Sisterly Love: The Saga of Lizzie and Emma Borden

by Jordan Bollinger

  However, even if I had removed the ruffled flounce along the hem, which was very grimy and suffered the most damage from the paint, there was still an awful grass stain from my fall in the yard. In the end, I gave it up for the lost cause it was. After the funeral, when Emma complained about no where to hang up her dress, I rolled the pieces up and stashed them in the coal closet to be burned when there was a good fire.

  While no man could probably understand this, I know you women will. I say this because I am sure every woman has made at least one disastrous fashion choice in her lifetime. Not only was this mine, but I had somehow, managed it in spades. The material had not been expensive -- quite the opposite, in fact. I had found the color and pattern so appealing, I did not consider why it was so inexpensive. And, because it had not cost very much at all, I had yielded to the seamstress' suggestion of trying a new design -- one with huge, greatly exaggerated leg-of-mutton sleeves, and a wide flounce at the hem, which even extended a bit in the back for a silly smidgen of a train.

  I ashamed to admit this -- seeing that I was born and raised in Fall River, and descended from a long line of textile mill owners -- but the fabric was of extremely low thread-count, and stabilized by the addition of large quantities of starch-like sizing. Add to that, different weights of woof and weft threads, which produced a ribbed fabric that frayed easily.

  The proof of this became more than evident after the very first laundering. It was a flimsy, poor-quality fabric. Even had I not stained the dress with paint, it was not suitable for anything but early mornings at home. Besides, its length caused me to trip often, and the flounce gathered dust and dirt like one of those newfangled carpet sweepers. This resulted in the bottom being soiled so badly that normal laundering did little to remove it.

  Also, I was not overly tall, nor stout, but neither was I thin. So, these leg-of-mutton sleeves made me seem broader than I was. It is true leg-of-mutton sleeves were the vogue, but these made me feel as wide as a barn door.

  No, the Bedford cord was a mistake all round. The thought of burning it was actually the first thing that gave me any measure of pleasure in nearly a week. There was a good fire in the cook stove, the dress was ripped into pieces, and I had nothing else to do. Why not burn it?

  I did not do this surreptitiously, or in secret in the dead of night. I did it mid-morning, in broad daylight, with a policeman standing just on the other side of the screen door and the heavier, wooden, inner door wide open. I even went so far as to call out to Emma, who was still in the scullery -- very close to the open back door -- and well within the officer's earshot, "I think I will burn this old dress."

  She answered, "Yes, why don't you."

  Alice sat there, mute, reading her paper. Only after most of the pieces had already been consumed by the flames did she shift in her chair as if to block the policeman's view inside, and hissed, "Lizzie, I would not let anyone see you do that."

  It was not until the next day, after she consulted with Mr. Hanscom, the Pinkerton agent Mr. Jennings had hired, that she came to me. She announced to me, as I sat with Emma, "Burning that dress was the worst thing you could have done, Lizzie."

  When I asked, "Why did you let me do it? Why did you not stop me?" neither of them answered.

  And, of course, this too would come back to haunt me.

  Chapter Four

  The inquest convened the morning of Tuesday, August 9th, in the courtroom of Central Station. A policeman arrived at the house in a closed carriage to transport Emma, Alice, and me. When I asked how Bridget was to get there, I was told she had chosen to walk. It was then I knew she had left us. And, I will not lie -- this fact especially disturbed me.

  The three of us were entombed in the matron's room, across the hall from the courtroom. I, at least, had not realized that inquests were held in private. So, I was surprised to discover only the Medical Examiner Doctor Dolan, District Attorney Knowlton, and Marshall Hilliard, sitting with Judge Blaisdell, when it was my turn to enter the courtroom alone.

  Mr. Knowlton repeatedly asked me the same questions, over and over again -- for hours that first day. I did my best to answer correctly. All the while, he seemed to do his best to confuse me. This was neither gentlemanly -- nor particularly difficult -- since I was still taking Doctor Bowen's prescribed double dose of morphine each night. While it did nothing to help me sleep, it did make it most difficult for me to concentrate, focus on anything, or think clearly.

  Eventually, after hours of interrogation, they admonished me about discussing any of the questions or testimony with anyone else, and returned me to the matron's room. I entered to find Emma alone, so I assumed it was now Alice's turn to be questioned.

  I sat quietly and listened as Emma rambled on about some supposedly amusing incident, which had occurred during her visit to the Brownells. There was something about her manner that disturbed me. Perhaps she had also been instructed not to talk matters over with me, or had simply decided to avoid my concerns, but she refused to look at me.

  An officer came and led Emma away, and a few moments later, Alice returned. I did not try to speak with her about what they had asked. Instead, I tried to get her to talk about anything -- as long it was something to help pass the time. But, she too, seemed to circumvent my gaze. Instead, she recounted the plot of the book she was reading.

  It was then, I believe, I first felt fear grip me. I saw just how I was perched on this unsafe edge. The next day, in an attempt to retain my composure, I brought my own novel. So, I sat, doing my best to ignore my sister and Alice's chatter, and simply read my book. And, it was working -- until I was called back into the courtroom.

  Again, I was bombarded by the same questions as the previous day. And once again, I answered to the best of my ability. After I had answered their questions as I had numerous times before, they started reading things I had allegedly told various policemen.

  However, as I listened to them read these statements, I was not at all sure I had said many of them -- at least, not as they were being read back to me. It was as if they had purposefully misunderstood my answers or twisted my meaning.

  For instance, I do not believe I ever said, "I had spent only ten minutes in the barn." In fact, I remember telling them I thought I had been out there about twenty minutes. but that it might have been as much as half an hour.

  Yet, somehow, they had failed to scribble that down in their ever-present notebooks. They asked me over and over about where I had been when my father had pounded on the front door. And, although I could not tell them why I remembered without admitting to changing my dress, I did repeatedly tell them, that while I had originally said I was in the sitting room -- I had recalled I was at the top of the stairs -- and had told the officers this any number of times.

  In the end, I was left befuddled and afraid. And, for the first time in my memory, I did not find succor in my sister.

  We returned home Wednesday afternoon subdued, to say the least. I was exhausted, ate almost nothing for supper, and went to bed before Emma or Alice even came upstairs. Naturally, since Uncle John was still in residence, I closed and locked the door leading to the landing, so Emma was forced to pass through Abby and Father's old room, and mine, to reach her own room. And, although I was not asleep as she slipped quietly passed me, I did not say anything. I did not want to talk to her. But, even more importantly, I did not want to answer any more questions, endure another lecture, or suffer another insincere message of comfort.

  Thursday, Alice remained home, pleading a severe headache. But, her place was filled by another of our friends, Mrs. Brigham. The closed carriage, along with its pair of officers, came for us again on Thursday afternoon, and transported us back to Central Station. We were led through the throngs now surrounding the building, once more to the matron's room. And there, we were left to sit and await our turns before the inquisitors.

  However, this afternoon proved different. As we sat, each intent on doing something other than interact with one another,
we heard one of the officers whispering to the matrons. I do not believe he meant for us to overhear the conversation, as he explained how Doctor Dolan and several other medical experts were performing yet another, more detailed, autopsy on Father and Abby's bodies. They had not been buried, as we thought, but merely held in a crypt at Oak Grove Cemetery. This distressed me greatly. While Emma, on the other hand, seemed unaffected. But, whether that was from already knowing about it, or lack of caring, I could not say.

  I waited several hours, before I was called before my tormentors, for yet a third time. Perhaps, they did this for their own amusement, because they only reiterated what they had asked before. Only now, they were more aggressive in their questions. They also acted determined to provoke me by scoffing at my replies. Even worse, their voices had taken on a decidedly haughty, antagonizing tone.

  This time, as I returned to the matron's room, icy fingers griped my spine, And, in spite of the heat, I sat silently shivering, as I waited. The hour grew late, and for a while I tried to believe they had forgotten us, but in my heart I was sure they had not.

  It was nearly seven when the door opened slowly, and Mr. Jennings entered the room. He looked older than I remembered and very much haggard. He stepped over to me and opened his mouth several times as if he wanted to speak -- but he emitted no sound.

  It was then I knew.

  Things were not going to be all right. The police had no intention of discovering the true identity of my parents' murderer. They had settled on taking the simplest way out. They planned on placing the blame on one of the easiest and weakest among them all. I was to be their sacrificial lamb. In this way, they could claim justice was served.

  I tried to stand, but my legs wobbled so I fell back down onto the settee where I had been sitting. I was shocked to find that my first thought was how ashamed Father would have been by my show of weakness. The trouble was, I had been upholding the stoic Puritan traditions of he and his forefathers alike, for more than a week now. And, even though I sensed the façade was about to crumble, I did my utmost to hold on, even for just a few more minutes.

  Emma, too, must have sensed something, because she sprang up and moved forward to help me stand.

  Finally, Mr. Jennings stammered, "Lizzie, I'm sorry. I'm so very sorry, but they've issued a warrant for your arrest. They are coming to serve you now."

  As if on cue, the doorframe was filled by the forms of Marshall Hilliard and Officer Seaver. The marshal announced, "We have a warrant for your arrest."

  Mr. Jennings stepped forward and responded, "My client will waive the reading of it."

  Turning to the matron, Marshall Hilliard said, "Mrs. Russell, Mr. Jennings is to be allowed to visit Miss Borden whenever he wishes. And, you and Mrs. Reagan are to make her as comfortable as possible." Then he and the accompanying officer departed.

  Mr. Jennings told Emma, "I will meet you at your home in a short while. You need to say your goodbyes now." And then, without looking at me again, he left as well.

  As soon as the door shut behind him, I collapsed onto the couch and simply tried to breathe. In truth, I felt I was drowning.

  "It's all right, my dear," Mrs. Brigham told me in a reassuring voice.

  My sister, on the other hand, gave me a most unsympathetic face and hissed, "Don't make a scene, Lizzie. Remember who you are -- who we are."

  Remember who I am... I stopped for a moment and asked myself, Just who was I?

  I was a daughter, a sister, a Borden -- a member of one of the oldest and most influential families in Fall River. I was a Christian woman -- a woman who taught Sunday school, fought against "demon rum" and a doer of "good works."

  I was also a thirty-two year-old spinster, relatively sheltered, incredibly naïve and unsophisticated, who still lived under her father's roof and at his good graces. I had a limited education, few friends and, with the exception of my trip abroad and a trip to Boston to visit a doctor, had traveled no further afield than Cape Cod.

  Mrs. Brigham, God bless her, patted my arm and continued to assure me there was still nothing to worry about -- that the police would realize their mistake. Emma, on the other hand, stood before me, wearing a look that would curdle milk and repeatedly told me to "remember who we were."

  I believe her disapproving glower was the final straw. Like a summer thunderstorm, I broke -- splaying myself out prostrate on the settee and sobbing. Now, we Bordens -- perhaps, really all stalwart, New England families -- did not display our emotions, either happy or sad, and certainly not in public. We were of stoic, Pilgrim stock and trained from birth to control our emotions.

  Mrs. Reagan, another matron, rushed in with some water, while Emma stepped out. I was convinced she had left, disgusted by my wanton show of emotions, and I was not incorrect -- only hurt and disappointed. Left alone -- well, not quite alone, since the matrons, Mrs. Russell and Mrs. Reagan remained -- I succumbed to an orgy of emotions.

  To my horror, I discovered once I began crying, I was unable to stop. Everything that had happened in the last week came flooding over me in a torrent of emotion.

  Mr. Jennings returned carrying a small valise containing a few of my things. Luckily, he had Doctor Bowen in tow. And, together, they did their best to calm me, but it was too late. The violent flood of sensations filled me, bubbled up and overflowed. Once opened, the floodgates could not be closed.

  Doctor Bowen gave me an injection of morphine while Mrs. Reagan made up a bed for me -- right there on the sofa. The doctor assured me it would settle my nerves and soothe me. I gave them both a feeble smile, said goodnight, and stretched out on the makeshift bed the matron prepared for me.

  However, I was still unable to control my sobbing. After another hour or so, Mrs. Russell became concerned for my wellbeing and sent for Doctor Bowen again. He returned, gave me still another, stronger dose of morphine, and sat with me until -- while sleep still eluded me -- my nerves did settle down.

  And at times, I think I even dozed.

  Chapter Five

  After my extreme distress and Doctor Bowen's double doses of morphine, once I finally fell asleep, it was, indeed, a deep one. Thankfully, my jailors left me undisturbed and allowed me to get the rest I had gone so very long without. I was aghast to discover it was almost eleven the next morning when I rose to a sitting position on the settee that had served as my bed. I had been about to call for one of the matrons, but to my surprise, Mrs. Russell sat quietly in the rocking chair close by.

  She must have noticed my discomfort at having slept so late, because she immediately gave me a shy smile and said, "Now, you are not to worry. Doctor Bowen told them officers that you would probably sleep half the day away after he drugged you so."

  After sleeping so soundly, I was a bit unsteady, so she helped me up, took my little carpetbag, and led me to the washroom. "You freshen up, and I'll call down for something for you to eat. Do you drink coffee, or would you prefer tea?"

  "Whichever is easier," I assured her. Although I was still groggy from my drugged sleep, I was suddenly aware of my dry mouth and rumbling stomach. I hurried into the bathroom to perform my morning ablutions. I emerged -- still a bit dazed, yet refreshed -- to the smells of fresh coffee and bacon. As I moved to a chair at the wooden deal table, I tried to remember when, in fact, I had last eaten. Wednesday's noon meal -- no wonder I was hungry.

  "Now, you eat up," Mrs. Russell said, whipping the bedding from the settee and folding it. "If they come to take you back into the courtroom for your arraignment, they can just wait until you're finished eating."

  I looked over to her, and in what I hoped was a calm, controlled voice, said, "Mr. Jennings told me it was only a formality."

  "Oh, yes," the woman said, "It ain't nothing to be worried over. It will all be over in half a tick." She smiled over at me and added, "And then they'll be sending you over to the jail in Taunton."

  "Taunton..." I repeated.

  "Yes, we have no cells for ladies like yourself here. But, over at
Taunton, they can take care of you better. After all, there is no telling when your trial will be set for. And, you'll want a real bed to sleep in. You'll see. You'll be much happier over at Taunton." Then she added, "Well, as happy as you can be."

  The eggs and bacon, which I had found so satisfying only moments before, turned to ashes in my mouth. Now, I was to be sent away from my family and friends. Even though Taunton was no more than twenty miles away, give or take -- it was still "away." How much more would I be expected to endure... would I be able to endure?

  *****

  I was not forced to wait very long. It was just on noon -- for I heard the clock strike -- when Mr. Jennings appeared, reiterated all he had said the night before, and added, "Lizzie, you are not to worry about today's proceedings. In fact, you will probably not even need to speak, other than announcing your plea."

  "Mrs. Russell said I would be sent to Taunton jail. Is that true?"

  "Yes. The Bristol County Jail in Taunton is equipped to house women prisoners."

  At the phrase "women prisoners," I felt the blood drain from my face and my hands grow icy. That is what I was now -- a woman prisoner.

  Wearing a pained expression, Mr. Jennings continued, "Your sister and some friends will be here. They will be allowed to accompany you to Taunton. Emma is packing some of your things for you, and I believe the Reverend Buck is bringing you some things, as well."

  Drawing on my Pilgrim forefathers, I did my best to answer in a composed voice, "Yes, I see, sir."

  There was a perfunctory knock, and the door opened to reveal a young, smooth-faced officer, looking decidedly uncomfortable. Before he could say anything, Mr. Jennings nodded and said, "Ah, come along, Lizzie."