The Secrets of Lizzie Borden (25 page)

As I descended the courthouse steps, with Emma's arm clasped in supportive, sisterly fashion, around my waist, a church choir in white robes with bloodred hymnbooks appeared and began to sing, of all things, of all the songs in the world they could have sung, “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.”

At that moment a little girl, all dressed in angel white, with long red curls—was it mere coincidence that she reminded me of me?—stepped forward, curtsied, and presented me with a bouquet of beautiful white lilies.

Hearing that song at that moment felt like a punch in the stomach. I wasn't sure if it was being sung in celebration of my victory or to remind me that I still had to face
God's
judgment. The tenor who soloed was
delectable
—even if he was damning me to perdition with his glorious voice—Irish, I thought, with jade-green eyes and the waviest dark hair I had ever seen. One
really
does think the most peculiar things at the most peculiar times!

Since I didn't know what was intended by the choir's singing of that particular song, I forced myself to just keep nodding and smiling and hoped no one could smell how badly I was sweating. Tears and sweat burned my eyes, my armpits were soaking, and my mouth ached from smiling. I just wanted to go where no one could see me so I could abandon all pretense. And, above all else, I wanted a cold bath!

“
I'm the happiest woman in the world!
” I said again, and again, to no one in particular, the smile straining painfully at my mouth, as tears streamed down my face to join the sweat soaking my black collar.

Then the whole enormity of everything I had been through seemed to strike me like a gigantic fist and I sagged weakly against Emma and laid my head upon her shoulder. “Take me home,” I whispered.

I clung to Emma and hysterically laughed and wept, as though I couldn't make up my mind what I truly felt and must bounce like a rubber ball between one and the other, all the way to the carriage that was waiting to take us to the train station where a train would whisk us back to Fall River and, for the first time in almost a year, back to the house at 92 Second Street. But everyone seemed to understand. I was deluged with flowers, hugs and handshakes, and pats on the back, all the way to the carriage, and babies were held up for me to kiss and caress. People ran after us waving and flinging yet more flowers into the carriage. They aggravated Emma's hay fever and she sneezed all the way to the train station. By the time we arrived, her eyes were almost swollen shut. I should have been more sympathetic. But I couldn't help myself. I rocked back and forth on the leather seat beside her, hysterically spouting tears and spurts of wild laughter and crying out like some mad fool, “Thank God! Hallelujah! Glory, glory Hallelujah!”

If life were a theater play or a novel this is where my story would end—happily, in a spirit of jubilation, with me vindicated and set free.

But life is not like that.

 

Setting foot in the house on 92 Second Street for the first time in over a year, I felt like a stranger in a strange land. Everything seemed so foreign, yet painfully familiar. There was a conspicuous bare spot in the sitting room where the sofa where Father had taken his fatal nap had been, the wallpaper bore a pale outline of its back, and pieces of the carpet had been cut out, presumably to remove bloodstains as evidence or because they defied all attempts at cleaning. It made me shudder to be back in that room. I kept seeing myself standing over Father with the hatchet raised, so I quickly made my excuses and retreated upstairs.

In my room, I stood and stared at the prints and pictures, souvenirs of my Grand Tour, on the walls as though they belonged to a stranger. I ran my fingers over the spines of the books on my shelf. I had been away so long, I felt like I didn't belong here, but then I remembered I had never belonged here, but now . . . I was a bird with wings and free to use them to fly away from this wretched, miserable place where I had known nothing but unhappiness! A merry giggle escaped me. I clapped my hands over my mouth and darted my eyes left and right, fearful that someone might have heard, and then I remembered—I was
FREE!
Free as the air! Free as a bird!
Acquitted! NOT
guilty! I was no longer a prisoner! I could laugh if I wanted to! At
anything
and
everything!
And I could snap my fingers in the face of anyone who didn't like it! I could even
dance
if I pleased! I threw back my head and began to laugh and spin around in dizzy, delighted circles. “I'm not only the happiest woman in the world; I'm also the
luckiest!
” I cried as I collapsed on the bed and gave my pillow a fierce hug.

 

When I changed my dress that evening to attend the party the Holmes family on Pine Street were hosting to celebrate my victory I vowed I would never wear black again.
I was done with mourning and regrets!
I made my grand entrance in a royal-purple satin dress, with its full skirt draped back to reveal an underskirt of crimson satin, and gracefully arcing sleek purple and red feathers in my hair and framing my bare shoulders.

My appearance in such brazen attire stunned everyone speechless; even the orchestra fell silent for a long, awkward instant before hastily resuming their rudely interrupted melody. I knew Emma, trailing behind me looking like a tired old black crow, didn't approve; she couldn't understand how I could be so brazen as to appear in public in such a dress when I was supposed to be in mourning, but I didn't care what anyone thought, and that included Emma. I was sick and tired of being told what to do! Of course, she made excuses for me, about the joy of freedom going like wine to my head, trying to justify my “peculiar conduct” and “brazen choice of apparel.” She was quite right, freedom
had
intoxicated me, I was giddy and drunk upon it and hoped to be so for the rest of my life, but I nonetheless resented her need to try to justify me. Justice had set me free, and what better way to celebrate it than by doing
exactly
as I pleased?

Dr. Bowen smilingly swept me away to lead the first waltz.

“The world is yours now, Lizzie,” he whispered in my ear at the end of the dance.

“Indeed it is,” I answered coyly as he bowed over my trembling hand. He
still
had the power to make my knees weak!

“And I wonder just what you will do with it.” He smiled back at me.

But I just shrugged and stood there smiling like a fool. Then Phoebe Bowen was there, all elegant but boring simplicity, in her ivory satin gown—not that it wasn't a monumental improvement over the bridesmaids' dresses at her wedding—with a forced and frigidly polite smile straining at her lips as though being nice to me was the hardest thing she had ever had to do in her life. The diamonds tipping the pins in the dark pompadour of her hair were as hard and cold as her eyes. Her gloved hand reached out to rest possessively upon her husband's arm, fingertips digging in deep as she led him determinedly away for the dance he had promised her. She never did like me, and a part of me, in the secret heart of me, always wished I were her. She was
so
beautiful and poised, slender and superior—no wonder Dr. Bowen loved her so much!

As the orchestra began another waltz, I strolled out into the garden. Humming and swaying my crimson and purple feather fan in time to the music, I followed the white gravel path out into the warm summer night, to stand and stare up at the stars, blissfully unencumbered by high stone walls, iron bars, and the alert and vigilant eyes of authority.
Free!
No more prison matrons and guards! I sighed and breathed deeply, inhaling the heady, fragrant scent of the summer roses.
Free! I am free as the air, free as the stars!
The full moon above was like a milky crystal ball in which I could see my future, or . . . better yet . . . a blank page on which
I
could
write
my future! I trailed my fingers through the fountain and caressed the statue of Cupid. “Free to find love!” I whispered with delicious anticipation into his delicate little marble ear.

The very next morning I put on a smart navy-blue suit with bright cherry red lapels and piping and a gay pillbox hat trimmed with a clacking cluster of red-lacquered cherries and, with a smile on my face as cheerful as my attire, and Emma trailing disapprovingly behind me in yards of weighty black silk and crepe mourning veils, went out in search of my dream house on The Hill.

I was so happy and intent upon my purpose that it didn't quite sink in that every time I nodded pleasantly and said “good morning” to passersby they turned away and completely ignored me. I simply smiled and shrugged aside their rudeness. I thought them, like me, preoccupied with their own business. I didn't know it then, but for the second time in my life my world had changed completely overnight. Yesterday I had been Fall River's vindicated darling; today I was their grudgingly tolerated pariah, their resident leper. I just didn't realize it yet; happiness blinded me. I thought all my dreams were
finally
coming true. Freedom, riches, unbridled luxury, limitless decadence, and, God willing, at long last—
love!

Chapter
8

T
he moment I saw the big white house on French Street nestled amongst the maple trees I
knew
it had been waiting for me all my life; that was why it was vacant at such an opportune time.
This
was
my
house!
My home!
The one I had always dreamed of!
This
was where I belonged!
Welcome home, Lizzie!
the maple trees whispered like a bevy of ardent beaus as a caressing breeze gently stirred their leaves.
Maplecroft
—the name sprang unbidden to my lips the moment I set my foot upon the first gray granite step. I knew then that as soon as it was mine I would send a stonemason to chisel that name into the top riser, facing boldly out onto French Street in big capital letters:
MAPLECROFT!
When the moment came, I didn't even haggle over the cost; I paid it without comment: $11,000; I would have paid
ten
times that if they had asked me to.

We put the house at 92 Second Street up for sale, determined never to set foot in it again, and had a hired girl come in to box up everything that had belonged to Abby and send it on to “that slattern Sarah,” as a remembrance of her sister.

The ink was barely dry upon the deed before I set to work decorating the palace of my dreams. There was nothing cramped or dark about my Maplecroft; it was all spaciousness and light, fourteen big rooms, with high ceilings and an abundance of windows to welcome in the light. I ordered stained glass for some of them and the light poured in, blissfully clothing me in all the jewel-vibrant colors I had longed for all my life.

I swore that this would
never
be a house of dark, ugly secrets, shameful, sinister shadows, and lies; beneath this roof I would
never
be anything but my true, honest self.
This above all: to thine own self be true,
I ordered carved above the fireplace in the room I chose for my winter bedroom—yes, it was the height of ostentatiousness, I know, but I had
two
bedrooms: one for summer, and one for winter, on opposite sides of the house.

It was luxury every inch, floor to ceiling, wall to wall, in Maplecroft, even in the servants' quarters, kitchen, pantry, and laundry the floors were golden oak with dark-walnut wainscoting for contrast.

Throughout the house there were parquet floors, crown moldings, and high white linen ceilings, either painted, embossed, or creamy clean; some I even had adorned with gold maple leaves. The woodwork, golden oak, maple, mahogany, rosewood, and rich deep-red cherry wood, was beautiful, smooth as satin or ornately carved, and the walls were all papered in silk. What fun I had choosing the patterns! I chose ice-blue silk with an elegant gold lattice pattern framing bountiful clusters of purple and green grapes and bouquets of white roses for my winter bedroom, and rich chocolate silk with bold gold stripes alternating with rows of bright pink flowers for my summer bedroom.

There was a grand piano in the parlor although I didn't play, heavy rose silk drapes lined in ice-blue silk, rose and gold brocade upholstered sofas and chairs, matching cushions on the window seats, and, eventually, a large, gilt-framed portrait of me, gowned in ice-blue satin, sapphires, and pearls, with a white lace shawl draped loosely about my shoulders and a deep-pink rose in one hand as I leaned pensively against the pedestal of a Grecian statue of lovers embracing.

The artist had flattered me and minimized my shoulders, waist, hips, and heavy jaw, making me more beautiful than I ever had been or ever would be in real life. But I was grateful that he, with his artist's eye, could also see the Lizzie of my dreams, or Lizbeth as I had secretly called myself ever since my architect had so christened me. And, for one brief moment, it made me feel a little less alone. Long after I knew it was a dream that could never come true, I used to stand before that portrait and imagine myself making a grand entrance down the sweeping, elegant cherry wood staircase embellished with carved and gilded maple leaves to greet a parlor full of guests, all eager and happy to see me, the men vying to kiss my hand and the women to embrace me.

But Maplecroft, at least, was no longer a dream—it was solid and
real,
the embodiment of all my dreams. There were Italianate arches, pillars, and Turkish and Aubusson carpets, and a billiard room even though I didn't play, but I fancied it the epitome of elegance to have such a room and imagined it filled with handsome gentlemen enjoying fine cigars and sipping brandy from fine etched-crystal glasses as they stood around the green felt–topped table.

My library, one of the largest rooms in the house, and yet also the coziest, had every wall lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves that it gave me immense delight to fill with leather-bound volumes. I had never owned so many books in my life—Father thought it a waste of money since one generally read each volume only one time—and spent many happy
hours
pasting my specially designed monogrammed bookplate inside the cover of each one.

There were
four
bathrooms with toilets like thrones, Queen Victoria herself I'm sure never sat upon a finer, and the sides of the gleaming pearl-white porcelain claw-footed bathtubs were painted with exquisite floral motifs to match the rugs, curtains, and wallpaper. And there were colorful cakes of perfumed soap in floral-painted and gilt-edged white porcelain dishes in each one. The soaps in my summer bathroom were pink and molded in the shape of roses in memory of that lovely, long-ago day I had shared with Lulie. The soaps in my winter bathroom were white or ice blue.

There were six large fireplaces each with an elaborate mahogany mantel carved with fruit, flowers, foliage, or animals, and a bit of posy I had chosen because of its personal significance to me. A pair of iron bulldogs sat faithfully flanking each hearth, and painted metal peacocks fanned out tails inlaid with glass mosaics as fire screens.

For the mantel in my library, which opened directly into my summer bedroom, so my beloved books would always be close at hand on the many nights when sleep eluded me, I chose a verse particularly dear to my heart, one my Englishman, the architect who had built such sweet, wonderful dreams in my heart that fate, Father, and my own timidity and doubt had demolished, had recited to me that magical day at Glastonbury:

It spoke to me in a secret way none but my own lonely and tormented heart could ever understand. Father's will and soft Abby's sudden hardness as a result of David Anthony's damning revelations had destroyed whatever loyalty and sense of duty I had left for my family.
I
was the white rose withering in the house at 92 Second Street, but their blood that I had spilled had
saved
and
revived
me and allowed me to go on and flourish in my own little kingdom—Maplecroft! —
My Ain Countrie!

I had thistle blossoms and leaves carved in a border slightly suggestive of a heart embracing the words.

And in my bedroom, within sight of my bed, where I could lie warm as toast beneath my eiderdown quilt and drowsily watch the dance of the flames, I had carved a verse embodying the wistful, hopeful dream I still believed in those blissfully, blind days might still come true, and, God willing, soon:

Emma had the room across the hall. As stark as a nun's cell, it was the bleakest room in the house, just plain white walls and a bare wooden floor, a bed with a small table beside it, her Bible and a lamp reposing on top, a chest of drawers, a washstand, and a chair by the fire, all of the plainest design, like something a Quaker would have ordered; there was not even a fern or a china shepherdess or even a bright rug to add a touch of warmth and cheer. The pitcher and basin on the washstand didn't even have flowers painted on them; they were
plain white!
Though in the years to come Emma would develop a mania for religious pictures, books, and bric-a-brac, mostly of distinctly Catholic taste, eventually crowding her room with a whole host of saints, angels, Madonnas, and baby Jesuses, with a splendid gilt-framed reproduction of da Vinci's
Last Supper
hanging right over her bed, until it bore more than a passing resemblance to a dusty and disorderly gift shop I had seen in Rome nestled right in the shadow of the Vatican. There came to be so many little tables covered with china figures and framed pictures, postcards, and prayer cards that the maid could hardly turn around when she came in to clean and hardly dared breathe lest she inadvertently break something with an accidental brush of her elbow or hip or the gentle whisk of her feather duster. It was worse than the Quaker-plain furniture and white walls had been and I hated to even glance inside the room if the door happened to be open when I was walking down the hall. More often than not, whenever I did Emma would glance up from where she was kneeling in prayer at the foot of her bed or sitting with her head bowed over her Bible or some other religious text and give me a long look that implied this was exactly what
I
should be doing. I couldn't stand it! It never failed to make me shudder! I felt like ordering a placard carved with the words
Abandon hope, all ye who enter here!
to hang above the doorway as a warning to any potential visitors, though the Reverend Jubb and his sister were the only ones who ever came to visit Emma; all her former friends proved to be fair-weather and drifted away the moment I was acquitted.

I knew we would never agree—Emma was intent on turning her lone room in our great, grand house into a convent cell, while I had sold my soul for the gay life and luxuries galore. Now that we could afford all of life's finer things my sister perversely wanted no part of them. It was a perfect example of the old adage:
after you get what you want, you don't want it
. It was most exasperating! In truth, it made me
sick
. I felt betrayed by my own sister.

“You're behaving just like Father,” I stamped my foot and shouted at her more than once. “You're rich enough to have
anything
and you want
nothing!
”

But we both knew the sad truth. Emma only continued to live with me so people wouldn't talk. I suppose I should have been grateful for that, only . . . people
did
talk, and
plenty!
But Emma said if we went our separate ways everyone would take her leaving me as a silent admission of my guilt, they would say that my very own sister believed I had gotten away with murder, so it was better that we stay together. Together . . . yet apart. Though we lived under the same roof, sometimes a whole string of
days
would pass without our even seeing each other. We kept to ourselves and only presented a united front before witnesses; then we stepped into our roles like consummate actresses. Our devotion was truly remarkable; no acquitted murderess could ever have wished for a more loyal and ardent champion than I had in my sister, Emma.

But it was all for show, those all-important, sacrosanct appearances we must always, at all costs, keep up. It was as though the death of Abby, her sworn enemy, had freed Emma from the promise she had, at only thirteen years old, made to our dead mother to “always look after Baby Lizzie.” The moment I was acquitted, Emma ceased mothering me, and left me to fend for myself, except for those all-important appearances and those, thankfully few, awkward moments when she felt beholden to try to be my conscience. She just suddenly seemed to lose interest and let the cloak of duty fall from her shoulders. Only when it was gone did I begin to miss what I had for all those years resented. Now there was no one to hold me back and try to fetter me with prattle about morals and etiquette, I was truly free to do exactly as I pleased. And yet somehow the joy was somewhat dimmed, though I would spend the rest of my life lying to myself and pretending that it wasn't.

I was so full of hope back then, when I set out to furnish Maplecroft, it was like I had been reborn, filthy rich and free! No one could stop me or say to me nay! I was determined to deluge myself with all the luxury and decadence and creature comforts I had ever craved but been denied by my father's penny-pinching tyranny. Now I would have nothing but the finest frivolities, not just humdrum boring necessities. I ordered crystal chandeliers, quality reproductions of paintings and statues I had admired on my Grand Tour, I splurged on Tiffany lamps, and mother-of-pearl sconces shaped like scallop shells with pearl and crystal prisms dangling beneath, fine crystal, china, monogrammed silverware, and linens for my table, and not one but
two
of the heaviest and fanciest silver tea services money could buy from Tiffany's, with my monogram prominently worked into the design of course.

And I developed a sudden, inexplicable mania for collecting souvenir spoons made to commemorate special occasions and historical events, like the World's Columbian Exposition, the Midnight Ride of Paul Revere, and the Salem Witch Trials, whimsical figures like Mother Goose, or famous folk like George and Martha Washington and William Shakespeare, and I had at least one for every state and every country. I really can't explain it; I just woke up one morning and impulsively started collecting them and never stopped.

I ordered every room to be
always
filled with vases of flowers that were to be replenished with new ones the
moment
any of the blooms started to wilt.