The Secrets of Lizzie Borden

by Brandy Purdy

  There were six large fireplaces each with an elaborate mahogany mantel carved with fruit, flowers, foliage, or animals, and a bit of posy I had chosen because of its personal significance to me. A pair of iron bulldogs sat faithfully flanking each hearth, and painted metal peacocks fanned out tails inlaid with glass mosaics as fire screens.

  For the mantel in my library, which opened directly into my summer bedroom, so my beloved books would always be close at hand on the many nights when sleep eluded me, I chose a verse particularly dear to my heart, one my Englishman, the architect who had built such sweet, wonderful dreams in my heart that fate, Father, and my own timidity and doubt had demolished, had recited to me that magical day at Glastonbury:

  The green leaf of loyalty’s beginning to fall.

  The bonnie White Rose it is withering an’ all.

  But I’ll water it with the blood of usurping tyrannie,

  An’ green it will grow in my ain countrie.

  It spoke to me in a secret way none but my own lonely and tormented heart could ever understand. Father’s will and soft Abby’s sudden hardness as a result of David Anthony’s damning revelations had destroyed whatever loyalty and sense of duty I had left for my family. I was the white rose withering in the house at 92 Second Street, but their blood that I had spilled had saved and revived me and allowed me to go on and flourish in my own little kingdom—Maplecroft! —My Ain Countrie!

  I had thistle blossoms and leaves carved in a border slightly suggestive of a heart embracing the words.

  And in my bedroom, within sight of my bed, where I could lie warm as toast beneath my eiderdown quilt and drowsily watch the dance of the flames, I had carved a verse embodying the wistful, hopeful dream I still believed in those blissfully, blind days might still come true, and, God willing, soon:

  And old time friends, and twilight plays

  And starry nights, and sunny days,

  Come trooping up the misty ways,

  When my fire burns low.

  Emma had the room across the hall. As stark as a nun’s cell, it was the bleakest room in the house, just plain white walls and a bare wooden floor, a bed with a small table beside it, her Bible and a lamp reposing on top, a chest of drawers, a washstand, and a chair by the fire, all of the plainest design, like something a Quaker would have ordered; there was not even a fern or a china shepherdess or even a bright rug to add a touch of warmth and cheer. The pitcher and basin on the washstand didn’t even have flowers painted on them; they were plain white! Though in the years to come Emma would develop a mania for religious pictures, books, and bric-a-brac, mostly of distinctly Catholic taste, eventually crowding her room with a whole host of saints, angels, Madonnas, and baby Jesuses, with a splendid gilt-framed reproduction of da Vinci’s Last Supper hanging right over her bed, until it bore more than a passing resemblance to a dusty and disorderly gift shop I had seen in Rome nestled right in the shadow of the Vatican. There came to be so many little tables covered with china figures and framed pictures, postcards, and prayer cards that the maid could hardly turn around when she came in to clean and hardly dared breathe lest she inadvertently break something with an accidental brush of her elbow or hip or the gentle whisk of her feather duster. It was worse than the Quaker-plain furniture and white walls had been and I hated to even glance inside the room if the door happened to be open when I was walking down the hall. More often than not, whenever I did Emma would glance up from where she was kneeling in prayer at the foot of her bed or sitting with her head bowed over her Bible or some other religious text and give me a long look that implied this was exactly what I should be doing. I couldn’t stand it! It never failed to make me shudder! I felt like ordering a placard carved with the words Abandon hope, all ye who enter here! to hang above the doorway as a warning to any potential visitors, though the Reverend Jubb and his sister were the only ones who ever came to visit Emma; all her former friends proved to be fair-weather and drifted away the moment I was acquitted.

  I knew we would never agree—Emma was intent on turning her lone room in our great, grand house into a convent cell, while I had sold my soul for the gay life and luxuries galore. Now that we could afford all of life’s finer things my sister perversely wanted no part of them. It was a perfect example of the old adage: after you get what you want, you don’t want it. It was most exasperating! In truth, it made me sick. I felt betrayed by my own sister.

  “You’re behaving just like Father,” I stamped my foot and shouted at her more than once. “You’re rich enough to have anything and you want nothing!”

  But we both knew the sad truth. Emma only continued to live with me so people wouldn’t talk. I suppose I should have been grateful for that, only . . . people did talk, and plenty! But Emma said if we went our separate ways everyone would take her leaving me as a silent admission of my guilt, they would say that my very own sister believed I had gotten away with murder, so it was better that we stay together. Together . . . yet apart. Though we lived under the same roof, sometimes a whole string of days would pass without our even seeing each other. We kept to ourselves and only presented a united front before witnesses; then we stepped into our roles like consummate actresses. Our devotion was truly remarkable; no acquitted murderess could ever have wished for a more loyal and ardent champion than I had in my sister, Emma.

  But it was all for show, those all-important, sacrosanct appearances we must always, at all costs, keep up. It was as though the death of Abby, her sworn enemy, had freed Emma from the promise she had, at only thirteen years old, made to our dead mother to “always look after Baby Lizzie.” The moment I was acquitted, Emma ceased mothering me, and left me to fend for myself, except for those all-important appearances and those, thankfully few, awkward moments when she felt beholden to try to be my conscience. She just suddenly seemed to lose interest and let the cloak of duty fall from her shoulders. Only when it was gone did I begin to miss what I had for all those years resented. Now there was no one to hold me back and try to fetter me with prattle about morals and etiquette, I was truly free to do exactly as I pleased. And yet somehow the joy was somewhat dimmed, though I would spend the rest of my life lying to myself and pretending that it wasn’t.

  I was so full of hope back then, when I set out to furnish Maplecroft, it was like I had been reborn, filthy rich and free! No one could stop me or say to me nay! I was determined to deluge myself with all the luxury and decadence and creature comforts I had ever craved but been denied by my father’s penny-pinching tyranny. Now I would have nothing but the finest frivolities, not just humdrum boring necessities. I ordered crystal chandeliers, quality reproductions of paintings and statues I had admired on my Grand Tour, I splurged on Tiffany lamps, and mother-of-pearl sconces shaped like scallop shells with pearl and crystal prisms dangling beneath, fine crystal, china, monogrammed silverware, and linens for my table, and not one but two of the heaviest and fanciest silver tea services money could buy from Tiffany’s, with my monogram prominently worked into the design of course.

  And I developed a sudden, inexplicable mania for collecting souvenir spoons made to commemorate special occasions and historical events, like the World’s Columbian Exposition, the Midnight Ride of Paul Revere, and the Salem Witch Trials, whimsical figures like Mother Goose, or famous folk like George and Martha Washington and William Shakespeare, and I had at least one for every state and every country. I really can’t explain it; I just woke up one morning and impulsively started collecting them and never stopped.

  I ordered every room to be always filled with vases of flowers that were to be replenished with new ones the moment any of the blooms started to wilt.

  And upon my walls, each in a gilded frame, chaste, benevolent, and serenely smiling Madonnas hung beside plump nude courtesans lolling wantonly on rumpled beds, French ballet girls, Turkish harem girls, and geishas from Japan, mermaids, nymphs and goddesses of ancient myths naked but for their long, flowing hair and diaphanous draperies, royal mistresses and qu
eens, including Nell Gwyn, Madame Pompadour, the scandalous du Barry, Marie Antoinette, and Empress Josephine, heroines of history and legend, including a proud and mighty bare-breasted Boudicca in a metal corselet and helmet hefting a sword high, Lady Godiva wearing only her long auburn hair, and Cleopatra with a poisonous asp sinking its fatal fangs into her bare, perfect breast.

  My neighbors said I had more naked women on my walls than a bordello, but it was art and perfectly respectable. Each piece was purchased pedigreed, and at great expense, from a well-known and prestigious gallery in Boston, New York, Chicago, Washington, or San Francisco; some even came from London. If I hadn’t been Lizzie Borden, no one would have said a word. They also deemed the numerous small tabletop reproductions of classical statues scattered throughout the house unseemly because they were all nudes, some even depicting lovers passionately entwined. One girl I hired for the day to hem the drapes in my summer bedroom spread it all over town that I had a little pert-breasted pink marble slave girl, stark naked and in shackles, on the table beside my bed standing on the gilded pedestal of a rose-silk-shaded lamp and that she looked “shiny from rubbing.” But I didn’t care; people were always gossiping about something!

  And I had a telephone and electricity, the best plumbing money could buy, hot and cold running water, and every modern, newfangled convenience I could find to buy. All the salesmen had to say was “new” and “modern” and I was sold! I would never go back to the primitive way of life I had known at the house on 92 Second Street!

  I gave my wardrobe a complete overhaul too. I ignored the mirror and my dressmaker’s and Emma’s advice and bought to suit my tastes, not my figure, and clothed myself in a veritable rainbow, a whole wonderful spectrum of pinks, purples, oranges, greens, blues, yellows, and reds; solids, stripes, plaids, paisleys, prints, and polka dots. I indulged my love of lace and fancy trimmings like silk fringe, frogs, and braid, tinsel and beads, buttons both bold and dainty, silver or gold, shiny and new or antiqued, some even set with precious stones, and, of course, long rows of dainty pearls snaking from the nape of my neck to the base of my spine. I bought great behemoth hats heaped high with wax fruit or vegetables, feathers, or even entire stuffed birds, some sitting on nests replete with speckled eggs, and silk and velvet flowers, ruffles, and ribbons, many with brims wide as serving platters with lace or net veils to draw like a curtain over my face so I could enjoy some occasional sweet moments of anonymity in public, especially when I visited cities where I was known only because my picture had been in the newspapers—thank Heaven some of the artists, seeking to sell more papers, had flattered me and depicted me as a willowy wasp-waisted damsel in distress utterly unlike my actual short, stout, jowly-jawed self. I bought elegant high-heeled shoes and exquisite high-buttoned boots, gloves, shawls, and parasols, fur coats, wraps, muffs, and velvet coats with embroidered lapels and silk frogs and tassels.

  When I woke up one morning and decided that my jewelry box was as bare as Mother Hubbard’s cupboard I impulsively marched into Gifford’s and proceeded to fill it with sapphire, ruby, emerald, and diamond rings, set in gold and in platinum, simple band styles and ornate clusters, a lady’s gold watch, a set of tortoiseshell and gold combs for my hair, four cameo brooches, and a heart-shaped pendant paved with ruby and diamond chips that I liked so well I ordered a second one made with diamonds and sapphires, and then, as soon as I got home, I phoned back and commissioned a third one with emeralds. And I went back the next day having suddenly conceived a passion for opals. It felt so good just to be able to buy whatever I wanted, heedless of need, motivated only by desire and, yes, greed, without having to answer to anyone for my frivolous and selfish impulses.

  I tried to pretend I didn’t care how broad and mannish my shoulders looked beneath all the ruffles and frills, and great big bows and flounces, or how my jowls dripped like puddles of melting pink wax over the lace edges of the high collars that were meant to make a lady’s throat look like a white marble pillar. I looked dumpy and lumpy, but I stood far back from the mirror and scrunched up my eyes and squinted until I thought I truly saw Lizbeth of Maplecroft, elegant, gracious, and lithe in her new finery.

  And beneath the lavish fabric confections of my dresses, in joyful defiance of Father now moldering in his grave, I indulged my every frivolous and extravagant whim upon the garments that no one but a maid, laundress, and perhaps a husband or lover would ever see. Good-bye, plain, prim white cottons, cheap calico, and flannel! Henceforth, even in the coldest winter, I would cover my bosom and nether regions only with silk—white, champagne, baby-blush pink, ice blue, the most delicate lilac, mint green, butter yellow, and pale peach, and, upon occasion, when I was feeling especially daring, black silk trimmed with French lace threaded with red satin ribbons! Cotton and wool, I vowed, would never sheathe my limbs again, only the finest silk stockings—black, white, pink, and flesh colored. Every undergarment was trimmed with lace and ribbons; some even had exquisite little rosettes and seed pearls or meticulously stitched pleats and tucks. I ordered corsets in apricot, apple green, blush, and ice-blue satin, and ruffled taffeta petticoats that rustled every time I moved, and later, when narrow skirts came into fashion, sleek silk ones inset with lace.

  Every night when I went, alas alone, to bed, I was clad in a nightgown, matching robe, and high-heeled chamber slippers fit for a French courtesan or a lavishly embroidered silk kimono worthy of the most desirable geisha. I didn’t care what the servants, or anyone else, thought, though in my heart of hearts it made me terribly sad to know I was going to bed dressed like a woman ready to receive her lover and yet I had none. Someday, I hoped and prayed, though for a lover more than a husband, I admit. After Father, I feared giving any man the power to dominate, rule, and control me ever again. My freedom had been so hard, and violently, won, I was loath to ever again put it in jeopardy. Better to love immorally, I thought, than to be enslaved. And I already had even worse sins that I must someday answer to God for, so what was one more? Just another cherry on the cake. So I might as well enjoy myself and live life to the fullest while I was alive, since after I was dead I would surely be damned. I know that sounds blasé, but I had to live with myself and what I had done, and it was better to keep on dancing as long as possible than pay the fiddler and send him on his way and let fear-filled silence reign.

  Quiet moments were always the worst. I kept hearing Father’s voice in my head calling me a “spendthrift” and saying, as he always had in life, that I could not have a penny without it burning a hole in my pocket. It was most distressing and I tried to drown him out with the rustle of greenbacks and the clink of coins. Oh, shut up, Father! I wanted to scream. Money is made for spending, not hoarding! I was having fun and even from beyond the grave he was trying to spoil it! He really was a mean old man! Sometimes I had to take the sleeping syrup Dr. Bowen prescribed just to quiet Father enough so I could sleep.

  Now that the dream of Bridget had died, I disdained the idea of hiring another Irish Maggie to take her place and opted for a kindly and sensible Swedish housekeeper named Hannah instead, and two more Swedish girls, Elsa and Greta, to serve as maids, one for upstairs the other for down. They were all pleasant, moon-faced girls with stout, sturdy figures, none of whom tempted me to lascivious thoughts in the least. And to tend the grounds, I engaged a plainspoken but polite Yankee gardener—though with some degree of imagination, thank goodness, since I considered that essential. And, though it raised a great many eyebrows, I acquired a devilishly handsome French chauffeur, Monsieur Tetrault, liveried, of course, in gray broadcloth, gilt buttons, and black shiny boots and cap, with my monogram worked in dark blue upon his sleeves and chest so everyone would know he belonged to me. Admittedly he did stir my blood a bit, but alas, he was married. His wife was my cook, and a most excellent one too, so I was loath to risk offending her. Madame Tetrault was a marvel in the kitchen; she could do all the traditional, comforting American dishes as well as the most decadent gourmet delights from France and
Italy, and desserts were her specialty—just thinking about her marvelous jelly roll makes my mouth water!

  And for Monsieur to drive me about in I had two carriages. Black-lacquered with a gold maple leaf and my initials monogrammed in gilt upon each door, one was upholstered in ice-blue velvet and the other in midnight, drawn by an elegant high-stepping quartet of snow-white or coal-black horses. Later, when motorcars became all the fashion, a gleaming black Buick sedan and a sleek silver Packard replaced them. I had the only private gas pump in town, set prominently alongside the white-graveled driveway outside my glaze-windowed garage, which was heated and even equipped with hot and cold running water so Monsieur Tetrault could wash the grease off his hands after working on the cars. Of course everyone stuck their noses in the air and denounced it all as ostentatious and vulgar. But I didn’t care!

  My neighbors on The Hill were, of course, quick to criticize everything I did. They were always declaring themselves scandalized and endlessly cataloging my social faux pas. One would have thought they had all gone senile the way they went over my excesses and perceived failings every time they met; no one’s memory is that short.

  It seemed I could do nothing right. They disapproved of my ordering glazed glass and putting iron bars—“Like in a prison!” they gasped—on all the downstairs windows after one too many times I caught curious faces peeping in at me if I didn’t keep the curtains shut tight or found suspicious scuffs and scratches upon the outside sills suggesting someone had tried to jimmy the locks. It never occurred to them that I was only trying to protect myself and safeguard my privacy. They thought it meant I had something to hide, that I was doing things I didn’t want anyone to see. I suppose they thought I should live in a glass house and leave myself entirely open, vulnerable, and naked to their scrutiny, just to prove to everyone in Fall River that I had nothing to hide. But if I had done that I would have been branded a vulgar exhibitionist. I just couldn’t win.