“I’m planning on visiting the Thompsons tomorrow to see if they still have a position open for a maid.” I’d been toying with the idea for a few days now, ever since Liam planted the idea in my head. But until the words left my mouth just now, I hadn’t realized I’d actually made the decision. “I won’t be able to see you as much, and I doubt the pay will be as good, but . . . ”
“I think that’s a wise decision,” Liam said when I trailed off.
“If they don’t, then—”
“Then I’ll see about getting you a job at the mill,” Liam interrupted. “I’d rather see you there, working twice as hard for less money, than have you spend one more night in the Borden house.”
Chapter 24
I rose two hours before dawn just to make sure my chores were done and I wouldn’t be missed. I hadn’t told the Bordens about my plan; I was quite sure they’d fire me on the spot for even considering a different employer. Plus, there was no use in borrowing trouble. I had no guarantee the position was even still open.
The steep hills of the Highland district flowed upward from the river, the large mansions towering over each other as if competing for space. I quickly looked down at the small piece of paper I had in my hand and read the address to myself for the hundredth time. I knew these streets, had walked them many a time during my brief employment with the Remingtons. I could tell you the quickest way to Corky Row from here, which pharmacist had the fairest prices, and which mill owner kept mistresses under the guise of maids. I knew if I took Rock Street to Walnut, I’d be there in less than ten minutes, but I didn’t. Instead, I circled the streets as I tried to convince myself this was a good idea . . . the right thing to do.
The house was large—three stories of red brick, the attic alone boasting four dormered windows on each side. I thought about the two tiny windows in the front and back of the attic at the Borden house and how the airflow was stifled by the wall that divided the space into two sleeping quarters. The windows of this house and the fresh air blowing off the river would be a welcome change.
The shade of the pillared entryway offered a retreat from the midday sun, and I quickly walked up the steps, finally set in my resolve. The sweet sound of children laughing filtered out of an open window, followed by a swift but gentle reprimand. I barely had enough time to step back before the front door opened and two boys, barely old enough to be wearing britches, bounded out, one with a fishing pole the other with a handful of worms.
A woman appeared behind them, flustered but obviously happy. I couldn’t help but smile. The life…the sheer joy I could feel pouring out of this house reminded me of home, of a life filled with warm smiles and simple pleasures. It reminded me of Cara.
“Sorry for that, my children . . . well, they tend to be a bit on the spirited side.”
“They’re boys,” I said as if that was explanation enough; at least, that’s the excuse my mum always had at the ready when my brothers came home skinned up and covered in mud.
“That they are.” She smiled and tilted her head as if searching her memory for an engagement she had missed, one that involved me appearing on her doorstep.
“Sorry, ma’am. I didn’t mean to trouble you, I was just wondering if you were still in need of a maid.”
She looked me up and down, the small glint of happiness never leaving her eyes. “A maid? No. We filled that position a few weeks back, but as you can see, I’ll be in need of a nanny in a few weeks’ time . . . that is, if you think you can handle those two.”
It was only then that I took her in, realized that I had been so fascinated with her pleasant demeanor that I failed to notice her expectant state. I didn’t know much about birthing babies, but my guess was she was less than a few weeks away.
“Yes ma’am. I have two older siblings, seven younger, five of them boys.”
I forced back the dark thoughts lingering in my mind as I spoke, the voice that told me I was the worst person she could hire for this job. I’d let my own mother down while I was watching Cara, dooming my baby sister to a life of hardship. Perhaps I hadn’t done the right thing by coming here after all.
“Splendid,” she said as she motioned me inside. “Why don’t you step in out of this heat, and we’ll have ourselves a proper talk.”
I paused in the doorway, reminding myself that I’d been little more than a child myself when the accident happened. Besides, I was older, stronger, and more mature now. This job could be the best thing that ever happened to me, the thing that would help me bring Cara over to the States once and for all.
Our talk lasted over an hour, and not once did she ask my age, not once did she ask about my previous employers or why I had been discharged from their service. When I went to bring it up, to assure her that I was still in good standing with the Bordens, she waved me off, said she wouldn’t concern herself with the gossip that circulated on “that side of town.”
The conversation took longer than I expected, probably because we were interrupted every few minutes by a question from one of the maids or silly demands from the children. To say Mrs. Thompson ran her house loosely would not be a gross exaggeration, but I didn’t care. The noise, the constant banter between the children, even the tiny dog sniffing around my feet, were all pleasant distractions from the realization of what I was doing . . . deserting Lizzie, leaving the suffering of that house behind.
I didn’t have a firm offer of employment when I left, rather a promise that her husband would check my standing in the community and get back to me by the end of the week. But that didn’t stop me from wondering, dreaming about what my new life in that house would be like. To live where you could actually open the windows, where children were encouraged to fish and dig for worms, where the mistress of the house actually spoke with her maids as opposed to simply leaving them lists.
Yes, leaving the Borden house was the right thing to do. The only thing to do.
Chapter 25
I’d just walked in from the market, had a newsprint-wrapped piece of cod in my satchel along with some oysters and a few mussels the fishmonger had yet to sell. Neither was enough alone, but together I could stretch them into a fish stew that would last a day or two.
Mrs. Borden was standing by the front window, her hands curled around the bottom of the window sash as she forced it open, the ancient lace curtains fluttering in the afternoon breeze. She never did that, never let the natural light shine in or aired out the house. Instead, she kept it closed up tight, complaining that the noise and the road dust gave her a headache. I could only presume the change meant she was entertaining, perhaps her sister or a business associate of Mr. Borden’s.
I walked around to the back of the house, my eyes looking out to the barn door. I couldn’t help but wonder if Mr. Morse’s tools were still there or if he’d brought them to his room for safer keeping. Somehow I couldn’t get comfortable with either possibility. I just didn’t trust Mr. Morse. Maybe if I got to know him better . . . but that would require my giving him a chance to explain himself and his peculiar behaviors, and that wasn’t ever going to happen.
“Bridget, is that you?” Mrs. Borden called out as the spring-latch on the kitchen door caught. Her words, gentle and meek, floated back from the front parlor. There was no fear of an intruder in her voice, no insistence that I show myself immediately.
“’Tis me, Mrs. Borden,” I answered back as I set my daily purchases on the counter and reached for the kettle. It was still hot and sitting on the cookstove, empty. I filled it with water and placed it back on the stove. No doubt her guests would want more tea, and I’d be wise to have it at the ready.
I quickly grabbed my clean apron from the hook in the sink room and smoothed out whatever wrinkles I could as I headed towards her voice. Had I known she was expecting company, I would’ve done the marketing early, made sure the front parlor was dusted, and set out the good china she kept stored in the locked hutch. Slowing, I listened for other voices, trying to figure out who and how many wer
e here from the conversation alone, but all I got was silence interrupted by street noise and the occasional chirp of a bird.
The front parlor was empty, not a soul in it save Mrs. Borden. No tray of tea and sweets, no business associates of Mr. Borden poring over paperwork or arguing over money. Not even Mr. Morse reading the daily paper as he rambled on about livestock breeding and crop rotation on the Borden’s Swansea Farm.
I stood there in the doorway watching Mrs. Borden. She was seated by the window, her large frame barely fitting into the chair she’d dragged up to catch the breeze. I followed her line of vision through the leaded glass to the street beyond, curious as to what was holding her attention but saw nothing. Very rarely did she enter this room, preferring the more informal comfort of the sitting room. She came in here only to dust, leaving the larger duties for cleaning the windows and beating the rugs to me.
“You know I never sit in this room.” She had to be speaking to me, but I turned around anyway and searched out the front entry for Mr. Borden. “It’s a pleasant room, I suppose. Especially when the cool afternoon breeze blows through.”
“It is,” I lied, not wanting to contradict her. To be honest, I found the room cramped and impersonal, everything placed just so to give the illusion of wealth and power in a home too basic, too small, to be anything but ordinary. And that clock. I hated that clock. “May I get you something, Mrs. Borden? Perhaps some tea?”
She shook her head and turned around to look at me, an odd, almost sad smile parting her lips. “Sit with me, Bridget. For just a few minutes, sit with me.”
She held out her hand when I didn’t move, sweeping it in the direction of the small sofa opposite her. I sat down, dug myself deep into the corner as I twisted my hands in my apron and waited for her to speak. Surely, she was preparing to chastise me for being late with my chores or for some error made to her morning meal. What I didn’t expect was to be questioned about Lizzie.
“Lizzie left two days ago without so much as a goodbye to me or her father, but I presume you already know that.”
I nodded as I tried to judge the tone of her voice. She didn’t seem angry or even concerned, more relieved. My mind circled around the memory of the coins hidden in her hand the day Lizzie and Mr. Borden argued about the corset. It was such a simple gesture, one no one else had even noticed. But I’d seen it, and even now, I wondered exactly what it meant and if Mrs. Borden herself was just as misunderstood as Lizzie.
“Care to enlighten me as to what passed between you two?” Mrs. Borden asked.
I considered her question, was tempted to lie and tell her I wasn’t privy to Lizzie’s motives. Truth was, I had no idea why Lizzie had left so abruptly, but I’d assumed her stepmother did. The fact that she’d told no one—including her own father—that she was leaving, was even more reason to worry about her.
“She was angry with me, ma’am, upset that I wouldn’t take her to meet my friend.”
“Friend?” Mrs. Borden leaned forward in her chair, her eyes meeting mine as she read rather than listened to my answer. “This friend of yours wouldn’t by chance be a boy.”
I hung my head, my eyes tracing the intricate pattern on the rug as I mumbled my answer. “Yes, but I’ve never brought him here, Mrs. Borden. I know how Mr. Borden feels about male suitors, and I assure you, I have honored his wishes.”
A faint smile softened her features. “Of course you have, I don’t doubt that, Bridget. I would’ve heard of it had you not, from Mr. Borden if not Emma.” She paused for a moment, her eyes glancing towards the window again before she whispered her next words as if musing to herself. “But Lizzie . . . I’m surprised she hasn’t spoken about him, mentioned him to Mr. Borden in the hopes that he’d restrict your hours or threaten to remove you from his employment merely because your ‘friend’ exists.”
Mrs. Borden got up from her seat, using the arms of the chair to help guide her heavy frame to a standing position. “Does Lizzie know his name?” she asked as she slowly made her way to the small table in the entryway where the morning post was left. She shifted through the pile of letters, coming up with one that looked hand delivered.
I watched as she placed it on the small table in front of the sofa, face down within inches of my hands, then answered her question. “Yes.”
Mrs. Borden shook her head and took a seat next to me on the sofa. “It’s not unusual for the mistress of the house to be close with her maid. Many a secret has passed between such confidants. I, myself, shared everything with my maid before I married Andrew. She was as close to me as my sisters, maybe more. But Lizzie is not the mistress of this house. I am, and she can’t be trusted, not with your secrets nor your friendship.”
I swallowed down my fear and forced myself to speak. The sooner this conversation was over, the better. “Is that what you wanted to speak to me about? Lizzie? I’m sorry if I overstepped—”
She held her hand up to silence me. I stopped speaking and shrank backwards, mindful that I had no place questioning Mrs. Borden. Andrew Borden was my employer, his wife his proxy.
“You’ve overstepped nothing, Bridget. It is Lizzie who I fear has taken advantage of you. I just wished you had come to me first and told me how unhappy you were here. I could have helped. John Morse could’ve helped.”
I cringed at the sound of Mr. Morse’s name. Little did Mrs. Borden know that I’d do nearly anything to avoid contact with him, would rather swallow down any displeasure than accept help from John Morse.
“I’m not unhappy,” I went to say, but her attention cut to the message she’d left on the table, her eyes warning me not to lie.
“Do you know what that is?” she asked, and I almost picked the paper up and read it for myself. But it wasn’t addressed to me. It wasn’t even addressed to her. Andrew Borden’s name was inked across the paper, the seal of the message broken.
“I know why you were up before dawn yesterday, scurrying around here to finish a day’s worth of chores before breakfast. I also know you didn’t get held up in town searching for just the right shade of grey muslin to mend Mr. Borden’s pants.”
She nudged the paper towards me, and I picked it up, my eyes glossing over as I took in the words scrawled across the paper.
“It’s from Mr. Thompson. He’s asking questions about why we dismissed you from our service, along with wanting to know your age and any complaints we wish to lodge against your name.”
I swallowed hard, unsure of what to say, how to explain that I wasn’t ungrateful for her and Mr. Borden’s generosity, and ready to beg her not to fire me on the spot. But before I got the chance to say anything, she rose from her seat and plucked the message from my hands, returning it to the table in the entry hall without so much as a word in my direction.
Chapter 26
I stood up, fully prepared to quickly gather what few belongings I had and leave. It was preposterous to think I could apply for another job without the Bordens finding out.
Of course they’d found out. What I’d done was naïve and inexcusable; I should’ve been grateful I had a job at all, not go searching out something better.
Quickly, my mind raced through my options. I could go to the Thompsons and hope, pray, beg that she’d give me the job. But she didn’t need me till the baby was born. How was I supposed to support myself for the next month?
Liam had mentioned working in the mill. I knew he made decent money. But even with the rent split six ways, he still struggled to pay his share and set some aside for our future. And wages for women were half that, not to mention the conditions were worse. Plus, where would I live? Being unmarried, sharing his place was unthinkable and would most certainly prevent me from securing any kind of respectable employment. My options were limited if not already gone.
“Please,” I begged as I knotted my hand in my apron. “It was foolish and wrong of me to seek out the Thompsons. I know that now. I am truly grateful for all you have—”
She waved her hand in front of me, h
er plump fingers not-so-subtly instructing me to sit and remain silent. I did, not because I wanted to, but because I needed this job. I needed any job. And if sitting quietly while I took the verbal lashing I had due meant I could keep it, then I’d gladly oblige.
“Have you mentioned this to Andrew or Lizzie yet?” she asked.
I shook my head. The last person I wanted to mention this to was Mr. Borden. And Lizzie . . . well, I’d purposely waited until she’d left to talk to the Thompsons.
Mrs. Borden sighed and dropped back down into the chair by the window. “You are not the first maid to leave, and I am quite sure I will be able to secure a replacement. Lizzie, however . . . I fear what she will do when she learns the news.”
Her last words were whispered, more like a chilling thought she never intended to speak aloud than a statement requiring a response. But I answered anyway. “I can speak to Lizzie if you wish, tell her myself.”
Mrs. Borden spun in her chair with a speed and determination unnatural for her girth. “You will do no such thing. For the sake of all of us damned to live in this house, you will do no such thing.”
I’d never heard her raise her voice, never heard her mutter more than a whispered reminder to beat a rug or use more salt in the stew. Even in the few altercations I’d overheard between her and Lizzie, she’d stayed quiet, nodding or gently trying to redirect the conversation as Lizzie screeched at her about money or stealing her father’s affections.
She sighed and collapsed back into the chair as if her tiny emotional outburst had sapped what little energy she had. “I tried to be a good mother to Lizzie. She was barely three, had little recollection of Sarah . . . of her mother. I knew it would take longer for Emma to accept me. She was older, knew and loved her mother, but Lizzie . . .” She paused, her eyes darkening as she physically shook off whatever memory had entrapped her soul. “Lizzie hasn’t called me mother in years, won’t even breathe my Christian name. Mrs. Borden. She now refers to me coldly as Mrs. Borden.”
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