Sisterly Love: The Saga of Lizzie and Emma Borden Read online

  Sisterly Love

  The Saga of Emma and Lizzie Borden

  By

  Jordan Bollinger

  Desert Breeze Publishing, Inc.

  27305 W. Live Oak Rd #424

  Castaic, CA 91384

  http://www.DesertBreezePublishing.com

  Copyright © 2013 by Jordan Bollinger

  ISBN 10: 1-61252-331-5

  ISBN 13: 78-1-61252-331-6

  Published in the United States of America

  Publish Date: June 11, 2013

  Editor-In-Chief: Gail R. Delaney

  Content Editor: Ann Videan

  Marketing Director: Jenifer Ranieri

  Cover Artist: Carol Fiorillo

  Cover Art Copyright by Desert Breeze Publishing, Inc © 2013

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information retrieval and storage system without permission of the publisher.

  Ebooks are not transferrable, either in whole or in part. As the purchaser or otherwise lawful recipient of this ebook, you have the right to enjoy the novel on your own computer or other device. Further distribution, copying, sharing, gifting or uploading is illegal and violates United States Copyright laws.

  Pirating of ebooks is illegal. Criminal Copyright Infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, may be investigated by the Federal Bureau of Investigation and is punishable by up to five years in federal prison and a fine of up to $250,000.

  This novel is a fictionalized retelling based on facts, theories, and research conducted by the author. There are varying and differing views of the events surrounding the Borden murders, and this novel is the author's interpretation.

  Information can be found at www.LizzieAndrewBorden.com

  Dedication

  To Bunkie -- my very dear friend, cohort in crime, and road trip buddy, for never asking "why" -- but only "why not."

  Prologue

  Is the sin of omission, in itself, a lie?

  How great is the sin of omission? What sentence in purgatory does it merit? Fifty years? Sixty-five years? Eighty years? Apparently, it is more. Or else, I have failed in some further way.

  More than eighty-five years -- that is how long I have lain here, moldering in my grave. I lie here, locked within this cage of my own making -- waiting -- for more than eighty-five long years.

  And, even now I don't know what I am waiting for. Will it be Heaven, or will it be Hell?

  Shall I be raised to Heaven for protecting my sister? Or, shall I be condemned to Hell for allowing a murderess to escape justice?

  Perhaps, I should have expected what happened. Alas, I did not. It took me, as it took all of us, completely by surprise.

  I thought I understood her. I believe most people who knew her would have said the same. She had always seemed so placid, quiet, and demure. It was that façade which turned out to be her greatest asset -- a mask, to hide her true nature from the world.

  Only I was shown the briefest of glimpses of who she really was. And, still I did not realize what I saw. Maybe, that was my first, worst sin? Perhaps, that was my only sin?

  What disappointed and angered me -- what hurt me so deeply -- was not what Emma did. Eventually, I came to see that it had been inevitable. In truth, in her mind, I suppose, it was long overdue. No, what wounded me was how she managed it while she was safely away -- or so we thought. The cunning thing arranged for everyone to believe she was well outside the circle of suspicion. A circle that tightened like a noose around me. She left me alone, exposed, and vulnerable -- a stooge for her wicked deeds.

  So, how does our Lord God measure our sins? Does the killing of a stranger weigh more heavily than the killing of family members?

  Is it a graver crime in God's eyes to imply the guilt of a servant, or of your sister -- your own blood? Was it a heavier sin to kill our father, or his wife?

  I have lain here, over eighty-five years now, pondering on all these questions; and still I have no answers. Perhaps, that is what binds me here, in purgatory. Maybe, I can only move on when I can answer all of these questions?

  So, I, Lisbeth-- No, wait... Is it possible that my attempt to separate myself from what happened by changing my name to Lisbeth is another one of my many sins? Let me then start over, as a pledge of good faith that all I tell you now is the truth.

  Therefore, let me begin again.

  I, Lizzie Andrew Borden, promise to tell the entire story -- just as it happened. I hope, in telling my unimaginable tale, I shall discover the answers to my own questions, and finally my sentence in Purgatory shall end.

  Most people probably assume it began when Father married Abby. But, over time, I was to discover it started long before -- before Mother and my middle sister, Alice, died. That is when Emma began to become the consummate chameleon of goodness and gentility -- the loving dutiful daughter.

  That is when it all began…

  Part One - Lizzie's Tale

  Chapter One

  As I have promised, all I tell you will be the truth, but I do not do things hurriedly. So I hope you will be patient, for I fear it will take some time to recount my story. However, I swear, everything I tell you will be true.

  From the very moment I discovered my poor father's slashed and bleeding body, I was hounded by questions -- from neighbors, family, and officials.

  The fact is, for a very long time I had no clear recollection of what happened that day. I am ashamed to admit I had been troubled by "spells" throughout my life. Not exactly blackouts, I would describe them more as periods of fogginess, where I had, at best, only vague notions of what might have occurred.

  I thought of them as tiny bites stolen from my life, and they upset me greatly. I had always done my best to conceal their very existence -- or at least, when they occurred in later years. Although I always made a great effort to hide them, Emma knew. Therefore, I believe Father -- and it stands to reason, my stepmother -- knew about them, as well.

  These spells were more likely to occur when I was experiencing unusual anxiety, or during my monthly. But, I had not had one of these spells for several years -- since before my Grand Tour, in fact.

  I found this most surprising at the time, since I was nervous and excited about leaving Fall River, Massachusetts, and traveling to Europe. Even though I was nearly thirty-years-old, it would be the first time I would be unfettered -- and while the notion of being free elated me, I was also afraid. And yet, to my delight, I experienced no "spell.'

  However, from almost the moment I returned, they started up again. In hindsight, I believe I subconsciously sensed the tense undercurrent within the household. Perhaps, it was because I had been away, and was able to view things from a fresh perspective. Or, it could be that my presence somehow reigned in Emma's unhappiness. But, when left alone, she found herself unable to control animosity hiding in her heart. Whatever the reason, I returned to a household on the edge of an emotional abyss.

  This feeling of uneasiness continued to grow, right up to that fateful day. Both Emma and I planned on being away that first week of August. Emma left for Fairhaven the day after my thirty-second birthday. She planned on spending the remainder of the summer with her friends, the Brownells.

  A number of my friends were staying at a house on Buzzard Bay; and I meant to spend several weeks with them. I had accompanied Emma to Fairhaven, and continued on to, where my friends were staying in Marion. I hoped once I left Fall River, my anxiety would dissipate.

  However, my apprehension continued to grow. So, I returned hom
e from Cape Cod after only a few days. In truth, I had forgotten there was to be a committee meeting after church on Sunday afternoon and, as the group's secretary, I should attend. After all, it was as good an excuse as any other.

  It is unnerving enough to be worried about some specific thing; but to be nagged at by something unknown is truly dreadful. You do not know what is niggling at you, so you constantly question yourself, Is it this, that, or another thing?

  Now, as I said, I was quite anxious about something. We all had been suffering from nausea and vomiting for several days. And this illness had left the household bathed in a palpable tension, which hung over us like a blanket of gloom. Plus, I did have my monthly.

  I do not remember getting dressed, or going downstairs that terrible morning. My first clear recollection of that day was of me sitting, in my pink-and-white wrapper, at the kitchen table, sipping on a cup of coffee.

  Bridget, our maid, was mistaken when she testified about what I was wearing that morning. I had not worn the Bedford cord dress for a couple of days. Truth be told, the last time I wore it was on Tuesday, August 2nd. That was the day I slipped on a rotted pear in the back yard, and fell. The result was the dress, already stained with paint, became torn beyond redemption -- even for mornings around the house.

  It always bothered me Emma did not insist Bridget correct herself on this point. While it is true I wore the wrapper on Wednesday, I was also wearing it that Thursday morning as well.

  I contemplated about that fateful morning for months -- for there was little else for me to do as I awaited trial. Eventually, the random series of my memories came together. And, this allowed me to piece together a more accurate picture of what happed that morning.

  But there was one thing I was certain of. I had not killed either of my parents.

  *****

  While I was still unwell the morning of Thursday, August 4th, I was certainly feeling better than I had the day before. I know it was just on nine -- for I heard the city hall clock chime -- as I was getting up. I walked downstairs and passed through the sitting room, as my stepmother, Abby, bustled about with a feather duster. It was then she told me she had had a note and would be going out.

  I want to repeat here, it was Abby who told me about the note. I had thought Bridget heard her say this as well, since I supposed she was nearby, closing the windows in preparation for their washing, but I must have been mistaken.

  I saw neither my father nor my Uncle John, but I heard the screech of the screen door and some talking back and worth as I was dressing-- although I could not tell you what was said. I heard the screen door squeak open and slam closed just as I started from my room. I have always assumed this was when Father left to go downstreet.

  After Abby and I exchanged morning pleasantries, I continued through to the kitchen. I poured myself a cup of coffee, and sat quietly sipping on it and reading the paper, while Bridget grumbled about having to wash the windows. Although, she did tell me I could hook the screen if I wanted, and she would get fresh water from the barn, I don't believe, I did fasten it. I also might have nibbled on a cookie as I read. I do remember going downstairs to use the water closet for several minutes. When I returned from the cellar, I looked out the back screen. Later, at the trial, she testified I had "suddenly appeared at the screen door."

  *****

  It was Bridget's custom to fold Emma's and my personal laundry, sort it into piles, and leave it on the settee in the dining room. Then, as we passed, we would take it upstairs to put it away.

  That morning, I took a stack of seven or eight handkerchiefs from the top of my pile, and returned to the kitchen. There, I sprinkled them with water and rolled them up in a clean tea towel, in preparation for ironing them. I set my flat irons on the stove to heat before I took the balance of my things upstairs.

  Now, I swear to you, the door to the guest bedroom was closed when I climbed the stairs and went to my own room. It was most definitely shut tight. Once inside my room, I sat on my bed and sewed on a small piece of tape inside a dress. Then I put my clothes away. As I did this, I found a camisole of Abby's in my pile.

  My stepmother kept some of her clothes in the bureau of the guest room. So, rather than taking the garment back down to the dining room, I decided to just slip it in the dresser with her other things.

  The first thing that struck me as I opened the door into the guest room was that the shutters were closed. This meant someone had opened the windows, removed the screens and fastened the shutters on the outside of the house -- something unheard of unless in the case of extremely bad weather.

  Later, I heard it said this was the first time anyone in the neighborhood ever recalled seeing them closed.

  Hazy shafts of light sneaked through the slats of the tightly secured shutters, leaving the room dark, still, and airless. It was so still, in fact, the only sound I could hear was the tick-tocking of the grandfather's clock in the parlor below.

  As my eyes adjusted to the room's dimness, I saw something that looked like a small animal on the bed. I stepped into the room to discover it was a bloodied patch of hair. Then I saw a pair of feet, peeping from just beyond the dark, Victorian bedstead. With great trepidation I moved onward

  There, on the far side of the bed, between it and the bureau, laid the lifeless body of my stepmother; her skull split open and her brains spilling out like seeds cascading from an over-ripe melon. The Brussels' carpet beneath her was dark and tarry from her now-congealing blood. In fact, there was so much blood, its coppery stench hung in the air, and left a metallic coating on my tongue.

  The body was already beginning to putrefy in the extreme heat of the room. I struggled to escape from the bedroom -- which I now saw as the slaughterhouse it had become. I stepped back, carefully retracing my steps and rushed into my room. Once there, I sat on my bed, holding my chamber pot before me, as my stomach lurched and roiled within me. I sucked in several large gulps of air, hoping my head would stop reeling.

  Gradually, as I regained a bit of my composure, I tried to think. For several years now, I knew rumors had been circulating about my "unreasonable animosity" towards my stepmother. While, it is true I had stopped calling her "Abby," and referred to her as "Mrs. Borden" for a number of years, I had never called her "Mother." Never.

  But, as I said, I knew of the local gossip and worried about what people might say. The truth is, upon finding poor Abby, a great fear washed over me and I simply panicked. My first and only idea was to dress and go downstreet.

  I had only one thought -- to separate myself from the house, and Abby's body.

  So, I am guilty about knowing Abby was dead, and about changing my clothes. I thought I could be downstreet before Father came home, and stay out until dinnertime. But, Father came home early, and I was trapped. So, I lied to him -- repeating just what Abby had told me about the note and her going out -- when I knew her to be lying upstairs, dead.

  Regardless, I lied to my dear father.

  I asked if I had received any mail, before he went upstairs for a few minutes. I then remembered my handkerchiefs. So, I got out the small ironing board and the flannel. I set them on the dining room table, and went back to the kitchen. There, I found my irons cold. I had just added a stick of wood to the stove when my father returned downstairs. I followed him into the sitting room where he said he was going to take a nap before dinner. He stretched out on the settee in that awkward way of his, and I went back to the kitchen.

  Bridget had just finished washing the inside windows when Father had arrived home. While he was upstairs in his room, she had returned the pail and brush to the cellar and the brush handle to the barn. When she came back inside, father was already lying down in the sitting room. She told me she was going up to her room for a short nap before she started dinner. And just as she began climbing the backstairs, I had asked if she knew about the sale of yard goods at Sargent's that afternoon.

  I remembered her pausing on the stairs, turning and answering me wit
h a laugh. She planned on going shopping once she washed up the dinner dishes. I went outside to the side yard as she finished mounting the stairs. There, I picked up several pears and was about to sit on the back step to eat them and ponder my situation, when I remembered I was wearing my silk Bengaline dress. Passersby would think it odd for me to be sitting on the stoop in such finery.

  So, I took my pears to the barn. Once there, I lifted up the corner of the canvas dust cover protecting the sleigh from dirt and hay dust, and sat in it. I sat there eating my pears and contemplating upon my predicament. I tried to think of some way to convince Father I had not hurt Abby, or did not even know what happened.

  I did not go upstairs to the loft, as I later claimed -- looking for iron, or tin, or lead to use for sinkers when fishing when I returned to Marion. And that was my third and final falsehood. I had never been a good liar, and in the end, I decided the best thing to do was simply tell Father the truth. After all, I had done nothing wrong -- other than fail to call for help. It was obvious, even to me, that by the time I had discovered her, Abby was far beyond help or care.

  But, when I got back inside the house, I found my beloved father dead, as well. He was still lying in that peculiar way of his, with his head and torso stretched on the rather short settee, with his knees bent and his feet on the floor. Accept for the fact his face was hacked to bits, he looked just as I had left him.

  I believe I experienced another spell, for I vaguely remember calling up the backstairs to Bridget. I barely recall sending her for Doctor Bowen and later for our family friend, Alice Russell, and speaking to Mrs. Churchill through the screen door. But it is all rather hazy.