next day. He did not have any news to tell me, but came to check on me and assure me, again, that the grand jury could not possibly find cause to prosecute me. I would very much have liked to believe him, but he had told me that before the inquest and the preliminary hearing. So, in my heart, I knew I would spend -- at the very least -- months in this cell.
Emma came to visit me nearly every day. Reverend Jubb and Reverend Buck continued take turns visiting me. Other people visited regularly.
However, it was Mrs. Wright who gave me the most solace. Because of this, I hesitated to question her for several days. But, eventually, my desire to know more about my mother overran my concern of alienating the woman, and I searched for the right moment to ask her.
Chapter Eight
I thought my opportunity had come at last, as we sat over a pot of tea, one cold, rainy afternoon. I waited until she was comfortably settled in a chair sipping her cup of tea. Then I asked her what she could remember about my mother.
To my surprise, she became rather quiet and withdrawn. She clearly acted as if she did not wish to tell me anything, even though I was sure she saw I found her reaction odd. She turned the tables on me, and asked me what I was able to remember about life on Ferry Street, before she changed the subject completely.
However, her questions did get me thinking. I believe it was the first time I really managed to recall those days -- when it was only Father, Emma and me. I had a clear image of Emma, the perfect little mother, busying herself with domestic duties.
I was filled with the memories of how she beamed with pride over how she did everything for Father and me. True, he would build a fire in the stove of a morning, but it was Emma who cooked the meals and cleaned up after. That summer she had full charge of me. She cared for me, played with me, and even started teaching me my letters.
Then autumn came, and with it, school for Emma. Father found a Portuguese woman -- whose name, I am ashamed to admit I cannot remember -- to come in each day. She was to watch over me, as well as deal with the heavy work like scrubbing floors and washing laundry. But, Emma did the rest.
Still, Emma was most unhappy about the woman's presence. Even though I was only three or so, I remember how she always found some fault in whatever the poor woman did. Father remained adamant that we needed the help, although my sister did convince him the woman was not to be trusted with money. Subsequently, Emma did the grocery shopping after school, often with me clinging to her skirt.
Life was pleasant enough but, even at my tender age, I could see Father was lonely. However, it was not until the trouble with the Portuguese woman that he voiced any interest in marrying again.
So, life continued on. Even though I was almost four, I still had the very bad habit of putting everything in my mouth. Emma was forever taking things away from me and chastising me over this. Now, to her credit, she was always most careful to keep anything unwholesome or dangerous beyond my reach. She had stressed the importance of this to the Portuguese woman many times.
But one Saturday, as the hired lady -- whom Emma always referred to as "the old hag" -- was preparing to do some cleaning, she placed a box of something or other on the kitchen table and well within my reach. I stuck a finger in and ate a very few grains, and immediately became violently ill. Emma became enraged. Between cleaning me up and comforting me, she took the time to quote a popular old phrase, "to put a flea in the old woman's ear."
The upshot was that Father returned at noontime to find me ill, Emma in a rage, and the Portuguese woman gone. He was furious with the woman for leaving, and cursed her when she later returned demanding her wages for the week.
However, he was also very angry with Emma, and he spoke to her none too gently. He knew she had done what she thought was best, but that she should not have talked so to a grownup -- even if she was Portuguese or Irish.
Not long after, he announced he had found someone who would make a good mother to us, and a home for all of us. Emma was most displeased. Yet, Father married Abby, and she moved into our little house on Ferry Street.
Our stepmother was basically a good woman. She was kind and a better cook than Emma. But, I continued to go to Emma because she was the only mother I had ever really known.
I did not do this to wound Abby. I swear to you, I did not. But, looking back on things now, I am afraid I may have done so, no matter how unintentional.
Emma was very unhappy about the new arrangement and was forever complaining to Father about it, as well as playing foolish little pranks on poor Abby. Father finally had enough and decided to send Emma away to a boarding school up north. So, Emma was packed up and shuttled off to a ladies seminary in New Hampshire.
Father made light of it, telling her she would learn all she would need to be a good wife and mother. He promised her when she returned in a few years, he would find a young man for her to marry. And, then she would have what she had always wanted -- a house and family of her own.
Now, Emma never said anything to Father or Abby, but she had told me many times that she had no desire to wed. She insisted, no matter what Father said or did, she would never marry.
Life without Emma was comfortable enough. Father and my stepmother appeared fond of each other -- in a rather remote, shy way. Abby was kind to me and even convinced Father to allow me to play with the other children in the neighborhood. This was something I was most excited over for Emma had never permitted it, let alone encouraged it. A few years later I began public school, although I did not prove to be much of a scholar.
Still, it was a quiet, pleasant life.
Abby taught me to sew and embroider -- at least she tried to. It turned out I was not much of a needlewoman. Still, she would patiently explain what she was doing as she cooked or cleaned.
I saw I was also being prepared for marriage, but in a much more gentle, personal way. I appreciated this special attention very much. And, I truly tried to show her so.
However, things were not nearly so pleasant when Emma came home for holidays and school breaks. She continually complained about her school. Emma took every opportunity to slight our poor stepmother. She would constantly try to stir things up between Father and Abby. And she also did all she could to drive a wedge between Abby and me.
When Emma turned seventeen, Father did as he had told her, and began to parade some young man or another before her whenever she was home. He tried every sort of man -- young men, older ones, men who had farms, and men who worked in the city. He even found one young man who was reading for the law.
Now I cannot remember any of them being dreadful. They all appeared well-mannered and well-groomed to me. Still, Emma would have none of them.
Father even changed from the Central Congregational Church to the other Congregational Church in hopes of finding a clergyman for her. He brought home the young minister -- freshly ordained and still wet behind his ears. Yet, Emma snubbed him shamefully.
No one proved good enough for my stubborn, persnickety sister. Each time Father brought home another potential swain, Emma would redouble her protestations. Finally, about the time I was to begin high school, he gave up altogether. Emma had beaten Father -- she had won her battle to remain a spinster.
*****
Once Emma finished school and returned home for good, she began speaking as though Abby did not truly care for me. She also took over planning how I should dress of a morning, or what I should do after school. She even began controlling with whom I should associate.
Mind, she did not come out and say, "You mus
t not be friends with so-and-so." Oh, no. She would simply make a comment here and there. And, I would understand they were not to be considered "friends."
Thinking back on everything, I see now how I should have noticed the Emma I knew -- the private one, the one she revealed only to me -- was much different than the meek, little mouse she presented to the rest of the world.
She had always told me she was the only truly comfortable with me -- the one who loved her, and whom she most loved. And, as a young schoolgirl, I found this a most tender and touching sentiment.
Even as an adult, it still made me feel important and cared for. But, as I sat in my cell, with so much time alone and nothing to do but think, I started to feel this was an exaggeration, at the very least.
After all, when I had most needed her, that afternoon of the murders, she had taken her time returning home. And, even then, she had spoken to Alice before me.
From the first moment I thought this, I felt guilty about it, and did my best to be even more loving and pleasant to Emma when she visited. This she did almost every day, no matter what the weather. The only times she failed to come were when she was truly ill. But, she often complained of aches and pains, and other minor ailments.
I was anxious she was not taking care of herself. After all, Bridget had left, so poor Emma had no one to do for her. However, whenever I asked why she had not found another girl to hire, she merely clucked over my worrying, insisting she would find one eventually, once I was back home.
Besides, she would ask me, "What do I need help with?" She picked up the few, meager things she required on her way home from the train station.
Sisterly Love: The Saga of Lizzie and Emma Borden Page 5
