Liam’s flat was quiet when I got there; his brothers and his friends were all down the road at St. Patrick’s. They all met there several nights a week, to give their thanks for what little they had and give back what they could. A few gave coin, most gave labor, but Father Fitzpatrick didn’t seem to mind either way. The Irish had built that church, laid each stone, and now it was our turn to see to the repairs right alongside him.
Tonight, they were holding a prayer vigil for Liam’s ailing friend, Peter Bence. He’d taken a turn for the worse this past Sunday. After Mass, we’d all head back to Liam’s flat and drink to Peter’s swift recovery.
I met Liam by the side entrance to St. Patrick’s, was hoping to steal a few private moments with him before we joined our friends. I was expecting him, yet the minute I saw him standing there, smiling as if he didn’t have a care in the world, I broke down.
The strength I’d harnessed all day, the calm, logical way in which I’d approached Minnie and Lizzie slipped away, and I sat down, right there on the side of the dusty road, without a care for the dampness seeping into my skirts. Tears I didn’t know I was holding in fell, as the weight of the day and the enormity of the Bordens’ secrets crashed over me.
“Bridget?” Liam stooped down in front of me, his blue eyes meeting mine. “What is it, love?”
I shook my head. I couldn’t tell him any of it; Lizzie had all but sworn me to secrecy. That thought, the idea that I had to carry the weight of Lizzie’s disintegrating world around, unaided, brought on another wave of tears. My body shook, each sob bringing forth another image. The pigeons, beheaded, with their life’s blood seeping out into a bowl. The biting smell as I stirred in the barley and oats to make blood pudding. The tiny voices echoing through the walls of the house. And Lizzie, her story about the children in the well and her mother’s untimely death. If she was right, if there was a madness consuming her . . . consuming all of them, I couldn’t fight it alone.
“I can’t do it,” I whispered. “I simply can’t do it anymore.”
Liam sat down next to me on the road, wrapped his arm around me, and buried me into his shoulder. “Can’t do what, love?”
I shook my head rather than answer, unsure I could find my voice.
“Nobody here is going to make you do anything you aren’t willing,” he continued. “My brothers and I’ll make sure of that.”
I grabbed onto his shirt and pulled myself further into his embrace. This was the one place I always felt valued . . . felt safe. All other reasons aside, that’s really why I never brought Lizzie here. That’s why I kept this part of my life hidden from her. It was the one pure thing I had, the only piece of my existence that wasn’t tainted by that house. Only today, that knowledge hurt me even more. I was escaping, and she wasn’t. Twice now this week, I’d left her alone with her fears so I could selfishly assuage my own.
“I can’t tell you, Liam. I need to tell you, I want to tell you, but I can’t.”
“You trust me, Bridget?”
I nodded. I trusted Liam with my life, hoped one day to bind myself to him in the very church we were sitting across from. I’d never once lied to Liam and often told him more than he needed or wanted to hear. Until now. Until Lizzie’s unspoken plea to keep the fragility of her mind a secret.
“Then trust me with your secrets and let me carry that burden for you.” His voice dipped at the end, as if it truly pained him to see me so weak, so utterly trapped.
He tipped my chin up when I didn’t answer, silently begging me to see the sincerity in his eyes. “We are your family, here. Me and Seamus and Minnie. Let us help you.”
“What did Minnie tell you?” The words came out sharper than I expected, and Liam rocked back, searching my eyes for a truth I would never reveal.
“Nothing.” He paused and looked over his shoulder as if he thought Minnie or maybe even Lizzie would be standing there. “I haven’t seen her in a few days. Seamus hasn’t either. Is there something she’s privy to that I’m not?”
I’d never seen Liam upset, never seen him be anything but gentle and kind with the people he loved. But I saw it then, that tiny spark, the indescribable potential for anger to consume him. “What. Does. Minnie. Know?”
“Nothing, not really. But she’s been talking about the Bordens, asking about rumors she’s heard.”
Liam cocked his head, weighing the value of my words before he responded. “People are always talking about the Bordens. You know that; you’ve always known that. Why the tears over it now?”
He was right. Normally, the local prattle didn’t bother me; I would shrug it off and go about my business. But the morning I’d seen Lizzie sitting in the kitchen, completely destroyed by what some stupid shopkeeper had said . . . well, everything shifted. The woman I saw as idiosyncratic, spoiled, and callous suddenly became real.
“Lizzie is my friend.” I choked out the words, praying Liam would understand and let me be. Let me sit here unquestioned and cry until I felt better. “I can’t stand to see them treat her that way. Not anymore.”
Liam’s hold tensed around me before he pushed me to arm’s length. “Lizzie’s not your friend, Bridget. She’s the daughter of the man who employs you and nothing more.”
That was the way it was supposed to be. The way it was at my previous places of employment. The way it was for Minnie. But Lizzie had a way of inserting herself into people’s lives, drawing them into her own cracked world. Even Emma had cautioned me about getting too close, said it was one thing to be Lizzie’s friend and quite another to live in the same house as her, to be her only escape.
“But you don’t understand, Liam. She’s lonely and Mr.—”
“The hell she is,” he said, cutting me off. “She’s neither lonely nor ill-treated, Bridget. What she is, is spoiled and manipulative, with hands as sticky as glue. Any problems she has with local prattle, she’s brought upon herself.”
I dropped my head into my hands, fully aware that there was some truth to Liam’s words. If I wanted to keep my wits about me, if I wanted to outlast the countless other maids who’d cycled through that house, then I had do my best to keep my distance from Lizzie.
“She’s not well, Liam. That whole house, that whole family isn’t well.”
I didn’t need to clarify what I meant by “not well.” Liam knew straightaway what I was implying and that this had nothing to do with a sour stomach or a bout of fever and everything to do with the smoldering, unnerving sense that something bad was about to happen. About to make things even worse.
“Has Mr. Borden—”
“No,” I cut in. Mr. Borden had never shown an interest in me, never looked at me in that way even once since I’d started there. In fact, most days Mr. Borden seemed irritated and resentful that I was even in his house. It was as if my mere presence were a concession he made to his wealth, that deep down, having a maid seemed too preposterous for his miserly ways.
“Then what? Lizzie?” he asked.
I thought about where to begin, what odd display of behavior I should tell him about first. The mere idea of putting words to my fears had me shivering, fighting off a chill that made no sense given the balmy night air.
“The pigeons,” I said, hoping that if Liam saw the cruelty Lizzie was raised under, then perhaps he’d see her differently, understand why it hurt so much to see her broken and sad.
“What about the pigeons, Bridget?” Liam asked, coaxing me along. I’d gone silent again, trapped back in that moment, combing through each wretched second of that day. “Tell me what happened to the pigeons.”
“He slaughtered them. Killed every last one of them, then wanted her to sit alongside Mrs. Borden’s sisters at dinner and eat them.” I swallowed hard. “He made me cook them. Told me I had to save the blood for a pudding. They were her pets, Liam. He killed them, then expected her to sit quietly by as I served them up for the evening meal. What kind of man does that . . . to his own daughter?”