I was surprised and pleased to see that, for once, my proper and prim sister had thrown propriety to the four winds and simply wrapped Alice in her dressing gown and her coat, before bundling her out to the carriage.
Soon our friend was tucked up in bed with a tray of tea beside her, and -- I am sorry to say -- Emma reading aloud to her from some prayer book. Doctor Bowen came later that afternoon and thankfully gave Alice a draught that put her to sleep.
Now, I found myself in a difficult position. I could either simply tell my sanctimonious sister the truth about my trip, or make up a lie. I am ashamed to say I went with the later -- perhaps, in spades. For I sent a friend a telegram, asking that they send me one. Then, I made up an implausible tale of having to go to them. I do not think she believed me, for Jane told me she was rude and unbearable for days -- even with Alice there.
Eventually, Alice began to feel better and that allowed Emma time to go to church. The down side of that, I heard later from Jane, was she brought home the better part of the congregation to pray over Alice. I have always hoped she was drugged and able to sleep through it.
In the end, I decided I was doing nothing wrong. I was only doing what I wanted -- what made me happy. She was doing the same thing. We just had different ideas of what made us happy.
Chapter Twenty-One
Time, as they say, marched on, and the old century waned. I managed several trips a year, dodging and weaving Emma's wrath. I was so much of a coward I never actually told her I was traveling all the way to Washington, D.C. half the time. If she knew, she never said anything. I suppose, there was a lot of the "Borden non-confrontation" in her, as well.
As the new century dawned, I took it as a promise of an even better life. I, foolish as it was, hoped the people of Fall River would let the memories -- of my father and Abby's murders, of the resulting furor on my trial, and of my subsequent acquittal -- pass away with the century. But, alas, the people of Fall River as a whole, continued to be unwilling to forget any of it. Or, care how very much their attitude might wound me.
Emma, now fifty, on the other hand, appeared to have simply acquiesced to the general attitude. I was neither willing to give up, nor give in. While my sister did her church work with the determination of a general leading his troops, I tried to walk a different path.
I started making generous, yet anonymous, donations to a number of local charities I deemed worthy. And, while I had long since stopped attending services more than a few times a year, I continued to support Central Congregational, even though it no longer supported me. I also kept my eyes and ears open, and tried to help those who found themselves in dire straits through no fault of their own. Since my acquittal, I had given much thought to those less fortunate.
After all, in my ordeal, I had found myself in a very precarious and uncomfortable position. A position that might very well have ended with me on a gibbet, swinging from the end of a hangman's noose, had I not had the funds available to obtain good help. That help had indeed cost dearly, for Mr. Robinson's bill alone was for twenty-five thousand dollars!
Of course, while I wished most heartily to prevent another miscarriage of justice, I soon realized I was only one person. I could not help everyone who might need it, no matter how deserving of help they might be. By society's doing, I was limited to those in my circle of interaction, which did include my servants.
As I said, I did all I could do.
*****
While, I believe I have already admitted I enjoyed being surround by nice things, possessions have never ruled me. So, if I had something a friend truly admired, if it wasn't something I had a strong sentimental attachment to, I would give it to them. It gave me pleasure to see them happy.
Emma, on the other hand, rarely purchased things because she "admired" or "enjoyed" them. So, I was most surprised to arrive home from a trip to Washington, D.C. to discover Emma had taken a trip of her own to Boston. True, she had only gone for the day, but it made me very happy -- for she had not only left our house on French street, she had left the warm, safe cocoon of Fall River.
Even more, she bought herself a few things; a shawl, a pair of gloves and a rather stylish -- for Emma -- new hat. She had gone to the religious bookstore I told her of, and ordered a number of books. She brought home a set of candlesticks for the dining room, and a small pair of landscapes, painted on porcelain.
She told me they had appealed to her in the shop and taken them with the idea of hanging them in her room. However, when she got them home and in her bedroom, she decided she did not care for them, after all. So, she gave them to me, to use as I saw fit. I found a pair of little easels and displayed them together on a table in the foyer.
They had been there for about a year, when a Boston friend, who stopped for a few minutes on her way through Fall River, became enamored with them. In a gush of generosity, I gave them to her, just as she was preparing to return to the railway station.
I later received a very lovely and most thoughtful note of thanks. The truth was I had been rewarded just by seeing the pleasure in her face when I pressed them into her hands. Anyway, I thought no more about them.
A good deal of time passed, when to my utter shock, Jane came in and told me two uniformed policemen were in the foyer, asking to speak to me. I asked her to show the officers in, perplexed by what they could possibly want.
Once they were shown into the parlor, they wasted no time telling me they had a warrant for my arrest -- for theft. I shook my head in protest. I told them I could not comprehend what they were talking about.
They went on to explain it was for the theft of the pair of painted porcelain landscapes. Flabbergasted, I collapsed into the nearest chair.
This is what they told me:
My friend had accidentally broken one of the paintings. She had taken it to the jewelry store on the back label to see if it was possible to repair it. The clerk looked at the several pieces of porcelain for a moment, and asked her to wait for a few minutes. The manager then presented himself and asked her how it was she came to be in possession of this porcelain.
She had no reason to think anything of it, and had not hesitated to explain how her friend, Miss Lisbeth Borden, of Fall River, had presented it to her, along with its mate a while back as a gift. The manager then informed her the pair had been stolen from the shop several years prior -- taken from where they were on display.
She insisted there must have been a mistake, that her friend would never do anything unlawful. The store manager made short work of telling her exactly of what her "very good friend" had once been accused. I suppose, it goes unsaid that I never heard from her again, and several people we both knew suddenly became unable to answer my letters or even take my phone calls.
Nevertheless, I found myself in the company of a pair of Fall River police officers, ready to take me back to jail. I called Mr. Jennings, who, I am happy to say, rushed immediately to me. The trouble was that the jewelry store in question was one I did frequent, and I had been in to have a watch repaired at just about the time of the theft. Even I had to admit I looked guilty.
I was horrified. While I was most certainly not guilty, and I would not say I was, I did not want to accuse my sister of theft. After all, she had just come home with them. She had never told me she had purchased them from that particular store. She might have found them in some small shop that bought and sold small pieces of art. It never occurred to me, at the time, that Emma could have stolen them.
Clearly, there was a misunderstanding. I insisted I had not stolen them. Instead, I told them they had caught my eye, and I had bought them from a street vendor in Boston.
I know... I can hear you gasp, even now. Why would I do that? Why would I lie, yet again, to the police. I tell you, for the very simple reason I could not believe ill of my sister, and wanted to keep any taint away from her. After all, she was so very pious and good.
I feared she would be mortified if she was accused. After all, I had already lo
st my innocence -- so to speak.
Mr. Jennings was there by then, and I told him, while I had most definitely not stolen them, or anything else, I was, however, willing to pay for them to settle the matter. There was a phone communication between the police and storeowner, as I sat in the parlor of my own home, doing my very best not to quiver with fear.
Mr. Jennings had given me one of the reassuring smiles he was renowned for, patted my hand and went to speak to the store manager. To my intense relief, he agreed to this and the matter was quickly dealt with.
But, I had lost my dignity and more than one good friend in the process. I was also at a loss about what -- if anything -- I should say to Emma. In the end, I chose not to say anything to her.
After the blowup, I often wondered whatever might have happened had I broached this with her when it happened.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Over the years, Nance and I became good friends. I never missed a play if she was performing in Boston, and I often traveled to Washington, D.C., as well. Of course, she introduced me to other people -- many of them actors and actresses -- but some others were prominent politicians and businessmen.
The exposure to other people -- different people, from different walks of life was eye opening. Having grown up in the relatively insular community of Fall River, I found it invigorating to interact with people who came from all over -- some, even from Europe -- people who did all kinds of things for a living.
Please try to understand me. I am not, in any way, implying that the people of Fall River were stodgy and never even attempted to enjoy themselves. But they did not often do anything for the sheer "pleasure" of it. However, these people -- Nance's co-workers and acquaintances -- were so... so very... alive. These people talked about things other than textile mills, fabric production, and who wore what to church last Sunday.
The idea of me hosting a house party haunted me for a year or so before I actually allowed myself to think about what such a party would entail. It was more like a fanciful dream I toyed with just before I fell asleep some nights. But, I started thinking I could do it. I -- I mean we -- had plenty of room for a number of overnight guests.
Of course, I was sure Emma would not approve.
Still, it was my home, too. Emma often had Alice stay over regularly. Why should I not give a party for my friends?
So, with a good deal of both trepidation and excitement, I decided to take the proverbial "plunge." I wrote Nance about when she would next be in Boston and if she would be able to arrange a few days off before she had to travel on. Then I began looking at possible dates for my weekend house party.
I am very much afraid I also prayed -- well, perhaps that is a bit of an exaggeration -- I shall say hoped Emma should suddenly have a church retreat, or something else to call her away from home. But, I did not truly hold out much hope. I was not to be wrong.
I do not wish to give you all the wrong impression. While I did not announce my plans, I made no real secret in my preparations.
As usual, she was so absorbed in her charity and church work that it took quite a while for her to notice that, one by one, the extra bedrooms were being thoroughly cleaned, or how I replaced the curtains in one room and the bedspread in another. She did not even notice I had Cook purchase a few little "extras" with each market order. Meanwhile I began laying in a limited amount of spirits.
It was, in fact, this expansion of my very modest "cellar" that caused Emma to suddenly take more careful notice of all that was going on around her. She dramatically presented herself to me, in high dudgeon, asking why I was bringing "the demon rum" into the house.
I am very much afraid I laughed out loud at her. Something I do not believe I had ever done, or would ever do again. I did my best to talk with her. I tried to explain that while we had been raised in a home, a church, and a town that did not condone the consumption of hard liquor, I had come to realize that drinking alcohol did not lead to eternal damnation. I was not opening a tavern. Nor was I drinking every day, or even every week. I partook of the occasional drink.
Prominent, highly respected people regularly served punches flavored with brandies or liqueurs, aperitifs before dinner, and wines and champagne during meals. I had sipped champagne during the intermissions of plays and concerts, drunk wine and sherry at people's homes. And, miraculously, I had not become a drunkard.
In fact, I went on to say, perhaps unwisely, that Father kept apple cider in the barn for the winter. Which meant, that for all our father's speeches against drinking, he not only made "apple jack," but drank it regularly.
It is true that in my twenties I had been a member of the temperance league. But, that was, as I had come to think of it, my "old life" In my "new life," I belonged to a new group -- of modern, cordial, well-mannered, and refined people. People who saw nothing evil in modest drinking.
Obviously, the time had come, so I calmly informed her that several friends would be arriving later in the week and staying for the weekend. Now, I did not mention who the people were or their occupations, but I did also warn her that I had hired a piano, and it would be delivered sometime the next morning.
She let out a sound that could only be described as a cackle and asked if I had hired a band as well. I did my best to laugh her comment off and told her there was no need for that.
I believe it was then she realized who was coming. Well, perhaps not specifically who, but exactly what kind of people were expected. The kind of people, at least in my dear sister's opinion, who were not good enough to associate with. She scowled at me and stalked off to her room.
I was most proud of myself, for there had been a time when I would have quaked with fear from that look alone. To my great relief, she retreated to her room, where she remained for the rest of the day.
Once my guests arrived, my sister marched down the stairs and out the front door each morning, without a word, her nose in the air, and a pious look upon her face. I assumed she spent her days praying for my soul. She would slip in every afternoon, pretending she did not see any of us, and scurry up to her room where she took to her bed, making poor Jane bring trays up to her, as if she was an invalid, all weekend.
Only after the last guest had said good-bye and safely left for the train station, did Emma emerged from her quarters. She came down to tea and sat staring at me in stony silence. But I stood my ground.
I poured a cup of tea and passed it to her, as I smiled brightly. I was sure a lecture was about to erupt from her, but I just sipped my own cup of tea and waited. I was not forced to wait long.
Wearing a particularly prim and sanctimonious expression on her face, she burst into speech. To be honest, I only listened to the first minute or so. Then I pasted a bland look on my face and allowed my mind to wander to more pleasant thoughts.
I did, however, get the gist of her message. She referred to my friends as "those people" -- yes, those were her exact words. I had debased myself by associating with "those people." I should be ashamed to admit to ever having met them, let alone spend time with them. But, to actually have invited them into "her" home was disgusting.
She continued on for quite a while, although I did not listen. I am sure she kept harping on those basic themes. I continued wool-gathering, so I missed quite a bit. I do remember the word "degenerates" bandied about a lot. She went on to say that she could not fathom how I -- her own sister -- would think to entertain "those people."
I am sure there was more but, as I said, by this time I was not paying attention to her. I do remember her ending by saying she would "pray for me."
Throughout it all, I managed to maintain my placid smiled. When she stopped spouting her words of wisdom, I poured her a fresh cup of tea.
Then I passed her a cookie and started talking about something or other I had read in the paper that morning.
She, most obligingly, told me her opinion about that, as well.
*****
After that, things between us remained chilly -- cord
ial, but cool. Emma and I both did as we pleased, but we did not speak of our activities to one another.
Days, weeks and months passed.
I traveled to Boston several times, but I did not go further afield. As estranged as my sister and I had become, I was concerned for her. She had changed somehow, there was something "different" about her.
On one of my little sojourns to Boston I spoke to Nance of Emma and her feeling toward me and my friends. We were having a late, after-theatre supper with several other friends.
Nance let out her melodious laugh and told us all just what she thought about dear Emma. She said she had been criticized by people like my sister all her life. Emma's comments struck no fear in her. Nance continued on by pointing out that Emma was not acting very much like the good and pious Christian she pretended to be.
What she was acting like was nothing but a hypocrite. In the end, she was no better or worse than any of us. So, who was she to judge?
Now, this presented me with much food for thought on my train ride home. I considered all that Nance and my other friends had chorused. Certainly, there was something in all they had said.
For a very long time now, I had worried I was being unfair to Emma. I never spoke against her beliefs. I even tried to, at least, understand, if not embrace, her faith. True, there had been a time when I tried to convince her to join me in a trip to Boston. However, I had given that up long ago.
In the end, I decided I had been more than fair to her. I had enjoyed my time as hostess. It had been the first time since my epiphany over the distinction between "not guilty" and "innocent" that I had felt relatively "normal."
Sisterly Love: The Saga of Lizzie and Emma Borden Page 12