“You should find employment back on the Hill,” Liam said as he handed me his mug of ale. I didn’t much like the taste of it, but I took a sip anyway before handing it back. “I don’t like you working for those people. Didn’t approve when you first took the job and still don’t now.”
“But I took it for you,” I reminded him. I supposed I could have found other employment with a wealthier family, one where gossip, and rumors, and “fits” weren’t commonplace, but it wasn’t a guarantee. Not here. Not when there were Irish families crawling off the boats by the day, each one of us vying for the same lowly jobs. Lately, it seemed like the only places not displaying Irish need not apply signs were the mills, and according to Liam, no girl of his would ever work there.
Besides, if I had taken work in a different house, I’d only see Liam every few weeks, and that wouldn’t be worth it. Plus, Mr. Borden paid handsomely, more than the Remingtons, more than my best friend Minnie made working next door for Mrs. Kelley. He did it to keep me, or so I presumed. I was the fifth in a long string of servants Lizzie had scared away, according to the rumors. But I didn’t frighten easy, and I needed the money.
And as for Lizzie, on her good days she reminded me a bit of my sister, the outspoken girl who never quite knew what to make of the world. On her bad days . . . well, I figured it was good practice for what was to come.
“Minnie said the Thompsons are looking for a new maid. Perhaps she could put in a good word for you.”
I shook my head. “I need the extra money, Liam. I can’t bring Cara here without it.”
“I can ask about extra time at the mill, ask Seamus to pick up some extra shifts as well. We’ll make it work, love. We’ll find the money somehow.”
“You’re already covering Peter’s shifts, and I doubt Seamus wants to spend what free time he has tending to my needs,” I said, as I caught a glimpse of him and Minnie out of the corner of my eye. They were talking—laughing, more accurately. She was sitting upon his lap, one hand curled into his hair, the other around the glass he was holding up to her mouth. She looked happy, truly happy. Seamus did too, and I’d be damned if I was going to take what little time together they had away from them.
“Besides, there’s more to it than money,” I continued. In a way, Lizzie had become more of a friend to me than Minnie, confiding her darkest secrets to me, and in turn, I entrusted mine to her. I refused to leave her alone to suffer in that house, refused to abandon her to the whims and wiles of her father.
Liam went to argue, and I put my hand up for him to stop. “I don’t want to talk about them tonight. I don’t want to hear how Mr. Borden profited off the dead or bought his sister-in-laws a house so he could control his wife’s family. I just want to sit here with you, forget about the Bordens and the mills, even forget about home for a while.”
Liam saw the sheen of tears threatening my eyes and pulled me into his arms. “Then forget you will,” he promised as he held his mug of ale to my lips. “Forget you will.”
Chapter 12
It felt like a lifetime ago that I had said goodbye to my sister Cara and come to the realization that I didn’t know when or if I would ever see my family again. But that didn’t stop them from coming to me in my dreams at night. My father’s worn face, the clamor of my brothers and sisters running amok in our tiny, cramped house, and Cara’s constant and nonsensical chatter. I missed it all. I missed them.
I pulled myself upright in bed and sighed in relief as I realized that it was still dark outside. Good, that meant I still had time to think about last night, to relive every wonderful moment I’d spent with Liam, before I had to dress for my morning chores.
Liam had taken two steps onto Second Street last night when I stopped him, gently reminding him that being seen together at such a late hour would do neither of us any favors. He’d groaned and complained, but in the end, agreed. He knew full well Mr. Borden had no problem with my going out, but he’d made it clear he didn’t want any of my drunken suitors around his wife and daughters. And to be honest, last night, that was exactly what Liam was. Drunk.
Lizzie was pacing her room when I got home, the subtle glow of the lantern beneath her door dying the second I turned the lock in the door. She’d been waiting for me to return home, no doubt still enraged by her father’s cruel actions. I should’ve stopped and talked to her, at least asked whether she’d eaten. But I had a spot or two of whiskey myself, and I was looking forward to my bed.
Throwing my bedclothes off, I got dressed as quickly and quietly as possible. I smiled, my mind circling around the events of last night—dancing with Liam until the wee hours, his lean muscles wound around me and the not-so-gentle thrum of the music beating through my head. I’d been sweaty, laughing, and three sheets to the wind, but it was wonderful. Perfect.
I slipped down the stairs and into the kitchen, fully expecting to be alone in my morning duties. But Lizzie was there, seated on the stool by the window. I startled, drew in a sharp breath, and tried to slow my heart rate. Her lips turned up into a small smile, one I could barely see through the darkness blanketing the small space. I knew what she was doing, what that tiny, apathetic grin meant. She was up to something, and somehow, I was going to be involved.
“Have fun last night, Bridget?” Lizzie asked as she dropped another lump of sugar into her coffee, stirring it slowly as her smile widened.
I nodded, ready to take any ribbing she had for me. I deserved it. I’d slipped away to my own life, left her broken and alone to deal with her father’s cruelty, rather than stay behind and comfort her. It was selfish of me, and I knew it.
“You were up late yourself, Miss Lizzie. Working on something for one of your charities?” I asked, foolishly hoping to change the subject and distract her into a more peaceful conversation.
“No. Just tinkering about with some books and things. Besides, I couldn’t sleep.”
I didn’t doubt her answer. Lord knew, each time I closed my eyes last evening I’d seen those dead birds, their eyes morphing and changing until it was Lizzie’s slate grey eyes staring back at me from their bloodied carcasses. It was the whiskey I had hidden under my mattress that finally allowed my mind to still long enough for my dreams to carry me back to Ireland. But now, sober and with the light of a new day to greet me, I could see them, could feel the birds' eyes watching me.
I finished tying on my apron and got my first look at Lizzie. Even in the dim light of the early morning, I could see the circles ringing her eyes. Seemed she slept less and less with each passing week.
“Were you waiting up for me?” I asked. Funny how the idea of Liam waiting up for me, worrying about my whereabouts and safety, was soothing, yet when Lizzie did the same, it set my nerves on edge.
“No.”
I could tell she was lying. Lizzie could never meet my gaze when she was lying. Her father, her stepmother, even her uncle John, she could fib to with little difficulty. But not me.
Lizzie pulled a small envelope out of her dress pocket and set it on the table. “Emma asked that you post this for her.”
“Has Emma left already?” I asked. I’d heard her come in yesterday evening. She was talking with Lizzie in her bedroom last night before I left for Liam’s. The conversation had been brief at best. Not more than ten minutes after Emma arrived, I’d seen Lizzie leave the house and head out to the barn to do God knows what.
“No. The letter was here when I woke up,” she replied. “I presume Emma is simply out, visiting with her friends here in Fall River. At least, her trunk is still here,” she mumbled.
I picked up the letter and turned it over in my hand. It was addressed to the Brownells, friends of theirs in Fairhaven. I would've thought nothing unusual of it—Emma frequently exchanged letters with them—save this one had already been opened and resealed, no doubt by Lizzie.
She’d taken to reading everybody’s mail lately, both incoming and outgoing, whenever she got the chance. She swore her family was plotting against her,
trying to keep her trapped, unwed, and dependent on her father for the most basic of necessities. Most days, I tended to agree with her.
“What does it say?” I asked straight on. Lizzie had no secrets from me; she knew darned well I was aware she’d read it.
“Nothing much,” Lizzie responded. “She’s planning to visit them later this month, says she’s hoping to stay on with them through the end of the summer.”
Lizzie’s voice shifted, a somber note worming its way in. She didn’t like the fact that her own sister seemed to be avoiding her, avoiding this house and everyone in it. To be honest, I didn’t like it either. Without Emma in the house, Lizzie had even fewer confidants, fewer allies, and she told me things I never wanted to know.
“Are you going, too?” I asked, knowing some time away from the stifling heat and out of her father’s reach would do her good. When she shook her head, I let out a sigh of relief. Just because I thought she should go didn’t mean I wanted her to. The thought of being here alone with Mr. Borden and his sullen wife already had me rethinking Liam’s suggestion of finding new employment.
“I’d miss you if you left,” I said softly.
She heard my whispered words and laid her hand on top of mine. “I wouldn’t leave you here alone all summer. God knows what sort of asinine things Abigail would have you doing. Probably beating the rugs at her sisters' house while they sit around, living off my father’s good fortune. My good fortune.”
This wasn’t the first time Lizzie had mentioned her stepmother’s sisters. The year before I got here, Mr. Borden had bought his wife’s childhood home on Fourth Street, and let her sisters live there rent-free. Both Lizzie and Emma were good and mad about that for weeks, or so I’ve heard. Lizzie had carried on about moving out, and Emma…well, she told her father ‘what he did for them, he should rightfully do for his own family.’ Lizzie said that’s how she and Emma had gotten their childhood home on Ferry St. They had persuaded Mr. Borden to sell them the house they were born in, for a dollar.
Lizzie sat there silently watching me as I got the milk from the icebox. There was some bread leftover from last night, but not enough for the substantial morning meals Mrs. Borden liked, so I’d have to think up something else.
Lizzie got up to leave, and I put out a hand to stop her. “I was about to start the morning meal. I’m going to get some flapjacks going, maybe fruit, and fresh cream,” I said, hoping to coax Lizzie into staying. She’d been moody since the day I met her, but lately it had gotten worse. Longer bouts of silence. More hours spent in her room, door closed, and meals skipped.
“Please, it’ll only take me a minute to fix the coffee, and I would appreciate the company.”
Lizzie shook her head. “I eat in my room now, Bridget. I no longer care to share my meals with my father or Abigail.”
Or me, I added to myself.
“I can help you,” I practically shouted, praying she’d stop for a just a moment and act like the Lizzie she used to be, the one who was full of spirit. “The pigeons, I mean. Perhaps I can get you some new ones?” I blurted out.
It was stupid. Lord knows, it was probably the most ridiculous thing to cross my mind in a year, but I didn’t care. Lizzie was closing in on herself, losing more and more of her life to the insanity of this house, and I couldn’t stand to watch it any longer.
Lizzie stopped cold at my words and turned around, meeting my eyes with a sad smile. “Tonight?”
I nodded, unsure of exactly how or where I planned to find seven pigeons tame enough to wrangle into a sack. Not to mention, I was quite sure Mr. Borden wouldn’t hear of having them housed in the barn.
“Excellent,” she said, then reached into her pocket and laid a second envelope on the small table by the front door. “Make sure Father gets this. It appears as though there’s a problem with the farm manager in Swansea.”
“Of course,” I said, curious as to who else’s mail she had stashed in the pockets of her skirts.
“You don’t know how much this means to me, Bridget. To think that you would risk my father’s wrath—your very job—to see me happy.”
I nodded and tried for a smile, all the while trying not to think of everything I had to lose.
Chapter 13
It was ten past eight and Mrs. Borden had already retired for the evening. Mr. Borden was still in the front parlor, reading the day’s news. I’d already washed the dinner dishes, set out the ingredients for the morning meal, and added more coal to the cookstove, making more noise than usual. Yet still Mr. Borden sat there, unfazed, as if he had all the time in the world.
He may have, but I didn’t. I needed him to retire to his room, safely lock himself in and the rest of us out, so Lizzie and I could get on with our plan.
“Drop a pot,” Lizzie whispered in my ear.
“I already tried that.” Twice, actually, but no amount of noise made her father move.
“Interrupt him. Ask him if he needs anything before you go to bed.”
“Done that, too,” I replied. The answer I’d gotten was a dismissive wave of the hand.
It was odd for Mr. Borden to attend to the news and his mail at night, never mind in the front parlor. He had a small desk in the study off his bedroom that he reserved for such things. It was as if he was aware Lizzie and I were planning something, and he was subtly telling us he knew.
“Do you think he knows?” I whispered.
“Not a chance,” Lizzie said. Then without warning she reached for the iron skillet and slammed it against the cookstove, letting it fall to the floor with an equally loud clatter. “That should disrupt him.”
Mr. Borden barely muffled his disapproval as he rose from his seat and made his way into the kitchen. “I’ve managed to ignore the ruckus you have made this evening up until now, but this,” he said as he stared down at the skillet on the floor. “Have you lost all your wits?”
I turned around, hoping Lizzie would have an explanation at the ready, but she was gone, leaving me to fumble around for a plausible excuse.
“I’m sorry, sir,” I managed to say as I bent down and picked up the pan. “The handle was wet, and it slipped from my fingertips.”
“Ten times?” Mr. Borden huffed out an exasperated sigh. “I am amazed you haven’t awoken Mrs. Kelley next door, never mind Lizzie and Abigail, with all your clamoring about.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” I said again.
“Never mind your apologies. I have been disrupted enough by your clumsiness. I suggest you retire to your room for the evening, give both me and this house a little peace.”
I nodded, then set the skillet gently on the cookstove. I made my way to the back staircase, my eyes glancing over the lock on the back door. Lizzie had purposely unlocked it, was afraid the catch of the spring lock would rouse her father when we left. I prayed he wouldn’t notice, wouldn’t descend into one of his paranoid states where he triple-checked every lock in this house on his way to bed. If he did, if he saw the lock had been tampered with, then it would be me and not Lizzie that he’d scold.
Mr. Borden was behind me, his steps shadowing mine and his breath lingering on the back of my neck, only adding to my already anxious state. I was grateful when he stepped off at the second landing, his shadow disappearing as he rounded the corner to the bedroom he shared with his wife. His door clicked shut, the sound of the massive deadbolt sliding into place thundering through the otherwise silent hall.
Slowly, I made my way up the remaining twelve steps to my attic room. My hand trembled as I reached for the doorknob. This was a bad idea—sneaking out, helping Lizzie trap new pigeons from the park . . . this was all a bloody dreadful idea.
I opened the door and nearly fainted from fright when I saw Lizzie sitting on my bed, her skirts bunched around her, as she sorted through the few pictures of home—of Cara—that I had brought with me.
Her eyes caught mine and she smiled, genuinely happy, before she held up a picture of my baby sister. “She looks like a sweet chil
d.”
“She is.” I grabbed the picture from her hand and shoved it, along with the others, back under my pillow where I kept them. Lizzie knew about my sister, the accident, and that I’d taken the job here in her house for the extra money—money I planned to use to buy my sister’s passage here. I’d even shown her these pictures, but somehow this felt different. Finding her alone in my room, sorting through the most personal aspects of my life, seemed wrong.
“What are you doing in my room, and what was the meaning of that downstairs? You nearly put me out of your father’s good graces.” Not to mention what her father would do if he discovered her in my room alone. At night.
“My father has no good graces,” Lizzie said as she stood and smoothed out her skirts. “And what I did, Bridget, was get us out of here tonight.”
She had a point. Still, it hardly made sense to test what little patience her father had by deliberately sneaking around under his nose. From what I knew of Andrew Borden, he wouldn’t hesitate to dock my wages if he got frustrated enough. I needed this job, and I was quite certain that if Mr. Borden dismissed me from his services I’d never find employment again in Fall River. He’d make sure of it.
“Come on, get dressed.” Lizzie grinned, grabbed my hand, and towed me towards my dressing screen. “The pigeons will be all roosted up for the night soon. I don’t want to miss our chance.”
I grumbled as I switched out my work boots for an older, even dingier pair. The lingering scent of oyster stew still clung to me, I was exhausted, and yet here I was, planning to spend my night tromping around in the park to catch Lizzie a new batch of pigeon pets.
“Abigail is already sleeping,” Lizzie said as she eyed the two dresses hanging in my wardrobe cabinet, fingering each as if trying to decide which one she thought I should wear.
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