Sisterly Love: The Saga of Lizzie and Emma Borden

by Jordan Bollinger

  Thinking on it, I choose the peace and tranquility of my room, feeling it was better to remain there and go hungry, rather than risk suffering the effects from another dose of the infamous, and highly questionable, soup. So, I returned to my chaise and hoped for a breeze.

  I must have actually dozed off again, for the next thing I heard was my Uncle John's voice in greetings. I also heard Father asking if he had eaten any dinner, and when he said no, told Abby to bring the food back. So, I knew my parents must have just finished eating before he arrived.

  I groaned inwardly. After all that the man had done to me, I loathed him. But, since I had never mentioned anything to anyone -- no one ever understood why I always dreaded his visits so very much. I stayed in my room with the door tightly shut against him.

  To my relief, he remained downstairs in the sitting room speaking with Father. I was not actually able to understand what they spoke about, but I could definitely hear them speaking for quite a while. I did understand him to say he was going to hire a buggy and run over to the farm in Swansea for the afternoon, but I did not hear whether he was coming back before supper or not. After a while, they quieted and I assumed he had left through the back door.

  I tried to rest, but my sleep was filled with nightmares revolving around mutton broth, with Uncle John and Father dueling against Abby and Doctor Bowen. Thinking back on it now, it almost sounds comical, but I found it all most disturbing at the time.

  Even though I had not eaten anything all day but for the cup of tea that morning, I decided against dinner. I managed to sleep through the afternoon and well into the evening. When I awoke, I did what I could to freshen up, and dressed to go out. Then, being fairly certain that Abby and Father -- and, perhaps, Uncle John -- were eating supper, I slipped quietly downstairs and out the front door.

  I walked the short distance to the little house Alice Russell lived in, and rapped sharply on the door. Between my uncle's arrival and the nightmares, I was most upset and a rather inarticulate story of doom and gloom spilled out of me.

  Remember, there was ten years between Emma and me. Alice was several years older than Emma and had always been more her friend than mine. Even at our ages, ten years was a vast span of time and made for different modes of thinking.

  I am not sure I had ever gone to Alice's by myself before. I had, of course, accompanied Emma many times, especially if Alice was unwell, or needed help with something. For the longest time I could not think as to why I went there that night, of all times.

  The only explanation I can give is I had the uncomfortable, but most distinct feeling that I had to go talk to Alice. At one point, I did wonder if Emma might not have somehow influenced me before she left for her trip. But, of course, that was only foolishness. For, how on earth could she possibly have known about Abby's visit to Doctor Bowen or Uncle John's arrival?

  Alice listened to my tale of woe, in that quiet, polite way she had. She made tea for us. She soothed me as best she could, spoke about some upcoming church social, and sent me on my way.

  I arrived at the house to find only single a lamp lighting the front hallway. I could, however, hear Abby, Uncle John and Father's voices from the darkened sitting room beyond. I said nothing. I merely double-locked and bolted the front door behind me, before scurrying up the stairs and into my room. It must have been about nine, or a bit after.

  However, it was still very warm, so I settled on the chaise lounge beside the open window in hopes of catching some slight waft of cooler air. So, I could hear them speaking below. Although I could not understand their words, their voices sounded neither secretive nor agitated.

  After a time, I roused myself up and secured my door before I slipped out of my clothes, and I returned to the chaise. I must have fallen asleep, for I have no recollection of hearing my uncle come upstairs, or move around in the guestroom, just across the landing from my room.

  So, that is how the day before the murders passed.

  *****

  I have already told you of the tension between Mrs. Wright and Emma. It had begun as soon as Mrs. Wright recognized me, and continued throughout my time in Taunton Jail. It seemed to me they avoided dealing directly with one another. While Emma maintained her barely hidden animosity, Mrs. Wright never uttered one word against my sister.

  That was until the grand jury upheld the indictments against me, and we realized I was to stay there for six more months. She had heard how I would not be testifying -- that I had, in fact, no input into my own defense. She also knew how this upset me. God bless her, the woman did her best to ensure my time there was as comfortable as she was able to make it.

  However, the one thing she had absolutely no control over was my dear sister. Emma insisted on bringing me every newspaper article, every magazine commentary, and every cruel rumor she heard on the street. At first, she had taken Emma aside and talked to her about this. My sister merely ignored her. Yet, Mrs. Wright did try to cleanse my quarters of any of Emma's "gifts" after each visit.

  I think it was this unfeeling, almost cruel, attitude from my sister -- my last close relative -- that convinced Mrs. Wright to begin talking about what she remembered about those early years of my life. It was as if, while she was unable to give me a family in the present, she did all she could to give me my family from the past.

  And so it came to pass, as we flipped through the pages of the photograph albums one raw, gray, rainy January afternoon, she began to speak of that time, long ago on Ferry Street and answered my questions.

  I told her of the picture I had inside my head -- the one of the three of us in the kitchen and how I always found solace in the smell of cooking apples.

  Mrs. Wright let out a hearty laugh and said, "Why, that does not surprise me. Your mother, Sarah, made the best apple butter I ever tasted. She made it every autumn, just as soon as the apples came in, and we all hoped that a jar would find its way into our houses.

  And, with that, she opened up and began speaking about life on Ferry Street.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Mrs. Wright and her family lived just beyond our house on Ferry Street. She said that while they were never close friends, she and my mother would always engage pleasantries and news when they met. But, what I found the most interesting was what she remembered about what had happened to my sister, Alice.

  Of course I had always known there had been a baby between Emma's birth and mine. Mother had had Alice when Emma was just five-years-old. What I had never known, though, was how she had died. At first, Mrs. Wright feigned a sudden deafness when I asked about little Alice, but eventually, she admitted that "the poor wee thing" had been found dead in her cradle.

  So many children died before they reached school age back in those days. And, while everyone thought of it as a tragic shame, it was to be endured. After all, it was God's will.

  However, when I asked for more details about what had happened, Mrs. Wright blanched and avoided my questions for several moments. Finally, she admitted she had heard it whispered throughout the neighborhood that the baby had been found with a pillow over her face.

  "But that was just talk," she insisted, as she gave me reassuringly smile. She continued, "And even if it were true, it was an accident. It must have fallen from the bed beside the cradle. Stranger things have been known to happen."

  I remember thinking, even then, there was something more. Something she was still withholding from me. So, I watched and waited. Eventually, our talk came 'round again to children and babies, and I asked once more about Alice.

  She was quiet for a moment, and then looked around, as if she expected someone to be listening. Then she lowered her voice to just above a whisper, and said, "Well, I did hear tell that Emma had been seen with Alice a short time before she was found dead. They whispered that it was Emma who had placed the pillow on Alice's face. "But," Mrs. Wright insisted, "she was hardly more than a baby herself. It was only neighborhood tittle-tattle -- idle chatter from gossipy old women. You must not th
ink of anything of it."

  Later, after she went home to her own family, and I was left alone, I thought about all she had said. I wondered if it were possible for one child be so jealous of a new baby, to actually harm it? Could Emma have hated little Alice so very much that she would suffocate her in her little cot? I could not imagine how such a young child could be so cold, so very calculating.

  It was some time later, when Mrs. Wright admitted there had been a substantial amount of indiscreet gossip about Emma "accidently" smothering the baby as she slept. Eventually, she said, the talk had died out, and life on Ferry Street returned to normal. However, later -- when Mother had become so unwell and, finally, after a long, lingering, and agonizing illness, died --the old talk about Emma had started up again.

  Mother's death alone got those old cows talking again. However, the rumors of poison really gave them cud to chew upon. Mrs. Wright said some of them even had approached my father.

  She told me how he had not only been shocked at the insinuation, but had become most angry. So angry, in fact, that no one spoke of it with him again. Now, it was just part of the lurid history of Ferry Street -- for people to listen to and believe, or not.

  Once again, I found myself left alone, in the quiet darkness of my cell, pondering on these old wives tales. I loved my sister and was simply not able to accept that she ever would -- or could -- hurt a fly, let alone her baby sister or our mother. Still, I was continually haunted by the realization that my sister was not the docile, demure spinster she appeared to be.

  I did my very best to push any thoughts of evil concerning Emma from me. Yet, the seeds of doubt had been sown. I could see Mrs. Wright immediately regretted her indiscretion, for she would speak no more about either my mother or Baby Alice's deaths.

  She would gladly reminisce with me about other people and events on Ferry Street -- but about Mother and Alice, nothing more.

  *****

  Emma continued to bring me the papers. Often, she would read them aloud to me. She came one day, brandishing another newspaper. However, this article was actually in support of me. It was about the peddler, Mr. Lubinsky, who sold ice cream around the neighborhood. The author of this article reminded the public that the peddler had told the police the morning after the murders how he had seen "a lady" walking from the barn toward the back steps at eleven o'clock. It went on to say that this testimony alone proved my innocence.

  Now, there was a certain logic to this, and I told Emma I wanted to see Mr. Jennings. After asking her several times, she finally agreed to ask him. He arrived on a dreary morning at the end of January, all smiles and words of encouragement.

  However, when I asked him about Mr. Lubinsky, he did a great deal of hemming and hawing. Finally, he told me that they -- my legal team -- had discussed it, and in the end decided they would prefer not to call him as a witness.

  I was most agitated over this, and I am afraid I spoke to him rather harshly. For, I argued, "But why? He proves I was in the barn, just as I said I was."

  "The problem is," he insisted, "he's an immigrant. The jury would not be impressed by him. They would not believe him. He speaks with a heavy accent. Besides, he is very old, and wears thick glasses."

  "But what does that matter? He corroborates my story of coming back from the barn at about eleven -- which is just when I said I did. I called upstairs just after eleven. Mrs. Churchill came over and found me without a speck of blood on me."

  After another several moments of hesitation, he continued, "Everything you just said is true, but there is another reason. A week or so after you were arrested, your sister received a letter.

  "It was purported to have been written by another Jewish peddler, named Robinsky. You heard his story during the preliminary hearing about meeting a man covered in blood on the day of the murders who explained his bloodied state by saying he had a fight with his employer. Both District Attorney Knowlton's people, as well as our own have looked for the peddler who wrote this letter. There is supposed to be someone named Robinsky who travels through the area where the letter was mailed. But no one knows him.

  "And, truth be told, his story is a bit far fetched. The letter is also well written for a foreigner. We're sure the district attorney is going to claim there is no such person. That it was something one of your supporters made up in an attempt to prove you innocent. We're afraid that because of the similarity in the names, and them both being Jewish peddlers, the jury will muddle them together."

  I cannot help but believe Mr. Jennings knew how greatly he vexed me, but after another few minutes of hand patting and reminding me I should leave my defense to my "defense team" -- after all, that is why there were there -- he left.

  I sat silently in my cell smoldering with anger.

  *****

  Winter turned into spring, with summer fast approaching -- and with it -- my trial, but my army of attorneys still had not found the true murderer. They had not found out who had sent the note asking Abby to visit a sick friend, or who had delivered it early that morning. Neither had they identified the strange man loitering around the front of the house, or the man in the buggy.

  In fact, I did not see they had done very much, at all. What I found even more perplexing is that Emma -- usually so careful about getting full value for her money -- did not appear to care a fig about their complete lack of constructing much of a defense.

  In the end, I knew I would do just as I had been instructed to do -- sit in the trial: calm, quiet, and demure.

  *****

  About the only thing my lawyers did manage was to squelch all my inquest testimony. They were successful with this for two reasons.

  Firstly, Marshall Hilliard and Mayor Coughlin had made a serious legal error the evening of my parent's funeral. My counsel argued that I was in their hands from the moment they told me I was suspected, but failed to allow me to seek legal counsel, or warn me against incriminating myself. This was clear, he added, because we were asked to not leave the house. He claimed that, from that moment on, I had been under house arrest, and completely under their control.

  There was also the fact, of course, that Doctor Bowen had administered morphine to me since the night of the murders. My entire defense team insisted the morphine caused my confusion, and this explained my muddled answers to all the prosecutions' interrogations.

  They also insisted, since my parents had been bludgeoned by some sharp weapon and not poisoned, the testimony concerning me trying to buy poison was inadmissible. Also, the only way the pharmacist was able to identify me to the police was to make him stand outside a window of our home one night as Alice, Emma and I sat talking, to identify me by my voice.

  Still, the damage had been done. The public knew more about our family and the murders than I did. After all, they had read almost ten months of stories regarding every aspect of the murders and supposed evidence against me. Even my inquest testimony had been published verbatim in a newspaper, so it was well publicized already.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Over the years, I came to see the importance of the dresses -- at least in the eyes of the men prosecuting me. However, at the time -- with the exception of my realization that Alice's testimony about me burning the torn dress did make me appear guilty -- I did not understand what difference it made about the dresses Bridget and I wore that day.

  I had never thought -- either before or after the trial -- that men noticed very much about a woman's dress. With the exception, of course, of whether it was refined or distasteful, perhaps. So, I am not at all sure the men on the jury understood the prosecution's harping on the dresses.

  It is true, several months before the incident, the house painters had been painting the inside moldings at the same time the seamstress was there making several new things for Abby, Emma and me. I, most definitely, did brush against the wet paint and forever stain the skirt of the new Bedford cord dress at the very moment of its completion. No one ever denied that -- neither the seamstress, Emma nor
myself.

  The thing was, the dress was never intended for church or even running errands in town. It -- just as the pink and white striped wrapper -- had been made as a morning dress. Both were made as house dresses to be worn around the house in the morning while I ironed or straightened up my room, or relaxed.

  It had never been meant to be worn of an afternoon to receive visitors, or go farther afield than the barn. Whatever did it matter if paint stained the bottom of the skirt? The dress was still serviceable for its intended purpose.

  It was only the damage resulting from my fall outside that rendered the dress unusable. Covering the skirt in grass stains and tearing the back of the bodice from below the sleeve seam, all the way across to the back seam, made it completely unserviceable.

  I had spent all that Tuesday afternoon trying to figure out a way to mend it. I stitched it up several times, but as soon as I tried it on, it ripped again. There was simply no way to repair the dress. I had even considered the possibility of making it into a skirt. As I have already said, I decided the amount of scrubbing needed to remove even half the grass stains would destroy the shoddy fabric. In the end, repairing it just was not worth the time or effort.

  Besides, as I pointed out to Bridget just as she was going upstairs to rest that fateful morning, there was a dress goods sale at Sargent's that afternoon. Days before, I had decided I would find some fabric for another house wrapper. And, at the sale price of only eight cents a yard, I could have purchased enough yardage for several dresses and never made a dent in my pocket money.

  Bridget was mistaken when she told the police I was wearing the Bedford cord the morning of the murders. It had been utterly ruined in my fall two days before. In fact, Father had taken a letter to the post office to mail for me that very morning, telling Emma of my ruining of the dress. I even asked her to purchase fabric for a new dress, should she go shopping and see something suitable.