A quick rinse of her face, a light dab of rouge to her pale cheeks, and a change of clothing made her look, if not feel, better. She smoothed back her hair, preparing herself mentally. All right. I’m ready.
She still felt a bit dreamy and out of touch, but also a bit on edge. It would likely take hours for her to feel fully like herself. She considered putting a little of Father’s whiskey in her tea, but thought better of it. From now on, I’d best watch myself. If someone notices my imbibing, what is that but further proof of my defective character? Surely, that would be taken as a sign of my guilt once I am arrested.
She couldn’t help envisioning the horrid news headline that would add the words fake temperance supporter and fraud to her growing list of supposed sins. The idea hurt. Yes, she’d best rely only on the doctor’s treatments.
Downstairs, she seated herself at the kitchen table, her hands worrying the edge of the tablecloth.
“Lizzie, are you feeling better? Did you sleep? You still seem nervous.”
“I feel fine. I slept a bit.”
Emma looked skeptical and set the steaming cup in front of her. Lizzie ignored her and leaned in for a whiff of the fresh, lemony scent. Her stomach growled in response.
“I made some sandwiches. You really should eat a little.”
Taking a big gulp, Lizzie relished the honeyed tea, glad for the warmth and the sweetness. Her hunger kicked in. She bit into the cucumber and cream cheese sandwiches with appreciation. The crispness of the cucumbers and the sweetness of the cream cheese made her realize she was truly hungry. She nibbled the sandwiches quickly, not caring that she was eating so fast.
“Mmm, Emma, thank you, these are divine. Oh, and if you notice Dr. Bowen before I do, please tell him I need to see him, would you?”
Emma raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything, for which Lizzie was glad, what with everything else already on her mind. She wondered what would happen next. She followed Emma into the hall to get their hats before asking something both of them must’ve thought about. “Emma? Do you think those monsters will start coming around more and more?”
Her lips in a firm line, Emma went into the parlor and peeked out the curtain before coming back to report. “I would hope not, but brace yourself. I think the real problem we have is with everyone else. Quite a mob is assembled outside.”
“Still? The doctor mentioned he’d ask the marshal to send the police to chase them off.”
Emma frowned and stepped back, taking a moment to peer into the mirror and adjust her hat before answering, “Hmm, did he? Well, the police have pushed the people back. They’re holding them away from the direct front of the house at least. I guess that’s the most they intend to do. It should be over soon. The pastor said he’ll be quick.”
Minutes later, immediate family members, including her uncle, aunt, and Mrs. Borden’s relations, arrived and walked past the assembled onlookers as quickly as they could. The sour looks on their faces told Lizzie they considered the assembled mob an affront. She bit back a rude comment about it being a temporary inconvenience for them, but remained silent. There was nothing anyone could do about it. Breathing deep, Lizzie readied herself as best she could. It was time to bury Father and Mrs. Borden.
She held back a sniffle and took her place in the parlor. True to his word, the pastor kept his eulogy to a few words. He praised Father’s community service and selfless giving, and Mrs. Borden’s helpfulness and role as a good wife, before offering a prayer for their souls.
The eulogy over, the relatives rushed out the door to their carriages. Lizzie hung back, hoping to spare her relations further embarrassment if any of the crowd saw her and began hurling insults.
The rumble of voices outside made it hard to ignore what was going on. Unbelievable. There had to be at least a hundred or more people out there now. “Where are the police?” she murmured in irritation.
“I heard they’re handling the intruders and keeping them confined to the other streets,” Emma whispered. “It wouldn’t be safe, otherwise.”
Lizzie nodded as Emma hurried outside to their waiting carriage and seeing Dr. Bowen, motioned him to go in. He entered, hurriedly put down his bag, and looked Lizzie over before bringing out his supplies.
“I think you’ll need this, but I’m giving you a much smaller dose than I did earlier,” he told her. “I’ll come back again the next few afternoons to see you.”
“Thank you,” she whispered, suddenly feeling weepy. “You are being so kind.”
What she left unsaid was her surprise at his willingness to treat her, especially when he had been among the first at the bloody scene to see the bodies. He likely had heard or already been told what the police thought, but he said nothing. Or maybe he held a differing opinion. She dared not ask.
The doctor cleared his throat and packed up his bag when he was done. “I will see you to your carriage.”
Her appearance started a ripple of mumbles and taunts from the crowd of onlookers. A quick glance and Lizzie saw a few sympathetic faces in the crowd, mostly the women. She looked away and stared at the walk. The doctor gripped her elbow and gave it a squeeze, hurrying her along. He tightened the pressure slightly to keep her focused. Once she was seated in her carriage, he rushed off to his own as Emma carefully pulled the curtains around the side windows against prying eyes.
No one spoke during the short drive to the cemetery. Emma appeared pensive, while Lizzie tried to keep her thoughts, and mind, unfettered. She couldn’t help but remember her outing with John and wondered what he was doing or if she would see him.
The ride remained mostly uneventful despite the crowds lining the roadway, making their arrival more nerve-wracking. She hadn’t expected to see so many people about. The funeral director understood the need for strict privacy and closed the gates of the cemetery, restricting admittance to only officials and family. She felt a slight twinge of disappointment that John was nowhere in sight.
The director ushered everyone into the small chapel, apologizing for the police stationed at the door. He surprised her with his next words. “I am sorry, Miss Borden, but the police insisted on being here to keep watch. I am afraid the burial will have to be postponed until later, as the police requested the bodies be kept until their investigations are finished. We will hold the bodies here in the vault and will schedule a more public memorial service later if desired, and when we are able. I am terribly sorry.”
Lizzie swayed and grabbed on to her sister. Emma held her arm tight and led her to one of the benches. “It’ll be fine, Liz. We can manage,” she whispered.
All Lizzie could do was nod. She held her head high, even if most of what was said during the shortened service went beyond her understanding—partly from grief and shock, partly from the drug’s effects. Everything felt hazy and detached.
The pastor led them in prayer, and then it was over. The few close friends in attendance filed past the sisters to share their deep sorrow and condolences. Most of the family members remained quietly supportive. Lizzie didn’t know how most of them really felt, or if they blamed her at all, though they remained polite. She expected to learn more as things progressed.
They trailed out of the chapel, Lizzie taking note of the police stationed at the cemetery gates to keep the small crowd at bay. A groan escaped her at sight of several newspapermen in the crowd scribbling on notepads. Jackals.
Lizzie hurried over to Emma, who stood talking with several friends. They nodded cordially, but made a hasty goodbye when Lizzie neared. There was nothing she could do but shrug at Emma’s sad face to at least let her know their reactions came as no surprise.
Emma shook her head and squeezed Lizzie’s hand. “Don’t worry about them. I need a few minutes before we go, if you don’t mind. Let the driver know I’ll be there shortly.”
“I understand,” Lizzie told her. “Take your time.”
She expected her sister needed a few minutes to sort out her feelings. Both of them certainly did.
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Emma walked to one of the benches across the road, her shoulders drooping, and stared out at the gravestones. Lizzie watched her and sighed with regret. For the thousandth time she wished things had turned out differently.
Lifting her face to the sun’s warmth gave Lizzie a small moment of respite. She stifled the impulse to remove her hat and shake her hair loose. Wouldn’t that shock everyone? To her surprise, as the carriage neared, she turned and spotted a tall, familiar-looking man in the distance. John! It was a shame he didn’t stop by the house earlier, but given the circumstances she understood.
As she watched, he stopped to talk with a shorter man carrying a shovel over his shoulder. She glanced quickly at the group by the gate, glad that no one paid much attention though she did see one of the reporters look in John’s direction. A minute later, John hurried back to his carriage and the other man took off in another direction. She suspected the reason he rushed off was probably to make sure one of the newly undead, and unburied, remained unobserved by anyone in the unwelcome crowd lingering at the gate.
Lizzie waited for her own carriage to pull up. She paused near the entrance to the cemetery office building when the door opened. Out stepped the director, who gave her a grave look. It became evident why when he moved aside to let the stout, disapproving figure of Mayor John Coughlin pass by.
The mayor cleared his throat as he twirled a thick cigar between his fat fingers and walked in her direction, his eyes pinched in an unfriendly glare. Lizzie had no inkling what he wanted. Nor was she in the mood to talk. Despite her misgivings, she did the polite thing and waited, though it set her nerves on edge when he sidled next to her. Without a greeting, or any words of compassion or condolences, he whispered, “Prepare yourself. An arrest is imminent.”
Her face grew warm. She gazed at the ground. The mayor gave her another grim, disapproving look before he headed to his own carriage. Holding back the tears that threatened to burst forth, she ignored Emma’s call and turned away once the mayor left. She jumped at Emma’s light touch on her arm.
“Lizzie, are you unwell? Was that the mayor? Whatever did the grumpy old toad want?”
Lizzie tried to control her nervous laughter and sighed instead. “Oh, Emma, thank you for trying to brighten the moment. Yes, it was Mayor Coughlin. He thinks I’m guilty. He warned me that I’m going to be arrested.”
Chapter Ten
Q. Can you give any suggestion as to what occupied her when she was up there, when she was struck dead?
A. I don’t know of anything except she had some cotton cloth pillow cases up there and she said she was going to commence to work on them. That is all I know. And the sewing machine was up there.
—Lizzie Borden at inquest, August 9-11 1892
August 7, 1892
T
he fear of her imminent arrest turned Lizzie into a bundle of nerves. Since she slept little, given the added tension of hearing all those strange sounds and eerie moans outside, the next morning had her up earlier than usual for her cup of tea.
As she donned an apron, an alarming thought came to her—the dress! I have to get rid of that dress I stupidly hung on to! She went and grabbed it from the hall closet when a knock at the door startled her. Who could that be? It was too early for anyone to call. Of course, what did it matter? These days her life was anything but typical.
“Coming!” Lizzie hoped it wasn’t a reporter or anyone else searching for information. She peeked out the parlor window, not only surprised, but glad, to see her friend, Alice Russell, standing there. To her dismay, the police guard had returned and stood watch by the street. She opened the door, too late realizing she still had the damaged dress in her hand. She crumpled it up and motioned Alice to quickly come inside.
Alice hurried in with a warm greeting. “Liz, I know it’s early, but I wanted to see how you were doing. I’m so sorry about everything, and about your parents, of course.” Her eyes widened as she noticed the dress in Lizzie’s hands, though she tried to cover her reaction with a smile.
Lizzie’s heart fell. She wondered if the mounting hysteria, the whispered accusations, and the unfounded speculations about her character, had gotten to Alice, too. Someone she had considered a friend. “Thank you, Alice. Would you care for some tea?”
Alice shook her head. “No, no, I only wanted to stop in before I go to pick up some things at the market. What are you doing with that dress, dear?”
“This old thing? I was going to burn it. It has paint on it.”
Alice’s face went pale. “Lizzie, is that a good idea? Should you be doing that, with everything else going on?”
Lizzie felt no need to explain. She remained silent, tired of explaining already. Instead, having no desire to stand around gossiping, she went to the kitchen. Her patience fading, she tore at the dress, wondering what was keeping Alice. Probably snooping.
Alice walked into the kitchen a minute later and lowered her voice. “Lizzie, I wouldn’t let anyone see you doing that.”
Ignoring her, Lizzie made no comment. She dropped the rest of the torn material into a basket before turning all her attention to the tea preparations. Alice prattled on about who-knew-what as Lizzie filled the kettle and chopped lemons, taking her frustrations out on the fruit. Why doesn’t she take the hint and leave?
Finally, Alice took a breath and made her apologies. “Well, I can see you’re busy. I’d best leave now. I’ll go out through here if you don’t mind. Those police out there make me nervous. I don’t see how you can tolerate it.”
Lizzie wished her goodbye and swung the door shut. She knew Alice would likely report what she thought was happening to other members of their social circle. Make that my former social circle. With a silent curse, she grabbed the basket and shoved the torn pieces of the dress into the glowing embers of the kitchen stove.
The small measure of relief she got from throwing the dress away, and from seeing it char and flame, did nothing to ease her distress, but it had to be done. She paced back and forth, wrung her hands, and fretted. I need to get out of here! No formal arrest had been made—not yet—but she felt stifled. How would the police react if I went for a walk? Will they prevent me from going out?
She’d soon find out. She went to the hall closet, grabbed her cloak, and to her surprise simply stood there. Her boldness evaporated like a puddle on a hot day. I can’t do it. I can’t. I don’t need to give the neighbors more reasons to talk about me.
A minute later, Emma thumped down the stairs, her face flushed, her hair still mussed from sleep. “Liz, what’re you doing? Where are you going? Come, have some tea with me.” She went in the kitchen and came back to the doorway a minute later, a piece of the torn dress in her hand. “What is this? I found it on the floor.”
She glared at Emma, not sure what to say. Is it going to haunt me forever? Finally, she reached out and snatched the fabric from Emma’s hand. “Never mind. It’s nothing.”
Emma stared at her. “Lizzie, what’s wrong?”
“Wrong? Whatever could be wrong?”
What could be wrong except my friends are all abandoning me? The police are coming to arrest me. What in the world could be wrong?
Her hysteria churned to the surface, the words pouring from her in a torrent. “Tea? You want me to sit and have tea like some refined lady? Like any other day?” She knit her fingers together, pacing the floor back and forth, her voice growing louder. “Emma, they’re going to arrest me! THEY THINK I’M A KILLER! I AM GOING TO JAIL! I’M GOING TO DIE!”
Neither the feel of Emma’s comforting hands, nor her soothing words halted Lizzie’s tears. All she could do was weep. A bang on the front door sent her into a whirlwind of panic.
“They’re here” Lizzie cried out. “Oh, no, no! They’re here to take me to jail!”
She spun about and tried to press herself deep into the closet, her fingers gripping Emma’s cloak in a vain attempt to hide herself. She was finally losing it, and fast.
“Oh, no
, no,” Lizzie muttered. “I’m not here, no, no.”
Lizzie paid no attention as Emma ran to open the door, a heartfelt greeting on her lips. “Mr. Fremont! Thank goodness you came over. You need to talk to Lizzie. She’s getting hysterical!”
The sound of John’s voice drew Lizzie from her hiding place. She stepped out of the closet, her arms full with Emma’s cloak. The look of concern on John’s face made her feel even more vulnerable. I must look like a lunatic, she realized. The garment fell from her arms to the floor in a heap as she began to sob. She wobbled and would have fallen, but for his strong arms holding her up.
“There, there, Lizzie, there now, let it out, yes, there you are.” He held her tight and continued talking to her, his voice soothing, calming. “Yes, that’s it. Now, do you feel better? Come and let’s have a talk, shall we?”
Lizzie nodded and sniffled, wiping at her face with the handkerchief he offered as he led her to one of the cushioned chairs in the parlor. “Thank you, both of you, I-I’m fine now. Forgive me. I have no idea what got into me.” Her cheeks warmed as she whisked a hand over her unkempt hair. “I-I must look a fright, like a crazy person.”
Emma chuckled. “No more than usual, Lizzie.” She glanced over and laughed.
Lizzie started to chuckle, too. “Very well, I guess you’re right. John, have you heard anything?”
He shook his head, offering a reassuring smile. “No, nothing yet. I’m sorry. I know how stressful this is. The police are keeping their own counsel. The funeral director told me he heard what the mayor said to you. I must apologize for that, too.”
“It was no fault of yours,” Lizzie said. “It shocked me, I admit, but I guess his attitude isn’t so unusual since he did business with Father and such. I suppose it’s something I should get used to, correct?”
Lizzie Borden, Zombie Hunter Page 6