Sweet Madness

by Trisha Leaver

  I considered the question, every alarm in my body going off all at once. I’d never enjoyed being in the same room as Mr. Morse, thought it odd that he showed up whenever he pleased and with absolutely no rhyme or reason. He was friendly sometimes, cold and distant others, and I didn’t have the strength or fortitude to guess which mood he was in now.

  “I’m very busy, sir. If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather be left alone.”

  “I doubt you are busy, Bridget. Truth be told, I believe you’re hiding up here, and I don’t blame you. Neither does Lizzie.”

  He was absolutely correct about what I was doing. I had a million chores to finish, yet I was hiding, praying that things would straighten themselves out without me. “I’m not hiding,” I spat out, frustrated with the fact that my own legs were quaking beneath me. “And what does Lizzie have to do with any of this?”

  John exhaled loudly and leaned against my doorframe. “Lizzie has everything to do with this, but I think you already know that.”

  I tossed the door open and flicked my hand in his direction. “Fine, then. Speak your mind.”

  An amused smile spread across his face as he stepped across my threshold and took in my room for the first time. “Listen, Bridget, I know what you must think of me. That I’m unsavory, popping in and out of here without any warning and making your job, your life, difficult.”

  I stared rather than answer. That was exactly how I felt.

  “Do you know why I come here, though? Why I don’t stay in Swansea and manage the affairs Andrew requests of me?”

  “No, sir.” And I am not sure I care, I silently said to myself.

  John stood at a distance, as if he understood how uncomfortable I was with his presence in my room. It was more than awkward; it was utterly inappropriate.

  “I’m not here to offend your sensibilities. I do help keep an eye on the farm and mediate things with the tenants. But I also see what is happening here . . . the problems in this house and Lizzie’s erratic behavior.”

  John’s forehead crumpled, his entire demeanor shifting into one of frustration and disappointment. “I’ve been visiting with my nieces for years, and I’ve seen plenty more than you will ever know. I was here the day each of them was born, and made a promise to my sister Sarah that I would look after them, see that they didn’t fall into their father’s dreary ways. I have failed my sister, failed Lizzie and Emma, and, in a way, you.”

  “I don’t follow,” I said, quite certain I didn’t like the direction this conversation was headed.

  “Andrew and Abigail have enough money to buy half of the houses on the Hill, you know that, right?”

  I nodded, but stayed silent. While I wasn’t privy to exactly how much money Mr. Borden had accrued, I knew it was significant. I often wondered why they lived on Second Street when most people of their station lived on the Hill.

  “When Lizzie falls ill with one of her fits, she wanders. Says strange things. Believes strange things. It’s much easier to control a situation like that here, where the only folks who might see her are street peddlers.”

  Situation. Like everyone else, it was becoming abundantly clear that John Morse believed Lizzie to be a problem and nothing more. She was a liability to be watched over, a woman with a large mouth and sticky hands, just as Liam believed. No wonder she was so bitter, why she constantly fought her parents. They’d created a mold for her no one should have to fit into.

  “She’s not a situation, Mr. Morse. She’s confused, sad . . . a lot of things. I see it. Even her friend Alice sees it. But nothing ever seems to change; no one in this house ever finds any peace."

  “Abigail cares, more than you will ever know. And you are right. I am sorry; I should not have referred to Lizzie so callously. What I meant to say was that Lizzie needs help; more help than you can give her. I’m not saying it’s her fault or that there’s anyone to blame here. She’s a victim of circumstance, so far as I can tell.”

  “What circumstance?”

  “It was insane, really. One minute my sister was alive, well, and full of life. She was looking forward to having more children, giving Andrew a son. Then the next thing I know, she’s . . . ” Mr. Morse trailed off, his eyes fluttering closed as if he was lost in a distant memory. “She was just gone. No one could really explain it, not even the doctors. The whole house changed that day. Andrew changed that day.”

  There was a long pause, one I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to respond to. I thought if I stayed silent and looked anywhere but at him, that I could ignore the desperation and sadness I could hear in his voice. But I couldn’t; it seeped into me like every other toxin in this house.

  “It must be hard for you.” John started speaking again, his voice dipping to a barely audible level. “I understand why you are leaving. In fact, I think it is the change she needs to finally set things in motion.”

  “She?” I whispered.

  Mr. Morse shook his head rather than answer. “Lizzie and Andrew have been locked in this battle for years. It’s raged around me, around Abigail, and now it’s raging around you.”

  I inched back. His agitated tone unnerved me. In all his countless visits, as I made his eggs, folded his sheets, and laundered his clothes, Mr. Morse had never spoken to me this way. He’d always been calm and collected.

  Mr. Morse lifted his hands into the air. “I can see that I’ve alarmed you, and I’m sorry for that. That was never my intention. Ever. I just wanted you to know that I feel it too. The darkness in this house.”

  He leaned over and gently placed his hand on my shoulder. “Don’t let it suck you in, Bridget. Don’t let the voices that the rest of them hear transfer to you.”

  His words echoed through my mind, the honesty of them settling around me like a heavy cloak. If John Morse could feel it, if a man who had nothing to gain from telling me any of this sensed it, then it had to be real.

  Chapter 34

  I nearly doubled over as I pulled my body out of bed, forcing my eyes to begin the task of focusing again. My stomach spasmed in pain and I was exhausted, so tired I could barely think.

  I’d heard Lizzie arguing with her father just yesterday about fetching Dr. Bowen from across the street. Mrs. Borden seemed to be suffering the most. With her chamber pot full, she’d barely made it to the cellar privy last night, never mind the outhouse. But Mr. Borden wouldn’t hear of fetching the doctor; he said the cost was burdensome and wholly unnecessary for what amounted to nothing more than a sour stomach. Listening to Mrs. Borden retch these past two nights, I would’ve gladly paid the cost myself, if I’d had it.

  I’d crawled into bed over an hour ago, consumed with nausea and the heat of the day. I’d washed every window on the main floor this morning, and between the sun beating down and the thickness of the air settling into my lungs, I’d needed a break. A short nap. Something to take the edge off my exhaustion. Besides that, I craved an escape. A few minutes away from Mrs. Borden’s heartbroken gaze and depressed shuffling. From Andrew Borden’s solemn expressions and Lizzie’s temper. From Mr. Morse’s dark honesty. I was close to my breaking point. So close.

  I’d fallen asleep to the taste of rancid mutton stew rising in my throat, and tossed and turned as I dreamed about a sealskin coat Lizzie didn’t own. I walked down the front staircase in my dream and drew open the hutch to see the bottle of prussic acid missing. I felt the blood of the pigeons coating my hands, smelled their meaty flesh simmering in the pot. It all came to a horrific end as Liam’s face twisted into that of Mr. Borden’s. The brightness of his eyes and the promise of a future . . . our future, died out as I floated through the rooms of this darkened house.

  I came awake with a start, a muffled scream barely escaping my lips. The haze of sleep quickly lifted, and I wondered if I was next in the long line of maids Lizzie had pushed away, threatened, or poisoned until they crawled from this house defeated and seeking the safety of the streets.

  But I wasn’t like the other maids. I refused to
believe that the hours Lizzie and I had spent talking each day, the way she would help me with the most menial of chores and lie to her father to protect me, meant nothing. I refused to believe she’d intentionally hurt me, never mind poison me. She was my friend, same as Minnie. Same as Seamus. At the very least, I owed her the opportunity to explain, to hear from Lizzie’s own mouth what she was up to. If I didn’t, I’d be no better than the shopkeepers and townswomen who gossiped behind her back every day. I was her friend, and friends owed each other that much.

  I cracked open my bedroom door and listened for any indication that Mr. Borden had come home or that John Morse was wandering about again.

  Muttering a curse under my breath, I loosened the ties of my apron as I made my way down the stairwell. They were digging into me, the scratchy cloth adhering to my sweat-soaked skin. This was the hottest month I could recall in years. Everyone else in Fall River was taking up spots near the river to cool down, but not us. No. We were stuck here, trapped on Second Street, simmering in our own illness.

  It was dark in the hallway, but that was to be expected. With no windows nearby, it was impossible to get any natural light or any fresh air into that cramped space. The smell of rotting meat and chamber pots filled the air, and I gagged, nearly tossed the contents of my stomach right there on the back wall.

  I rounded the second-floor landing and noticed the door to Mr. Borden’s room was ajar. I’d check with Mrs. Borden. Perhaps she had purposely left it unlocked so she didn’t have to fumble with the knob as she raced for the cellar privy. She was the only one in the house with me as far as I knew. Lizzie was in the barn searching for her iron sinkers, and Mr. Borden was attending to his morning affairs. When I’d spoken with Mrs. Borden a short hour ago, she was changing the sheets and airing out the guest room. Much to everyone’s relief, Mr. Morse hadn’t fallen ill. She was planning on moving him out of the attic room into the guest room in the hopes of keeping him healthy. Not that I had complained. But moving him downstairs would hopefully afford my mind a bit more rest.

  I nudged the door open the rest of the way and peered into the room. The door connecting the Bordens' bedroom to Mr. Borden’s upstairs study was open a sliver, the slightest beam of flickering light casting a shadow into the hallway. Initially, I thought this was Lizzie’s doing. She’d been quiet, unsettlingly so, since returning, and this would be just the kind of childish behavior—unlocking her father’s study door—she would do to set him on edge.

  I kept my footsteps light as I edged towards the door, listening. Surrounded by nothing but the sound of my own breathing, I pushed the door wide and walked in, curious to see what Lizzie had taken this time.

  She’d done it before, stolen stuff right out of his room and then blamed it on nonexistent prowlers. The first time it had been nothing more than some streetcar tickets, change, and Mr. Borden’s pocket watch, but it was enough to send him into a fit of paranoia. He’d called the police, even went so far as to insinuate that it was one of his disgruntled tenants, but the police didn’t put much effort into locating the thief.

  It was I who’d found the watch. It had been tucked behind the ash bin in the cellar. I searched for a bit that day but never found the other things; I’d assumed Lizzie had spent the money or donated it to one of her charities.

  I’d only been in this room a handful of times. Mr. Borden insisted that his wife maintain their personal space, only allowing me to help with the heavy spring and fall cleaning. But I didn’t need to have intimate knowledge of his room to know something was amiss. The bed was disheveled, the doors to the wardrobe swung open, and Mrs. Borden’s dress was shoved hastily inside an open trunk on the bed.

  Scattered around the trunk were papers and a small satchel I’d seen Mrs. Borden use to carry her money. I sifted through them, my eyes settling on the pocket watch I’d seen hidden in the cellar, the one I’d assumed Lizzie had stolen.

  I pushed the watch aside, my attention drifting to the two documents sitting beneath it—the deed to the house on Ferry Street, the same one Lizzie and Emma had sold back to their father earlier this summer, and two tickets for the Old Colony & Fall River Railroad to Boston.

  Two tickets . . . both dated today. The three o’clock train, to be exact. Yet the open trunk appeared to contain only Abigail’s clothes; Mr. Borden’s were still hanging neatly in the wardrobe.

  No wonder she kept telling me everything was going to be all right eventually. She wasn’t just getting me out of this house, she was planning on leaving as well.

  I took a quick peek at Mr. Borden’s desk. The key to this room, the one he left on the mantel to taunt Lizzie, was sitting next to yesterday’s mail. None of his papers looked out of order; they were neatly stacked, his ink blotter anchoring them in place. I pulled at the handle to the safe. It was still locked, didn’t give an inch.

  A shadow passed over the entrance to Lizzie’s room, and I walked in that direction, surprised to see the door connecting her room to that of her parents unlocked and standing open. A thick and heavy smell permeated the air. It reminded me of the smoke that billowed out from the iron works, combined with the scent of the outhouse on a hot summer day.

  Covering my nose so as not to further upset my already delicate stomach, I slipped into Lizzie’s empty room. The odor was stronger in here, and I did a quick circle to find its source. This room was as silent as the last, the curtains drawn tight across the sole window. I drew back the lace covering the window, fully intent on airing out Lizzie’s room. There was no way she’d be able to breathe tonight with that putrid stench surrounding her.

  Light drifted into the room, bouncing off the few bottles of powder and perfume Lizzie had on her dressing table. One in particular caught my attention, the rays of the sun filtering through the clear liquid, casting a rainbow of colors across a fur coat draped across her bed.

  I would’ve thought it odd that Lizzie was dawdling with a fur coat in the heat of the summer, had I not talked to Eli. Had I not instinctively gathered what it was. A seal coat.

  It was gray, with tiny flecks of white marking the fur. I ran my hand across the soft fur, slipping it into one of its pockets. My fingers curled around a piece of paper and I pulled it out, angling it towards the light of the window so I could make out the words. It was a receipt dated three days earlier, from a clothier’s in New Bedford.

  I shoved my hand into the other pocket and came up with a clear bottle. Cursing myself for continually distrusting Lizzie, I brought the bottle to my nose, wondering if it was the source of the stench that had befallen the house. I smiled as I inhaled the sweet scent. It was nothing more than the jasmine oil Lizzie had taken to wearing on occasion.

  Here I was, convinced that Lizzie was starting trouble, ready to flee this house out of fear she was trying to poison me along with her own parents, and all along she was in fact telling the truth.

  Swiping at my eyes, I stood up and grabbed the coat. I tucked the receipt and the bottle of perfume back into the pocket, then hung it in her wardrobe closet. I’d ask her about it later, apologize for ever distrusting her, and then inform Ms. Borden and Liam that I wasn’t leaving, that I was staying right here with my friend. With Lizzie.

  Chapter 35

  I made my way back through Mr. Borden’s room and locked his door with the key I’d found sitting on his desk. I dropped the key into the pocket of my apron and headed through Lizzie’s room for the front staircase, intent on locking the main door to his and Mrs. Borden’s bedroom as well. No doubt he’d know someone had been in his room—he had an uncanny ability to know when his personal space had been disturbed. I just hoped he wouldn’t suspect Lizzie or me.

  I jammed the key in the lock, the sound of its sliding into place echoing through the house like thunder. I turned around and made my way back to the front staircase. My eyes paused at the entrance to the guest room . . . to the quarters John Morse would be using this evening.

  I could see her feet, the soles of her shoes stic
king out from the side of the bed. It was almost as if she’d gone to sleep and fallen out of the bed, her body lying there motionless. Swallowing back the sensation of dread, I took a step in her direction and whispered her name. “Mrs. Borden?”

  Silence settled around the heavy air and I inched into the room. I stopped cold and listened for the slightest sound—a pained intake of breath, a twitch of a muscle . . . anything to contradict what I was seeing.

  There were flecks of red coating the carpet by her feet, and even more on the wall above her head. I put one knee onto the bed and peered over the other side. There was a pool of red where her head lay, her eyes . . . her entire face turned in the opposite direction.

  “Mrs. Borden,” I choked out again as I hurried to the far side of the bed. I knew I should’ve insisted on changing the sheets myself. She’d looked so drawn and tired when I spoke with her earlier today. No doubt she’d lain down for a spot of rest, had woken disorientated, and had fallen from the bed. It wouldn’t surprise me, not given how sick she’d been. I just hoped that I wasn’t too late.

  I skidded to a stop at the end of the bed, my eyes wide as I took in the unimaginable. Abigail Borden’s body lay face down, a deep river of blood oozing from the back of her skull and out onto the floral rug. Her arms were bent up beneath her thick frame, and she was still. Completely still.

  I put my hand on her back, flinching at the cold radiating from beneath her blouse. Her hair . . . no, her entire braid was on the floor next to her, scalped from her head. Deep lacerations crisscrossed the back of her skull. Entire pieces of bone were missing, and sharp bits of white jutted out from the leathery grey of her brain.

  I quickly scanned the room, searching for whatever . . . whoever had done this. I saw nothing. No bloody footprints, no weapons, no predator hiding in the corner. Nothing but complete orderliness, marred by Mrs. Borden’s brutalized body.