company.
Abby slipped the needle in and out of the fabric; she was making Andrew a new silk shirt, and no sewing machine could detail the collar and cuffs the way she could.
Growing older complicates life. One day you’re saving for your old age and the next day you’re dividing up everything you’ve saved among all the relatives biting and scratching for a piece of it.
She wished Andrew would retire. He no longer needed to work for the money—it was for his mental stimulation that he continued to keep his irons in all the fires. Abby would have liked to do a little traveling, but that didn’t interest Andrew at all. He was a homebody. At least he’d reduced his obligations at the office; some days when he came home at noon for dinner he just stayed at home; other times he came home, ate a bite and then went back until four or so.
Abby was grateful to have a husband in good health. She could live with a lot—including stepdaughters—if she didn’t have to nurse a sick husband for years.
She glanced at the clock, anticipating him. He’d gone out after dinner for a pipe, gone to stand on the landing of the back stairs in the cold, tamping his ashes out into a black pile which would continue to grow until spring.
She heard his heavy step on the back stairs.
Her muscles tensed.
He unlocked the bedroom door and came in, closing and locking it behind him.
“Have a little lie-down?”
“Yes,” he said, “I think I will.” He slipped off his shoes and suit coat and lay on the freshly made bed. Abby rose and covered him with the wedding-ring quilt she’d made for their wedding bed. “Did you speak with Emma this morning, Abby?”
“She came down to breakfast while I was making a casserole for Mrs. Warren.”
“How was her mind?”
“She was agitated, I think, Mr. Borden. She spoke again of the property you’ve generously decided to give to my Sarah.”
“That damned property.”
“I told her I’d speak to you about it. Perhaps. . .” Abby suddenly felt on shaky ground. She looked down at her needle.
“Perhaps what, woman?”
“Perhaps another piece of property would be more palatable.”
“But we decided on that property because of its location. Sarah needs more than a roof over her head.”
“I know. I just hate. . .”
“ Finish your sentences.”
“I hate to see you persecuted because of your generosity.”
Andrew Borden sighed and seemed to sink deeper into the mattress. “Perhaps she’ll move to New Bedford.”
Abby snickered, careful to make only the tiniest of sounds, sounds she could excuse if she were called upon to defend them. Emma would never move out: She would fear that the household would not be able to run according to her way of doing things without her assistance. Without her direction. Without her meddling.
Abby kept stitching, her stomach easing up a bit, and soon Andrew was snoring.
If Emma knew all the facets of Andrew’s will, she would have a fit. The thought of Andrew dying before her was abhorrent, but she would love to see the look on Emma’s face as the attorney presented Andrew’s last will and testament at a reading. Emma would discover that the bulk of his estate, of course, was divided between her and Lizzie; but a generous third—a generous third—was left to Abby for her old age. And Abby, of course, would leave her estate, including any assets obtained from Andrew’s estate, to her heirs, namely Sarah, her half-sister. And there were others—significant people in Andrew’s success—to whom he meant to leave some money.
But Emma thought that everything Andrew worked for all those years somehow belonged to her and her sister. As if they had ever done anything to deserve his generosity.
As Emma saw it, she and Lizzie should inherit everything, should Andrew die before Abby, and Abby should be put out of the house instantly, penniless. After raising both girls. After putting up with them through their teenage years, through their young
Abby slipped the needle in and out of the fabric; she was making Andrew a new silk shirt, and no sewing machine could detail the collar and cuffs the way she could.
Growing older complicates life. One day you’re saving for your old age and the next day you’re dividing up everything you’ve saved among all the relatives biting and scratching for a piece of it.
She wished Andrew would retire. He no longer needed to work for the money—it was for his mental stimulation that he continued to keep his irons in all the fires. Abby would have liked to do a little traveling, but that didn’t interest Andrew at all. He was a homebody. At least he’d reduced his obligations at the office; some days when he came home at noon for dinner he just stayed at home; other times he came home, ate a bite and then went back until four or so.
Abby was grateful to have a husband in good health. She could live with a lot—including stepdaughters—if she didn’t have to nurse a sick husband for years.
She glanced at the clock, anticipating him. He’d gone out after dinner for a pipe, gone to stand on the landing of the back stairs in the cold, tamping his ashes out into a black pile which would continue to grow until spring.
She heard his heavy step on the back stairs.
Her muscles tensed.
He unlocked the bedroom door and came in, closing and locking it behind him.
“Have a little lie-down?”
“Yes,” he said, “I think I will.” He slipped off his shoes and suit coat and lay on the freshly made bed. Abby rose and covered him with the wedding-ring quilt she’d made for their wedding bed. “Did you speak with Emma this morning, Abby?”
“She came down to breakfast while I was making a casserole for Mrs. Warren.”
“How was her mind?”
“She was agitated, I think, Mr. Borden. She spoke again of the property you’ve generously decided to give to my Sarah.”
“That damned property.”
“I told her I’d speak to you about it. Perhaps. . .” Abby suddenly felt on shaky ground. She looked down at her needle.
“Perhaps what, woman?”
“Perhaps another piece of property would be more palatable.”
“But we decided on that property because of its location. Sarah needs more than a roof over her head.”
“I know. I just hate. . .”
“ Finish your sentences.”
“I hate to see you persecuted because of your generosity.”
Andrew Borden sighed and seemed to sink deeper into the mattress. “Perhaps she’ll move to New Bedford.”
Abby snickered, careful to make only the tiniest of sounds, sounds she could excuse if she were called upon to defend them. Emma would never move out: She would fear that the household would not be able to run according to her way of doing things without her assistance. Without her direction. Without her meddling.
Abby kept stitching, her stomach easing up a bit, and soon Andrew was snoring.
If Emma knew all the facets of Andrew’s will, she would have a fit. The thought of Andrew dying before her was abhorrent, but she would love to see the look on Emma’s face as the attorney presented Andrew’s last will and testament at a reading. Emma would discover that the bulk of his estate, of course, was divided between her and Lizzie; but a generous third—a generous third—was left to Abby for her old age. And Abby, of course, would leave her estate, including any assets obtained from Andrew’s estate, to her heirs, namely Sarah, her half-sister. And there were others—significant people in Andrew’s success—to whom he meant to leave some money.
But Emma thought that everything Andrew worked for all those years somehow belonged to her and her sister. As if they had ever done anything to deserve his generosity.
As Emma saw it, she and Lizzie should inherit everything, should Andrew die before Abby, and Abby should be put out of the house instantly, penniless. After raising both girls. After putting up with them through their teenage years, through their young
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