“I don’t believe you did it,” said Abby quietly with a kind smile.
Lizzie hung her head. It just proved what Emma had always said, that Abby didn’t know them, wasn’t truly part of the family. Abby couldn’t tell a lie from a truth, but Emma could, because Emma had taken on their true mother’s role.
Lizzie wanted badly to go upstairs and fling herself onto her bed, but in this new home’s terrible layout, she couldn’t do so without going through Emma’s room first.
She didn’t want to go to the kitchen, where the maid Oona gave only narrow sympathy for her boredom, and it was too cold to go outside. She was trapped in this small house. Even her father radiated fury as he sat down with his newspaper, rustling it loudly as if at her.
She moved toward the parlor, but at the doorway Abby called her back. “I just dusted in there.”
Wordlessly, she ascended the staircase. She walked quietly so Emma wouldn’t hear. Halfway up, she sat on the stairs, listening to the sobbing coming from Emma’s room, and the tart words down below.
“She will never accept me,” said Abby.
“She doesn’t need to,” he said. “You’re my wife.”
Lizzie sat back against the wall, waiting for the house to catch up to her mood. She stared idly across at the floor of the guest room, reserved for visitors who only rarely came, or for sewing. Why was she not given this chamber?
She was never treated well. Certainly not as she deserved.
It was an odd vantage point, at eye level with the floor like a mouse. She felt an odd propulsion to seep through the banister railings, formless as smoke, and crawl under the bed.
NOVEMBER 16, 1889
At half four on Saturday, Bridget stood waiting on the front stoop wearing her nut-brown serge dress with many pleats, fashioned by her mother all those many years ago and kept good by Bridget’s careful laundering. She had emerged from the side door and made her way to the front steps, looking up at the sky between the twin fastenings of the oak trees, the “bride and groom” positioning to showcase the house.
As she waited for Mary Doolan, she watched her breath clouding in the crisp air and the carriage traffic on Second Street, the horses’ hooves smelting the odorous piles they left, hay discernable in the thick masses. There were shops interspersed with the modest homes here. Kitty-corner from the Borden house, several women rapped on the door of the home with a small sign indicating it was the residence of a Dr. Bowen. Whatever the downturn in fortunes, this neighborhood boasted two doctors, which Bridget felt to be advantageous. She curiously watched as the door was opened to the women, but just then a cart began to pass, blocking her view.
She turned her head against the stink, and a male voice boomed, aimed at her, “Fancy a ride, lass?”
It was the same as winked at her a week ago when she arrived, trying to tote her trunk. “Ach,” she said under her breath, willing him away.
“Been up and down this street on your behalf,” he said. The hack had halted, and the horses tried to mark her past their blinders, wrestling against the bit. “Never caught a nick of your shadow.”
Reluctantly, she looked at him perched above her, nearly touching distance due to the house’s closeness to the very street. He was smiling, sure, but not insolent. He touched his cap as soon as he had her eye.
“Are ye getting on fair?” he asked.
“Aye,” she said.
“And is there any place ye need a pleasant ride toward?” His dark eyes fastened on hers, and the smile left. He was serious, for whatever cause.
“No,” she answered.
“You are in the custom of standing at the door for no call?”
“I’m waiting for a friend,” she said.
“I could be one,” he said, and she burst out laughing.
Just as his eyes lifted behind her, she heard the door open. She turned and saw Miss Lizzie, her eyebrows high in censure. Bridget found herself blushing though she’d done naught.
“Bridget, whatever are you doing?” asked Miss Lizzie, her silver gaze fixing on the man in the hack.
“I’m off for the evening,” said Bridget.
“And you snuck out from the back? I’ve been in the sitting room this entire time. Does Father know you’re out?”
Bridget felt her heart skip a bit. The accusation leveled against her was a bold one. She needed to address it, and quickly. “I found it just as easy to come down the stairs I was on, and there was no craft about it,” she said. “It’s my night off of the fortnight, and your Father does know that’s my due.”
“I fail to trust he’d approve of roadside discussions with men as they pass,” said Miss Lizzie. “This is not a reputable practice.”
“I was the driver who brought her here,” said the man in the carriage. “I was only asking after her settling in.” He looked uneasily at Bridget and broadcast a sort of apology with his eyes.
“From the seat of your carriage, calling out like a commoner,” said Miss Lizzie. “This is the home of Andrew Borden. It is not a harlot’s port.”
“Miss Lizzie!” said Bridget, stepping back in horror and, in doing so, losing her balance on the uneven stone steps. She managed to catch herself before she fell to the ground, but her entire body felt the affront of the hard surface radiating up through her shoes, the jolt in her bones.
“I can see I’m causing more trouble than I’m helping, so I’ll pass along,” said the man. “I hope you are all right, miss.”
Bridget didn’t answer him, and only looked at her shoes. How could Miss Lizzie voice such an odious, preposterous idea in front of the man?
“Your place in this household requires a certain degree of respectability,” said Miss Lizzie. “Come back inside at once.”
Her jaw sore from the snapping of her teeth as she stumbled, Bridget walked back up the steps. Miss Lizzie opened the door, and she was just about to step inside when she heard Mary Doolan call out, “You’re after going the wrong way!”
Bridget looked at Miss Lizzie’s face, half-shadowed as she was inside the home now. She was a study of gloom and sunlight, her nose the silhouetted wall in the ombre garden of her face. Yet in that complex field, Bridget saw clearly the argent eyes and their message.
“I cannot go with you this time,” said Bridget.
“But you must!” protested Mary. Fearlessly, she mounted the steps to stand with Bridget. “I couldn’t help but overhear the exchange, Miss Lizzie. I can’t vouch for the decorum of the driver, but Bridget’s only after a bit of fun, clean and decent, at the Irish hall. ‘Twas not her fault he called out to her.”
“What mean you by ‘a bit of fun?’”
“’Tis only dancing and the playing of our traditional tunes. Singing, too. I’ll pledge her propriety and return her safely later tonight.”
Miss Lizzie hadn’t looked at Mary at all, only kept her eyes on Bridget. “You will need to mind yourself,” she said. “You can’t bring shame to this house.”
“I will mind myself,” Bridget said.
“I’ll