by Brandy Purdy
“A woman with a lusty appetite is worth her weight in gold,” she said with a bawdy, knowing chuckle, “because a wise man knows she will bring her appetite with her to bed.”
I saw the ruins at Pompeii by moonlight alone but for a hired guide who was as annoying as a fly; he just kept buzzing around me talking all the while. I was tempted to dismiss him so I would be free to contemplate all the beauty spread out before me in blessed silence; besides, he only made me feel lonelier, and angry at him for not being the one I wanted most of all. I dreamed of my architect, of having him there, to kiss in the moonlight, and enthrall me with his tales of history. I yearned to have him hold my hand and guide me through Italy, explaining everything we saw, like why that tower in Pisa leaned, opening my eyes to all its wonders. I wanted him, not a guide or a book, to tell me.
In Rome, while the others were busy buying dresses, I visited churches, cathedrals, palaces, art galleries, and museums and went to the opera almost every night. Even though I could not understand the words, the passion of the singers and the beauty of their voices—lilting, soaring, cascading!—never failed to move me to tears. I’m sure I must have spent $100 throwing roses at the feet of tenors. But I didn’t care. I was enraptured by the art, especially Raphael’s Sistine Madonna. I could have gazed for hours upon the various Madonnas, cherubs, saints, and angels; even the devils fascinated me. I purchased a number of photographs and engravings to take home with me, but they were all in black and white when I longed most for color—rich, vivid, vibrant, living color! I loved the Sistine Chapel; I craned my neck and stared up at the ceiling until my neck ached, not daring to do what I really wanted to do and lie down upon the floor and gaze up at it to my lonely heart’s content. And I toured St. Peter’s twice, again alone; I did not care for the brash, noisy, but well-meaning chatter of the guides, they only made my heart ache worse.
In Venice I drifted for hours, listless and glassy-eyed, lost in daydreams and lusty longings, in a gondola, barely conscious of the Italian songs the gondoliers sang to me in their decadent dark baritone or sensual tenor voices, blind and impervious to the gorgeous scenery going by that I, most likely, would never see again.
Then it was back to Liverpool in bustle and haste with our ever-growing mountain of luggage to catch the next sailing of the SS Scythia.
There was a letter waiting for me—a letter that made my heart sing! He could not be there to bid me bon voyage on my homeward-bound journey, but he was still thinking of me fondly. Fondly! Thinking of me! I almost died of delight!
I stood at the railing as the ship pulled out to sea; this time it was not raining, and the sun was shining down on me like a golden blessing straight from God. When England was but a mere speck too small for me to see I went back to the cabin I shared with Anna and lay down on my bed and read his letter again and again until I had committed every precious, wonderful word to memory. And then I wept, but I was smiling through my tears, like sunshine through rain. A woman’s heart and hopes are contradictory things; no wonder so many men take such a dim view of feminine constancy and think us fickle and contrary. “La donna è mobile” indeed!
Chapter 3
Returning to Fall River and reentering my father’s house felt just like being found guilty of a terrible crime and being sentenced to live out the rest of my life in a dreary prison with no amenities to make life pleasant or even bearable.
The first thing that greeted me when I stepped through the front door of 92 Second Street was the smell of mincemeat. Abby was in the kitchen baking a pie and I could hear her singing as she bustled about the kitchen, her voice mingling with Bridget’s rhapsodizing about “the golden slippers I’se goin’ to wear to walk the golden street.”
There were times when I thought hating Abby was more trouble than it was worth just to keep the peace with Emma, and this was one of them.
Emma was thirteen when our mother died; she had already built up a treasure trove of memories, and was ready to resent any woman Father married. And if I forgot, as any child would, and shared a smile or a laugh with Abby, Emma always made sure I regretted it; she would call me “a traitor to our mother’s memory,” punish me with a savage pinch, and refuse to speak to me for days afterward. And in the early years of their marriage, she was always quick to remind me that Abby was still young enough to bear children. She was old enough to make it dangerous for herself, that was certainly true, but she still bled every month. Father had always wanted a son; I was supposed to be the boy he always wanted. But if Abby gave him the son our mother never could . . . he—that boy, Abby’s greedy, suckling male piglet—would inherit everything, what should, by right, be ours, and another male would follow in Father’s footsteps and have control of us until the day we died. God we could trust to be merciful, but NEVER the son of Abby and Andrew Borden!
Emma made me see all the possibilities; she relentlessly hammered them into my head and made sure I never forgot that Father could at any time change his will, and even if Abby never gave him a son—and she never did, and within a few years all possibility of that had ceased—he could still leave everything to her and make us beholden to “The Cow” for every blessed little thing all the days of her life, until Abby herself died and left everything to her precious little piglet sister Sarah. So I let Emma, “my little mother,” guide and counsel me, I let her fuel my fears, and I erected an ice-cold wall between myself and Abby.
But hearing her in the kitchen still made me smile. How she loved to bake sweet things, all my favorite things—cookies, cakes, and pies! I was five years old when she married Father, and I used to spend my days with her while Emma was at school and Father was away tending to business. Abby told me the secret of her mincemeat pies, exactly what made them so special—she only baked them for people she liked, and always sprinkled them with rosewater. And now she was baking one to welcome me home. Tears pricked my eyes and I fought the urge to go into the kitchen and give her a hug, something I hadn’t done in years.
One day, in that first year, when we were all still getting used to one another, Abby made me a pretty pink dress with ruffles and a sunshine-yellow sash even though Emma said girls with red hair should never wear pink. And Abby curled my hair with hot irons, taking the time to make sure that each ringlet was perfectly shaped and shining. I remember she held my hair up to the light and showed me the multitude of shades, the red, orange, brown and gold, the colors, the ingredients, like the love and rosewater she always put in her mincemeat pies, that made redheads so special. She knew children could be cruel and that I had already been teased many times about my red hair, and she was trying to make me feel better, just like when she told me that each one of the freckles I detested was a kiss from an angel, a blessing on my very own skin. Then she stepped back to look at me, clasped her hands over her ample breasts, and, beaming, declared that I looked “just like a little French doll.”
When Emma saw me she flew into a rage. She dragged me upstairs to our room, barking my shins against the steps, and tore that beautiful dress off me. She took it outside and pounded it into the pile of horse manure Father kept for fertilizer. She stood there with a shovel, hitting it, again and again and again, until her arms were too tired to continue and she was splattered head to foot with manure and bleeding from where she had bit her lip clean through. Then she came back to deal with me. She ripped the ribbons from my hair and poured water into our basin and plunged my head into it. I began to cry, I thought she was trying to drown me, but she was just wetting my hair. Then she took the comb and raked it viciously from the top of my scalp to the ends of my hair. I screamed as the teeth bit into my scalp, brutal enough to draw blood. When the ringlets resisted she yanked the comb harder, pulling the hair out in clumps, until I was afraid she would snatch me bald headed. But that was Emma’s way. How very ironic that all the world sees her as the very picture of the meek as a mouse prim and pious brittle and birdlike little maiden lady in eternal mourning too afraid to ever say Boo! to a goose.
They don’t know the real Emma; no one does except me.
I was still standing there savoring the scent of Abby’s mincemeat pie when Emma appeared, staring me in the face with hard, piercing eyes, pulling me out of the past to confront the present.
“Father is waiting for you in the sitting room,” was all she said. It was all she had to say.
Then I was standing before him. I had not even taken off my hat and sealskin cape or removed my muff and gloves.
I saw him rise up from the sofa. He was clenching his jaw and that made his snow-white whiskers quiver. He was looking at me with such utter contempt that I wanted to run away and hide.
And then he began to speak, unleashing a torrent of angry words, coming closer all the while, until he was gripping my shoulders and shaking me so hard that my hat fell off and my hairpins rained down onto the carpet.
“I never thought I would have cause to say this, Lizzie, but I am ashamed of you! I let you, out of the goodness of my heart, go gadding off to Europe, let you see something of the world, I let you have your heaping dose of culture, and what do you do? Fall in love with some foreigner! Some scoundrel who preys on innocent women traveling abroad! Gullible American women are probably his bread and butter! For shame, Lizzie! Shame! I thought you had more respect for yourself, for your family, for me! I thought you were a decent, respectable girl, a virtuous, God-fearing girl, but I was wrong; you’ve proven that! What did you just say? Don’t you dare tell me not to treat you like a child, miss! I treat you like a child because you act like a child! A silly, credulous child who would believe the moon is made of green cheese if someone told her so, especially if he was handsome and had an English accent!”
Father released me so suddenly that I stumbled and fell to my knees. I caught frantically at his hands. I tried to reason with him, I tried to tell him that he was wrong, that it had not been like that at all. My architect was not the sort of man he thought. He was not one of those oily faux counts who preyed on American heiresses, or a barefoot peasant selling olives on the street; he was kind, and intelligent, a hard worker, diligent and respectable in every way. Father was free to make all the inquiries he wished; I knew my love and was confident that he could withstand even the most painstaking scrutiny. But private detectives cost money—lots of money—and Father wasn’t about to pay a Pinkerton man to confirm what he already knew; he was that certain that no respectable man of solid and impeccable reputation and means could ever fall in love with me.
“I don’t want to hear another word about him!” Father cut me off. “I am ashamed of you, Lizzie Borden! Ashamed, of you, my own flesh and blood! And you a Sunday school teacher!” he shuddered. “God help those poor Celestials with you for a teacher!”
Suddenly he reached down and jerked me to my feet. “Did you let him touch you?” he demanded. “Did you let him kiss you?”
The memory of that kiss flashed behind my eyes and Father saw that he had struck a nerve, that there was something: No matter how innocent it might have been, there was something.
“You DID! No! Don’t bother to deny it; I can see it in your eyes! Your own face betrays you!”
“Father, please, let me explain—”
“Explain what? That you behaved like a whore? I already know that! For all your churchgoing, you’re a hypocrite, Lizzie Borden. You have the soul of a whore; just like a bitch in heat, you want a man between your legs no matter the cost. Someone must have a care for your soul, since you are unfit to govern yourself, and as your father that duty falls to me, and as long as I live you will walk the straight and narrow; there’ll be no straying onto the primrose path and dillydallying with fortune hunters, worthless men who want to fritter away my hard-earned money!”
“Father, no, it isn’t like that—”
He dealt me a stinging slap that knocked me flat upon the floor.
“I am ashamed to call you my daughter!” he roared.
And he walked away from me. There was no hesitation in his footsteps and he never looked back. I lay on the floor and wept, watering the faded flowers on the carpet with my tears. No one came near me. Not Abby, not Emma, not even Bridget. I cried until I had no tears left.
The next morning, when I came downstairs, Father informed me that he had made an appointment for me to see Dr. Bowen promptly at three o’clock.
“You are looking a little fatter, a little rounder, than you were when you left us, Lizzie, and I want to make certain there are no surprises a few months from now.”
I grasped his sleeve as he was walking away from me and tried to tell him about all the rich foods, the pastries in France, the pastas and sauces in Italy, all the cheese and cream, the sinfully soothing chocolates, but he would not listen or believe me.
“Three o’clock, Lizzie, promptly at three,” was all he would say to me.
Dr. Seabury Warren Bowen lived across the street from us. I had known him almost my entire life; it seemed like he had always been our family physician, neighbor, and friend. Indeed, I could not remember a time when he had not been there. He was a kind man with gentle and wise brown eyes. His brown hair was receding from his brow, and he had a fine mustache which he always kept waxed in a perfect handlebar.
As three o’clock approached, I sat in his waiting room staring down at my shoes, my knees shaking bad enough to bruise beneath my blue flowered skirt. I was so embarrassed, so ashamed, at what I knew was about to happen. I had never had cause to submit to an intimate examination; I thought they were only for expectant ladies. He had to call me twice before I could make my legs obey and stand up and stagger clumsily through the door he held open for me.
He pointed to a dressing screen and asked me to strip down to my chemise and remove my drawers, then lie flat upon his examination table. He draped a white sheet modestly over me and asked me to spread my legs wide and draw up my knees. I stared up at the ceiling, my face burning with shame and tears blurring my eyes. He asked me when I had last had fleas. That was a euphemism unique to Fall River that we used to refer to a woman’s monthly illness, and any stains resulting from it were known as flea bites. I answered his question as best I could. He nodded and bent down and lifted the bottom edge of the sheet.
I tensed at the sudden intrusion of his fingers as he parted the pink petals of my sex and reached inside to test my purity. He told me to try to relax, that it would all be over soon. But I was only able to relax when he finally withdrew, after what seemed like an eternity but was only minutes, I’m sure, and turned away to wash his hands.
“Intact. I shall assure your father that all is as it should be,” he said. Then he turned back to face me. I was sitting up, but my face still burned scarlet with shame, and I could not meet his eyes.
He came to me and gently took my hand.
“I am a doctor, Lizzie; I am your doctor, Lizzie, and anything you say to me is just between us. Would you like to tell me why your father insisted on this examination? It might make you feel better.”
I hesitated for a moment; then it all came pouring out, and once I started talking I couldn’t stop. I told him all about my Englishman, the wonderful architect who I was quite certain loved me. When I had finished, Dr. Bowen put his arms around me, drew my head down onto his shoulder, and let me cry.
“Your father is a hard man, Lizzie,” he said. And I saw the anger in his eyes. He had been our family doctor for years; he knew what Father was like. Doubtlessly Father would wrangle with him over the bill he presented for this examination too; he always put up a fuss about Dr. Bowen’s bills, though everyone else thought he was quite reasonable.
“I want to give you something, Lizzie,” Dr. Bowen said. “Just a little morphine to calm your nerves and help you rest. Don’t be afraid,” he said when I gasped and instinctively drew back at the sight of the fearsome metal and glass syringe.
He took my arm and, as gently as he could, injected the drug. He made soothing noises, as one would for a hurt and frightened child or animal, when I winced and whimper
ed at the sharp pinch as the needle penetrated my skin and sent liquid rest into my vein.
By the time I had finished dressing, my head felt very strange, like my brain had turned into a great big sopping-wet ball of cotton. I had trouble speaking, I confused and muddled my words, I could not think clearly or say what I meant, and my feet found walking to be a nearly insurmountable quandary.
“It’s all right, Lizzie,” Dr. Bowen said soothingly as he took my arm, “nothing to be afraid of. Apparently a very small dose of this affects you more strongly than it does most; I shall have to remember that in the future should you have need of it again. Come on now; I’ll see you safely home. And your father is waiting for my report.”
Dr. Bowen took me home and I never forgot the last thing he said to me before he rang our doorbell. “You have a friend in me, Lizzie; always remember that.”
Bridget helped me upstairs to my room, her arm about my waist, holding me close to her, coaxing me to be “careful now, Miss Lizzie,” whenever I stumbled like a drunkard.
“Oh, Bridget!” I sighed with the most wanton delight as she undressed me.
I fell onto my bed, clad only in my drawers and chemise, and tried to pull her down on top of me. Smiling good-naturedly, Bridget wriggled out of my embrace, chiding me gently when I untied her apron strings and tried to kiss her with clumsy lips that wouldn’t quite obey.
“Now, now, macushla”—she smiled and stroked my brow—“you just lie there an’ rest quietly now like a good girl. You’re not quite yourself, but you’ll be better soon, Dr. Bowen said.”
Macushla! She had called me her darling, her dear! Macushla! I’d never heard a sweeter word! I smiled up at her with love shining in my eyes as she covered me with my quilt. I slept the rest of the day and the whole night through. Morphine and Morpheus, the God of Sleep, stripped away my shame and sent me dreams so sweet, so luxuriantly lascivious, it would tarnish them forever if I dared set them down on paper. Macushla! Then as now—I’ll live on that word for the rest of my life!
