The Secrets of Lizzie Borden (26 page)

And upon my walls, each in a gilded frame, chaste, benevolent, and serenely smiling Madonnas hung beside plump nude courtesans lolling wantonly on rumpled beds, French ballet girls, Turkish harem girls, and geishas from Japan, mermaids, nymphs and goddesses of ancient myths naked but for their long, flowing hair and diaphanous draperies, royal mistresses and queens, including Nell Gwyn, Madame Pompadour, the scandalous du Barry, Marie Antoinette, and Empress Josephine, heroines of history and legend, including a proud and mighty bare-breasted Boudicca in a metal corselet and helmet hefting a sword high, Lady Godiva wearing only her long auburn hair, and Cleopatra with a poisonous asp sinking its fatal fangs into her bare, perfect breast.

My neighbors said I had more naked women on my walls than a bordello, but it was art and perfectly respectable. Each piece was purchased pedigreed, and at great expense, from a well-known and prestigious gallery in Boston, New York, Chicago, Washington, or San Francisco; some even came from London. If I hadn't been Lizzie Borden, no one would have said a word. They also deemed the numerous small tabletop reproductions of classical statues scattered throughout the house unseemly because they were all nudes, some even depicting lovers passionately entwined. One girl I hired for the day to hem the drapes in my summer bedroom spread it all over town that I had a little pert-breasted pink marble slave girl, stark naked and in shackles, on the table beside my bed standing on the gilded pedestal of a rose-silk-shaded lamp and that she looked “shiny from rubbing.” But I didn't care; people were
always
gossiping about
something!

And I had a telephone and electricity, the best plumbing money could buy, hot and cold running water, and every modern, newfangled convenience I could find to buy. All the salesmen had to say was “new” and “modern” and I was sold! I would
never
go back to the primitive way of life I had known at the house on 92 Second Street!

I gave my wardrobe a complete overhaul too. I ignored the mirror and my dressmaker's and Emma's advice and bought to suit my tastes,
not
my figure, and clothed myself in a veritable rainbow, a whole wonderful spectrum of pinks, purples, oranges, greens, blues, yellows, and reds; solids, stripes, plaids, paisleys, prints, and polka dots. I indulged my love of lace and fancy trimmings like silk fringe, frogs, and braid, tinsel and beads, buttons both bold and dainty, silver or gold, shiny and new or antiqued, some even set with precious stones, and, of course, long rows of dainty pearls snaking from the nape of my neck to the base of my spine. I bought great behemoth hats heaped high with wax fruit or vegetables, feathers, or even entire stuffed birds, some sitting on nests replete with speckled eggs, and silk and velvet flowers, ruffles, and ribbons, many with brims wide as serving platters with lace or net veils to draw like a curtain over my face so I could enjoy some occasional sweet moments of anonymity in public, especially when I visited cities where I was known only because my picture had been in the newspapers—thank Heaven some of the artists, seeking to sell more papers, had flattered me and depicted me as a willowy wasp-waisted damsel in distress utterly unlike my actual short, stout, jowly-jawed self. I bought elegant high-heeled shoes and exquisite high-buttoned boots, gloves, shawls, and parasols, fur coats, wraps, muffs, and velvet coats with embroidered lapels and silk frogs and tassels.

When I woke up one morning and decided that my jewelry box was as bare as Mother Hubbard's cupboard I impulsively marched into Gifford's and proceeded to fill it with sapphire, ruby, emerald, and diamond rings, set in gold and in platinum, simple band styles and ornate clusters, a lady's gold watch, a set of tortoiseshell and gold combs for my hair, four cameo brooches, and a heart-shaped pendant paved with ruby and diamond chips that I liked so well I ordered a second one made with diamonds and sapphires, and then, as soon as I got home, I phoned back and commissioned a third one with emeralds. And I went back the next day having suddenly conceived a passion for opals. It felt
so good
just to be able to buy whatever I wanted, heedless of need, motivated only by desire and, yes, greed, without having to answer to anyone for my frivolous and selfish impulses.

I tried to pretend I didn't care how broad and mannish my shoulders looked beneath all the ruffles and frills, and great big bows and flounces, or how my jowls dripped like puddles of melting pink wax over the lace edges of the high collars that were meant to make a lady's throat look like a white marble pillar. I looked dumpy and lumpy, but I stood far back from the mirror and scrunched up my eyes and squinted until I thought I truly saw Lizbeth of Maplecroft, elegant, gracious, and lithe in her new finery.

And beneath the lavish fabric confections of my dresses, in joyful defiance of Father now moldering in his grave, I indulged my every frivolous and extravagant whim upon the garments that no one but a maid, laundress, and perhaps a husband or lover would ever see. Good-bye, plain, prim white cottons, cheap calico, and flannel! Henceforth, even in the coldest winter, I would cover my bosom and nether regions only with silk—white, champagne, baby-blush pink, ice blue, the most delicate lilac, mint green, butter yellow, and pale peach, and, upon occasion, when I was feeling especially daring, black silk trimmed with French lace threaded with red satin ribbons! Cotton and wool, I vowed, would
never
sheathe my limbs again, only the finest silk stockings—black, white, pink, and flesh colored. Every undergarment was trimmed with lace and ribbons; some even had exquisite little rosettes and seed pearls or meticulously stitched pleats and tucks. I ordered corsets in apricot, apple green, blush, and ice-blue satin, and ruffled taffeta petticoats that rustled every time I moved, and later, when narrow skirts came into fashion, sleek silk ones inset with lace.

Every night when I went, alas alone, to bed, I was clad in a nightgown, matching robe, and high-heeled chamber slippers fit for a French courtesan or a lavishly embroidered silk kimono worthy of the most desirable geisha. I didn't care what the servants, or anyone else, thought, though in my heart of hearts it made me terribly sad to know I was going to bed dressed like a woman ready to receive her lover and yet I had none.
Someday,
I hoped and prayed, though for a lover more than a husband, I admit. After Father, I feared giving any man the power to dominate, rule, and control me ever again. My freedom had been so hard, and violently, won, I was loath to ever again put it in jeopardy. Better to love immorally, I thought, than to be enslaved. And I already had even worse sins that I must someday answer to God for, so what was one more? Just another cherry on the cake. So I might as well enjoy myself and live life to the fullest while I was alive, since after I was dead I would surely be damned. I know that sounds blasé, but I had to live with myself and what I had done, and it was better to keep on dancing as long as possible than pay the fiddler and send him on his way and let fear-filled silence reign.

Quiet moments were always the worst. I kept hearing Father's voice in my head calling me a “spendthrift” and saying, as he always had in life, that I could not have a penny without it burning a hole in my pocket. It was most distressing and I tried to drown him out with the rustle of greenbacks and the clink of coins.
Oh, shut up, Father!
I wanted to scream.
Money is made for spending, not hoarding!
I was having fun and even from beyond the grave he was trying to spoil it! He
really
was a mean old man! Sometimes I had to take the sleeping syrup Dr. Bowen prescribed just to quiet Father enough so I could sleep.

Now that the dream of Bridget had died, I disdained the idea of hiring another Irish Maggie to take her place and opted for a kindly and sensible Swedish housekeeper named Hannah instead, and two more Swedish girls, Elsa and Greta, to serve as maids, one for upstairs the other for down. They were all pleasant, moon-faced girls with stout, sturdy figures, none of whom tempted me to lascivious thoughts in the least. And to tend the grounds, I engaged a plainspoken but polite Yankee gardener—though with some degree of imagination, thank goodness, since I considered that essential. And, though it raised a great many eyebrows, I acquired a devilishly handsome French chauffeur, Monsieur Tetrault, liveried, of course, in gray broadcloth, gilt buttons, and black shiny boots and cap, with my monogram worked in dark blue upon his sleeves and chest so everyone would know he belonged to me. Admittedly he did stir my blood a bit, but alas, he was married. His wife was my cook, and a most excellent one too, so I was loath to risk offending her. Madame Tetrault was a
marvel
in the kitchen; she could do all the traditional, comforting American dishes as well as the most decadent gourmet delights from France and Italy, and desserts were her specialty—just thinking about her marvelous jelly roll makes my mouth water!

And for Monsieur to drive me about in I had two carriages. Black-lacquered with a gold maple leaf and my initials monogrammed in gilt upon each door, one was upholstered in ice-blue velvet and the other in midnight, drawn by an elegant high-stepping quartet of snow-white or coal-black horses. Later, when motorcars became all the fashion, a gleaming black Buick sedan and a sleek silver Packard replaced them. I had the only private gas pump in town, set prominently alongside the white-graveled driveway outside my glaze-windowed garage, which was heated and even equipped with hot and cold running water so Monsieur Tetrault could wash the grease off his hands after working on the cars. Of course everyone stuck their noses in the air and denounced it all as
ostentatious
and
vulgar
. But I didn't care!

My neighbors on The Hill were, of course, quick to criticize
everything
I did. They were always declaring themselves
scandalized
and endlessly cataloging my social faux pas. One would have thought they had all gone senile the way they went over my excesses and perceived failings every time they met; no one's memory is
that
short.

It seemed I could do
nothing
right. They disapproved of my ordering glazed glass and putting iron bars—“Like in a prison!” they gasped—on all the downstairs windows after one too many times I caught curious faces peeping in at me if I didn't keep the curtains shut tight or found suspicious scuffs and scratches upon the outside sills suggesting someone had tried to jimmy the locks. It
never
occurred to them that I was only trying to protect myself and safeguard my privacy. They thought it meant I had something to hide, that I was doing things I didn't want anyone to see. I suppose they thought I should live in a glass house and leave myself entirely open, vulnerable, and naked to their scrutiny, just to prove to everyone in Fall River that I had nothing to hide. But if I had done that I would have been branded a vulgar exhibitionist. I just couldn't win.

When I grew weary of being stared at like an animal in a zoo, I had the veranda enclosed with ivy-covered lattices and climbing pink roses, so I could sit and enjoy myself in peace, sip my tea and eat cake at the little round wicker table, or sit on the porch swing and lose myself in a book or daydreams. I also had the back porch glassed in so I could sit there and watch the cardinals, orioles, woodpeckers, catbirds, and black-capped chickadees that were such a delight to me. I accounted each one of them a blessing, God's little winged wonders, angels in animal form. Watching the squirrels frolic in the trees always lifted my spirits and made me smile, and I always kept a goodly supply of nuts on hand to scatter on the ground as a treat for them. I had pretty little painted wooden houses built for them and placed about the yard and in the trees, and I provided a big marble bath and ordered the gardener to keep it full and refresh the water every day, and I always made sure the dear creatures had plenty to eat. I even ordered a statue of Saint Francis of Assisi, like one I had glimpsed in a beautiful garden in Italy, in his monk's robe and tonsure, holding out a great basin before him that I kept filled with bread and seeds, leading some of my neighbors to arch their brows and scathingly remark that they were afraid I had “gone Catholic” like the “good-for-nothing” Maggies and Paddies they employed as servants.

The name I had given my house, and dared to have chiseled on the top step facing out onto the street—“like a tradesman's storefront!” —sorely incensed my neighbors. They deemed such a vulgarity most unwelcome up on The Hill.
No one
named their house in Fall River, not even the castles they had imported piecemeal from Europe; if they had a name there they were shorn of it once they reached our shores. It was “not the done thing” and I was accused of “putting on airs.” And perhaps I was. I had lived by my father's penurious dictates for thirty-two years and it felt
so good
to step out of his shadow and come into my own at long last and make up for lost time and chances in bold, magnificent ways and gaudy gestures. I never felt so free!

And when I decided, mirrors and the truths they showed be damned, it was time for Lizbeth to step out of my dreams and into real life and changed my own name accordingly, my calling cards, engraved with my new name, Lizbeth A. Borden of Maplecroft, wreathed with hand-painted violets, became at once collector's items and objects of curiosity, ridicule, and disdain. Ladies—
real
ladies—did
not
change their given names, only their surnames when they married. No one could understand why I did it, and I didn't even try to explain. I wanted to come out of the dark cocoon I had inhabited for so long. I was tired of being a plain, drab little moth; I wanted to spread my wings and soar sky high and be a bold, splendid, beautiful butterfly. I wanted to be elegant, refined, cultured Lizbeth, who I had always been in my secret soul, the woman my architect had seen lurking inside me, not dull, boring, inept, inelegant Lizzie, whose very name sounded like a coarse, common, clumsy, ignorant slut of a barmaid. He had called me “Lizbeth,” and that was who I wanted, more than anything else, to be, and I knew that it was now or never. And, to be honest, after the notoriety of the murders and the trial, I just wanted to be someone else, to be reborn fresh and new, to have a fresh coat of paint and new decorations just like I gave my Maplecroft.