As the weeks passed into months, however, I got the uncomfortable idea she wanted me to feel guilty about her being left alone. When I looked back, it seemed she was just a bit more tired or achy if someone else was visiting -- as if she was trying to impress them how truly self-effacing she was.
And, again, I chastised myself for having such uncharitable thoughts.
The truth was I was finding her becoming less and less concerned about my situation. I could not understand how she did not appear to recognize the truly precarious position in which I found myself.
I also felt sure, had our positions been reversed, I would be most anxious about what might happen to her.
She did continue to assure me the true culprit would be found, my innocence would be proven, and I would find myself free once more. I, however, was not at all convinced.
Chapter Nine
The grand jury convened on November 15th -- again held in private. They had only one other case to review aside from mine -- that of Henry G. Trickey.
Mr. Trickey was accused of selling an elaborate and entirely fictitious list of witnesses and their planned testimonies to a newspaper reporter. They readily upheld his indictment.
However, I later learned of how he escaped to Canada, only to be killed by a train.
But, I digress. For six days, Mr. Knowlton presented his case against me -- parading his witnesses before the grand jury. Yet, on November 21st, they adjourned -- without deciding to uphold my indictment. Mr. Jennings reported this to me, declaring how I would be free very soon.
I so very much wanted to believe him, but I remained unconvinced. Emma appeared to hold herself aloof from both Mr. Jennings and me, as if she was thinking about something else. She also failed to visit one day, later explaining that Alice had been most upset over something, and Emma felt she would be more help to her friend, than spending another day sitting with me. I did not mind this. After all, Alice was an old and dear friend to us both.
The grand jury was reconvened, and on December 2nd, they upheld my indictments for the murders of Father and Abby.
It was not until several weeks later that Mr. Jennings told me Alice had requested to readdress the jury. She now believed she had given an incomplete answer to the grand jury. And, it was this additional testimony that caused the grand jury to uphold my warrant.
You see, she had neglected to tell them about me burning that ruined dress when she had originally testified. The first time she had appeared, they asked her if all the dresses in the house the day of murders had been accounted for and examined. After a crisis of conscious -- which is actually what Emma had counseled her about that day she didn't visit me -- she had testified to the grand jury again and recounted the story of my burning the Bedford cord.
So, I would not be home for Christmas. I would be held in custody until my trial, which was finally set for sometime in June of 1893.
*****
I believed now that we knew I was to go to trial, Mr. Jennings would come and begin working with me on building my defense. However, Emma, not Mr. Jennings told me of his plans. Because he had very little experience in criminal matters, he was assembling a team of trial attorneys.
She insisted she would pay for everything -- whatever the cost. This was particularly good news since the probate court had awarded Father's entire estate to her alone. She did assure me she would share it with me equally once I was released. She had already arranged everything with Mr. Jennings.
Of course, it never occurred to me how important her actual words were -- "once I was released."
I tried on a number of occasions to find out just what my attorneys were doing: about the note Abby had received, or the strange man, or the horse and buggy. But neither Mr. Jennings, nor Emma ever said anything other than, "You are not to worry."
I never understood this. Seriously, how could I possibly not worry about it? I was on trial for my life, and took absolutely no comfort from Emma informing me no woman had been hanged in Massachusetts in more than a hundred years.
Unless I was found "not guilty," the very best I could hope for was to spend the rest of my life in prison. It did peeve me how she did not appear to appreciate my position more.
*****
Time inched forward, and Emma continued to wax poetic about the great legal minds Mr. Jennings was gathering for my defense team. The trouble was, not a one of them had any interest in me, what I thought, or what I might have to say.
In fact, I was told I would not be testifying in my own defense. It seemed I was to have nothing to say about anything -- quite literally.
The only attorney I spoke to, or even saw before my trial, was Mr. Jennings. And even he did not come to see me very often. On one of these rare occasions, when I attempted to question him about what was being done to find the true culprit, he, like Emma, merely told me to rest assured they were taking care of everything.
One evening, after Mr. Jennings left me, following one of his infrequent visits, I sat in the darkness and pondered the wisdom of my not taking the stand to proclaim my own innocence. Of course, I understood you hired lawyers for advice. And this advice was costing Emma -- and me -- dearly and should probably be accepted without question. I also understood if I took the stand, I would be subjected to cross-examination.
But, I was innocent! And, as much as it frightened me to be tried for murder -- to know I could be hanged -- it still seemed better to tell the jury I had done nothing. However, the matter had been decided in some "Star Chamber" meeting of my attorneys.
I was to do just what I had done at the preliminary hearing. I was expected to sit quietly, saying nothing, and let everyone else take charge of my life.
About the only thing I was allowed to do was pray.
*****
Emma arrived one frosty morning, decidedly agitated about something. It took me quite a while to calm her enough to tell me what had vexed her. At last it came spilling out -- there had been talk about an old trouble -- one that had, in fact, amounted to nothing.
Our stepmother's family had lived in both halves of a small house a short distance away from ours. Years before, when the husband died, Abby's sister, who lived in the other half, decided to sell out and move on. This caused Mrs. Whitehead, Abby's mother, to worry that she would lose her home -- a home that suited her well.
Abby told her mother's story to Father, imploring him to find some way for her mother to remain in her home. This was all done between them most secretly, all in low tones that dropped to hushed whispers whenever either Emma or I came within hearing distance. But, for a city, Fall River is in very many ways a small town, and the details were soon public knowledge.
Father had bought the house and signed over the deed to Abby’s mother. Then he rented out the other side. Now, at first, I didn’t think much about this. After all, Father had several pieces of investment property. I did find it annoying he and my stepmother would be so secretive about it, however. But, what did it really matter? We were safe and warm in a house we found adequate, with money in our bank accounts.
Still, Emma seemed to feel that Father, at Abby's instigation of course, had betrayed us somehow. She continued to harp on it to me at night, and eventually I gave in and I agreed with her. I see that now, but didn’t at the time.
Perhaps it was a bit wrong for Father to keep family business so close to his chest. However, what Emma didn't seem to understand was that Abby was his wife now, and he had an obligation to her, as well as to us.
My sister took the opposite line. Father’s money was our rightful legacy -- not Abby’s. And, supporting her mother took money from our pocketbooks. Now, I didn’t realize until a few years later, when I was traveling with my cousins, how very well off my Father was. So, at the time of all this, Emma's arguments regarding our inheritance did have a ring of truth.
After a very tense truce, Father gave us each half-share in the old house on Ferry Street -- which, in truth, was most comparable to Mrs. Whitehead's house. He
felt this made us all equal.
It seemed most fair to me but, to my amazement, Emma did not find it so. She continued to make thinly veiled comments for many long months after I thought it should have been long forgotten. The most peculiar thing about all this was, when the story was repeated about town, it was I, not Emma, who refused to let the matter drop.
Of course, I see now it was Emma herself who told the stories and perpetuated the lies. But at the time, I was blind.
Emma's distress over all this -- things long past and over -- seemed to be based on information the attorneys had gotten about someone telling the old stories. Of course, I was cast as the villain of the piece. I questioned her as to why she was so very upset, and she informed me the police were attempting to make every little friction in our household, food for public feasting.
She also told me there was more... the dressmaker telling tales of how vehemently I had corrected her when she referred to Abby as my mother... How the house had been robbed in broad daylight, with at least three of us at home... Also, my now several attempts to procure prussic acid.
This I vigorously denied. I never asked for prussic acid for any purpose -- and certainly not to care for sealskins, which are naturally repellent to moths. It angered me that no one believed me in this, and that not one of my defense team investigated this.
However, when I protested against this seemingly apathetic view, she gave me a "shush," accompanied by a sour-milk look, and turned away. Over the years, I had come to know that look and knew better to cross her -- even though I still wanted to discuss the matter further with someone.
Chapter Ten
One day Emma astonished me by pulling out another photo album from her copious bag. It was the one holding the pictures and mementoes from my European trip. I had asked her to bring it to me several times. The truth was, I had just about given up any hope that she would ever oblige me.
So, this was a most welcome surprise, indeed. It was not until much later, long after she had gone for the rest of the weekend that I realized how I had allowed myself to be redirected from the photo albums -- like a child who wants something they cannot have, and so is given something else.
Later, after dinner, I showed the pictures to Mrs. Wright and told her of all the wonderful sights I had seen. I became aware of something as we looked through the album together -- of how happy I appeared. Page after page, any picture that included me showed a young woman glowing with happiness. It was much different than my usual serious expression.
This was something I had never noticed before, and it told me quite a lot about myself -- then and now. The only time I had ever been happy had been that four months of freedom.
But, freedom from what, or whom? I had always assumed I felt released from Abby and my father. But now, I began to wonder if it was really my sister, Emma, from whom I wanted to escape.
Once again, it was I who felt very guilty about this. After all, it had been Emma who encouraged me to go. She had been the one to press Father for a large portion of the money required. She had even gone so far as to give me money of her own to put towards it.
Even at the time, the question I had asked myself was why? Was there something she wanted to do, that would be better off done without me around?
So I had even more to think about. It was as if each day brought forward new memories for my thoughtful consideration. I struggled between the life I had known and the sister I thought I knew, and this new being emerging, as if from a cocoon, within me.
Traveling through Europe with other young women had been the high point of my life. For the first time, I had been free to make my own choices -- my own decisions. And yet, I remember thinking about how Emma would feel if I did this or that, or went there. Even an ocean away she was able to influence me. As time progressed, however, her influence dimmed and I found I was able to purchase some things I knew Emma would not approve of without worry. What a heady, powerful feeling.
I had hoped this newfound freedom would remain with me once I returned home, but it was not to be. Emma was once more able to dominate me and, in the end, it was as it had always been.
In spite of how much I enjoyed my trip abroad, I had missed my family and friends. So it was with mixed emotions I arrived back to Fall River. For as much as I had enjoyed my newfound freedom, I longed for sister's companionship.
I know what you are thinking, How could I look forward to her cool, controlling ways?
The truth is, I do not know. Perhaps, I had not yet made the connection of her demeanor to Father, Abby or me. She was the one person I believed loved me more than anyone else in the world -- perhaps, even more than Father.
I did not begin to put things together -- to have my epiphany -- until I was incarcerated and awaiting trial. Even then, I still seemed unable to accept what was before me -- that my sister was not who or what she presented to the world.
*****
My streak of independence in Europe had dissipated during the short and lonely cab ride home from the railroad station on the night I arrived home to a dark house, with no one awake to greet me. I will not deny they had not expected me. And even though I did my best to believe her explanation, I was unable to forget the slight. To my shame, I found I was still under my sister's spell.
I arrived home to find a palpable tension in the household. Nothing unpleasant was said by anyone. Yet, so very much was left, hanging in the air, unsaid. As I have stated before, Abby had never been anything but cordial to me. Well, perhaps, she had been authoritative at times. She tried to be the same to Emma, but my sister always misunderstand her meaning or intentions.
Before my trip abroad, Emma had always been most apologetic, or at least she appeared to be. But, Abby was not as quick witted as my sister, and somehow Emma always added a barb at the end of her little speeches of contrition.
That was gone now. No longer did Emma even try to hide her dislike of our stepmother. Perhaps, Abby did not notice the difference -- or perhaps, she merely pretended she did not.
Father, on the other hand, did take notice, and reproached Emma several times in front of me, but never Abby. Father was never very demonstrative -- but equally, he was never harsh or cruel. He tended to ignore troubles and hope they would work out themselves. Yes, I know, I am very much afraid I take after him. So, for him to admonish her, at all, was bad enough. To do so in front of me, was most unusual for him.
Of course, Emma did not take kindly to being disciplined, especially with me present. To be fair to her, she was near on forty years old. We had left our childhood, grown from girls into young ladies, and on through to womanhood. Yet, Father had not appeared to notice. It is quite vexing to be considered a mature spinster by the general public, but still thought of and treated as a child by your father.
There was an ebb and flow to the anxiety. Things would work themselves out for a bit, and the tension would ease off, only to stir up again over some small and, most probably, unintentional slight. Not seeing all this as clearly as I could later, I suppose I just tried to avoid any confrontations. I spent much of my time upstairs in my room.
That, too, led to difficulties and misunderstanding. I do not remember exactly when Emma decided to switch rooms. She just insisted I move into the larger, outer bedroom. And, I never understood why.
Now, in truth, I had slept in the big bedroom the entire time Emma was away at school. And, if she suspected this, she never said anything to me about it. But, I do not recall complaining about my little room.
So, now, I had the better bedroom, technically, but Emma still made free use of it. I would often find her and Alice holed up in my supposed bedroom. If I wanted to read, or rest, or simply have some quiet, I would be forced back into the small, closet of a room or to the guest bedroom.
We would often have friends over at the same time, and we would use the guest bedroom to entertain them. Somehow, people are more relaxed and at ease in an extra bedroom, rather than in one's own, personal bedroom.
Our guests came and went through the front door, and almost never even saw either my father or Abby. I had never given any thought to it before my incarceration, but it was as if we had our own home -- just the two of us sisters.
The house had never been remodeled from its original two-family floor plan, to a single-family home. For, in effect, we had become two separate families -- two separate nations, in fact. The truce established after the first trouble over Abby's mother's house had developed into a stalemate -- Father and Abby against Emma and me, with poor Bridget acting as a diplomatic go-between.
I cannot imagine how I could ever have been so very blind. Why was it I did not see how we had become so divided? And, why could I have not foreseen more problems yet to come?
I have no answers. I returned from my trip abroad with both excitement and trepidation. Looking back, perhaps, I could have spoken up. Would things have ended differently if I had made a point of being kinder to Abby? Or, if I had said something to Emma about making some effort of her own?
I have even wondered about how different all our lives might have been if we had left Father's house and set up housekeeping in one half of the duplex Father had given us. We would still have income from the other half, but we would have had our own autonomy. I even believe Father would have even continued giving us some sort of allowance just to have solace in his own home.
*****
It was the photo albums that started me thinking -- remembering -- about so many things.
There was a picture of a very sour-faced Emma and one of Father's many would-be son-in-laws. It appeared to have been taken at some church function -- perhaps a picnic or social -- where Father had been able to trap her with his current candidate. But, it was the photograph beside it that caught my attention.
Sisterly Love: The Saga of Lizzie and Emma Borden Page 6