Maplecroft (8 page)

A
PRIL
11, 1894

Here comes Gertrude.

Oh, she hates to be called that, I know—she’s a proper actress now, with a proper actress name. Why Lizzie indulges her, I have no idea. Or I do. I have several ideas, and none of them are very polite.

Though it might seem nasty of me to suggest it, I daresay the situation is not wholly different from older men who marry down, and younger women who marry up. And there it is. We are spinsters with fat pockets and purses, and we are pariahs so far as the entire county is concerned. Meanwhile, “Nancy” is a pretty, popular girl with a small measure of fame, if no fortune
to speak of. (She avoids the subject, but I have gathered that her origins are somewhat dubious.)

Actresses come in two types, as I hear it: fabulously wealthy, and pitifully destitute. The difference between them is alleged to be the quality of their suitors.

All things being equal, I suppose it’s safer than a street corner.

But Lizzie loves her, and I tolerate her. The girl isn’t often untoward, but she’s routinely uncouth and so very, very
young
. Plenty young enough (and if I am to be fair, beautiful enough as well) to find a rich man to keep her.

So yes, I can make my guesses as to what keeps her coming ’round. They’re better than guesses, and anyone who suggests that ladies don’t do such things doesn’t know much about ladies. Or anyone else, I expect.

Thank the good Lord above for thick walls and large, sturdy houses. Our rooms are adjacent, but without a measure of shouting, no one is likely to hear anyone else.

Under more ordinary circumstances, this slight distance is a source of distress to Lizzie . . . she wants me nearer, closer, more easily guarded and defended even at night. (Especially at night.) I appreciate her protective streak, and indeed, it’s kept me alive this long; but there are times when I find the attention stifling.

My resentment is unfair, in every way. It does not reflect on her in the slightest. It’s only my old longing for the easy independence I took for granted when I was Lizzie’s age. I am jealous, and that’s the extent of it.

I’ll leave it there.

“Under
more ordinary circumstances.” That’s what I wrote only a minute ago.

But in a way, these circumstances of ours have come to feel . . . not ordinary, but perhaps consistent in their peculiarity. A woman can get used to anything, I guess. It must be something like the adage about a frog in hot water: Drop him in, and he’ll jump back out. Turn the heat up slowly, and he’ll sit there and cook.

We cook ourselves in fear.

Fear is the routine that has come to feel ordinary. That, and Lizzie’s search, her quest for understanding. Her struggle to find a solution before her investigations are found out—as they very well might be, someday. We use a great deal of gas power. We send and receive an inordinate amount of mail, and from strange places. Stranger people. No matter how much caution we exercise, the details may eventually betray us. Now our terror is not merely that we’ll both be thought mad, and possibly criminal. No, it’s worse than that. How much worse, I dare not speculate.

No. That isn’t true, and I shouldn’t lie here. When I lie to myself, I lie to everyone. Here’s the truth: I speculate all the time.

The threat is great against the pair of us, if we are found out before we can explain ourselves fully. At best, we might find ourselves incarcerated at a sanatorium, and what would become of Maplecroft then? What of Fall River? Massachusetts? For yes, the threat extends to the entire region—that much has become appallingly clear.

And how much farther than that?

To the whole of the nation? To the world?

We are pulling at threads in the darkness, traversing a labyrinth of ancient and awful design. There are worse things than minotaurs at the center. That much, I can state with utmost confidence.

And
now, here comes Gertrude.

Nancy with the fancy actress name. “Nance,” Lizzie calls her with enough affection that it makes me ill. Tall and pretty and strong, in some sense Nance makes a better, more reliable companion than I do. But she’s naive and quick to take offense, and quicker still to leap to judgment. Her moods are mercurial under the best of circumstances, and Lizzie has enough to manage without her.

This having been said, my sister’s mood has been grim for years, and it remains grim almost always . . . except when Nance brings herself around. When she’s in Nance’s company, she’s as happy as I’ve seen her since before Father passed.

So there’s one point in Nance’s favor.

Since I’m feeling generous, I’ll offer another: It could be worse—the girl could be stupid. But she’s only rash and inexperienced.

Lizzie
is already beside herself with regard to Nance’s impending visit, her heart torn in the two most obvious directions. She’s glad for the opportunity to see her young friend, but horrified at the sheer extent of what must be hidden before she arrives.

Over the winter we’ve settled into these awful patterns, these anxious routines, and they’re beginning to show outside the cellar laboratory. The laboratory itself is easy enough to hide: You shut and lock the door, and it’s sorted.

But the usual books on our shelves upstairs are joined by tomes more directly alarming; and we’ve made changes to the house which cannot altogether be written off to winter modifications.

In the kitchen hang racks of drying herbs that cannot be used for cooking. Around the yard, small stakes and barriers have been installed, to say nothing of the alarms and traps at the outer reaches of the property. And then there’s Liz’s recent fascination with the nails. Scores of them, pounded unevenly into the doorways, along windowsills, and across every threshold.

I made her take some of them out, because some of the doors refused to open or close properly, courtesy of her inexpert attempts to wield a hammer. Of course, the moment my back was turned, she went and reapplied them all. More tidily, I’ll grant you. But still.

It was almost a real embarrassment, for when Doctor Seabury came to call yesterday afternoon, I found myself at a loss as to explain the exposed nailheads, after he tripped over one, and therefore noticed them all. I made some excuse about the house’s foundation shifting and settling during the last hard freeze, and he nodded politely.

I doubt he believed me.

The doctor had come on my behalf, as he’s made a habit of visiting once per month or so, depending. Sometimes we see him more, sometimes less. It all depends on my health.

Really, I find his appointments to be quite pleasant. We see so few other people, except in passing; and though his visits are not social in nature, they are nonetheless appreciated. He is patient and kind. He is a thoughtful, clever man.

When Lizzie was on trial, he defended her. He told the jury again and again that the stains on her dress were consistent with her story, that she had only found our father and his wife, and fretted over them. He vowed on the Bible and on his life that she could have never killed them, and certainly the murders were the work of a stranger.

He lied, and lied, and lied. I know he did.

But whatever he believed then, or believes now, he’s never treated us with disdain or suspicion. It speaks well of him, though I think his amiability comes partly because he is lonely, and that’s why he indulges us. His wife passed a year ago. No? Eighteen months, at least. It was after the trial, but not long after it.

Obviously I have noticed that he is still a strong, handsome fellow. And he might be old enough to be Liz’s father, but probably not
mine
.

Now I’m only being silly, and girlish. I’m only tired and alone, except for my sister.

Many days, I’m at peace with the lot we’ve received, or chosen, or the fate which has befallen us. It is a hard burden to carry, all the more so with a back as feeble as mine. But it is
ours
, and it is noble, what we’re doing. What we’re trying to do. What we
will
do, eventually—for these people who would not spit on us, were someone to light us on fire.

But Doctor Seabury.

He came, and I waited for him in the parlor. Lizzie helped pin my hair, and she dressed me in something nice. She took me down the stairs and fashioned me like a heavy old doll.

The doctor and I made small talk while my sister made tea. And here was one more piece in the mosaic of our routine . . . I only just noticed it, how he’s become a familiar part of our time, marking its passage from month to month. This is a happy realization, and I wish we could make our appointments less formal. But to do so would incur the wrath of his other patients—who already express whispered concern for his well-being, given his involvement with the pair of us.

As if Maplecroft were some den of roaring lions, seeking whom we may devour.

I think the town still “permits” him to come our way because I’ve never been implicated in any wrongdoing. I am only an invalid, at the mercy of my sister. Her sins apparently do not stain me as thoroughly as they could.

These appointments might best be viewed as some charity, then, on his part. I do not care for that thought, and I hope it’s not the case.

Regardless,
he came, and we chatted, and Lizzie left us with the tea.

“Tell me about your lungs. How have they been feeling?” he asked, as he gently manipulated my wrist, all the better to feel the beat of my heart running through it, between the bones and back from the tips of my fingers.

“About the same. No worse, at any rate.”

He finished with my wrists or perhaps he gave up on them, or finding any feeble pulse. Instead he chose the scope from his bag. “Then we’ll count it a blessing, shall we?” He warmed the scope’s amplifier between his hands, and then inserted the other end into his ear. “Could you lean forward for me? That’s far enough, thank you.”

He placed the scope on my back, and I felt its round hardness through the fabric of my dress.

“Now breathe deeply—as deeply as you find comfortable.”

I did my best to comply, but any inhalation harder than a light wheeze was enough to make my throat close and my chest convulse. I strived to hold my body in check, to force my lungs to remain calm, and still, and refrain from seizing, or flinging bloody mucus into the air.

Indeed, my body betrayed me within twenty or thirty seconds—but the doctor’s hand upon my shoulder gave me some
steadiness, some of the calmness I could not manufacture on my own accord. I finished coughing and went quiet, except for the rasping tone of air wrestling in and out through my mouth and nose.

He added a gentle pat to the comforting gesture. “Are they always this bad?”

I rallied enough strength to respond, though I did so through my handkerchief. “No. But sometimes . . . it’s worse.”

When I withdrew the handkerchief, it was stained with pink, but not much red. I went to hide it away, to cram it quickly in some pocket or corner where he would not see it—and this was preposterous, I know. I should’ve held it up for display and scrutiny, but I couldn’t bring myself to do so.

He saw it anyway, and waved his hand, urging me to pass it to him for inspection.

“See? Not so bad,” I attempted with a note of cheer, but his expression of solemn contemplation did not bend.

He said, “Not so bad, but not so good.” And then his demeanor became more quiet; he stared at the scrap of fabric as if it held an extra measure of meaning—or that was my first impression. But then I realized that he was looking through it, toward his knees, past the floor. Staring at nothing, and using the dirty cloth as an excuse to think.

“Doctor?”

“Miss Borden,” he said quickly in response, as if catching himself half asleep. Then just as quickly he added, “Might I ask you something of a . . . related nature, perhaps? It might be relevant to your condition, but it’s a delicate subject all the same.”

“Of course.”

He glanced about the room, checking to see that we were
alone, which piqued my curiosity. “It’s about Matthew Granger,” he began slowly, organizing his words with caution.

Whatever subject I’d expected, this was not it. “Young Matthew? Down at the shore?”

“Yes, that’s him. His godmother asked me out to see him; she had some concerns about his behavior, and wondered if he might be falling ill.”

“I certainly hope the poor boy’s well,” I said with a frown.

“As do I,” he assured me. “But this is why the matter is delicate, and I do pray you’ll take no offense that I broach it here: Matthew’s behavior, his appearance, his demeanor . . . it . . . what I mean to say is, it reminds me of something. It reminds me of someone—your stepmother, if I’m to be honest. Shortly before she and your father . . . died.”

That last word hung in the air, lingering between us like the miasma from a cigarette.

I was stunned, but not quite to silence. And not for the reasons he must’ve assumed.

I stammered, “Doctor Seabury, that’s . . . that isn’t . . . I’m not quite certain what you mean.” Which was not quite true. I could make an excellent estimation, but I didn’t want to contaminate his story. That’s how Lizzie would put it. And she was in another room, perhaps even down in that laboratory, doing her scientific work with her scientific processes. I would conduct those same processes upstairs, then, and report in such a fashion as to please her.

“I’m very sorry, I didn’t intend any offense or concern, it’s only that in those last days, before their deaths, I had seen little of Abigail and less of your father—but . . . but when I crossed their paths, I . . . I could only fear for their constitutions. They
seemed terribly sick, if you don’t mind my suggesting it.” He was speaking too fast again, my stammers feeding his stammers, spiraling us into social worry and sensitive concerns.

“No, please. No offense taken. It’s only that you’ve caught me by surprise. You’d think such a common subject of gossip would rear its head more often in this parlor, but”—and I paused to cough, not quite so hard, with not quite so much mucus—“our visitors are few and far between. Please, could you explain what you mean? We were all feeling . . . strange. Back in those dark days,” I added. I might have concluded, “Before they became darker still,” but that crept too close to the secret Lizzie and I hold close, so I did not utter it.

“You must understand, I cannot divulge too much of another patient’s condition,” he said by way of retreat.

“Naturally.” I nodded, allowing him to withdraw as far as he felt he needed. “But share what you can, and I’ll see if I can help.”

He fidgeted with my handkerchief, and then it occurred to him to return it. As he did so, he said, “There’s a faraway look to him, as if he’s not quite present. A vacant appearance, combined with a certain . . . slowness of his motion. As if his motor skills are deteriorating, but he hasn’t noticed, or doesn’t care. I watched him . . . ,” he said, his own gaze becoming far away, but he was looking for some way to explain himself. Hunting for the right words. “I watched him, and he moved clumsily, and at such a tedious pace. All the while, his head was cocked toward the ocean, like a child holding a shell to his ear. But there were no shells,” he said, coming back to the moment. To me. “Nothing beyond him but the water.”

I considered this, and recalled with some displeasure the
weeks leading up to my father’s and stepmother’s deaths. What the doctor described was not dissimilar from the changes that had overtaken them. “My father and Mrs. Borden had fallen ill, that’s true,” I said carefully. “We wondered about it ourselves, my sister and I—we worried that we might come down with the same affliction. It was a source of tension between us, toward the end.”

Eagerly, if unhappily, he leaned forward. “So you know the changes I’m referring to? The blank eyes, the paleness, the doughy flesh?”

“Indeed, though at the time we would not have put it that way. It came upon us gradually, you know; and by the time we noticed something was amiss, it was all that we could see. And all we could do was wonder how we’d successfully ignored it up to that point.” The words were tumbling out. I wanted to rein them in, but I nattered onward, haltingly, stopping myself when I feared I might go too far.

“Truly, and often—I have thought the same thing.”

“At first we thought it might be a problem with the family diet. But the family was also . . . in distress over other matters. There were arguments, as I’m sure you know. The whole neighborhood must’ve heard them. So after a while, Lizzie and I took up residence in a separate part of the house. We had our own apartment, with its own washing room and kitchen, so we saw our parents less and less. Virtually never, for four people who lived in the same home. From then on, my condition—and Lizzie’s—improved . . . even as our parents’ worsened.”

“You separated yourselves. Separate meals, separate living quarters, and that’s when you recovered?”

“Insofar as I ever recovered, I’m afraid.” I sighed. “Maybe I
consumed too much of the tainted food, if tainted food was ever at fault. Maybe my constitution was weaker all along, and less able to resist.”

Even as I spoke the words, I was growing tired. This was more than I typically spoke in a week, and the toll felt heavy in my chest.

Doctor Seabury noticed. “I apologize,” he said, and wound his stethoscope around his hand, twisting it into a coil. “I’ve asked too much of you, for the afternoon.”

“No,” I objected.

“Yes, and we both know it. My apologies again; it was a tender subject, one that is no business of mine.”

“Your business is the health of Fall River. I’d say the subject is well within your business. It’s true,” I said. I put my hand on his medical bag, so that he might not close it shut and usher himself out the door with quite so much nervous alacrity. “A lengthy discussion of the matter is hard for me. Which is why I think . . . that you should speak to Lizzie.”

He flushed and shook his head. “No, Miss Borden—I couldn’t. It would be unseemly, or impolite, or . . . I wouldn’t want her to think I meant any accusation.”

“Ask her,” I pleaded, removing my hand and allowing him to resume packing his equipment.

He hesitated, then asked, “Is there any chance . . . that you could have a word with her, first?”

Oh, I had every intention of doing so. “Of course.” I smiled at him with sincere, if morbid, pleasure. “And next time you come, we’ll sit down together. All of us.”

At the ring of the bell beside my seat, Lizzie appeared from the basement to show the doctor out.

And I fell asleep before the fire before I could tell her any of
what had transpired, even though the conversation had frankly invigorated me. My strength is finite, even if my interest is not.

I dreamed of my father, bloated and white, and hungry. I dreamed of him in my room, staring out my window, listening to the
ocean.