This picture of Alice Russell was most probably taken, by the look of it, at the same gathering. She was older than Emma, but still a petite, demure and pleasant-looking young woman. She was seated next to a young man -- on the whole, just an average gentleman -- neither particularly handsome, nor ugly.
Alice not only looked happier than I ever recall seeing her, she glowed. In fact, she beamed with pleasure and the young man seemed to bask in that glow. While I would be the very first person to admit not being particularly observant of others' moods, this picture surely depicted a courting couple -- a couple in love.
Yet, here was Alice, fast approaching fifty and still Miss Russell. In a sudden spurt of romantic fancy I wondered if her beau had died a tragic death, or... Then I remembered what happened. I recalled the day when Alice decided not to marry this young man.
No, that is not exactly correct. It had been my sister, who had dissuaded Alice from accepting her swain's proposal. And, even after all these years, I could hear the ring of victory in Emma's voice.
I was still young -- not thirteen -- at the time, but the memory of that incident came flooding back over me as if it had only happened the day before. I remembered that evening and their intimate discussion.
We had only recently moved from Ferry Street into the house on Second Street. Back then, I had the tiny, closet of a room that Emma later moved into. I was, after all, still a child. And, I am ashamed to say I did sometimes listen in on my sister and her friend's conversations.
I was already in bed, when I had heard the front doorbell ring, Alice and Emma's voices and footsteps on the stairs, and the bedroom door close. I believe I even pretended to be asleep, for Emma had the habit of peeking in to check on me -- something I felt I was too old for.
Alice sound excited and happy. Then Emma began quizzing her about the young man: about his family, about what he did for a living, and what, if indeed he had any, were his prospects. After what I estimated to be the better part of an hour of interrogation, it became very quiet.
Curious, I slipped noiselessly from my bed, crept to the door, which Emma had failed to shut tight, and peeped out into the bigger bedroom.
Alice was sitting on a chair, across the room from Emma, ghostly pale and weeping softly into her handkerchief. Instead of going to her good friend in any attempt to comfort her, my dear sister sat back against the fat, down pillows on her bed wearing a devilishly cool, smug expression.
Eventually, Alice seemed to regain some of her composure and spoke in her light, crisp voice, "But, now that my brother is going into the army, I shall be alone. How can I possibly remain in the house, alone, without a chaperone? If I marry, I will side-step any gossip or accusations."
"Why do you care what those old biddies may say? You are a grown woman, well past twenty-one, who has been left an orphan, but also left a small house and a modest income. Your brother may do as he wishes. Why should you not do so, as well? Because you are a mere woman? You do not love this man -- this Walter. You have as good as told me so."
Now, here, I thought Alice was going to protest. At least, she looked as though she was about to speak, but my sister shot a look at her that pressed her back in her chair, to wait for more of Emma's wise council.
She was not forced to wait long.
"What would possess you to marry a man you do not love or respect?"
Now, let me point out, that I cannot recall Alice ever saying that.
But, Emma was, apparently, only getting started. "Would you sell yourself, like some immoral immigrant, who would do anything for a warm bed and a hot meal?"
I would not have believed it possible, but poor Alice blanched even whiter at this last comment and exclaimed, "Oh, Emma, you know I would never do such a thing. How can you even make such a remark?"
My sister's face softened, and she answered, "Because, you are my good friend, whom I love. I would rather snub anyone who dares to accuse you of improprieties, than see you prostitute yourself just to avoid talk."
She lowered her voice and gestured for Alice to come to her, as she asked, "Besides, would you subject yourself to his base desires? You do know what is expected of a 'wife,' do you not?"
I can clearly remember that this last part had been spoken with an air of superiority. Emma's tone had sounded so cold and removed it stayed with me low these many years.
Now the color returned to poor Alice's face -- to the point of her turning purple. "Well... ah... I... have never given much thought to it."
"Alice Russell! You have spent enough time at the farm to have seen animals breed. Do you suppose it to be any different with people?"
"But, Emma, you cannot possibly mean..."
"Yes. I most certainly do. Would you have this man, whom you found amusing at a church social or two, violate you in such a way?"
I crawled back to my bed, but I did not sleep. Her words kept running through my head... violate... yes, that was the perfect word. I remembered thinking it just before slipping into slumber.
But, the next morning, after contemplating on this, I felt Emma must be wrong. Husbands and wives were supposed to love each other. After all, they were joined in marriage by God. Surely, God would not expect us to endure such treatment as wives.
I puzzled over this for many years. I knew I was not a princess, and no prince was going to appear and carry me off to a far away castle. However, I did hold on to my romantic notions of the purity and nobility of love -- what the romance novels called "courtly love" -- for a very long time.
In my time, I had had my share of suitors. Gentlemen that called on me -- not men my father brought around for me. But, they always wanted more than the chaste kiss I was willing to give them.
The more they spoke of affection, the freer they became about stealing kisses and even attempting other more outrageous liberties. All of this, I found inappropriate and most unwelcome.
In the end, I decided perhaps Emma was right after all. Maybe marriage was not the dignified state I once believed it to be.
I was much, much older before I wondered if Emma might have been... ill used. True, she had never said anything to indicate this. She had never tried to speak of something and proved unequal to the task. So, I did my best to convince myself she had been spared such violations.
Of course, I had never spoken of, or even hinted at, my unpleasant experiences -- so, why should Emma? It was then, at last, I thought I understood Emma's stand on marriage, in general, and most definitely, for herself.
Once Father had stopped playing Cupid for Emma, he no longer concerned himself with suitors. He never once presented me with any potential bridegrooms. Perhaps, he had learned to accept we were determined to stay where we were -- at home, with him.
And, while I was not upset to remain a spinster, it did hurt me a bit. I often wondered what was wrong with me. Why did he not look for someone for me to marry?
I tried to believe I was his favorite daughter, and he could not bear to have me leave him. At some point, I suppose, I decided he somehow liked the idea that we would watch over him in his old age and grow old together.
Later, as I stared at the four walls of my little cell, I thought of how nice that would have been.
Chapter Eleven
I suppose I should tell you of the robbery. It occurred about a year after I returned home from my Grand Tour. The house was robbed in broad daylight, with at least three of us women at home.
Someone came in through a supposedly locked door, and made their way up the backstairs to my Father and Abby's quarters. They rummaged through Abby's dresser drawers and Father's desk. Yet, in the end, all they made away with was a few meager pieces of my stepmother's jewelry, a paltry sum of money, and some streetcar tokens.
I have always known the general supposition was that it was I who staged the alleged break-in and stole those things. But, I did not. I swear to you, I did not. The worse thing one could say against me was that it was I who pointed out the nail left dangling in the keyh
ole. Now, I ask you, where is the crime in that?
Maggie -- forgive me, Bridget -- was with us by then. If she had been the one to show the nail to the police, would she have been presumed guilty by all the world? Call me cynical, but I have always believed -- even before being accused of the murders -- that she would have been taken more seriously. I do suppose, there was always the chance that she, too, would have been suspected, instead.
I knew -- I had always known -- that Father believed me to be the culprit, and that is why he stopped the police investigation. It is also the supposed reason he began locking their bedroom door, and blatantly leaving the key in plain sight on the mantle. This was, purportedly, his silent admonishment of me and my extremely unacceptable behavior. Rubbish!
After all, Father gave Emma and me allowances. Abby, too, got any money she required for whatever little things she desired. Even little Bridget was paid a more-than-generous wage for the light housework she performed -- for a charwoman came in to do the really heavy work. Abby took care of their rooms, and Emma and I took care of our rooms. There was no need for any one of us to steal a few dollars.
No, I eventually came to know that Emma planned and carried the robbery out, as she planned everything else. The event served as a precursor -- a test run, if you will -- to the murders. I imagine you shaking your head and saying, "But why could not the same be said about you? Why could you not be the mastermind?"
Alas, I have no answer.
*****
Another day, once again, Emma arrived to visit me, highly colored and dour. A new theory as to why I had murdered Father and Abby revolved around another real estate transaction. According to all the gossips, Father was preparing to sign over the title to the Swansea farm to Abby. But, I do not believe this is what he planned to do at all.
I think he was going to sign it over to Uncle John Morse -- for whatever reasons between them. I should have first thought of this when Father sold the horse and buggy earlier that summer. But, since we lived so very close to the center of town we had no real need for the buggy and, in fact, rarely used it. So, I had given it no real thought.
Now, our Uncle John was a horse breeder. Once he returned to Massachusetts from the west -- I think he resided in Iowa for about twenty years -- he began popping in for unscheduled visits. These were always on his way to see a man in Westport ,very near Fairhaven, with whom he did business.
What I have come to believe is that Father was going to sign the farm over to Uncle John so he would be in closer proximity to this businessman. I could see the sense in Father making some arrangement with him, even if Emma could not, or perhaps, would not.
It not only cost money to feed the horse, but it took hard work to muck out the stall and care for him, as well. Remember, Father was almost seventy. Uncle John was Father's only true friend. Perhaps, he felt he owed his first wife's brother some sort of inheritance.
After all, we were no longer children and had not gone to stay at the farm in years. If Father was to sell, lease, or even give the farm to Uncle John, I am sure any of us -- had we wanted to visit -- would have been welcomed. But, I can also understand how Emma would feel this was more of our money being siphoned away.
He had a niece who would probably have kept house for him, and I am sure he would have provided us with a horse and buggy, if and when we desired one. He had taught each of us how to handle a horse and buggy at an early age. In fact, Emma and I could handle a horse and buggy better than many men born and raised in the city.
This, was in fact, the only fond memory I ever associated with my uncle.
*****
My Uncle John may have been my mother's brother and my father's good friend, but I hated him. Moreover, I was filled with dread each time he would visit. You see, some of my most vivid memories were of him "visiting" my room in the wee hours of the night.
How I hated those nocturnal visits, and all that went on.
I believe I have already said that, at the time, it never occurred to me that Emma might have been violated, as well. All I knew was she never seemed to mind him coming to stay. In fact, I know she corresponded with him all the years he lived in the west.
I really do have reason for stressing the fact my Uncle John had molested me as a child. That alone should provide you with a clear indication of the man's nefarious character. Yet, my sister, Emma, did not appear bothered by him.
This changed after my uncle returned to Massachusetts and he visited Father more often, I could feel the tension within the household build. And, as it increased, Emma's mood and behavior became more and more irritable and erratic. But, thinking back, I do not recall Abby or my father's temperaments changing.
What is the old quote, "There is none so blind, as those who will not see?" How very true that was -- or is -- for I still could not, or would not, appreciate the significance of any of this.
Spring blossomed into summer and more than the temperature was rising. As the good weather came, both Emma and I discussed plans to go away. My friend's father owned a house in Marion, and several of us were planning an extended holiday on Buzzard Bay. Emma announced she was going to spend several weeks with her friends the Brownells, in Fairhaven -- a town about fifteen miles away. Why, even Father had spoken of perhaps taking Abby and going to the farm for a few days.
Now, about two weeks before the tragic events, Emma traveled to Fairhaven and I accompanied her. I then continued on to the house where my friends were staying. I had hoped, once we both were out of the house, I would feel more relaxed. But, it was not to happen. If anything, I felt even more uneasy and tense. But, as uncomfortable as I was, I would never have been able to foresee what was yet to come.
I had gone to stay with my friends in Marion but, once there, I decided I needed to return to Fall River. I had completely forgotten about a church meeting I needed to attend.
Father and Abby might have been a bit surprised when I returned, but they said nothing. In truth, I was not feeling my best, and I think all would agree that nowhere is quite as comfortable and cozy as one’s own bed, especially when you are ill.
Much has been made over the continuing appearance of leftover mutton on our dining table in the days preceding the murders. At that time, it was a common practice to have a large joint on Sunday, and to eat off of it until it was gone. There have been many jokes made over Father’s... ah... frugality. But the truth is that food and ice cost money and that meant we -- all of us -- did what we could to make them stretch out.
For the most part, things were perfectly wholesome. We were not ignorant. We knew about the danger from microorganisms, although, to be honest, we were perhaps not always as careful as we should have been.
Now, because of the uncommon heat, it might it have been more prudent to discard any mutton broth still remaining Tuesday evening but, alas, we did not. There it is. So, I believe my family, as a whole, must accept full responsibility for our subsequent illness.
Little was I to know how this would quickly escalate the week's events.
Chapter Twelve
As I have already told you, none of us had felt very well for a day or two. Wednesday, August 3rd dawned hot and humid, and all of us were nauseous and uncomfortable. I had gone down for breakfast but, once there, opted for only a cup of very weak, highly sweetened tea before returning to the privacy and quiet of my room.
Father had been leaving for the morning just as I was going upstairs. I remembered seeing him through the living room window as he walked through the side yard and toward the street.
I stretched out on my chaise lounge and must have fallen asleep, for I woke to something most unusual -- Father and Abby's raised voices. I crept from my room and out to the top of the stairs where I cautiously peered over the railing and tried to discover the gist of their argument.
From what I was able to glean from their rather loud discussion, as soon as Father had left earlier for town, Abby had rushed across the street to Doctor Bowen. There, she told him how
she suspected that we -- or perhaps it was only she -- were being poisoned. Of course, as soon as he heard about Sunday's mutton broth, he laughed at her and sent her home with orders to dispose of any of the mutton left.
Now, Doctor Bowen was more than a neighbor who lived across the street. He was also our usual doctor. But, while we knew each other enough for a friendly smile or a cordial remark, we did not really visit each other as friends. He arrived in the midst of the squabble between my father and Abby, all smiles, and insisting that anything containing that mutton must be thrown out immediately.
My father was livid! I do not ever recall seeing him so very angry. He sent Doctor Bowen off with quite the flea in his ear about how he would not be paying for such a nonsensical diagnosis. And, as a parting blow, while the doctor was just leaving the house, he ordered Bridget to serve the mutton and its broth for our noontime meal.
I returned to the refuge of my room, but I heard the door slam behind Doctor Bowen. Even though my window did not face his house or the street, I could hear him muttering as he crossed the road home. He sounded just furious as Father, but I clearly heard him let out a low laugh. I was left with the distinct impression that he took pleasure in the fact that Father would soon regret his stubbornness.
I decided I should probably go downstairs and see if I could help with dinner. But I only got as far as the dining room when I heard yet another argument -- if one could call a rather curt and loud discussion between servant and mistress an argument. It, too, concerned the mutton and broth.
It seemed that Bridget had her own suspicions about the root of our maladies, and dared to voice her agreement with Br. Bowen's suggestion. However, Abby -- having already angered Father -- had no intention of flouncing his authority again. Bridget was ordered to immediately prepare a meal of Sunday's mutton and its broth.
Sisterly Love: The Saga of Lizzie and Emma Borden Page 7