Читать книгу The Murderer's Maid - Erika Mailman - Страница 9

CHAPTER 2

Bridget

NOVEMBER 9, 1889

Her interview with Mrs. Borden three years earlier had been a brisk, smileless affair. “The Remingtons have good words for you,” Mrs. Borden had said, referring to the family with whom Bridget had last been employed. Bridget had left, thanks to the roving gaze of Mr. Remington, and before that, had left attorney Charles Reed for the same licentious fault. Smoldering looks led to wandering hands, so she was always quick to move on. She’d lived in three different states since coming to America three years earlier. Bridget was relieved Mrs. Remington had given her a good character, unaware of her husband’s furtive appearances in the kitchen. Hopefully, working for this family, with Mr. Borden already so old, would put an end to the mischief.

Mrs. Borden, in her early sixties, was the kind of woman one could tell had never had a heyday. Her face and lips had a froggish appearance, her hair thin, yet her expression conveyed the kindness of the humble. She wore a fawn-colored gown of cotton with a blue sprig, and her obese body was surprisingly active; she moved in and out of chairs with, if not grace, at least energy.

“We expect good, solid fare. The grocery budget is standard, and we appreciate well-cooked meats and a variety of dishes on the table. Nothing too fancy or expensive. We do like sweets.”

“Of course, ma’am,” murmured Bridget. She wasn’t certain if she was meant to reply.

“We have washing on Monday, ironing on Tuesday,” Mrs. Borden ticked off the list. “We dress ourselves.”

Bridget’s eyes widened. This was fortunate. One less job in the morning and evening—and avoidance of the uncomfortable intimacy of buttons and sashes, of seeing no-longer-slender bodies in their chemises.

“Besides Mr. Borden and myself, Emma and Lizzie live here in the house. They’re my stepdaughters, although I think of them as mine. I’ve been their mother since Emma was fourteen and Lizzie five. I’m not sure Lizzie even remembers her mother; she was only two when she died.”

Bridget nodded. She’d heard a dozen such sad stories if she’d heard one. Women so often succumbed to the interior battles that made their wombs a grave. Headstones were frequently carved in tandem, for mother and child, named and often nameless. The Borden daughters had survived their mother and found their way through the thickets of childhood without the calming maternal fingers that could strip thorns from branches.

“You’ll need only gather up their clothing and sundries for laundering,” continued Mrs. Borden. “They do their own chamber work.”

“Truly!” Bridget blurted out in confusion. So few duties! Did this household not understand the typical obligations of a maid?

“It’s how we do it,” said Mrs. Borden stiffly.

“And it’s fine luck for any maid,” Bridget quickly said.

“I’ll show you the house.” Mrs. Borden stood up from the kitchen table, pushed her chair in, and led Bridget into the dining room.

The next rooms—the sitting room and the parlor—were unremarkable, the furnishings simple. Bridget noted the old-fashioned florid wallpaper and paintings tilting off their piano wire. She was used to opulent interiors. Her two former Fall River employers lived in the Highlands neighborhood, where homes were built to impress and interiors suggested affection for expensive things: lamps with frosted glass hoods, vases shipped from the Orient sitting atop lacquered tables. Although Mr. Borden was rumored to be quite affluent, as the president of one bank, director of two others, and the owner of three textile mills in town, his house suggested a frugality that might not have been requisite.

Bridget was hired on a winter day, so the blinds were open, and the rooms filled with a cold light that seemed acceptable if not cheerful. It wasn’t until months later that summer forced those same blinds down and curtains covered the hot glass, so the house grew somber as the world grew brighter. The rooms were darkened as if the family was leaving for the season, furniture now looming, corners in shadow. Bridget then loved the tasks that brought her outside. The hanging of wet laundry on the line, the gathering of kitchen herbs, could be stretched out, and she could wander over to the fence and talk to the Kellys’ girl, Mary Doolan, who told her the history of the strained relations in that house, the sounds of arguing that often drifted out over the small lawns.

Bridget and Mrs. Borden now climbed the staircase to the second story and paused before a closed door at the top. “This is our spare room,” said Mrs. Borden. She pushed it open and entered.

Inside, two women in their middle years sat in chairs near the bed, sewing. The room was large and airy, and Bridget noticed a sewing machine in the corner. The women looked up, aggrieved.

“Mrs. Borden,” said the younger, with tightly-curled auburn hair and eyes so pale they appeared taken from a pewter version of her. “I’ve asked you many times to knock before entering.”

Bridget waited, askance, for Mrs. Borden’s reaction. Who might speak to Mrs. Borden this way in her own home?

“I’m bringing the new maid around,” said Mrs. Borden, ignoring the bold reprimand. “This is Miss Bridget Sullivan.”

Bridget glanced at Mrs. Borden in disbelief. How could she pay no heed to such an affront? She looked back at the two women, who instantly returned to their work as if no one was in the room with them, heads bent, needles moving. Could these possibly be Miss Emma and Miss Lizzie—the women Mrs. Borden thought of as her daughters? But the younger had just referred to her as “Mrs. Borden”!

They were both plump, fastened in their chairs with nary an inch between them and the sides. The elder was slightly less so, perhaps considered more attractive, although she had the kind of misshaped eyes that made her look perpetually surprised. They both had nicely dressed hair, curls oiled into subservience, with straight parts. It was all Bridget could truly judge of them at this vantage point, with their heads bowed.

Before she realized it, Mrs. Borden had exited, leaving Bridget still staring. Miss Lizzie lifted her head, and Bridget was fixed by her contemptuous gaze. A slow wave of disquiet went up her arms, causing all the hairs to rise.

“She’s gone on,” said Lizzie coolly.

Without thinking about it, Bridget dropped a quick curtsy and spun out of the room. Behind her, there was only silence: no muffled laughter, no murmurs of amusement. She should’ve walked out right then and there, she’d think to herself later. Should’ve listened to her heart and stayed at a boardinghouse until another position became open, or even perhaps taken her place at the foot of a loom, bandying the shuttle back and forth like any other mill girl.

There was not a whit of welcome in that house.

She found Mrs. Borden in the next room, a small chamber with a bare dresser. A quilt made of plain scraps covered the bed. This family was wealthy—why weren’t there silks and velvets in the pieced-together display of the heritage of worn-out gowns? Bridget looked again at Mrs. Borden’s dress; it looked shabbier than she’d first noticed.

“This is Emma’s room,” said Mrs. Borden, and then, “through here is Lizzie’s.”

Surprisingly, Lizzie’s room was an annex to Emma’s with only the one door. It was even smaller. What penury this family lived in.

“We have to go back downstairs to view the other rooms on this floor,” said Mrs. Borden. “They can’t be accessed from this staircase.”

On their way to the staircase, Mrs. Borden pointed to a door at the end of the landing, saying, “That’s the clothes press.”

As they began descending, Bridget glanced back at the spare room, whose door she had left ajar as she hastily left. The sisters were visible, quietly sewing, but by the time Bridget and Mrs. Borden reached the bottom, Bridget heard the door close above them.

They returned to the first floor and passed through to the kitchen in the back of the home, and to the side door entry, where Mrs. Borden mounted a second staircase. Bridget muffled a gasp. The master and mistress of the home used the servant’s stairs to reach their rooms?

Mrs. Borden showed her the master bedroom and the side dressing room, then they ascended to the third floor, and the room that would be Bridget’s. Up under the eaves, the room was tiny, the bed lodged beneath the slanted ceiling, but Bridget made only a cursory examination before nodding her approval—she wanted to return downstairs where it was slightly less oppressive.

They went outside where Mrs. Borden showed her the tools and the water pump in the barn. There was a kitchen garden plot now dormant for winter and a small yard. The entirety of her world now. Pinched and cramped and dim.

“And that’s the lot,” Mrs. Borden said, concluding. “I believe there’s nothing more to show.”

Bridget felt overwhelmed. “It’s all in order,” she said respectfully.

“That it is.” For a moment, Bridget saw on the older woman’s face something that she wished to say, perhaps something reassuring. After all, no one could have lived this way for years . . . surely, there was a time in Mrs. Borden’s life when she’d been carefree and laughed like a girl. A time when the sullen women upstairs had also laughed, and she had been their mother in deed and name.