Mrs Borden blushed.
‘Just like my sister did.’ John smiled at her and she eyed the carpet, shrank into herself.
‘Yes, well, come along and let us feed you.’
She looked at me then, said, ‘Bridget, take care of everything, will you?’
‘Yes, marm.’
They moved into the dining room. I heard a thump against the sitting room window, cupped my hands against the glass and looked out. I half expected to see a ghost. I saw nothing. ‘Pshaw,’ I said. ‘Mind’s playin’ tricks on me.’ Into the dining room I went. Not a one sitting close to the other. John was all elbows on the table.
‘What took you so long?’ Mrs Borden asked me.
‘I thought I saw somethin’ out the window.’
‘What was it?’ Mr Borden asked.
‘Nothin’, I don’t think. I couldn’t see much.’
‘You’re imagining things.’ John smiled, the way he did.
‘No, I don’t think I was.’ It came out strong. I know what I see, what I hear.
Mr Borden cleared his throat, like he was scraping the sides of it with a knife.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. I went about serving what they wanted. Mr Borden, mutton broth, bread; John, mutton broth, bread; Mrs Borden, a slice of cake, two butter biscuits. All of them a cup of tea. The slurping, the chewing, digging into my ear. I stood against the wall, waited.
‘Business doing well?’ John asked.
‘Yes,’ Mr Borden said.
‘How so?’
Mr Borden took a mouthful of broth, was red in the face. ‘Don’t be crossing lines, John.’
‘Dear Andrew, I wouldn’t dream of it. Simply making conversation.’ John gripped Mr Borden’s forearm. ‘We’re family. I’d never want to upset.’
Mr Borden pulled away. ‘All the same, my business is my business.’
‘Of course.’
They went about their eating. My underthings clung to my sweating places. I did not care to know any of this. I looked at Mrs Borden, wondered where she had put my money tin. Mrs Borden breathed out and in through her mouth, the way she does when she stands by my side as I cook, when she doesn’t like how I go about adding too many herbs, makes me get that uneasy feeling. Mr Borden dug his spoon into the broth, clanged it against the earthenware bowl, clanged so loud that I thought he’d dig on through to the table, dig a hole big enough to throw John inside. I pushed myself into the wall harder than before, my feet cracking the floorboards. The three of them slowly eyed me, as if I had just told them that I’d laced their meal with poison.
‘Don’t you have something better to do? Go fetch Lizzie,’ Mr Borden said.
‘I thought she could stay on, help us with our dinner.’ Mrs Borden scratched her temples and Mr Borden made knuckles, rocked them back and forth on the table, and I said, ‘I can wait close by if ya need me.’
She frowned. I couldn’t tell anger or sadness. I did not care to find out. I was out the room then, almost skipped out, closed the door behind me. I heard them talking a little, closed my ear to them, and I went to the parlour, got the idea that perhaps Mrs Borden had hid my money there. I lighted an extra kerosene lamp, coughed away the fumes and began searching. On hands and knees I crawled the room, checked under the low sofa, saw nothing but a taffy wrapper. I fished the wrapper out, rubbed my thumb and finger over the wax paper, held it against my nose. Butter, molasses. The soft comfort. Lizzie had been treating herself again. I put the wrapper in my apron pocket, kept searching. There was nothing under sofas, nothing behind the calico and velvet cushions, nothing inside the upright piano, nothing in this room they kept for appearances. I moved to the cupboard underneath the stairs, opened it, shined the lamp right inside and spread apart the coats. There was no tin and I started to feel a shame for looking, that Mrs Borden had made me act like a gutter thief, had made me feel that wanting to leave was the most traitor act. I spread the coats back to rightful places, took a little feel of the first Mrs Borden’s fur coat that Emma and Lizzie still kept in the cupboard. The brown fur was coarse, reminded me of stray dogs. I shut the cupboard, heard Lizzie’s bedroom door open, heard her feet huffing right down the stairs, all the way down to me at the bottom.
‘What are you doing?’ She pointed a stubby finger in my direction.
‘I’ve lost somethin’. Just lookin’ for it in places.’
‘Better not let Mrs Borden see. She’ll think you’re stealing.’
‘I’m sure she already thinks it.’
Lizzie smiled. ‘Oh, Bridget. Aren’t you her favourite anymore?’
‘It’s nothin’.’
She came towards me as if she were creeping about. ‘Where are they?’
‘They’re in the dinin’ room. Yer uncle is with ’em.’
Lizzie looked past me, suckered her lips tight. ‘What are they discussing?’
‘I tried not listenin’.’
‘Come on, give me something.’ Her dull blue eyes looked right inside me, like she could wrench it out. I didn’t want her to touch me and so I told her, ‘Yer uncle asked ’bout yer father’s business.’
She clapped her hands. ‘Ha! That ought to start things up.’ Lizzie was bright, seemed to lighten in her body.
We headed through the sitting room and Lizzie asked me to fetch her a bite to eat. ‘I don’t want broth. Anything but that dirty old mutton you’ve been reheating all week.’
‘Yes, Miss Lizzie.’ Nobody should have to eat that dirty old mutton.
She pulled at herself, straightened her skirt, fixed her collar, ran her tongue over teeth and went into the dining room, made the room break into welcome.
‘Darling Lizzie!’ John said.
‘Hello, Uncle.’
A chair was pulled out, legs dragged on the carpet, made me cringe, and I went to the kitchen and set about making Lizzie supper. I could hear them talking, mostly Lizzie, all her daily travels.
‘I bumped into Mrs Hinkley today, Father.’
‘Oh, yes?’
‘She asked me to read to her.’
Cutlery clinked.
‘That’s wonderful, Lizzie,’ Mrs Borden said.
‘Anyway, I told her yes and so I’ll be doing that of an evening.’ Lizzie was hoity.
‘Who’s Mrs Hinkley?’ John asked.
‘She’s from church. She’s an old lady losing her sight,’ Lizzie said.
‘Her father made money from the war. A wealthy family,’ Mr Borden said.
Cutlery clinked.
‘I see,’ John said.
‘Well, she happens to think I’m good company.’
‘Has she heard you read?’ Mr Borden said.
‘Father!’
‘You’ve been known to stumble on words, be slow.’ Mr Borden sounded like he was enjoying himself, like he’d been storing up days of meanness.