Lizzie: Prologue and Chapter 1
Prologue
Fall River boomed after the Civil War with the explosive addition of many cotton mills with their massive, native granite factories employing thousands. Before long, the town was the world’s largest producer of cotton cloth. Growth did not stop there. Soon, iron mills, printing factories and more were added to the industrial landscape. All were served by Fall River’s own railroad line founded by Nathaniel Borden, connecting them directly to Boston.
Despite the surge of wealth into Fall River, it still maintained some of its rural flavor. Downtown—which the locals called downstreet—clung to its old-fashioned store fronts and the rutted, horse-dung littered streets that ran beside them. Everyone knew the shopkeepers’ names, and most were personally greeted when they entered their establishments.
Housewives continued to make their own bread for the family but eagerly awaited the arrival of bakery carts to add pies and other sweet treats to the table. They did not need to keep a constant watch but only listen for the sound of the approaching bells attached to the springs on the undercarriage on the delivery vans.
The Quequechan River running through the downstreet area had suffered greatly from industrialization. Factories and private privies dumped their waste in its waters creating a vile stench that grew in intensity every summer. Still, boys regularly swam in the contaminated waters oblivious to the risks they took.
Grocery shops abounded in the center of town, but in most cases, the variety was limited to one selection of each item. Brown and white sugar and even crackers were stored in bulk containers and sold by the pound. Most households bought flour by the barrel which stood in every kitchen where abysmal poverty did not rule. Most of these shops had only one scale that they used to weigh everything from cod and mutton to cornmeal and salt. The weighing pan was seldom, if ever, cleaned. With the exception of beets, turnips and potatoes, fresh produce was not stocked.
Wealthy, prominent citizens thrived in Fall River. They were reluctant, however, to share their riches with the less fortunate. Their employees led desperate lives, struggling to feed their families and keep a roof over their heads that, if they were lucky, did not leak and did not have rickety walls that served as tunnels for the harsh winter winds. Most lived in company housing where the lack of creature comforts left them in a constant struggle for survival. Heaven forbid they had to cope with the serious illness of a family member.
Fall River, though, was not an anomaly in its time. Its social structure was reflected in many cities and towns across the country where the working poor carried the weight of the wealthy until the strain broke their backs.
Chapter One
Andrew Jackson Borden was born in Fall River, Massachusetts, in 1822, to Abraham and Phoebe, who named him after the man who was a celebrated hero of the War of 1812, and soon to be the seventh president of the United States. Although Andrew’s father was a gardener and a laborer, Andrew possessed great ambition. There was no fortune waiting for him upon his parents’ demise, but he was determined to carry his modest branch of the Borden family into the prominence that others had bestowed upon the name. His hard work, sharp business acumen and conservative risk assessment talents drove him and his family from penury to riches.
August 4, 1892, began as an ordinary day for Andrew Jackson Borden. As was his habit, he left his home at 92 Second Street that morning, greeted by the faint odor of horse manure that flowed down every street in town. He walked his bustling street passing by four homes, a restaurant, stables, a photography studio, a liquor store, a wholesale produce business, a carriage trimmer, a plumbing company and a machine shop. Turning left and down one block further and he reached Main Street. He had multiple business interests on the Borden Block there that he checked every weekday. He cut a tall figure, neatly clothed in a dark suit with wide lapels, a high-collared white shirt with black bowtie. He was well known and readily recognized the moment he came into sight.
Even in the morning, the heat and humidity sat heavy on the shoulders of Fall River and beat hard down on Andrew’s head. Within a block, the smell of horse waste was overwhelmed by the stench of the river stinging Andrew’s nostrils with every breath. The horses pulling carriages and wagons appeared wilted, their straw hats drooping down on their heads, their tails hung limp with barely enough energy to shoo away flies.
Andrew’s first stop was the Union Savings Bank where he was president. The doors were propped open in the vain hope of teasing a breeze into the building. Abraham Hart, the treasurer, greeted him. “Good morning, Mr. Borden.”
“Good morning to you, Mr. Hart. Business running smoothly?”
“Without a doubt, Mr. Borden,” he said with a furrowed brow. “Are you feeling well today?”
“I’m a bit under the weather. Probably something I ate. It will pass.”
The two men spent a couple of minutes flipping through the pages of the bank’s ledger before walking over to the other bank in the building, The National Union Bank, where Andrew was a stockholder and depositor. After a few encouraging words with a colored man seeking a loan, Andrew made a brief stop at B.M.C. Safe Deposit & Trust Company where he was a director.
Crossing the street, he entered another building he owned at 6 North Main. The lower floor housed a Hatters and Gent’s Furnishings shop operated by Jonathan Clegg. Inside felt like an oven despite the fans moving the air as briskly as they could. A subtle trace of the river’s odor slipped into the warp and weave of the garments on display. “Do you think I’ll be able to move to the new address next week, Mr. Borden?” Clegg asked.
“I don’t see why not, Mr. Clegg. I will stop by there on my way home and make sure the changes are moving along in a timely manner.”
Leaving the shop, Andrew walked to the new location, past City Hall and down South Main, stopping near Spring Street. Two men were working on the outside of the building, lowering the front windowsills to nearly sidewalk level for the display of goods on offer. He went straight inside and looked around the first floor before climbing the steps to check on the second. Andrew swayed in the increased heat on the higher level and hurried back down the stairs.
He walked away from the building. Realizing he’d failed to greet the workers; he turned around in the middle of the street. As he approached the two carpenters, Joseph Shortsleeves and James Mather, the men stopped their work. Shortsleeves said, “Good morning, Mr. Borden.”
“A good morning to both of you,” he said and crossed back over the street to head home. His steps grew heavier with every block. At one time, he strode down the street in a blur, now, he always moved at a statelier pace, but today’s weather slowed him down even more. The driving force of this once energetic man had faded as he aged. Now as he neared 70, he tired quickly and needed a nap every day. His once dark, full beard and thick long hair had turned snowy white. Andrew trimmed both with a fastidiousness that befitted a man of his prominence.
Arriving at 92 Second Street, Andrew paused in a shady spot to admire his home. He was quite proud of his accomplishments. From street fishmonger to undertaker to the owner of mills, a bank, city houses and farms, he had risen further up the ladder of success than he once thought possible. The two-family house that he bought at a steal and renovated for his family, made Andrew’s heart swell with his love of life. In 1871, he purchased the stately Greek Revival house adorned with two-story columns on each corner of the front façade and smaller ones by the front entrance.
Before Andrew’s wife and daughters moved into the house, he removed all the chimneys and installed steam heat. He tore down the wall between the two bedrooms on the first floor and created a dining room. The parlor and the kitchen spaces remained the same. Upstairs, he tore out the second kitchen and transformed the space into a bedroom for himself and his wife and turned the former parlor into a guest bedroom. The existing two bedrooms were occupied by his two adult daughters, Emma and Lizzie.
When he finished his renovation, the front stairs led up to the front half of the second floor. The guest room there was currently occupied by his first wife’s brother and good friend, John Morse. The back stairs in the kitchen led to the marital bedroom and another flight to the third-floor attic where the live-in servant spent her nights.
At first, they had no running water, but as soon as Fall River ran lines up the street, Andrew refurbished the home again. He put a flush toilet in the cellar and ran water into the kitchen. He even installed pipes in the barn. Andrew’s only disappointment was the lack of electricity since it was still not available in that neighborhood.
His second wife, Abby, had pressured him to put in gas lines for the lights but Andrew was too nervous about the frequency of fire and explosions caused by gas in homes to run the risk. They still used kerosene lamps at night and every woman in the house complained about the oily, acrid smell.
He wished that was his family’s only complaint. He had not foreseen the consequences of giving a piece of real estate to his wife Abby five years ago. His two adult daughters, Emma and Lizzie, surprised him with their hearty objections that he bestowed real estate upon her, but gave nothing to the two of them. Even though he rectified the situation by presenting the two with an equally valuable property, a current of animosity continued to flow between the women of his household, making him wonder if the previous warmth he perceived among them was nothing but pretense.
Abby told him his daughters were spoiled and ungrateful. His daughters insisted that Abby was greedy and had married him only for his money. In his presence, at least, they never openly confronted each other with their animosity but he could feel it churning beneath the surface every day.
The other problem with his daughters was their dissatisfaction with the home he had made for them. He was proud of what he had created here but he knew his daughters—particularly his youngest Lizzie—were not happy with the house or the neighborhood. Lizzie blamed their residence for the fact that neither she or Emma had ever been married. Again and again, she told him, “We are living beneath our station. We should be up on the hill, in a grand house where suitors would call and prominent women would visit us for tea, where party invitations and social outings would fill our days. We don’t belong here hemmed in by immigrants and crowded by commercial establishments.”
Perhaps he should make their dream come true now—he could certainly afford it. But was it too late? He wondered. Quite probably for Emma, at 43 years of age, she was no man’s ideal mate. Likely, my oldest daughter will remain a spinster. But Lizzie? At 32, she was too old for the traditional marriage market, but like my second wife, she could find a widower with a couple of children in need of a female presence in the home.
Andrew sighed. Shouldering the responsibility for the well-being of three grown women is a perilous burden—the pitfalls are many and the rewards are few. He opened the gate and walked to the side door in the back, but it was locked tight. He retraced his steps and approached the front door. He slid in the key and turned but it would not open. He banged on the door, muttered under his breath and kept attempting to achieve the impossible with a key that failed to function. Finally, after a struggle, the door was opened from the inside by the family servant, Bridget Sullivan.
He complained about both doors being locked in the middle of the day before placing his key on the mantle and walking into the kitchen expecting to see his wife. When Abby was not there, he went up the rear stairs certain he would find her in their bedroom. When he returned to the sitting room, his daughter Lizzie came down the other front staircase and joined him. “Was there any mail, Father?”
“Yes, Lizzie. But none for you today. Where is Mrs. Borden? I did not see her in my room or in the kitchen.”
“A boy delivered a note from a sick friend and Mrs. Borden rushed to help the woman.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know, Father. I did not see the note. You looked exhausted. You need to take a rest.”
Andrew muttered in agreement and laid back on the elegant mahogany-framed couch. Lizzie bent over him, helped him get comfortable, with one foot rested on the flowery-carpeted floor and the other balanced on the sofa with its sole pointing outward. Lizzie left the sitting room, passing through the dining room and into the kitchen.