It felt like a lifetime ago that I had said goodbye to my sister Cara and come to the realization that I didn’t know when or if I would ever see my family again. But that didn’t stop them from coming to me in my dreams at night. My father’s worn face, the clamor of my brothers and sisters running amok in our tiny, cramped house, and Cara’s constant and nonsensical chatter. I missed it all. I missed them.
I pulled myself upright in bed and sighed in relief as I realized that it was still dark outside. Good, that meant I still had time to think about last night, to relive every wonderful moment I’d spent with Liam, before I had to dress for my morning chores.
Liam had taken two steps onto Second Street last night when I stopped him, gently reminding him that being seen together at such a late hour would do neither of us any favors. He’d groaned and complained, but in the end, agreed. He knew full well Mr. Borden had no problem with my going out, but he’d made it clear he didn’t want any of my drunken suitors around his wife and daughters. And to be honest, last night, that was exactly what Liam was. Drunk.
Lizzie was pacing her room when I got home, the subtle glow of the lantern beneath her door dying the second I turned the lock in the door. She’d been waiting for me to return home, no doubt still enraged by her father’s cruel actions. I should’ve stopped and talked to her, at least asked whether she’d eaten. But I had a spot or two of whiskey myself, and I was looking forward to my bed.
Throwing my bedclothes off, I got dressed as quickly and quietly as possible. I smiled, my mind circling around the events of last night—dancing with Liam until the wee hours, his lean muscles wound around me and the not-so-gentle thrum of the music beating through my head. I’d been sweaty, laughing, and three sheets to the wind, but it was wonderful. Perfect.
I slipped down the stairs and into the kitchen, fully expecting to be alone in my morning duties. But Lizzie was there, seated on the stool by the window. I startled, drew in a sharp breath, and tried to slow my heart rate. Her lips turned up into a small smile, one I could barely see through the darkness blanketing the small space. I knew what she was doing, what that tiny, apathetic grin meant. She was up to something, and somehow, I was going to be involved.
“Have fun last night, Bridget?” Lizzie asked as she dropped another lump of sugar into her coffee, stirring it slowly as her smile widened.
I nodded, ready to take any ribbing she had for me. I deserved it. I’d slipped away to my own life, left her broken and alone to deal with her father’s cruelty, rather than stay behind and comfort her. It was selfish of me, and I knew it.
“You were up late yourself, Miss Lizzie. Working on something for one of your charities?” I asked, foolishly hoping to change the subject and distract her into a more peaceful conversation.
“No. Just tinkering about with some books and things. Besides, I couldn’t sleep.”
I didn’t doubt her answer. Lord knew, each time I closed my eyes last evening I’d seen those dead birds, their eyes morphing and changing until it was Lizzie’s slate grey eyes staring back at me from their bloodied carcasses. It was the whiskey I had hidden under my mattress that finally allowed my mind to still long enough for my dreams to carry me back to Ireland. But now, sober and with the light of a new day to greet me, I could see them, could feel the birds' eyes watching me.
I finished tying on my apron and got my first look at Lizzie. Even in the dim light of the early morning, I could see the circles ringing her eyes. Seemed she slept less and less with each passing week.
“Were you waiting up for me?” I asked. Funny how the idea of Liam waiting up for me, worrying about my whereabouts and safety, was soothing, yet when Lizzie did the same, it set my nerves on edge.
“No.”
I could tell she was lying. Lizzie could never meet my gaze when she was lying. Her father, her stepmother, even her uncle John, she could fib to with little difficulty. But not me.
Lizzie pulled a small envelope out of her dress pocket and set it on the table. “Emma asked that you post this for her.”
“Has Emma left already?” I asked. I’d heard her come in yesterday evening. She was talking with Lizzie in her bedroom last night before I left for Liam’s. The conversation had been brief at best. Not more than ten minutes after Emma arrived, I’d seen Lizzie leave the house and head out to the barn to do God knows what.
“No. The letter was here when I woke up,” she replied. “I presume Emma is simply out, visiting with her friends here in Fall River. At least, her trunk is still here,” she mumbled.
I picked up the letter and turned it over in my hand. It was addressed to the Brownells, friends of theirs in Fairhaven. I would've thought nothing unusual of it—Emma frequently exchanged letters with them—save this one had already been opened and resealed, no doubt by Lizzie.
She’d taken to reading everybody’s mail lately, both incoming and outgoing, whenever she got the chance. She swore her family was plotting against her, trying to keep her trapped, unwed, and dependent on her father for the most basic of necessities. Most days, I tended to agree with her.
“What does it say?” I asked straight on. Lizzie had no secrets from me; she knew darned well I was aware she’d read it.
“Nothing much,” Lizzie responded. “She’s planning to visit them later this month, says she’s hoping to stay on with them through the end of the summer.”
Lizzie’s voice shifted, a somber note worming its way in. She didn’t like the fact that her own sister seemed to be avoiding her, avoiding this house and everyone in it. To be honest, I didn’t like it either. Without Emma in the house, Lizzie had even fewer confidants, fewer allies, and she told me things I never wanted to know.
“Are you going, too?” I asked, knowing some time away from the stifling heat and out of her father’s reach would do her good. When she shook her head, I let out a sigh of relief. Just because I thought she should go didn’t mean I wanted her to. The thought of being here alone with Mr. Borden and his sullen wife already had me rethinking Liam’s suggestion of finding new employment.
“I’d miss you if you left,” I said softly.
She heard my whispered words and laid her hand on top of mine. “I wouldn’t leave you here alone all summer. God knows what sort of asinine things Abigail would have you doing. Probably beating the rugs at her sisters' house while they sit around, living off my father’s good fortune. My good fortune.”
This wasn’t the first time Lizzie had mentioned her stepmother’s sisters. The year before I got here, Mr. Borden had bought his wife’s childhood home on Fourth Street, and let her sisters live there rent-free. Both Lizzie and Emma were good and mad about that for weeks, or so I’ve heard. Lizzie had carried on about moving out, and Emma…well, she told her father ‘what he did for them, he should rightfully do for his own family.’ Lizzie said that’s how she and Emma had gotten their childhood home on Ferry St. They had persuaded Mr. Borden to sell them the house they were born in, for a dollar.
Lizzie sat there silently watching me as I got the milk from the icebox. There was some bread leftover from last night, but not enough for the substantial morning meals Mrs. Borden liked, so I’d have to think up something else.
Lizzie got up to leave, and I put out a hand to stop her. “I was about to start the morning meal. I’m going to get some flapjacks going, maybe fruit, and fresh cream,” I said, hoping to coax Lizzie into staying. She’d been moody since the day I met her, but lately it had gotten worse. Longer bouts of silence. More hours spent in her room, door closed, and meals skipped.
“Please, it’ll only take me a minute to fix the coffee, and I would appreciate the company.”
Lizzie shook her head. “I eat in my room now, Bridget. I no longer care to share my meals with my father or Abigail.”
Or me, I added to myself.
“I can help you,” I practically shouted, praying she’d stop for a just a moment and act like the Lizzie she used to be, the one who was full of spirit. “The pigeons, I mean. Perhaps I can get you some new ones?” I blurted out.
It was stupid. Lord knows, it was probably the most ridiculous thing to cross my mind in a year, but I didn’t care. Lizzie was closing in on herself, losing more and more of her life to the insanity of this house, and I couldn’t stand to watch it any longer.
Lizzie stopped cold at my words and turned around, meeting my eyes with a sad smile. “Tonight?”
I nodded, unsure of exactly how or where I planned to find seven pigeons tame enough to wrangle into a sack. Not to mention, I was quite sure Mr. Borden wouldn’t hear of having them housed in the barn.
“Excellent,” she said, then reached into her pocket and laid a second envelope on the small table by the front door. “Make sure Father gets this. It appears as though there’s a problem with the farm manager in Swansea.”
“Of course,” I said, curious as to who else’s mail she had stashed in the pockets of her skirts.
“You don’t know how much this means to me, Bridget. To think that you would risk my father’s wrath—your very job—to see me happy.”
I nodded and tried for a smile, all the while trying not to think of everything I had to lose.