Sweet Madness

by Trisha Leaver

  I heard the frustration in his voice; I knew that me working for the Bordens had taken its toll on him, too. “Lizzie’s gone for the whole summer anyway. Emma, too. It’s just Mr. and Mrs. Borden. Besides, the Thompsons don’t need me just yet.”

  I didn’t exactly know why Mrs. Borden needed me to stay for two more weeks, but I figured it was the least I could do, given that I was leaving them without a proper replacement.

  Minnie leaned in close, swayed on her feet before grasping hold of the table to keep herself steady. I knew what she was doing, what she wanted to hear. Gossip. I thought back to Mrs. Borden’s soft voice, Mr. Borden’s furrowed brow, and his constant fear for Lizzie. It was bad enough they’d gotten saddled with a daughter they needed to watch like a hawk; they most certainly didn’t deserve to be talked about for it.

  “I was wrong about them. They’re not at all like I thought. They’re kind.”

  Seamus looked at me like I’d sprouted horns and become the devil himself. “Kind? Isn’t a man or woman in Fall River that would call that man kind! Miserly maybe, odd, and perhaps a bit insane . . . but kind?”

  “Yes, kind!” I bit back, relaxing only when I felt Liam’s arms wrap around me. The slight scruff of his jaw rubbed against my cheek, and I smiled. He always found a way to moderate things between Seamus and me.

  “You don’t know what it’s like in that house.” I felt the tears stinging at the edges of my eyes and blinked them back, frustrated with myself. I should be celebrating, not crying.

  “Hey, don’t cry, love. Please. It’s over now.” Liam’s voice fell to a barely audible level, soft and gentle, as he pulled me deep into his chest. “You did everything you could for her, you know that, right?”

  “For who? What the hell are you talkin’ about?” Seamus asked, and Liam waved him off. Seamus grumbled something, then grabbed Minnie’s hand and stumbled into the next room, coming back for a split second only to grab the whiskey bottle I’d hidden.

  The tears falling weren’t even tears of sadness, but rather tears of exhaustion. A year of trying to navigate that family, of trying to pacify Lizzie and protect her from the world. I hadn’t realized it at the time, but it was draining.

  “I’m not sure I’ll even get a chance to explain to her. By the time she comes back, I’ll be gone.” I had purposely avoided thinking about that day and the hurt I was causing her, the promise I was breaking. I thought about leaving her a note, explaining to her my reasoning, but what was I going to say . . . that her meddling, her father’s dark moods, the insanity that seemed to strangle this home, were too much for even me to bear? At the end of the day, I was leaving her alone here to fend for herself.

  “That’s the kindness in you talkin’,” Liam soothed. “You’ve got to remember that she’s a grown woman. She’ll be fine.”

  “She’s less of a grown woman than I am,” I hiccupped out, folding myself deeper into his arms. “She’s soft and doesn’t understand what her parents are doing. Without me, I don’t know what she’ll do.”

  I felt the deep rise and fall of Liam’s chest beneath me. He lifted my chin and met my eyes with his. “Whatever happens to that woman is no worry of yours from this point on, understand?”

  He put me aside, stood up, and walked over to the mattress on his side of the room. I stared at him blankly, wondering if this was the moment I’d always expected would come. After all, we were in his flat, in his room, and there was no one around to see. No one to think we were being improper.

  Liam caught the twitch of concern in my eyes and smiled, his eyes twinkling like they did when he was up to mischief. “Ah, not yet. Not here. Not until I find you a proper home, with a proper bed.” Instead of lying down, he lifted the ratty mattress, gently slid aside the sheet wrapped around it and pulled out a wrinkled envelope.

  “Open it,” he said, pressing it into my hands.

  I slid the top open, gasping at what I saw. Money. A whole stack of it. I ran my finger across the bills’ worn edges, stunned into silence.

  “I told you I’ve been saving. We’re almost there. Almost. Six months at the Thompsons should do it, Bridget. We’ll be able to leave here, just you and me. Start over somewhere else, somewhere they don’t know us and don’t care where we came from, someplace where your sister Cara will be safe and happy.”

  I smiled at him, my heart swelling more with each word he uttered. I had no idea whether there even was a place like that, but I didn’t care. As long as I was with Liam, nothing else would matter. Not Andrew Borden. Not his wife. Not the countless sleepless nights I’d spent in that house nor the chiming of that horrible clock in the parlor. Not even Lizzie.

  Chapter 29

  The heat didn’t bother me that morning. It was still humid, the steam rising from the road the instant the sun came up. But somehow everything seemed lighter, less stifling. I slipped down the back stairs, anxious to start my morning duties. I wanted to go to town and see if I could get a stronger thread to help Mrs. Borden with her mending. I talked to her about stitching together a new dress; she had gotten bigger lately and the seams of the few dresses she owned tugged no matter how tightly she laced her corset. But Mrs. Borden wouldn’t hear of it. She insisted that minor repairs were all that were needed. I doubted it would work, but I could understand her desire to try.

  I stopped on the landing of the second floor and stared at the wooden door that led to Mr. Borden’s bedroom. Recently he’d taken to entering his and Mrs. Borden’s bedroom from the front of the house, passing through Lizzie’s room on his way. The bed Lizzie had wedged against the door connecting their rooms had been moved yesterday, the rug that covered her floor beaten and lain back down. And with Lizzie gone for the remainder of the summer, I wondered if he’d open his door to the hallway even once. Air it out.

  I paused a few steps from the bottom, the smell of coffee and jam greeting me. I knew for a fact Mr. and Mrs. Borden were still in their chambers; I’d heard their quiet whisperings as I stood outside their room, shamelessly bending my ear toward their door. Mr. Borden was asking his wife about her plans for the day, suggesting that perhaps she go visit her sisters for tea. Mr. Morse was gone as well; he’d left yesterday without so much as a word of his departure. That could only mean . . .

  There was no need to announce my arrival. I knew she was waiting for me, had probably had her eyes trained on the small hall that led to the back staircase since the moment she got back. Lizzie was sitting at the kitchen table alone, her lips upturned into a tiny, apathetic grin. She’d been gone four days with no word, not even a goodbye, and yet there she was, smiling like all was forgiven.

  “Miss me, Bridget?” Lizzie slowly stirred her coffee, her gaze caught in the tiny circular motions.

  I walked past her, giving her nothing more than a sideways glance as I went about preparing the morning meal.

  “Oh, come now,” Lizzie continued. “You can’t stay upset with me forever.”

  I could. Lizzie knew exactly what she was doing and how she was affecting me. It was bad enough having to look for new employment behind her back, but having her show up out of thin air, all but taunting me, was much, much worse.

  “I see my father moved my bed,” she said, and I didn’t have the heart to tell her it was me and Mrs. Borden who had done it, that her stepmother was hoping to open the windows in both the front and the back of the house to air it out.

  “Your father said you were gone for the summer, that you were going to stay with Emma and her friends in Fairhaven.”

  Lizzie took a deep breath, then said, “Well, I couldn’t exactly leave you alone with my father for the entire summer, now could I?” She paused and stared at me, her eyes lifting as if she was waiting for an answer. Knowing her, she expected some sort of confirmation or warped thank-you. But I had no idea what she was talking about, and I was still hurt that she had left without saying goodbye.

  “You know he sold Mrs. Borden a half-stake in the house on Fourth Street?” she continu
ed when I didn’t answer.

  I nodded; I hadn’t been privy to that argument. It happened over five years ago. Long before I was under the Bordens’ employ, long before I was even in the States. But everybody in Fall River knew about it, talked about it as if it had just happened yesterday. Mr. Borden had given his wife a share in the property her sisters lived in, sending Lizzie into a fit. Both she and Emma argued that it was unfair of their own father to look more favorably upon his second wife than his own daughters.

  For once, Mr. Borden had relented, more interested in keeping his image intact than standing his ground with Lizzie. “Yes, and to make amends, didn’t he give you and Emma the family house off Ferry Street, the one you were born in?”

  “Not gave,” Lizzie fired back. “Sold.”

  The contempt was evident in her eyes, in the hollow look just behind the pain. Mr. Borden was certainly not a charitable man, but he made sure his family had what he thought they needed. Granted, Lizzie thought she deserved more, but she never went without the necessities.

  Ignoring the irritation in her voice, I calmly responded, “For one dollar, Lizzie. That’s little more than the cost of a new corset.”

  She laughed and reached for a cookie. “And did I tell you what we did?” she asked, not giving me a chance to respond before continuing. “Just last week, we sold it back to him for twenty-five hundred dollars apiece.”

  I shook my head and fought off the urge to tell Lizzie how greedy I thought that was. Where I came from, you didn’t profit off family; you looked after them, tended to their needs the best you could.

  “Why would you do that?” I asked.

  “You know Father is a wealthy man, equal in station to the Garners and the Masons, yet we live here.”

  “Here?” I questioned. I knew the Bordens’ house wasn’t as grand as the Remingtons’ or the Thompsons’ or any of the other homes on the Hill, but it was cleaner than the mill houses most of my friends lived in, and practically a mansion compared to the three-room flat Liam was hoping to build us.

  “We live on the same street as a Chinese laundry,” Lizzie said as she shifted in her chair, loosening the tight neckline of her dress. “The horse teams keep me up at night, and the street peddlers crowd the way. We don’t even have a water closet or electric lights.”

  I could do without the electric lights, but a better ice chest would be nice. I looked over at the day-old mutton stew I’d left sitting on the cookstove overnight. Mrs. Borden had helped me prepare it last night and the thick, meaty smell still clung to everything. It hadn’t been good the first time, and I doubted it would be any better after I flavored it.

  “I sold the house back to him for you, Bridget.”

  I stumbled back at the sad betrayal in her voice. “What?”

  Lizzie sighed. Her eyes flitted to the back door. I’d left the milk and ice pans out, but they were still empty, the delivery boy probably slowed down by the heat. “I’m sorry I left you here, Bridget. That was wrong of me. But I can’t just stay here and wither away, and I won’t let you either.”

  I thought about telling her right then about my new position with the Thompson family. I'd planned on telling her, eventually. I figured I'd ask Mrs. Thompson for a morning off and come back here, tell Lizzie why I did it, and promise to always be her friend. I could do that now. There was nothing stopping me, save the certainty that she’d ask me to stay and the fear that I’d relent and say yes.

  “There was enough money in my father’s safe to get you to Swansea, but I got to thinking that Swansea wasn’t far enough, that somehow his reach would extend there, too,” Lizzie said. “But the money from the house, now that’s enough to buy you passage back to Ireland, and set up a proper home for your family and that sister you’re always talking about.”

  Chapter 30

  I tossed a bay leaf into the cast-iron pot and stirred it under, watching as the green leaf faded to gray and then black as the water drained it of its flavor. Of its very essence. I couldn’t help but think of Lizzie in that moment, of who she might have been before I came to work here. Surely there was a time she wasn’t so paranoid, so determined to protect herself from invisible enemies. Perhaps that spark of life had been leached out of her too, drained away until the only thing left was this husk of a woman, tired, afraid, and angry at the world.

  Lizzie had left minutes ago, had simply gotten up and walked out the back door without another word. I didn’t want her or Emma’s money nor did I understand why she was so convinced I might need it. Or why she thought her father meant me harm.

  “Good morning, Bridget,” Mrs. Borden said as she walked into the kitchen. She looked happier, more rested than I’d seen her in weeks. “I see you are fixing my stew.”

  She smiled as she reached for the loaf of bread and pot of jam in the middle of the table. My guess was she thought I’d put it there; she probably had no idea that Lizzie was back.

  “Yes, ma’am. I figured I’d better get a head start on it.”

  “No need,” she said. “Andrew said he would stop by the fishmonger’s on the way home from his morning business. I was thinking oyster soup.”

  “I can get them,” I said, not bothering to turn around. “I was going to stop by the Five and Ten to pick up some thread for your dresses anyway.”

  She caught the darkened tone of my voice and rose from her chair, came over to stand beside me, stilled my stirring hand as she spoke. “Bridget? Something wrong?”

  I shook my head, not wanting to tell her the truth. There’d been a lightness to her step when she came down the stairs this morning, and I didn’t want to take that away from her.

  “Nothing, ma’am. I’m tired, ’tis all.”

  “It’s the heat,” she said as she sat back down and fanned herself with her hand. “It needs to break soon or we’ll all succumb to exhaustion, I fear.”

  It wasn’t the heat she needed to fear, but Lizzie. Something had happened in the wee morning hours to bring her home, and I doubted she’d made it into this house unnoticed. My guess was that Mr. Borden knew she’d returned.

  “And don’t worry about anything,” Mrs. Borden continued. “Least of all the position you want at the Thompsons’. I put a good word in for you and asked them to kindly grant me two weeks to find a replacement. Everything is going to end up just fine.”

  Mrs. Borden smiled, actually looked happy. I hadn’t seen her this pleasant, this relaxed ever, and I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that any peace she’d found would dissolve the second she learned Lizzie was home.

  “This is a new start for you, Bridget. A new start for you and me both.”

  I nodded, wondering what new start of her own she was referring to. I was leaving. I was the one with plans and a future with Liam. She was still stuck here, tending to Mr. Borden’s needs while sidestepping Lizzie’s volatile moods.

  “Did you want me to tend to your mending?” I asked, hoping that settling into the mundane chores of the day would take my mind off the upheaval I could feel patiently waiting to descend on this house.

  “No need. I think today I’ll spend some time with my sisters. The mending can wait.”

  I nodded, not sure whether I was relieved or upset. Having her out of the house would give me time to talk to Lizzie, figure out why she was back and what she had planned. But that meant I’d be alone, in this house, with a person who, right now, I didn’t trust.

  Mrs. Borden left the room, mumbling something about a new bolt of fabric she’d seen downtown. She’d all but torn up the second-floor guest room, covered it so densely with thread, fabric, and buttons I couldn’t make heads or tails of anything. My guess was she’d tinker around in there a bit with her sewing, then call on her sisters.

  I rarely went into the Bordens’ bedroom. Mrs. Borden took care of cleaning it herself, even emptied and rinsed out their chamber pot each morning. But I needed to talk to Mr. Borden, and I was tired of waiting for him to come to me.

  It would’ve been easi
er to go up the back stairs, but I purposely went up the main staircase, wanting a reason to cut through Lizzie’s room to get to his. Her bed was still made, not even a wrinkle on the quilt. The bag she’d left with was wedged underneath her writing desk, as if she were trying to hide it. I wondered what time she’d gotten back and how long she’d been sitting in the kitchen waiting for me. If my instincts were right, it was longer than I wanted to know.

  I had to skirt around Lizzie’s bed to get to the connecting door. I tested the handle, already knowing it was locked. I knocked once on the door and heard the gruff mumbling of a curse as Mr. Borden shuffled across the room. Even during daylight, when the house was active and the streets busy, Mr. Borden locked himself inside that room.

  The lock finally slid open, the door opening just enough for his eyes to meet mine. “Bridget?” he questioned.

  “She’s back, sir.” I stepped aside, sweeping my hand out to the leather travel bag hidden behind her desk chair. “I saw her this morning in the kitchen.”

  He nodded once, short and tight, then stepped out of the bedroom, locking the door behind him. He didn’t look surprised or even concerned. “Is she home now?”

  “No, sir,” I replied.

  “Good.” He picked up Lizzie’s bag and set it on her bed. He was oddly careful with her things, taking them out one by one and searching each garment by hand before he laid it out and patted it down again. He slid open the clasp of Lizzie’s weathered coin purse, quickly shook out the contents into his palm, and pushed around the money as if counting it. In one swift move, he’d separated out several coins and slid all but two into his own pocket. “I spoke with her briefly last night.”

  I was curious as to what words had passed between them and why I hadn’t heard Mr. Borden’s raised voice or Lizzie’s stomping feet. There was only one kind of argument that I knew of that played out in silence, and it never ended well.