Sweet Madness

by Trisha Leaver

  “It’s no matter to me,” Mrs. Borden continued. “You do your work without complaint and keep the gossip to yourself. But mind you, Lizzie is a fair amount older than you. Her past has not been without turmoil and her mind has suffered for it. She has sound reason to behave the way she does; both my daughters do.”

  I caught the last of her whispered words. She only referred to Emma and Lizzie as her daughters in private, when talking with Mr. Borden or their uncle, John Morse. Never once had I heard her claim them as her own to the neighbors or her sisters.

  “I’ve done my best to protect them; I really have. But Lizzie is a grown woman now with a voice of her own, and she’s refused my counsel. Her excitable nature prevents her from seeing me as anything other than a threat, someone who draws her father’s favor and attention.”

  I thought about Lizzie’s voice, about how she screamed and stomped about in her room after fighting with her father. How trapped she must feel in this house, with the eyes of her parents . . . of this entire town always fixed on her. The very air in this place was suffocating, so thick at times that I could barely breathe let alone think straight. I couldn’t imagine how it felt to Lizzie Borden, to have grown up with Andrew as a father. But if I had to put a word to it, it would be caged.

  I thought of her father’s voice, howling through the night as he chided her for being selfish or wanton. The way Mrs. Borden always steered clear, would escape to their bedroom and not reappear for days. And Emma . . . well, she was barely ever here.

  Emma took it upon herself to leave Fall River as often as possible, frequently spending weeks at a time with friends in Fairhaven. It was obvious that her extended departures from the Borden house were troubling to Lizzie. Though she would never admit it, there was a cold edge to her voice when she spoke of her sister that told me the truth—Emma had the freedoms Lizzie so coveted.

  I fought off a shiver despite the warm temperature. I didn’t know what Mrs. Borden was trying to tell me, what her warning was supposed to mean.

  “Miss Lizzie and I share nothing more than common pleasantries,” I said, trying to assure Mrs. Borden and keep my job at the same time.

  “I hope that is true,” Mrs. Borden said as she laid her still full glass of water on the table and stood up. “I have no doubt that you are lonely. I can only imagine what it must be like to come to this strange place at such a young age without family or friends for support. But trust me, do not go looking to Lizzie for guidance or kinship. For your own peace of mind, for your own safety, please don’t rely on Lizzie for that.”

  Chapter 8

  I twisted my hair into a bun, pinning it tightly against my scalp so the dust cap would keep its hold. With a solid ten-hour day ahead of me and the midsummer sun beating down like fire, I’d take any opportunity to stay cool, even if it was something as simple as keeping the unruly bits of hair off my neck.

  My quarters were nice enough, the angles of the attic ceiling gliding gently over my bed and creating a haven from the chaos of the house. But the heat was insufferable, worming its way into my drawers, the layers of my dress, and even my stockings. If it weren’t for the cool rags Lizzie laid out in the kitchen now and then, I probably would’ve sweated myself into an early grave.

  I slid my door open a crack and listened for the sounds of life downstairs. It was silent. Nothing, that is, but the sounds of the house settling around us and the knocking of a tree branch against my own window.

  The massive clock down in the sitting room chimed seven, warning me to move faster. I smoothed out the wrinkles in the front of my skirts and made my way into the dim stairwell that linked my quarters to the rest of the house. The door to Mr. and Mrs. Borden’s room was at the foot of the second floor landing. No doubt it was locked, but it didn’t prevent me from pausing and wondering why he felt so unsafe in his own home.

  The ancient wood creaked beneath the soles of my boots, and I slowed my gait, anxious to keep Mr. Borden from awakening if he wasn’t up already. Odds were good he was already off at the bank or looking over one of his properties, but his exact schedule was of no importance to me. All I needed to know was whether or not he was in a favorable mood, and that depended almost entirely on Lizzie.

  A few rays of sunlight streamed through the windows, piercing their way through the darkness. I ran a finger over the darkened wallpaper in the parlor, wondering when or if Mrs. Borden would allow it to be replaced. It must have been nice once, or at least fine enough for the servants’ quarters in one of the houses on the Hill. But over time, it had faded, the deep blue background worn to a dull lifeless color, the white flowers taking on more of a muted gray tone, giving what was supposed to be the nicest room in the house a dim feel even on the brightest of days.

  The walls in the kitchen were no better. They were painted a white that had been beaten down by years of stained mist. I walked over to the cookstove, intent on boiling down one of the aging lamb bones for stew. Mr. Borden didn’t like to waste a single thing, insisting that the joint bone of under-refrigerated meat was perfectly fine to serve his family. I’d eaten better back home in Ireland. My father and brothers may have had no money to speak of, but what they lacked in coin they made up for with a respect for the welfare of their family . . . and with their hunting skills.

  It was days like this when the house seemed to close in on me. The dull click of Mr. Borden dead-bolting the interior doors over and over again. The heavy footsteps of Mrs. Borden above me as she carried her chamber pot down the stairs and disposed of it behind the barn. Lizzie prattling on to herself as she recited her Sunday school lessons. It was these mundane and mind-numbing rituals that had me wishing I’d never given up my employment at the Remington house on the Hill.

  The Remington house had running water and proper storage for their food. They had a staff of three, not only to split the day’s chores but also to provide friendship and a bent ear at night when I was missing home and Cara. They were more gracious with their household allotments, setting aside generous amounts of money for fresh meat and sweets. And their carriage house was filled with useful items like spare wheels and lap blankets, not pigeons and musty trunks laden with rusty locks. But the Borden house was only two blocks from Corky Row and Liam. Plus, the pay was better, a whole ten cents more a week. Most likely that had more to do with the Bordens' inability to secure permanent help than with Mr. Borden’s generosity. For the ten cents and Liam, I’d taken the position here.

  I lit the stove and was reaching for the stew pot when I heard the key twist in the lock of the back door. Mr. Borden walked in, mumbling something under his breath as he kicked the door closed with his foot. Silently, without even acknowledging my presence, he dropped a bloody heap of feathers down on the table. I looked closer, gasping as I realized what I was seeing. Pigeons. Seven of them. All dead. All Lizzie’s.

  I walked over to inspect them, my heart stopping at the sight. Lizzie had raised those pigeons herself, coaxed them into the roosting box with the promise of a warm straw bed and seed. I’d watched as she handled them, as she spoke to them as if they were children and not wild birds. And now they lay there motionless, four of their heads hacked off, the rest bent at awkward angles.

  Blood pooled around their bodies, seeping towards the edge of the table before dripping off and splattering in sickening drops at Mr. Borden’s feet. I watched as he reached for a bowl and placed it underneath the steady stream of red—no doubt hoping to save it. Knowing him and his displeasure of waste, he’d probably instruct me to make blood pudding with it.

  “Sir?”

  I forced myself to make eye contact with him, nearly flinching at the icy cold of his irises. Andrew Borden and I had few exchanges, and even fewer conversations. What knowledge I had of him came from Lizzie, Emma, and unfortunately, the tattle down on Corky Row. None of it was good. None of it was sane.

  “That should keep the prowlers away,” he finally said.

  His voice was gruff, gravelly; I didn’t dare
to argue. I’d heard him and Lizzie bickering last night. Mr. Borden had insisted the birds attracted indigent boys and thieves. Lizzie had argued that they were harmless animals, companions more than pets. They didn’t come to an agreement, but I never once imagined he’d do this.

  “Clean them up and spare nothing,” he said coldly. “You can serve them tonight.”

  I swallowed hard as my eyes found their way back to the small, mangled bodies. He wanted me to cook them. Not only had he killed Lizzie’s precious pets, but he intended to sit at the table, watch as I served them up, and wait for her to eat them.

  “Perhaps I should invite Abigail’s sisters to dinner,” he added. “It’s been a long time since they’ve paid us a visit, and I can’t think of a more tempting offer than that of a fine meal.”

  Everybody . . . Mrs. Borden, even Lizzie’s only friend Alice, knew what these pigeons meant to her. This wasn’t about sharing a meal with family, rather making an example out of Lizzie. Had I not needed this job, had mine and Liam’s future . . . had Cara’s future not depended on staying in Mr. Borden’s good graces, then I would have refused right then, given him a piece of my mind, collected my few belongings, and walked out.

  But I didn’t have that luxury. “Yes, sir.”

  Mr. Borden shuffled beside the table, smoothing a palm over the wrinkled suit coat he wore day in and day out. It was a mystery really, how a man of such means could manage to walk around in such ratty clothes and not care. My own dresses were as dull as dishwater, but at least I managed to keep them presentable.

  “And clean that roost out,” he added. “I don’t expect to see any other creatures coming and going from my barn from here on out.”

  I nodded and immediately set to work on the pigeons, praying I could get them plucked and boiled before Lizzie saw them. She was already acting peculiar, and I was positive this unspeakable act would throw her into a tizzy. However filthy I thought the pigeons were, they gave her joy, and her father should have been the last person to destroy that for her.

  Mr. Borden disappeared into the parlor, his footsteps becoming muffled on the rug. I picked up one of the birds and started the monotonous task of pulling out its feathers. It would’ve been faster to skin it, but that would mean losing the layer of fat under the skin, and Mr. Borden had already warned me not to waste anything.

  I gagged, recoiling as the blood continued draining from the necks, seeping in between my fingers. The metallic smell hung heavy in the air, and I breathed deep, placing a hand around the still-warm bodies as I yanked out a handful of feathers. I didn’t want to cook them. God knew I didn’t want to even look at them, but other than Lizzie, no one crossed Mr. Borden. And I couldn’t afford to lose my job.

  I felt Lizzie’s presence before I actually heard her, my trembling hands still tangled in the crimson feathers. I turned in time to see her storm through the back door, stopping short of the table. Her expression was pained as she reached out and gently fingered one of the few feathers untarnished with blood. With a single glance to her face, I saw it—the storm of anger that confirmed the very thing I feared. The eerie tension that had fallen upon the Borden household this past week was about to explode; and not me, not Alice, not even Emma returning to town, would be able to stop it.

  Chapter 9

  Mr. Borden was known for his foul temper and controlling ways. He was a miserly man. Some said he honored his money more than his family. But I couldn’t complain; he’d been nothing but fair with me. He never spoke harshly to me, and up until now he’d never done anything sinister in my presence. But there were Lizzie’s stories. And the rumors. Oh, the rumors. And today, staring at the agony swirling through Lizzie’s eyes, I believed every single one of them.

  Lizzie’s jaw dropped, her steely gray eyes reflecting a combination of horror and disbelief as they skirted over the pigeons’ bodies. The heat of the day made the smell of death stronger, and the blood was growing sticky in my palms.

  “Do you plan to cook those?” Lizzie asked.

  Her voice was unnaturally calm, as if the person speaking and the one staring wild-eyed at the pigeons were not one and the same. I nodded rather than answer. Besides, it wasn’t my intentions I was minding, rather Mr. Borden’s.

  She stood there for a minute, her fingers gently stroking each and every precious bird as she mumbled something incoherent under her breath. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have sworn it was the Lord’s Prayer, followed by an oath to bring the hand of the devil himself upon her father.

  I liked it better when Lizzie yelled, when she spoke harshly to her father, or told Mrs. Borden that Emma had been more of a mother than she ever was. What I didn’t like, what made me nervous, was when she sat there like that, quietly stewing. That was when things got bad, when her fits of fugue would take hold, leaving her deranged and carrying on about a family curse.

  “Lizzie?” I said as I slid the pigeons away from her hands. Letting her toy with them would only make things worse, more painful, when she was required to sit down with her aunts and make small talk over the evening meal. I needed to get them out of her sight. Disregarding Mr. Borden’s strict instructions, I quickly skinned them and tossed them in a pot. I’d come back to season them later.

  “Lizzie,” I said again, hoping to draw her out of the disturbing silence that had settled around her. She looked up, her eyes piercing mine with a desolation I’d seen only once before—on the SS Republic. I’d nearly lost my life on the trip over to the States, had watched in horror as dozens of other less fortunate travelers fell ill with cholera. Their skin pallid, fingers curled hopelessly around their bedpans, until they finally let go. In that moment, Lizzie had the same broken look to her, the same, heart-wrenching desire to simply die.

  “Have you ever seen the coop I built in the barn?” she asked.

  I nodded. I’d been in the barn countless times, had been in there with her yesterday helping her stow away her fishing gear.

  “Come.” She got up from her seat and headed towards the back door. She held her hand out for the key to the spring lock, and it wasn’t until I handed it to her that she continued on. “I want to show you the barn, Bridget. Introduce you to all the things it holds.”

  The tone of her voice was off, every word laced with calm disregard. Despite my reservations, I stripped off my apron and followed her out.

  We had a barn back home, smaller than this and surrounded by the rocky hills that dotted the coast. I always laughed to myself whenever I heard Lizzie or Mrs. Borden refer to this place as a barn. With nothing surrounding it but city streets and neighboring houses, it seemed more like a musty old house than anything else. No animals, no bridles, nothing but some old trunks, a wagon that no longer functioned, and Lizzie’s fishing gear.

  She opened the door and the rancid, hot air that streamed out nauseated me. The barn reeked, pigeon droppings and musty trunks making it nearly impossible to breathe. But neither the smell nor the heat bothered Lizzie. She spent hours out here each day, claiming the space calmed her nerves and eased away the stress of the house. I could understand that. The footsteps late at night, the muttering in the walls, and the suffocating darkness of the house were enough to drive anyone insane. Especially someone as isolated as Lizzie.

  The grass in the small backyard was higher than Mr. Borden liked, every mosquito in the whole of Massachusetts seeming to make its home in the overgrowth. I held my skirts up, barely managing to keep up with Lizzie as she charged towards the small sliding door that led to what I presumed used to be a stall.

  Stepping over the threshold, I coughed, barely able to take in a solid breath. I squinted in the murky black, pulling back as I realized that the gore Mr. Borden had dumped on the kitchen table was nothing compared with the carnage strewn across the floor of the barn. I don’t know how he expected it to get clean; he probably assumed Mrs. Borden would add it to her endless list of chores for me to complete today.

  I reached for Lizzie’s hand, but she swatted
me away. “You don’t want to be seeing this,” I urged. “Please, come back inside.”

  “Nonsense,” she said, not even hesitating as she walked right through the puddle of blood. “He wants me to see it, otherwise he would have brought them to the butcher or had one of his farm hands cage them and release them down by the river.”

  Frankly, I agreed with her. Removing the pigeons from the barn was one thing. Killing them and expecting Lizzie to eat them was wholly another.

  A bloody hatchet lay by the coop, Mr. Borden’s red fingerprints smudged across its handle. It didn’t faze Lizzie, though; it didn’t seem to do much other than spur her determination. “The only way to deal with my father is to know exactly what you’re dealing with. Once you know that, then you can play his game. Maybe even beat him at it.”

  I took note of the change in Lizzie’s tone, curious as to exactly what game she meant. But it wasn’t her tone that had me stepping back so much as the fact that she had referred to her father not as a ‘who,’ but as a ‘what.’

  “You know my father was a carpenter,” she continued as she backed out of the stall and started pulling tools from the hooks that lined the walls. “But did you know it was coffins that made him wealthy?”

  I nodded. Liam had told me as much, even said Mr. Borden did unspeakable things to the dead to save on the cost of wood. My friends on Corky Row were always talking about Andrew Borden and his homely daughters. Most of the time I chose not to listen. But certain stories were impossible to ignore.

  “Father was smart. He offered to give folks their money back if they were dissatisfied with their coffins.” Lizzie chuckled and shook her head, though I failed to see the humor in someone’s passing. “Funny, I don’t gather many people have the ability to rise from the dead to complain, do you?”