Mrs Borden moved her head to one side, eyed me, evil, before telling father, ‘Bridget has been preparing lunch. Some nice roasted mutton . . .’
‘It better not be too big. The last leg you allowed her to buy went to waste,’ Father said.
‘I’m sure it’s perfectly suitable,’ Mrs Borden said.
Father grunted. ‘I’d prefer people be mindful.’
The sun knocked along the sitting room window and came in through the small opening between the curtains, bounced onto my fingers, made my knuckles pop and grow. ‘Lizzie,’ Mrs Borden said, ‘since you’re in the mood to stay at home, why don’t you have lunch with us?’
Father smoothed his hands over his chin, his fingers long skin matches, light up and burn, Father dear. I heard Bridget in the kitchen blowing over the food to cool it slightly. She coughed and the house whip-cracked above us. Father, his eyes over me again.
‘Yes, I think I shall have lunch with you,’ I said.
Father smiled at Mrs Borden. My stomach pulsed, churned.
We sat around hard wood and were silent as Bridget served. Father asked her about meat prices and I said, ‘Gosh, for once can’t we just live a little? I know we can afford it . . .’
Father hammered his fist on the table. ‘It’s my money. I ask the questions here, thank you, Lizzie.’
I placed the mutton in my mouth, dry hot flesh, and swallowed hard. ‘I hate that you act like we’re poor, Father. You’ve a building with your name on it!’
Mrs Borden crossed knife and fork on the plate and wiped her mouth. ‘Your father works very hard and deserves your respect.’
‘I was merely pointing out a fact.’
Bridget walked into the kitchen and stood without facing us. She rested on one leg and slid her hand back and forth over the kitchen counter.
A clink of cutlery on china. Father cut through mutton, sawed his teeth forwards over his bottom lip, looked over the dining table. I waited for him to yell at me but everything was silent.
‘What’s the matter, Father?’
He chewed mutton then swallowed. Mrs Borden wiped her mouth with a linen napkin, her lips red from rubbing. For a moment she looked young. For a moment. ‘Everyone enjoying the mutton?’ Mrs Borden asked. A little lump of animal flesh was stuck to the side of my throat. It was heavy, made me sweat. I thought of Emma, thought of my boredom. I thought of Europe, how fancy I had been, I even ate caviar!
‘It’s delicious,’ I said. Father cut meat like a lumberjack, whomped a large piece of mutton into his mouth. The house was silent. Father didn’t say another word to me that day. I began thinking things.
We made Emma brew more tea and she came back, the clock on the mantel ticked ticked, seven o’clock. Uncle came down the stairs, heavy leather, and said, ‘Girls! This isn’t the time to be arguing.’
‘Were we loud?’ I asked, so sweet.
‘Just a little. But it’s understandable.’ Uncle kissed the top of my head and said, ‘I think it’s time we eat, don’t you?’
My stomach tightened. ‘Oh, let’s do!’
‘I’m not hungry,’ Emma said.
Uncle rubbed his fingers over his stomach, here kitty kitty, and patted three times. ‘Pears don’t sustain a man.’ He laughed. Uncle could be very charming. I caught Emma rolling her eyes.
We sat in the parlour, my hand scratched along the velvet covering of the armchair and right then I was on my Grand Trip in London, a sunbonnet on a mannequin, a store bell ringing, smell of animal hide and molasses from the backroom workshop. I took my gloves off and ran my fingertips over the sunbonnet’s dark-green velvet. The stitching was precise, the brim steadfast. Tiny gold diamantes were sewn into the front of the hat, reminded me of sun dreams. I leaned close, took a deep breath, something slightly spicy and prickly had settled into the fabric, made me warm and tingle. The excitement of new things. I leaned closer, quickly licked the hat, wanted to devour it. I wouldn’t find anything like it in Fall River.
‘Lizzie!’ Emma shrieked.
I snapped my eyes wide. ‘Yes?’ I put my palm to mouth. I licked salt, a hint of wood polish, some taste of me.
‘What would you like to eat?’ Emma was annoyed. Was it wrong to give in to impulse? She made me feel like Father did, ashamed of who I was, a perpetual child.
Cold mutton soup. I smiled. ‘Anything, dear sister.’
Uncle patted his stomach and Emma pushed her boots underneath her chair and dragged them along the carpet. She left the room.
‘Uncle, do you think it will take the police very long to find who did this?’
He arched a brow. ‘Given the strangeness of it all, I’d say it will be some time before there’s any resolution.’
I rested my head against the edge of the chair, wondered how long it would take for me to feel comfortable, to feel safe.
Emma came with food.
‘I’m mighty ravenous,’ Uncle said.
Stale bread, butter, old mutton broth. Rotting fruit. Fresh milk, apple-spiced cake. Uncle cut into the bread, spread butter thick, the way you do when you know there is no one there to stop you. Emma watched him and sipped her tea. I took some cake and broke chunks, let the deliciousness form soft pyramids in my cheeks. Sugar sang.
‘Mighty delicious, Emma,’ Uncle said.
Emma stared at me. ‘You should eat something other than cake, Lizzie. Why don’t you have some mutton broth?’
‘I’m not that hungry.’ Cake went in my mouth. ‘You should have some, if you like.’
We ate more. I ate greedy.
After a time, Uncle said, ‘You know, when I was out this morning, I would have accused you of blasphemy if you had told me such a beautiful day would end so violently. To think your poor Abby was attacked so soon in the day.’
I drank milk. Emma dragged her finger around the rim of the teacup, made a horrible cling-warp sound. ‘How do you know for certain that Mrs Borden died so soon after breakfast?’
‘I’m assuming.’ Uncle stuffed bread into his mouth. ‘How else would you explain it? I’ll tell you one thing, it was rather surprising to come back to the house and find swarms of people out the front.’
‘I’m well aware of how shocking it was,’ Emma said.
Uncle stopped eating. ‘Of course, dear Emma. I should’ve realised . . .’
Emma stood. ‘Excuse me. I need to get some fresh air.’
‘Don’t go outside,’ I said. ‘The killer might be out there.’
‘I’ll just open the side door.’
She left. Uncle and I ate.
At the top of the stairs, in the guestroom, the heat of Mrs Borden’s blood came to a simmer. Uncle went into the room, sat on the bed. ‘So strange knowing the horror started in here,’ he said.
‘It had to start somewhere.’
He tapped his knees together. ‘Well, that is true. The police have a few theories.’
‘They do?’ I needed to know them.