Read Online Lizzie Borden by Elizabeth Engstrom - Free Book Online
Authors: Elizabeth Engstrom
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maidenhoods, through their coming of age, and even now, for Emma, at least, through their middle ages. Even so, Emma would leave Abby without a cent. Oh yes, Abby knew Emma’s mind. And it was not a pretty sight.
When she was finished the shirt, she roused Andrew. He hrumphed himself awake, then dressed and left for the office. Abby followed him downstairs, stoked the fire and put the flats on the woodstove to heat; one good pressing and his new shirt would be fit to wear.
While she waited for iron to heat up, she snacked on the cookies Emma had made the day before. She enjoyed the silence of the Borden house; well, she enjoyed the empty silence of the Borden house. Usually the house was filled with people and it was still silent, but that was more of a cold silence than an empty one. She didn’t care for the cold silence. It made her edgy. It made her frantic, sometimes, to fill it, but she didn’t know how.
“I wonder where that Maggie has got to,” she said to the woodstove, and just then, the maid came around the corner, broom and dust pan in hand.
“Maggie?”
“Yes?” The Irish girl rolled her eyes at the insistent use of her predecessor’s name instead of her own. She was through trying to correct this odd family; if they hadn’t gotten it in two years, they never would.
“What have you been up to?”
“I swept the stoop, Ma’am, keeping the snow from turning to ice. I was going to warm up a bit in here and then get to dusting the sitting room.”
“Oh. All right. Have you seen Lizzie?”
“She’s in her room, the last I knew, Ma’am. I freshened the sheets in the spare bedroom and heard her rocker.”
“Fine.” Abby spat on the irons. They sizzled. She set the ironing board up in the dining room and commenced to iron the silk shirt. It came about beautifully. Probably the finest silk shirt she’d ever made.
She ironed and thought about Lizzie. There had been a rift in the family several years ago—again over money—again over property—again over the girls’ inheritance—and again over Abby’s relatives and their share of it—and ever since that time Lizzie had followed Emma’s lead and begun to call her Mrs. Borden. It was not so much that Emma did it; Emma had been fourteen when Abby married Andrew, and Emma had always called her Abby. But Lizzie had been but four years old when Abby entered the family, and had called her Mother. There was no other word like “Mother” to the ears of a spinster, and to have that so cruelly taken away in her latter years was a heartache Abby couldn’t quite abide. For that, she would never forgive Emma.
Abby met Andrew when she was forty-two years old and a spinster. She, had, of course, given up all manner of hope as regards raising a little girl, and then along came Andrew Borden, staid, staunch, rich (as rumor had it), and two daughters, one still a baby. He took her walking after church one day, and the next Sunday he picked her up for church in his buggy, both girls dressed up in their Sunday best, and they rode to church like a family. Abby was thrilled. For once, hope blossomed in her heart, that she would have a family. She would be able to raise a little girl—two, actually. That day, he invited her to be his wife. He needed a mother for the girls, he said, and he would make a proper husband, and promised to be a good provider.
Abby was overwhelmed with the idea of having a family of her own, and she agreed before he had finished speaking. They were wed the next day, and she came to live in the Borden house.
He made no false promises to her—he never lied—and if she had it all to do over again, she would probably jump at the opportunity, just the way she had. Only. . . only she might have looked a little bit closer at that fourteen-year-old Emma before she agreed to take her position by Andrew’s side.
She thought of Lizzie up in her room, and wondered if there was something she could say to her. She could walk up the stairs,
When she was finished the shirt, she roused Andrew. He hrumphed himself awake, then dressed and left for the office. Abby followed him downstairs, stoked the fire and put the flats on the woodstove to heat; one good pressing and his new shirt would be fit to wear.
While she waited for iron to heat up, she snacked on the cookies Emma had made the day before. She enjoyed the silence of the Borden house; well, she enjoyed the empty silence of the Borden house. Usually the house was filled with people and it was still silent, but that was more of a cold silence than an empty one. She didn’t care for the cold silence. It made her edgy. It made her frantic, sometimes, to fill it, but she didn’t know how.
“I wonder where that Maggie has got to,” she said to the woodstove, and just then, the maid came around the corner, broom and dust pan in hand.
“Maggie?”
“Yes?” The Irish girl rolled her eyes at the insistent use of her predecessor’s name instead of her own. She was through trying to correct this odd family; if they hadn’t gotten it in two years, they never would.
“What have you been up to?”
“I swept the stoop, Ma’am, keeping the snow from turning to ice. I was going to warm up a bit in here and then get to dusting the sitting room.”
“Oh. All right. Have you seen Lizzie?”
“She’s in her room, the last I knew, Ma’am. I freshened the sheets in the spare bedroom and heard her rocker.”
“Fine.” Abby spat on the irons. They sizzled. She set the ironing board up in the dining room and commenced to iron the silk shirt. It came about beautifully. Probably the finest silk shirt she’d ever made.
She ironed and thought about Lizzie. There had been a rift in the family several years ago—again over money—again over property—again over the girls’ inheritance—and again over Abby’s relatives and their share of it—and ever since that time Lizzie had followed Emma’s lead and begun to call her Mrs. Borden. It was not so much that Emma did it; Emma had been fourteen when Abby married Andrew, and Emma had always called her Abby. But Lizzie had been but four years old when Abby entered the family, and had called her Mother. There was no other word like “Mother” to the ears of a spinster, and to have that so cruelly taken away in her latter years was a heartache Abby couldn’t quite abide. For that, she would never forgive Emma.
Abby met Andrew when she was forty-two years old and a spinster. She, had, of course, given up all manner of hope as regards raising a little girl, and then along came Andrew Borden, staid, staunch, rich (as rumor had it), and two daughters, one still a baby. He took her walking after church one day, and the next Sunday he picked her up for church in his buggy, both girls dressed up in their Sunday best, and they rode to church like a family. Abby was thrilled. For once, hope blossomed in her heart, that she would have a family. She would be able to raise a little girl—two, actually. That day, he invited her to be his wife. He needed a mother for the girls, he said, and he would make a proper husband, and promised to be a good provider.
Abby was overwhelmed with the idea of having a family of her own, and she agreed before he had finished speaking. They were wed the next day, and she came to live in the Borden house.
He made no false promises to her—he never lied—and if she had it all to do over again, she would probably jump at the opportunity, just the way she had. Only. . . only she might have looked a little bit closer at that fourteen-year-old Emma before she agreed to take her position by Andrew’s side.
She thought of Lizzie up in her room, and wondered if there was something she could say to her. She could walk up the stairs,
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