Lizzie Borden by Elizabeth Engstrom

it, Lizzie, I don’t like it one bit. One of these days she’s going to do something to bring shame on the Borden name. And I won’t stand for that. Do you hear me?”
    “Yes, Father.”
    “Be sure you tell her that.”
    “Yes, Father.”
    “Drat the girl!” Andrew threw his napkin onto the table. “Does she think she has no responsibilities here at home? Does she think she can just up and leave us to assume her duties?”
    Lizzie remained silent.
    “Is she airing family laundry?”
    “I don’t think so, Father.”
    “Be sure you tell her, Lizzie.”
    “I will, Father.”
    There was a long silence at the table. Then, just as Lizzie finished and readied her dishes to take into the kitchen, Andrew Borden spoke again. “And what have you been doing all morning?”
    Lizzie sat back in her chair. “Reading.”
    “Reading what?”
    “I received a letter, and a book, from Beatrice. In England. Remember the package you brought from the post office?”
    “Oh. A book. Is it worthwhile? Will it teach you anything practical?”
    “I think very much so, Father, only I’ve just begun, so I can’t tell too much about it yet.”
    “This is a good friend of yours, this Beatrice?”
    “Be-AT-trice, Father. Yes, she’s a wonderful friend. We carry on quite a lively correspondence.”
    “I should imagine. I can’t imagine what you women do day in and day out to keep yourselves occupied. I should go mad without the challenges of the business world. And Lord knows, you don’t do too much around this house, the lot of you. I can never find a cleanly pressed handkerchief to save my soul.”
    “I’m sorry, Father, I’ll try to get some pressing done this afternoon.”
    When it was clear that her Father had had his say about the state of the household, Lizzie cleared the table, did up the dishes in a hurry and ran back to her room. She could barely wait to get back to the book Beatrice had sent. Such a book! It was better than anything she could ever have imagined.
    And Beatrice had inscribed it, just inside the cover.
    “To my darling Lizbeth, so all your heartfelt desires may come true. Affectionately, Beatrice.”
    “Affectionately, Beatrice.” How Lizzie wished to send something to someone signed, “Affectionately, Lizbeth.”
    Lizbeth.
    Beatrice knew that her name was Lizzie, she’d been born Lizzie Andrew Borden, but in one of her first letters, she’d written, “My dear Lizbeth, I know that is not your true name, but it is ever so much more romantic, don’t you think? Lizzie brings to mind a whole different style of woman than you, so if you don’t mind, I shall keep you in my heart as Lizbeth, and it is on that ground that we shall meet via our letters.”
    Lizzie had fallen in love with the name immediately. Not “Elizabeth,” a name so popular it was almost vulgar. Not “Lizzie,” which, Beatrice was too kind to say, sounded like a barmaid, chambermaid or whore. No. “Lizbeth.” Different. Daring. Wonderful. If only she could be a Lizbeth in true life, and not a Lizzie.
    She sprawled on her bed, her room a rumpled mess. Lizzie always allowed herself the luxury of a messy room when Emma was in New Bedford. No one would enter her room for any reason, and so there was no reason to keep it neat. It was great freedom to throw clothes on the floor and not pick them up for the sake of neatness, but only for practicality, and Lizzie would only pick them up when she wanted to. A small, distinct pleasure.
    She unlaced her shoes and let them drop quietly onto the floor and picked up the book. Beatrice’s letter fell out from under the front cover, to lie on Lizzie’s chest. She ran her hand over the dark cloth cover of the book and set it aside. She picked up the letter and began to read:
My Dear Lizbeth:
There are many people in this world who are content to let life do with them as it will. There are few who set their sights on particular goals and never rest until the goals are accomplished. Those who