I hadn’t seen him standing there, didn’t even know he was planning to visit. Not to mention, Lizzie had instructed me to go to the farm in Swansea . . . to John Morse should things here become odd. How was I supposed to do that if he was here?
It was obvious he’d just arrived, which was probably why Mr. Borden was particularly sour with me. It was poor form to not have a morning meal ready for his brother-in-law, never mind a room prepared for him.
“I didn’t know you were scheduled for a visit, Mr. Morse.”
“Neither did I,” Mr. Borden said so softly I gathered Mr. Morse didn’t hear.
“I’ll get your morning meal started, then see to your room.” I looked back down the stairwell, horrified at the prospect of going back down there to fetch the logs I’d dropped in my haste. But compared with the alternative—standing in the kitchen indefinitely while Mr. Borden and Mr. Morse stared at me—I’d take the cellar.
I prepared to make my way back down when John Morse reached out and grabbed my shoulder. “I’ll see to the wood,” he said as he handed me the black leather bag in his hand. It was heavy, felt like it was packed full of rocks. Probably was. If I’d learned anything about this family in the past year, it was that rules of normalcy didn’t apply.
I moved in the direction of the back stairwell, whatever was in that bag clinking like metal on metal. It reminded me of the day I’d arrived in New York, when I sat on the docks, listening to the metal cleats banging against the ship’s masts in the fog as I watched them unload the dead from the bowels of our ship. It wasn’t a good sound. It wasn’t a good memory.
“I need those kept safe while I’m here,” Mr. Morse called after me as I rounded the first set of stairs. “And they need to be stored in the barn.”
The barn. The only place I hated more than the cellar was that rat-infested place.
I dropped the bag in the upstairs hall. I’d come back for it after I had Mr. Morse’s room set up, and lug it back down the stairs.
The guest room was in the front of the house. It was the first room you saw at the top of the second-floor landing, one of the only rooms that wasn’t connected to Lizzie’s bedroom, which meant he could come and go unnoticed. John Morse did that frequently—left at ungodly hours to “run errands” for Mr. Borden, only to show up unannounced weeks later.
I opened the door to the room and noticed the bed was covered with dresses, the sewing cabinet open and the spools freshly wound.
“Bridget,” I felt Mrs. Borden’s pudgy hand on my shoulder and turned around, already knowing what she was going to say. “Please set up John in the room next to yours on the third floor.”
“In the attic instead of the guest room? Won’t it be a bit hot for Mr. Morse?” Truth was, I couldn’t care less about his comfort. I simply didn’t want him in the room next to mine, separated only by a flimsy wall and a door that didn’t even lock.
John’s deep laugh echoed off the walls. I hadn’t realized he’d followed me up the stairs. “I’m quite certain that if you can stand the heat up there, I can as well, my dear.”
I did my best to ignore the condescending tone in his voice, as well as the fact that he’d taken to calling me “dear” in the last couple visits. Glancing back towards Lizzie’s room, I looked for any sign of her. At the very least, she would be able to keep him occupied. She’d prattle on about her father’s willful neglect of the house when it came to things like indoor plumbing or an extra lantern for the parlor. She’d undoubtedly complain about his tight fist, bringing up how much money he spent on Mrs. Borden’s sisters while refusing her the finer things. Mr. Morse would listen, nodding every few sentences, but I’d never heard him broach the subject with Mr. Borden. No, it was as if Mr. Morse was the keeper of secrets, a sounding board and a trusted confidant for the women of the house.
All the women but me, that is. I didn’t like him, never mind trust him.
“Bridget,” Mrs. Borden said, her hand waving towards the attic before she turned to Mr. Morse and smiled. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience, John, but we had no notice of your arrival, and the guest room is currently in use, as you can see.”
“No matter, Abigail,” he said, flashing a charming grin. “The attic room will do fine.” Pausing, he met her gaze for a moment, the two of them exchanging a glance I would have given anything to be able to read. “I might be here a bit longer than usual. I hope my prolonged stay won’t cause you any undue stress.”
“Of course not. You’re welcome here as long as you need,” she responded, the wrinkles in her forehead smoothing out. I had no idea why she seemed so much calmer, or why yet another extended visit from John Morse would provide her relief.
“Andrew is having a few difficulties with some tenants, perhaps you could see to them while you’re here,” Abigail suggested.
“Of course,” John said as he pushed past me towards the staircase, nodding in Mrs. Borden’s direction. Something was amiss with those two. I’d wager she was the reason he was here. Mr. Borden frequently had problems with his tenants. If it wasn’t him complaining about the quality of their business dealings, then it was them bellyaching about Mr. Borden’s unannounced increase in the water tax or rent. But never once had he called John Morse in to handle his “difficulties.” He took care of them on his own, honestly seemed to take pleasure in treating folks with disdain.
I quickly followed after Mr. Morse. The breakfast could wait. The sooner I got him settled into his room, the faster I could find Lizzie and figure out what was going on.
Chapter 22
Three hours. John Morse had only been in the house for a total of three hours, and I’d already lost my patience with him. Puttering about, opening random cupboards, testing locks and muttering to himself. He was a nightmare. A living, breathing nightmare. Sometimes I swore he was nothing more than Lizzie in male form.
Lizzie herself was nowhere to be found. She’d left me a lengthy list of items that needed mending and articles to be purchased for the extended vacation she was planning. She didn’t even have the decency to give me the list herself, rather left it in the kitchen next to the stew pot I’d taken down for dinner. Of course she had; she was still angry with me.
Half of me wanted to talk to her about last night and our discussion in the kitchen. She’d been angry, I’d been defensive, and the whole thing left me feeling sour. The other half wanted to wring her neck. Hired help or not, I was her friend and I deserved at least a little consideration for having quietly put up with her antics and covering up her missteps.
I lifted my skirt out of the dirt on the barn floor and stomped my feet loudly like Lizzie had taught me. I remembered the first time she’d showed me that trick. It was my first week of employment and Mrs. Borden had sent me to the barn to fetch the trunk in which she stored her winter garments. The mice were scampering about in broad daylight, and I could barely stand it. Their beady eyes, their buck teeth, their matted and sickly-looking fur practically brushing over my new work boots. It was enough to send me right back to the Remingtons’ house to beg for my job back.
But Lizzie wouldn’t hear of it. She knew full well that if I left that barn without her stepmother’s garments, I’d lose not only my job, but any future chance I had of earning a living in Fall River. So instead, she fetched the trunk herself, showed me how to stomp loudly and kick at the storage crates to keep unwanted rodents away.
I’d done it every single time I entered the barn since then, but the sight of them fleeing through the tiny holes in the wall still made me squirm. For somebody who was so concerned about the cleanliness of her rugs and windows, Abigail Borden sure didn’t give much thought to where she stored her clothes.
I stopped just short of the fishing supplies and stared down in confusion at John Morse’s black bag sitting on the ground. I’d completely forgotten about it, had left it on the second-floor landing. Mr. Morse must have moved it here himself.
I nudged the bag with my toe, and my initial instincts were
correct. Whatever was inside it was heavy and irregularly shaped.
Peering back towards the barn door, I stared at the opening. Given the time, I was certain that Mr. Borden was at one of his properties and his wife was likely resting. But John . . . I had no notion of where he might be.
Slowly, I unzipped the bag, pushed aside the dark leather, and peered in. The sharp glint of metal caught my eye, and I opened the bag wide. One by one, I pulled out the items and laid them at my feet. I knew Mr. Morse had apprenticed under a butcher, knew he was living with that same man and his family now. The cleaver and the boning knives made sense, but the axe? Plus, I couldn’t fathom why was he was carrying his trade tools around with him. Yes, he claimed he might be here a bit longer than usual, but surely he wasn’t planning on butchering anything in Fall River.
The tools were clean. The wooden handles looked marred from use, but the metal looked freshly oiled. And sharp. I would have paid a pretty penny to have these in the kitchen when I worked. They could slice through the mutton bones with little to no effort. But so far as I could tell, John didn’t cook. He never so much as boiled his own water for tea.
I placed the tools back in the bag, careful to make sure each went back in the exact same position. I’d ask Lizzie later, pretend I had no inkling as to what was in the bag. Hopefully, she’d tell me the truth about why her uncle would be carrying such items around, but I doubted it. As kind as Lizzie could be, she could also be secretive.
“Oh good, you found my bag,” Mr. Morse said. He was nothing more than a shadow in the doorway, his tall form blocking out the noonday sun. “I wondered where you put it.”
I shook my head. “I left it in the hall, sir. Perhaps Lizzie moved it here.”
“Doubtful. Lizzie’s been gone for hours now. She left this morning for the Brownells’.”
This morning? Wait, this morning? It was only last evening she told me she was leaving. When did she pack and what was with the list of errands she’d left for me to do? “I think you’re mistaken, sir. Lizzie isn’t scheduled to leave for a couple days yet. She gave me a list of mending she needed done just this morning.”
I pulled the handwritten list from my apron pocket and held it up, as if that would make what he was saying untrue. Mr. Morse saw my confusion and his eyes softened.
“I saw her off on the train myself, Bridget. I thought . . . being that you and Lizzie seem to be so close, that she would’ve at least sought you out to say goodbye.”
I shook my head, my mind shifting between emotions. Panic, confusion, anger, betrayal. I wished my body would settle on one, give me some raw energy to embrace. “She said she was leaving. She just didn’t say anything about leaving today.”
I turned and ran from the barn, not caring that Mr. Morse was calling after me. I tripped on the stone step of the back door, would have fallen straight through the screen had Mr. Morse not hooked his hand around my waist and pulled me backwards.
“Did something I say startle you, Bridget?”
Mr. Morse met my eyes with a piercing gaze, and I pulled back. Not something, someone. You. Usually I prided myself on my instincts, could sort out the good from the bad fairly easily. But not with John Morse. He was an anomaly, someone who had shown me nothing but kindness and respect, but yet I still couldn’t bring myself to trust.
Chapter 23
“She’s gone. She just got up and left without so much as a goodbye.”
I’d been repeating the same set of words to Liam for the last half-hour, still unable to comprehend how Lizzie could’ve just up and left for the entire summer without so much as a simple farewell.
I was used to Emma being gone. She spent more time with her friends in Fairhaven or tending to her charities then she did at home. In fact, I wasn’t sure she’d been home for more than a day or two in the past month. Mr. Borden didn’t seem to mind. He often helped her pack, reminding her to take heed of the weather while stowing her wardrobe. Sometimes he even escorted her to the train. But he never assisted Lizzie, not even with the simple task of rigging her pole for fishing.
“Why do you think that is, love?”
Liam was digging for information. I knew for a fact he wasn’t upset that Lizzie was gone, more likely felt relieved that I wouldn’t be subjected to her mood swings and fits. But he didn’t dare say that.
“’Tis you.” The words came out before I had a chance to stop them, and Liam straightened up, set me away from him as he silently demanded an explanation.
“She wanted to meet you, and I refused. I did what you and Seamus are always telling me to and told her my private life was no concern of hers.” I knew what I’d done was the right thing, but I felt guilty just the same. It wasn’t like Lizzie was trying to be difficult, she just . . . was.
Liam tried to hide it, but I saw the small, smug smile that crept across his lips. I’d heard him talking to Seamus last week; he thought if Seamus expressed the same concerns as he did about my employment, then maybe I’d listen. Much to my displeasure, it had worked. Between the lot of them nettling me to put some space between myself and Lizzie, and all that Liam had said, I had made it clear to Lizzie I didn’t want her to meet Liam. And she’d left, putting fifty miles and a summer’s worth of space between us.
“Don’t be getting all proud of yourself,” I said as I wound my way back into his arms. “All your meddling did was land me alone with Mr. Morse, sharing the same tiny bit of attic space.”
Liam tensed, his arms constricting around me to the point where I struggled to breathe. I could almost hear his warring head, the decision he was tossing around between staying put or charging over to the Bordens' house and pummeling Mr. Morse, a man he’d never even met, into the ground.
“Who is Mr. Morse?”
“He’s Lizzie’s uncle, her mother’s younger brother.”
Liam gave me a tight nod, not at all satisfied with my answer. What he wanted to know was what business Mr. Morse had here in Fall River, why he had any reason to keep in contact with the husband of a sister he’d lost almost thirty years ago, and why he was housed up in the attic with me.
“Mr. Borden and him are friends, I believe. He comes by often to visit with Lizzie and discuss the workings of the Bordens’ farm in Swansea.”
“So he and Lizzie are close?” Liam asked.
Liam was confused, and I didn’t blame him. I’d lived in that house, watched Lizzie taunt her father with her idiosyncrasies while Mr. Borden firmly stood his ground. But it always ended in the same way—the mutual avoidance of each for days, sometimes weeks. And after watching the silent words that passed between John Morse and Abigail Borden in the guest room earlier today, I was certain she had a hand in his visits as well.
I thought about Liam’s question for a moment. I’d seen John speaking to Lizzie many times, heard bits and pieces of their conversations, all revolving around Lizzie complaining about her father. He’d listen, never once disagreeing with her. In fact, the only time I’d ever heard him bite back was when Lizzie said something unbecoming about her stepmother. Even then, he didn’t raise his voice, just softly reminded Lizzie that her stepmother too was subject to Andrew Borden’s harsh ways. And his bed. If anything, his presence made the house more hushed . . . more secretive.
“I’m not sure close is the right word,” I said. “But he’s around enough that they should be, I suppose.”
“So he visits often?” Liam asked, and I shrugged my shoulders. No matter how hard I tried, I had yet to figure out Mr. Morse’s visiting schedule. If I could, I’d have made sure the spare bedroom in the front of the house was made up and ready for his arrival rather than risk sharing the tiny attic with him.
“And he bothers you? Has he voiced an interest in you?” Liam asked.
I shook my head. Mr. Morse hadn’t so much as laid a finger on me, never once uttered an inappropriate word. In truth, Mr. Morse had been nothing but a gentleman to me. But his proximity to me, the way he watched me like a hawk circling its prey
, made me uneasy nonetheless.
“No. He treats me well enough, even tends to the wood in the cookstove and makes sure I have fresh water for the dishes. He will even do his own if I am still tending to the pots or salting what is left of the meat.”
If it was possible, I’d just confused Liam more. I’d confessed my fear of a man who had done nothing but go out of his way to make sure I wasn’t overburdened by his visits.
“He’s a butcher; that’s why I don’t like him,” I added.
Liam laughed, a full-on chuckle that had my whole body shaking right along with his. “What’s so wrong with butchers?” he asked. “Back in Ireland, that was my trade. Seamus’s too. I can have a lamb skinned and its carcass carved clean in a matter of minutes, and you seem to have taken a liking to me.”
I had forgotten that Liam’s father was a butcher and that he’d apprenticed under him, and would no doubt follow in the family business. But that was an entire ocean ago, back in Ireland when there was game to kill and meat to be had. Here, sitting on the front steps of his triple-decker house, listening to drunken verses of old songs ringing out from the windows, it all seemed like another life.
“So tell me, Liam, did your father bring his knives home?”
“The butcher shop was our home; it was nothing more than four rooms above and a small barn out back.”
“Did you bring them with you when you went to visit friends? Did you carry a hatchet and a boning knife when you were visiting family or friends?”
He cocked his head, and I could guess what he was thinking. Sometimes he did. If they were going hunting, then yes, he’d pack his tools right alongside his gun. But if the visit was to consist solely of cards and ale, then no, he left them at home, locked up safely in the shop.
I didn’t wait for him to answer. There was no game to be had in Fall River, no slaughtering of livestock going on in the Bordens’ barn. There was absolutely no sound reason for Mr. Morse to be carrying his knives.
Sweet Madness Page 11
