Lizzie Borden (19 page)

But his heart clenched as he thought it.

And then,
and then
, there was the Widow Crawford.

Every time he thought of her petite form, her tiny little nose, her reddish hair graying at the sides, her upturned face with the sparkle in the eye and the ready smile for him, all thoughts of his family fled, and he felt a stirring within. She was a delightful woman, very respectable, with two big strapping sons, both off to college. She worked for the law firm that handled the bank’s work, and Andrew found that he frequented the law firm personally as a courier just to bask in her very special smile.

From the very beginning, he seethed with plans for a tryst, almost every waking moment. He thought of suggesting that they meet for lunch, and then his day would be confused, the daydreams of the two of them gazing into each other’s eyes, and discreet electrifying touches of their fingertips at just the right moments conflicting with the business decisions at hand.

But the daydream would only go so far. People would see them together in public, and as they had no common interest, other than each other, it would not be proper for a married man to be seen with a widow lady.

So then he thought of calling on her at her home one night, just knocking on the door. She would answer the door wearing a chaste, yet playful smile, and he would enter her chamber of pleasures and be kept a willing prisoner there for a week.

But he would never go to her home without an invitation, and she was far too proper to issue one.

He could invite her away. He could be inconvenienced, and ask that she meet him with important papers. They could meet for coffee in a public place, and as he looked over the papers in a law firm folio, no one could possibly suspect anything but business being carried out.

But his office was only blocks from hers, and both firms employed couriers.

Try as he might, Andrew Borden could find no way to approach this woman of his dreams, except by frequenting her place of employment, which he did at every opportunity.

And when he showed up, she brightened. He could see it.

Then, the miracle happened.

Two days after the affair with Abby’s missing property, Andrew stopped by the law office to sign some papers, and Mrs. Crawford halted his heart with a tiny, soft hand on his wrist.

“Mr. Borden?”

His mouth went dry. He looked into those sparkling eyes that appeared as if they had never taken anything seriously.

“Please excuse me for being so bold, but I am quite beside myself. I am truly at my wits’ end.”

“What is it?”

“My brother’s family needs me to tend their children for the weekend—they live out south—and I haven’t a way to get there. I wonder if I could press upon your kindness to see if you could loan me a rig and a driver. I should be very happy to pay.”

Andrew’s heart flew. “Of course,” he said. “When would you be wanting to go?”

“Friday after work. It’s only about an hour’s drive. My sister-in-law has been ill, you see, and they need to travel to a doctor in New Bedford, and I’m the only kin. . .”

“What time shall I pick you up?”

“Oh, Mr. Borden, I couldn’t possibly intrude on your generosity this way. Surely you must have a driver. . .”

“I would be honored, Mrs. Crawford. In fact, I have business out that way on Saturday. I’ll just move it to Friday and be done with it.”

“I would be ever so grateful,” she said, and it looked to Andrew as if she meant it.

Andrew finished his business in the law office with a trembling hand. Then he said goodbye and left, chiding himself all the way back to the bank for acting like a foolish schoolboy.

The buckboard had a torn leather on the seat.  Perhaps it could be fixed before Friday.

Suddenly, problems of the household vanished. Andrew lived for Friday. He only prayed that a runaway carriage would not strike him down, not when he was about to embark upon the hour-long excursion that would bring him true joy at last.

He had married Abby as a convenience for both of them, but neither one was very interested in nocturnal bedtime activities. At first, Andrew could not forget the soft feel of his first wife’s skin beneath him, and the glimpses he caught of fat Abby in her dressing gown put him right off. They had pretended a couple of times, Andrew always careful to spend his seed into the sheets and not his wife. He had no use for more children. But after those first halting tries, Andrew could tell that Abby was not impressed with the physical side of marriage, and he was not very interested in her as a partner, so they slept side by side every night and never again discussed it.

But never had he forgotten the feel of Sarah Borden, her smooth, cool white flesh under his fingers, her long lines, her abandon in their bedroom.

Now, for the first time, old sparks were rekindled when he looked into the joy-loving eyes of the Widow Crawford, and it was almost more than Andrew could hope for, but he did indeed hope that she would raise her skirts for him, at least once.

At least once. And perhaps on Friday.

~~~

Friday, Andrew was up before dawn. He carefully bathed, shaved, and donned fresh clothes. He viewed himself critically in the mirror, wondering if any woman anywhere could ever find him attractive. It was doubtful. He milled about in the kitchen until Abby got up, and then he was short with her and irritated by her behavior. He mentioned that he would be home late, perhaps very late, and then he left for the office.

But work came hard. Concentration was impossible. At ten o’clock, he went to the livery to inspect the new leather. The boy had done a fine job. The springs were freshly greased, the tack oiled, and he made sure the boy would shine up the horse in fine fashion before he came round to take the rig at five o’clock sharp.

Five o’clock! It seemed that five o’clock would never arrive.

But arrive it did, and Andrew helped the Widow Crawford up onto the seat next to him; he snapped the reins, feeling young and reckless, and they were on their way out of town.

At first, he was loathe to say anything, feeling that perhaps his pleasure, his eagerness, would show through and put her off. But once out of town, she opened up and began chatting away. She pulled a shawl from her valise, and moved over a little closer to him when she resettled in her seat, and they talked of Fall River and common acquaintances.

Andrew found out she knew and liked Lizzie very much. Lizzie had just joined Mrs. Crawford’s—Enid’s—church, and was becoming a well-respected member of the congregation very rapidly.

Andrew made a mental note to visit that church some day.

As the conversation carried on, this way and that, Enid found reason to touch him, his arm, his knee, his wrist, and each time he did, a thrill ran up his spine and shuddered at the base of his skull. He could never get enough of his woman, he knew for certain.

And then she, bold as brass, suggested they pull off on a little side road so they could get out and stretch their legs a little bit.

Andrew pulled the horse up short and guided him into a small meadow. He jumped down, ran around and helped her down, and she lingered just a tad in his arms, before looking down and moving away. Andrew secured the buckboard and uncoupled the horse’s reins so he could eat while they walked.

They walked a ways, the shadows of spring falling long and cool over the emerald green grass, little white and yellow wildflowers everywhere. And then, Enid spread her shawl on the grass and sat upon it. “Sit with me for a while, won’t you, Andrew?” Then she looked down, and said, “May I call you Andrew?”

Andrew almost fell on her, he sat down so quickly. She moved toward him, and put her hand on his cheek. Then she lifted his hand and placed it on her breast.

“You’re a very compelling man, Andrew,” she breathed.

“Miss Enid,” he said, and then his voice failed him, for she was moving toward him in a different way, and there was no doubt at all about her purpose.

He took her, and almost without pause, took her again. He felt like a little stallion. Never, not even with Sarah, not even when he was young, had the experience been so wild for him. The smells of the meadow mixed with the scent of her perfume; the rustle of her skirts as they shifted beneath him (she wore no underwear at all!) the heat of his passion on his back, but the cool of the evening on his buttocks. She moved beneath him as an untamed thing quite out of control. He had never imagined someone could make sounds like that—so animal, so wonderful!

And when he was finished, and had rearranged himself, she sat up and smoothed her hair and said, “My, my.”

He averted his eyes while she borrowed his hankie, then he helped her up and shook out her shawl. Then he helped her back into the buggy, suddenly shy and quite embarrassed about his—their—behavior.

They rode on for a little while, and then she spoke. “Mr. Borden?”

He noticed that “Andrew” had gone by the wayside.

“Yes, Mrs. Crawford?”

“My two boys are in college up in Boston, you know.”

“Yes, so I understand.”

“They’re doing very well.”

“You must be proud.”

“I am, I am, but you know, Mr. Borden, college is terribly expensive.”

Anger shot through Andrew and his face flushed.  He wanted to dump her right here on the side of the road. But he looked over, and it was the same sweet face he had admired for so long, and their coupling had been so intense, so severe, so indescribably
sweet
. . . “Yes?”

“I thought perhaps you could loan me a little money for their tuition.” She looked up at him and smiled. Bold as brass, that little woman.

“How much would you be wanting?”

“Oh not much at all, Mr. Borden, not much at all. You see I make a fair wage at the law firm, and there is still money left from their father, but. . . say one hundred dollars? Perhaps I could get it from you
next
Friday?”

And then Andrew understood. She would meet with him next Friday for one hundred dollars. And the next. And the next. But one
hundred
dollars! He maintained his entire household on half that much for a whole month! He looked over at her, sitting there, so attractive.
So
attractive. She could have chosen any man at all, yet she chose him. There was no harm in helping a nice widow lady put her sons through college. “I’d be delighted to help the boys, Mrs. Crawford. What are their names again?”

“Chester and Charles. Thank you ever so much, Mr. Borden,” she said, and she lay a hand very lightly upon his knee.

Andrew felt himself stir again at her touch, and he looked across at her profile. She was smiling, the tiniest little smile. He could barely wait for next Friday.

And as regularly as clockwork, Andrew Borden took Mrs. Crawford for a ride on Friday afternoons. He discovered that little else mattered in his life. Mrs. Crawford, Lizzie, and little else.

Abby awoke to hear only the pounding of her heart in her ears. Paralyzed with an unnamed fear, she opened her eyes barely a slit. She saw the outlines of the furniture in her room, vaguely illuminated by the small amount of moonlight that drifted through the lace curtains. She listened.

Hearing nothing but the silence of the sleeping house, she moved, gently at first, so that if an intruder were to see her, he would merely think she was turning in her sleep. She turned over, stretched, then opened her eyes once again. Nothing. There was nothing there.

Nothing but a feeling, a feeling of dread, of doom, of menace. Abby tried to calm herself. There was nothing.

Gradually, her heartbeat returned to normal, but sleep had flown. Abby looked at the clock on Andrew’s nightstand. Two-forty.

She heard a horse clop down the street. The milkman.

The feeling of dread had been ever present in the past month or so. Andrew had a mistress, she could tell, and she seemed to have him quite bound up. Abby was afraid of losing him as a husband, she was afraid of losing him as provider, she was afraid that the good Borden name would be scandalized by he who professed to worry so much about the integrity of the same name.

He met her on Friday evenings, only on Fridays, and every Friday.

Andrew seemed oblivious of all the goings-on at the house. He came and went, ate, slept, read, spoke, as if he were in some sort of a dream state. His most common phrase was “That’s fine,” and he said that automatically, without even hearing what she or the girls said to him.

It worried Abby mightily.

It did more than worry Abby, it left her to run the household by herself, and her power as head of the household was nil as far as the girls went, and very little as far as the maid. It was a frustrating situation, all right, and the pantry and icebox were Abby’s only solace.

Then a shadow moved across the wall. The room was dark, but there was a place that was darker than dark, and it moved.

Abby’s heart hammered. There
is
someone in here. It’s the someone who took my jewelry, come back to rob us again. He’s here to kill us all, some business acquaintance of Andrew’s, no doubt.

She tried to be still, not to give away to the person or persons that she was awake and aware of their presence, but her heart beat so fast that she could not breathe. She opened her mouth and took in small breaths, trying desperately to look asleep.