Sisterly Love: The Saga of Lizzie and Emma Borden

by Jordan Bollinger

So, I decided to hold another house party and watched for my opportunity.

  Eventually, there came a time when I learned that Nance and her troop would have a week off after performing in Boston, before they were to travel west to San Francisco. They would be there for quite a while. It was now, or never. Or, at least, not for a very long time.

  I invited my friends to stay with me for at least part of their holiday, and after they accepted, I began making my plans.

  I had every intention of telling Emma. I really did. As it happened Emma announced she and Alice were renting cottage on Cape Cod and going to be away for the two weeks surrounding my party. I thought about it for several days before I decided not to tell her. What is the expression, "Let sleeping dogs lie'?

  Yes, I should have told her. But, I did not. I merely went on making my plans in secret. And, to my shame, I asked the staff to keep my secret.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  I accompanied Alice and Emma to their train and waved as it pulled out of the station. Then I rushed back home and made the final preparations for my party.

  The house sparkled, the grounds looked like a park, and the staff was excited and anxious to serve such luminaries. Everything was perfect.

  The grand day arrived, and so did my guests. The visit flew by in lively conversation, wonderful food, and good fun. All too soon, the extended weekend drew to a close and my guests' departure date arrived. Rather than hiring a number of taxis, we decided to transport them to the train in small groups.

  Everyone but Nance and another woman friend had left, when -- four days before she was expected -- Emma emerged from a hack and stalked up the front steps. She bristled at the sight of the three of us sitting on the porch, surrounded by luggage, waiting for the carriage to come back to carry them on to the railroad station.

  She said nothing, but gave me a look that would frighten the devil and swept into the house.

  I followed her into the foyer. She turned on me as if she was insane. I had never seen anyone, let alone my beloved sister, as angry as she was. She raged, and I listened; but just for a few moments.

  As soon as she paused for a breath, I informed her I was going to return to the porch and my guests. I explained, when they had gone -- and only when they were gone -- we could continue our discussion.

  Then I turned on my heels and went back out onto the porch. I was shaking, but I had held my ground. I remembered feeling very pleased with myself -- at how firm I had been.

  *****

  The last of my guests departed; and I went in search of my sister. But, first I went to the kitchen, thanked the servants for all their hard work, and insisted they take the rest of the day off. I suppose, in the end, I was just as Puritanical as my father had been, and his father before him. I did not want a family squabble to become a topic for first our servants, then their friends, and then their friends' employers.

  It was not at all difficult to find her. She had left a swath of scattered mail and broken knickknacks in her wake. I followed the trail to her room, where I found her seething in anger and absolutely purple with rage. The more I tried to soothe and placate her, the more unreasonable she became.

  I spoke to her in my gentlest voice and considered my words before I said them. I told her I understood she did not approve of my friends, and for that I was truly sorry. However, they were just that -- "my friends."

  I told her I had never presumed to tell her whom she could, should, or would associate with. I merely expected her to afford me the same courtesy. I did not ask her to do any more or less than be civil to them. However, I expected her to do that.

  She turned on me wearing such a pained face, that for a brief moment, I feared she was having a heart attack, or a seizure of some kind. But, when I attempted to help her into a chair, she shook me off and began hissing out oaths. Never had I heard such things said, let alone from my pious and virtuous sister. In the end, it was I who fell back into a chair in blind astonishment.

  I told her I understood she was upset with me. I was more than willing to listen to her -- to all she had to say -- but I warned her I would not yield to her on this one point. Now it was she who sat down hard on the edge of her bed. I suppose, after a lifetime of having gotten her own way -- at least with me -- she was astounded.

  Her face burned with an inner fire, and in that moment I saw her -- the real her -- for the first time in my life. I recognized her as the hound of hell she was -- as she had always been. She lunged at me, let out a demonic laugh, and began her tale.

  But never could I have ever predicted what was about to come spilling from the core of her soul...

  Part Two - Emma's Tale

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  "How dare you speak to me like that!" Emma spat at me. "After all I did for you! You stupid, stupid girl!"

  I assumed she was referring to sharing Father's estate with me, and was about to respond, but she cut me off before I could even manage to get a single word out. "How do you dare treat me like this? No," she snarled, "I will answer, so you will not have to need to -- so you do not have to think...

  "I was happy enough when it was just the three of us -- Father, Mother, and me. Then Mother had Alice. Before she came, Father loved me more than anything else in the world -- even Mother.

  "Then she had that stupid, bawling infant, and I was ignored. I was pushed aside, forced to watch as Father fawned over the two of them -- first Mother and then that awful brat.

  "Did they expect me to stand there and be treated like that?" She snorted, and then with a cold smile, continued, "If they did, they were sadly mistaken, were they not! I gave him time to come to his senses. I hoped his foolish enamor would wear off. But when it did not, I realized what it was I needed to do."

  I heard the tenor of her voice, and saw the determined expression on her face, and was suddenly filled with an icy dread... for with horrible conviction, I knew what she was about to tell me... to what Mrs. Wright had skirted around, all those years before.

  It was as if she could see into my mind, hear just what I was thinking, for she cackled like an aged hen and said, "Oh, so dear Mrs. Wright, the old hag, told you, did she? Do not even try to deny it. I can see it in your face.

  "Did you know I saw Alice being born?"

  Horrified, I just stared at her. I tried to speak, to answer her, to say something -- anything, but was unable to make a sound.

  So she laughed and then continued, "No, she did not tell you that, did she? No one knew about that.

  "There was a snowstorm and the midwife could not come, so Father was forced to help deliver her. Of course, he had no idea I was hiding in the room -- watching everything.

  "There was so much blood. The smell of it was so strong, I can remember it, even now. Just as if I was still in that room. It was wonderful. Mother let out a particularly loud scream and then Father stood up, holding the baby. She was naked, and skinny, and squalling, and covering in blood. I thought she might just die, but she did not.

  "And so I was forced to take matters into my own hands. I watched and waited for just the right opportunity. You see, I needed it to appear as if it was an accident."

  She looked at me, nodded and went on, "Yes, even at the tender age of five I knew enough to plan carefully and well.

  "I watched and waited, until I saw my chance. It did not come for two years. But finally, my chance arrived. One day Mother pulled the cradle near to the bed. I could not tell you why she did it. The important thing was she did it. I knew it was my chance, and I pounced upon it like a cat on a mouse.

  "It was almost too easy. I just held a fancy pillow over her face for a few moments. She wriggled a bit, but not for very long. It was all over in a minute. Then I left the pillow on her, as if it had somehow fallen from the bed and into the cradle and went to meet Father."

  She grinned and added, "I even managed to cry at the appropriate time."

  "Emma, do you hear what you are saying? You cannot mean any of this. You are hurt
and angry with me and saying all this to make feel the same, as well."

  "Are you deaf? Or is it possible for you to be so stupid?" she hissed back at me and scowled again. "And then you came along. It was Alice all over again, but I decided not to kill you.

  "You see, by that time I was older and knew a bit more about the world. After all, babies just could not continue dying mysteriously. Besides, I saw quite clearly that the real source of the problem was Mother. So, I decided I would have to kill her.

  "The question, of course, was how. Mother was petite like I am, but she was still a grown woman and I was only a child of ten. I kept my eyes and ears open, and the solution practically dropped into my lap."

  "Please, stop this, Emma."

  "No, not now. For years I have wanted to tell you all this, but did not wish to upset your delicate sensibilities. However, you cannot do as you have done and think I will endure it. So, everything comes out, and then we part ways.

  "Anyway... do you remember when Father did undertaking from the cellar? "

  I shook my head, even though I did remember he had done that. I had heard stories since I grew up -- awful stories -- of how he bought cheap, under-sized coffins, and would cut the corpse's feet off so they fit.

  I had always tried to ignore this unseemly, and most unethical business of my father's. Now, however, Emma seemed hell-bent on reminding me of all this.

  "Sometimes," she said, "I would sneak downstairs and watched as he worked."

  She looked over at me and, smiling, spoke on, "Did you know they mix powdered arsenic with the embalming liquid? Apparently, it gives the corpse a "more natural" color, so the amount is adjusted for each "client."

  "He would lecture to me as he worked -- as if he were a professor and I his student. He charged inflated prices for shoddy service. That is how our Father parlayed his meager inheritance to the fortune he left us.

  "Thank God he quickly made enough money to invest in real estate and such. The stench was horrid. Still, I would stand beside him and watch as he mixed up the elements of the embalming fluid. I noticed he was very careful with this one white powder.

  "I asked him about it, and listened intently as he told me of how dangerous it was. I was never to touch it -- and be especially careful that it never be put where you might get it."

  She gave me look that sent shivers through me. "Emma... "

  "Do not talk, just listen," she said. She gave me a frighteningly sly smirk and continued, "Of course, he was more concerned about you than he ever was about me. But, I gave him my most solemn of looks and promised I would keep it from you."

  She laughed at this, as if she had made some private, little joke, before she went on, "And I kept that promise -- I kept it from you. It was for Mother.

  "I waited for my chance, and snuck downstairs and filled an old bottle with some of the arsenic. Father did not even notice I had taken so much."

  "Why are you making up such tales?" I asked her, "How could you manage to poison Mother?"

  Anger flashed in her eyes as she answered, "I am telling you the absolute truth. Neither Father nor I used sugar in tea, but Mother always did. She used it in coffee as well. I just kept adding the arsenic to the sugar bowl.

  "It did not have to take so very much, or so very long for her to die. Then I discovered how much Father valued me when I took care of you and Mother. I would mind you and feed Mother with tea or soup. Of course, it was poisoned -- so I did need to make sure you did not get any. But he would sing my praises, and so Mother would recover for a day or so.

  "Poor Mother!" she roared, "She was so very ill. She suffered so much. I very nearly felt sorry for her. Almost.

  "The only problem I had foreseen was getting rid of the doctored sugar once Mother had taken to her bed for the last time. But, I thought it would be easy enough to manage once Father was thrust into grief and relying on me to care for you both.

  "What I had not realized was that death -- or even near-death -- brought neighbors out like rats fleeing a sinking ship. Of course, all the old biddies in the neighborhood came in droves to see Mother -- just as soon as the doctor had let slip the news of her imminent demise.

  "And, the first thing they did was to make tea. But, in the end, I just ran into the kitchen and knocked into the table. The sugar bowl fell to the floor and was shattered, and my guilt was swept away with the remains of the poisoned sugar and shards of china."

  Finally, in a timid voice I barely recognized as my own, I asked, "But why? Why did you hate them so much?"

  "Have you not been listening? I told you, because they took Father away from me."

  "But," I said, as I reached out for her hand, "why could you not share him? He loved all of them -- us."

  "You would believe that. But, you see, I knew better. Oh, he loved you well enough, especially after Mother died. However, even when it had only been the three of us -- Father, Mother, and me -- he had not chosen me. He had chosen someone else. Raised someone even higher than Mother.

  "I gave him opportunity after opportunity to see his mistake, to change his priorities, but he never did." She let out a cold, cruel laugh. "Well, he did change his priorities, but he only kept pressing me lower and lower."

  I studied her, considering these last, vindictive words. Was she saying Father had had another woman, even while Mother was alive? He had not married Abby until several years after Mother's death. So what did Emma's words mean?

  Giving her hand a teeny squeeze, I said, "I do not understand what you are implying. If Father had been involved with Abby, or anyone else, for that matter, why did he not simply marry her as soon after Mother died as it was decent to do so? He would not have needed to hire that old Portuguese woman. "

  She jerked her hand from mine and looked at me as if I was some half-witted child. Then, shaking her head, she spat out, "I am not speaking about Abby, or any other woman. I am talking about Uncle John!"

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  "What?" I gasped.

  Emma took one look at me and burst into a fit of genuine laughter, but it lasted only for a moment. "I wish you could see your face, such shock and awe -- especially for one who is so 'modern' and 'open-minded' about others."

  I tried to answer, but merely sputtered for second before she began speaking again. "Take a deep breath and relax. I am not suggesting Father was a sodomite." Then, with a smirk, she added, "Although..."

  I backed away, as if I would understand her better from a distance. When I felt a chair behind me, I collapsed in it and tried to regulate my breathing. Finally, I muttered, "What are you trying to say?"

  "I," she answered with scorn, "am not 'trying' to say anything. I am, in fact, stating that our Father placed Uncle John above all of us. Naturally, being the modest and genteel woman that I am, I have never considered 'that' possibility, but I suppose... nothing is impossible."

  "Emma..."

  "Just calm down. After all, what does 'that' matter? Father has been dead for years and years." Her face morphed into a truly sour scowl and she went on, "No, what I am telling you is why Father had to die.

  "Lord knows I gave him plenty of time to mend his ways. But, alas, he did not. So it was never a matter of 'if.' It was merely a matter of 'when.'

  "You see," she hissed, "Uncle John 'fiddled' with me. I was only a tiny child -- a toddler -- and he abused me. Night after night he would slink into my room and into my little bed. It was horrible!"

  I could feel the blood drain from my face, I grew cold, and my knuckles whitened as I gripped the arms of the chair. He had molested her, and as a baby. At least I had been spared that terror. For he had not abused me until I was ten or eleven.

  My heart went out to her -- for I knew the horror of the man creeping into your bed and doing things to you no child should ever experience. It began to dawn on me that she was not only telling me this awful secret. She was also admitting she had been connected to Father's, and therefore Abby's, murder.

  "But, Emma," I said
, "It was Uncle John, and not Father, who did this awful thing."

  "True," she answered, "but Father knew."

  "No!" I said. "I do not believe that. I will not believe that!"

  "Believe what you will," she told me. "I am not saying he approved of what Uncle John did. Oh, no, he put a stop to it once he found out what was happening."

  Suddenly, her face took on an unfocused, faraway look. "I remember the night he discovered his very good friend in his tiny daughter's room. Uncle John was just slipping through the door, when a hand came from behind him and seized his shoulder, and jerked him back from the room.

  "The door closed, and I was alone. I was safe and alone. And, it was Father -- my beloved Father -- who had saved me. For the first night in months, I slept well and awoke sure that I would never be forced to endure Uncle John's disgusting presence ever again.

  "Mother came for me, and sang to me as she got me dressed for breakfast. I went downstairs, happy -- joyous, even -- because I was freed from him and his oppression.

  "But, I was wrong. Uncle John sat, happy and smiling, at his place at the dining table. I could not believe it. Father spoke to him just as if nothing had happened."

  I sat there, staring at her, doing my best to absorb all she had said. Father -- my own dear Father -- had known what Uncle John had done to Emma. He had known his friend was a sexual pervert, but still allowed him free access to our home. Even though he stopped the abuse, he would not given up his very good friend.

  I felt anger bubble up inside me. Yet, I could not justify her condemnation of Father. I was sure I never would.

  My distress appeared to amuse her, for she laughed before she continued, "I gave him another chance after Mother died. I took good care of you and Father, both. I was only thirteen and doing the work of a grown woman.

  "But, first, he hired that great sloth of an immigrant. And when I got rid of her, he went and married that great cow, Abby, and sent me off to boarding school. How I detested that school, and the two of them for exiling me there. But, they could not keep me away forever."