spider lines of repair.
She went out the front door and clung to the side of the house, making her way to the barn. It was a crisp fall day, and pears were hanging pendant on the trees in the orchard. After she got rid of Margaret, she would come and eat some.
She opened the rough wood door to the privy and held her breath as she stepped inside. She dropped the smaller body parts first and watched them disappear into the murk.
She kissed Margaret on the lips. “I’m sorry I’m such a bad girl,” she said, and then held the doll over the reeking pit. “She should’ve given me my own,” she muttered and dropped her.
It was months before Emma missed the doll. On a December morning, racing downstairs into the sitting room, she confronted Lizzie, who denied any knowledge of the doll’s location. Mr. Borden, overhearing, asked if Emma had seen the doll since the move from Ferry Street.
“I did, of course, Father,” said Emma aloofly. “She is very valuable to me, and I would never have left her behind.”
“I didn’t mean to suggest you left her behind,” he said. “Only that she may be misplaced.”
“Lizzie has her.”
“I do not!”
“You stole the most important thing that I have from our mother! You wretched, cruel girl!”
“I don’t have it. I promise, Emma!”
Abby placed an arm around Lizzie’s shoulder, which was promptly shrugged off. “I’m sure the doll is somewhere,” she said. “We’re all confused after the move. I haven’t been able to find several of my own pieces of jewelry.”
“Check Lizzie’s dresser! Oh, you don’t need to; I already did, looking for Margaret! She must have all the things she’s stolen cached somewhere.”
“This is a serious thing of which to accuse your sister,” said Abby.
“She’s been a thief since she was born,” spat Emma. “But I didn’t think she’d dare to take something so treasured.”
“Emma!” said Abby in a cross tone.
“Don’t you take up her part!” shouted Emma. “You’re not my mother; you’re not anyone’s mother!”
“Emma, go upstairs! I won’t have this,” said Mr. Borden.
Emma shot one murderous look at her sister, another to Abby.
“You’re too old to play with dolls,” said Emma. “Why couldn’t you just leave her alone? She’s all I have to remember Mother.”
“I didn’t play with her,” said Lizzie.
Emma was right, though; at twelve Lizzie should not have been making voices for a doll. In four more years, her dresses would be made to reach the floor like a woman’s, and she’d start wearing her hair up.
“You’re a liar and a thief,” said Emma as she stormed out.
“I don’t believe you did it,” said Abby quietly with a kind smile.
Lizzie hung her head. It just proved what Emma had always said, that Abby didn’t know them, wasn’t truly part of the family. Abby couldn’t tell a lie from a truth, but Emma could, because Emma had taken on their true mother’s role.
Lizzie wanted badly to go upstairs and fling herself onto her bed, but in this new home’s terrible layout, she couldn’t do so without going through Emma’s room first.
She didn’t want to go to the kitchen, where the maid Oona gave only narrow sympathy for her boredom, and it was too cold to go outside. She was trapped in this small house. Even her father radiated fury as he sat down with his newspaper, rustling it loudly as if at her.
She moved toward the parlor, but at the doorway Abby called her back. “I just dusted in there.”
Wordlessly, she ascended the staircase. She walked quietly so Emma wouldn’t hear. Halfway up, she sat on the stairs, listening to the sobbing coming from Emma’s room, and the tart words down below.
“She will never accept me,” said Abby.
“She doesn’t need to,” he said. “You’re my wife.”
Lizzie sat back against the wall, waiting for the house to catch up to her mood. She stared idly across at the floor of the guest room, reserved for visitors who only rarely came, or for sewing. Why was she not given this chamber?
She was never treated well. Certainly not as she deserved.
It was an odd vantage point, at eye level with the floor like a mouse. She felt an odd propulsion to seep through the banister railings, formless as smoke, and crawl under the bed.
NOVEMBER 16, 1889
At half four on Saturday, Bridget stood waiting on the front stoop wearing her nut-brown serge dress with many pleats, fashioned by her mother all those many years ago and kept good by Bridget’s careful laundering. She had emerged from the side door and made her way to the front steps, looking up at the sky between the twin fastenings of the oak trees, the “bride and groom” positioning to showcase the house.
As she waited for Mary Doolan, she watched her breath clouding in the crisp air and the carriage traffic on Second Street, the horses’ hooves smelting the odorous piles they left, hay discernable in the thick masses. There were shops interspersed with the modest homes here. Kitty-corner from the Borden house, several women rapped on the door of the home with a small sign indicating it was the residence of a Dr. Bowen. Whatever the downturn in fortunes, this neighborhood boasted two doctors, which Bridget felt to be advantageous. She curiously watched as the door was opened to the women, but just then a cart began to pass, blocking her view.
She turned her head against the stink, and a male voice boomed, aimed at her, “Fancy a ride, lass?”
It was the same as winked at her a week ago when she arrived, trying to tote her trunk. “Ach,” she said under her breath, willing him away.
“Been up and down this street on your behalf,” he said. The hack had halted, and the horses tried to mark her past their blinders, wrestling against the bit. “Never caught a nick of your shadow.”
Reluctantly, she looked at him perched above her, nearly touching distance due to the house’s closeness to the very street. He was smiling, sure, but not insolent. He touched his cap as soon as he had her eye.
“Are ye getting on fair?” he asked.
“Aye,” she said.
“And is there any place ye need a pleasant ride toward?” His dark
