Bridget’s Bad Day

by T.K. Rouse

Excerpt from Silent Rebel: A Lizzie Borden Trilogy © 2005 by T. K. Rouse

First published in November/December, 2006, Volume 3, Issue 4, The Hatchet: Journal of Lizzie Borden Studies.

August 4, 1892

Bridget Sullivan awoke with a dull headache. The sun had beat down upon the roof all summer long, making her little attic bedroom an oven. And today, the humidity was already high. As much as she would have preferred to stay in bed, she had no choice but to get up and commence her chores. She told herself it would be lovely and cool down cellar. Up she got, put on her dress, then slipped her apron over her head and knotted the ties. Swiftly, she coiled her long brown hair, twisted it to the crown of her head, and pinned it in place, wincing a little as the tightness irritated her headache.

There was no time to dilly-dally; there was much to be done before the Bordens arose, and Bridget liked to have a bit of time to herself at the start of the day. She made her way down the wooden back stairs to the second floor. Gingerly, lest she rouse the sleeping Bordens, she crossed the carpeted second floor hallway, and down the carpeted back stairs to the kitchen. She reached the first floor and continued downward to the cellar. There, she briefly made use of the water closet. Bridget tried to use the flush toilet as much as possible, for it saved messing around with her commode, and anything that made less work was just fine with her.

In the basement wood room, Bridget selected several good pieces of kindling, and brought them upstairs to the kitchen stove. She scraped out the cold ashes. Sighing, she went back down again to dump the ashes and fetch a hod-full of coal to start the fire. Once the stove fire was going, she went through the short passageway that led off the kitchen and unlocked and opened the heavy wood door. Through the screen door, she saw the milk had been delivered. She unhooked the door to bring it in. In its place, she put out the pan for the ice man, then re-hooked the screen door. There were footsteps overhead, and Bridget knew she had to speed things up a bit. She spotted some garments she had left on the clothes horse, and she took those down and quickly folded them and set them on one end of the kitchen table.

The sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs foretold the imminent arrival of her mistress. Bridget quite liked Mrs. Borden, but her appearance in morning meant the end to Bridget’s time on her own. From then on in, her morning would be ruled according to Mrs. Borden’s requirements. At least today was Thursday, and Bridget would have a little bit of time off in the afternoon. Bridget looked especially forward to that today, as she was starting to feel a bit of nausea in addition to her headache. She feared the morning would be a long one.

Abby appeared in her usual motley morning clothes, looking worn and shabby, and walking around in those ridiculous old men’s shoes. Bridget felt bad for her—she had to wear those shoes as her ankles swelled up something awful, and it was impossible to find good shoes that were comfortable. But surely Mrs. Borden should have been able to afford some nice, simple cotton dresses for the morning, like those Miss Emma and Miss Lizzie wore. Abby had plenty of clothes for going out, but skimped terribly on house dresses. In spite of her wealth, Abby Borden wore house clothes that were in worse condition than those of Bridget’s own mother, who although she had been an ordinary housewife, always looked very neat and tidy. But Mrs. Borden was getting on in years, and Bridget supposed she had long since passed the point of caring how she looked.

“What have we got for breakfast, Bridget?” Abby asked.

“Much the same as yesterday,” she replied.

“Well, John is here.”

“Is that so?” Bridget hadn’t heard him. “Did he sleep in the attic?”

“No, he slept in the front chamber.”

“Well, there’s nothing special, just the soup and cold mutton.”

“That will do fine for both; there should be plenty left over for dinner. I think he might like to have some of your johnnycakes. Warm over some of the broth, slice up a bit of the mutton, and also put on some of those molasses cookies for us to have with the coffee.”

“Yes, marm,” Bridget said, reaching for the flour. Johnnycakes again today. Mrs. Borden left her to it, retiring to the sitting room.

Bridget had to stop to let in the ice man. She unhooked the screen door and he refreshed the icebox. She thanked him and he went on his way.

Andrew Borden soon appeared in his shirtsleeves, carrying his slop pail and key. He set down the pail, and took the key into the sitting room, where Bridget knew he was going to place it on the fireplace mantle. Bridget felt a twinge of irritation. Not one to forgive and forget, that one, she thought. Since that incident when those things went missing from their room, always, without fail, Andrew Borden kept the master bedroom locked, and placed the key on the sitting room mantle in plain sight of everyone. Whenever he went back upstairs, he got the key, and took it with him. Then down himself would come, and put the key back on the mantle until he needed it again. He did it just for spite, and Bridget knew it. Everyone in the house knew it. Every single day he made sure they knew it. Things like that just ain’t right, Bridget thought, mixing up her batter. The Borden family was so much different from her own. Back in Ireland at the Sullivan house, if there was a problem it was fought out, and done with. Here in the Borden house, they fought a little then went silent, keeping bad feelings inside forever, then letting them out in nasty little ways to torture each other. Bridget sometimes missed Ireland. Better a good row, even a drunken one, instead of cruel little pinches that went on without end.

Andrew was soon back in the kitchen, and Bridget noted him out of the corner of her eye as he took down his cardigan from the nail by the kitchen stove, and gathered up his slop pail. He’ll toss that direct into the yard, she thought with distaste. Good fertilizer, he always claimed. Maybe so, but Bridget certainly didn’t like it during the times she was out in the yard and would accidentally come across some of his foul leavings. Why he didn’t just empty them neatly in his barn privy, she had no idea. Soon he was back, and brought in with him a basket of pears, which he set on the small table near the window. Only then did he stop to wash his hands at the sink for breakfast. Bridget shot the pears a look of disgust. She knew he’d fetched the ones that had fallen to the ground, she’d seen him do it, handling them with the same unwashed hands he’d just used to scatter his putrid slops. Bridget had never been able to touch another Borden pear after she’d witnessed that.

Bridget finished her cooking, and quickly put on the meal as they all sat down. After filling water glasses and passing them around, she left them to it, and returned to the kitchen to tidy up until Mrs. Borden would sound the bell to tell her they were finished. She filled the kettle and set it on the stove for it to heat up, so as to be ready to start the dishes. After a time, she heard the bell and returned to the empty dining room. She hoped for a johnnycake that might settle her queasy stomach, but much to her chagrin, there were none left. Sighing, she pushed Andrew Borden’s dishes aside, helped herself to some clean dishes, and sat down in his place. Bridget had made a habit of doing this; she enjoyed the little naughty ritual, and it made her secretly smile when someone saw her at it, because no one ever said a word to her about it. Bridget took a bit of mutton, then helped herself to some coffee and a few cookies. Bridget did not often take coffee, but she had done so the past few days, as it was supposed to be a good tonic for headaches. She helped herself to plenty of milk and sugar. She did not make a long business of eating, as it was slattern to be idle and take too much time off from the chores. She started gathering up the dishes to take them to the kitchen and commence her washing up.

In the midst of the dishes, Andrew Borden and John Morse walked through the kitchen and the small hallway, where Mr. Borden bid his guest goodbye at the side door. Vaguely, there was some word said about John coming back for dinner, and Bridget rolled her eyes. She would be doing yet another stack of dirty dishes before she could enjoy her free afternoon.

Like a bad omen, Andrew interrupted her work so he could clean his teeth at the kitchen sink. She hated that; he was the only master she’d ever had that did that sort of thing in front of her. Dutifully, she stepped aside, dried and stacked some of the dishes until he was done. Just the sound of him spitting made her nausea return. He filled a basin with water, and went upstairs to finally leave her to work in peace.

Bridget had just got her hands back in the water when she heard Miss Lizzie come down past her, carrying her own slop pail. She went down cellar. When the young mistress came back up, Bridget dried her hands on the dish rag, and asked her what she wanted for breakfast.

“I don’t know if I want any breakfast,” Lizzie said, “But I guess if I should have something, perhaps just coffee and a few cookies.”

As Bridget watched Lizzie get herself a cup and saucer, a severe wave of nausea hit her. There was no denying it this time. The coffee and cookies and mutton she had just eaten were not going to stay down. In a daze, she unhooked the screen door, went out to the landing and dashed down the stairs. She managed to reach a pear tree at the back when her breakfast forced itself up. The acrid waves kept on relentlessly coming at intervals until finally, there was nothing left inside her to purge. She leaned against the tree for a while to steady herself.

The Bordens had been ill for days. Mrs. Borden was afraid they were being poisoned, and thought it might have been the baker’s bread or the milk. Well, Bridget was fond of milk, and drank more than anyone else in the house, and she hadn’t been sick. Of course, today she had put on the milk that was brought just that morning. She had not ate of the baker’s bread, she preferred her own, and her opinion had been if anything was bad, it must have been the bread. So, how was she now coming down with the same sickness as the rest of them? She wiped the sweat off her forehead with her sleeve. It must be a summer complaint, like the doctor had said. Some sickness making the rounds, or else, something they had all been eating was going off, although she had no idea what that might be.

Thankfully, no one was in the kitchen when Bridget returned. She rinsed her mouth out with a glass of water, then stoically finished off the remaining dishes.

Bridget returned to the dining room to set up the table. Another of the strange customs of this house; the table was always kept set and ready, and this had been their way from since before Bridget had come to work for them a few years back. More often than not, the two Borden sisters did not take meals with their parents. So, Bridget’s job was to simply clear the dirty dishes, wash up, then replace them back on the table ready for anyone who wanted to eat. As she was doing so, Mrs. Borden was gliding the feather duster over the mouldings of the door between the dining and sitting rooms.

“Do you have anything to do this morning, Bridget?” Mrs. Borden asked.

Bridget knew something was coming. Employers never simply asked, Can you do such-and-such? lest you told them you was busy elsewhere. They always asked first what you was doing, so they could decide for themselves which job was the more important. She complied, “No, not particular, if you have anything you need me to do.”

“I want the windows washed,” Abby said.

“How?” Bridget asked. If it was only the insides, the job wouldn’t be so bad.

Unfortunately, Mrs. Borden instructed, “Both inside and out; they are awfully dirty.”

Bridget’s spirits sank even further. She felt a little better after having been sick, but doing all the windows did indeed mean she had a long morning ahead with scant hope of resting before it would be time to start preparing dinner. Of course, she had to admit the windows were dirty; it was the smoke from all the mills and factories that did it, all that black soot in the air. “Yes, marm,” she obeyed.

Bridget still had to clean off the stove and put away the rest of the breakfast things. She put all of that in order, then went to let down the windows in order to wash them. Yes, it was going to be one of those days.

Bridget trod down to the cellar to fetch the wooden pail for the water. Back upstairs, she found the window brush. She filled the bucket at the sink, then hauled her gear outside. She paused slightly on the stoop, feeling the warmth and humidity hit her.

“Maggie.”

Bridget’s head whipped around. Miss Lizzie was suddenly at the screen door. Bridget had not heard her come up behind her. She was a light-footed lass, Miss Lizzie; she often startled the young maid by suddenly appearing without Bridget having heard her approach.

“Are you going to wash the windows?” Miss Lizzie asked.

“Yes,” she replied, wondering why it wasn’t perfectly clear, her standing outside with a full bucket and the window brush. Her patience was wearing thin. Then, she remembered the door-locking rules. “You needn’t lock the door, I will be around here, but you can lock it if you want to, I can get the water in the barn.”

Lizzie said nothing, just turned and walked back into the house without hooking the screen door. Bridget rolled her eyes, plopped the pail of water on the steps and went off to the barn to get the special long handle for the window brush.

No instructions, nothing, Bridget mumbled inside her head, screwing the brush into its long handle. Leave the bleedin’ door unhooked and let in all the thieves in the neighborhood. Then she chuckled to herself. It was true, there had been break-ins going on from time to time, but the Bordens were altogether too particular about locking every bleedin’ door, every bleedin’ room. And of course, after that incident last year . . . but it was too much to rattle her head with today. She had grown used to their strange ways, but whenever she was having a bad day she couldn’t seem to help herself from mocking them; it was just so easy to do.

And of course, Miss Emma and Miss Lizzie had always called her Maggie. She didn’t really mind, although she had found it confusing at first. She learned it was custom to call Irish girls by any common Irish name, and it wasn’t very nice. But, her own mother’s name was Margaret, and she missed her mother. Hearing the name the two sisters bestowed upon her almost made her feel as if she had brought a tiny bit of her mother over to America with her. And, the Borden sisters were kind to her.

Bridget lugged the pail and brush around the back of the house, turning right along the south side to start work on the sitting room windows.

“Oh, Bridget!” came a friendly call over the fence. It was Mary Doolan, Mrs. Kelly’s girl. At last, here was a friendly soul to talk to and ease her troubles. Bridget plopped the bucket down in the tall grass and happily jaunted over for a natter.

Perhaps they talked for a little too long, but what was the use of wearing yourself out when you were feeling poorly to start with, and had been assigned a particularly tiresome task for the morning? Both of them were hard working, dutiful girls. No one could begrudge them a chance for a bit of camaraderie. They compared notes about the peculiarities of each other’s employers, although Dr. Kellys being Irish, Bridget sometimes envied her friend’s position.

“Well, I must get on with my work,” Mary sighed. “I hope you feel better, Bridget.”

Yes, the time had marched on, and Bridget knew she had to get the windows done and over with. She washed down the windows with the long handled brush, having to stretch up as far as she could. No easy job was this, as the basement of the house was high, thus the first floor windows were well up off the ground. Bridget swiped off the grime, then carried the pail of dirty water back to the barn to dump it and get a fresh supply. Going to the barn was easier than having to climb up and down the steps to the house. Next, it was off to the front of the house to clean the two parlor windows that faced the street, and those were, of course, always the filthiest. Back to the barn again. Finally, there were the one parlor window at the north side of the house, and next to that, the two dining room windows.

Bridget dumped the last of the dirty water behind the barn. The worst of it was done. As a reward, she rinsed off her face and hands from the cooling water of the faucet, lightly daubing her face half-dry with the skirt of her apron. She had to go back to the kitchen to fetch her dipper, which she would use to fling water up at the windows for a final rinse. No one was in the kitchen. Thankfully, no one had made any further mess for her to clean up, all seemed in order. Perhaps the worst of the day really was done. She took the dipper outside to make swift work of the rinsing. The job would have been easier with a hose, as some people had, but Bridget had learned to make do. Everyone in the Borden house had to make do, and there were no special favors for her.

When the job was done, she simply dumped the rest of the water out into the grass. Time to get to the inside windows. She came in, hooking the screen door behind her. She put the bucket and dipper aside, and then filled a hand basin at the sink. She got the little step ladder out, which was much easier than having to stretch with a pole, and carried it into the sitting room. She fetched in the basin with a wash cloth and set to work.

Before she knew it, she heard a clattering commotion at the front door. Someone was trying to get inside, rattling the locks and the door handle. Bridget got down from the stepladder and went to see who was there. She turned the key, and flipped the little handle of the spring lock, but the door would not budge. “Oh shite!” she cursed, realizing. There were three locks on the front door, for goodness sake, and it was always a bit of a nuisance. Usually just the key lock was engaged during the day, and sometimes the spring lock, but she saw the lower bolt had been left in place as well this time.

From upstairs there came a laugh—Miss Lizzie’s laugh, to be sure. Ah yes, very funny Miss, Bridget admonished. You don’t bother ’n lock the screen door, but the front door must be bolted tighter than a bleedin’ drum. If you had my morning, you’d be cussin’ too.

Bridget slid back the bolt. She swung the door inward to see the dour face of Andrew Borden staring down at her. She blushed, lowered her eyes and moved aside to let him pass. He said nothing. Sure ’n it’s my fault the door was locked, and I’m a foul-mouthed heathen Irish, Bridget understood his look to accuse. There was no point in saying anything to him; he was of the kind that believed never speak unless yer spoken to, Bridget—she always found the less she said to him the better, easier to just let him go on inside. She shut the door behind him, leaving it up to him whether or not to lock it and how, and she returned to her task.

Bridget wiped the windowpane but kept an eye on him through the doorway as he dropped his papers or whatever it was he was carrying, and took off his coat and hung it up in the dining room closet, as was his custom. He turned and began to walk into the sitting room, then stopped as he saw her standing two steps up on the little ladder. He turned back around and sat in an armchair near the head of the dining room lounge to read. Cheerful old sod, Bridget smirked a little and went on washing the window.

Miss Lizzie came down through and went to talk to her father, asking if there was any mail for herself. They droned on, and Bridget caught something about Mrs. Borden having received a note and gone out. She realized then that she had not seen her mistress since getting the instructions about the windows. Bridget was relieved; once she got the windows done, there would be nothing else to do until it was time to start the dinner. Of course, the dinner being a repeat of breakfast, that wouldn’t take too much time. If she hurried, she should be able to get in a decent lie down.

Lizzie Borden went away. Andrew Borden went out to the kitchen, and then he came back into the sitting room to fetch his bedroom key off the mantle. He wasn’t away for long—as Bridget was moving her little ladder into the dining room to get the last of the windows, Andrew came back to the sitting room and sat himself down in the rocking chair near the freshly cleaned window. Bridget had opened it up to the screen after washing, believing it good to let the air in, but Andrew now got up and closed it firmly, as though to make a point. Nothing was ever done right enough for him.

Enjoy it, she thought, pretending to ignore him.

Lizzie came back and passed through the dining room. She went to the kitchen and fetched the little ironing board, placed it on the table corner nearest the kitchen, and set about arranging her fancy handkerchiefs to press.

“Maggie, are you going out this afternoon?” she asked.

Bridget stopped scrubbing and looked at her. “I don’t know . . . I might and I might not; I don’t feel very well.”

Lizzie kept her head down, slowly straightening a damp lace-trimmed cloth. “Well, if you go out, be sure to lock the door. Mrs. Borden has gone out on a sick call, and I might go out too.”

“Oh! Who is sick, Miss Lizzie?” Bridget asked, wondering if indeed there was some dreadful sickness making the rounds.

“I don’t know. She had a note this morning,” Lizzie explained, still fussing with the delicate cloth. “It must be in town.”

And with that, the two women went about their separate chores. Bridget finished off the last window with relish. She took all her gear back to the kitchen, dumped the water and commenced rinsing out the cleaning rags. She had just hung them up behind the stove to dry when Lizzie came to the stove to check on her flats.

“There is a cheap sale of dress goods at Sargent’s this afternoon—eight cents a yard.”

Bridget’s mood perked up right away. A new dress was just the thing. “I am going to have one!” she declared.

With thoughts of pretty new summer dresses and what color fabric she would like, Bridget’s climb up to her room in the attic was not as tiresome as it might have been. She flopped down on her bed with a sigh and shut her eyes. She wondered if she might be bold enough to get a nice dress pattern as well, one of those new packages they had out these days. Oh, how lovely to have something new to wear!

As Bridget lay there dreaming, she heard the City Hall clock strike eleven. Plenty of time left until dinner. Ah! How nice to have these precious moments to escape for a while! Time drifted on as she relaxed on her bed. And so she imagined the dress she might make, what kind of print she would like, or maybe a solid with some fancy work, or perhaps something simple was best for summer and she didn’t want anything that would take too long to make because September would be here before you knew it . . . and she hoped the goods at Sargent’s would still be nice at a mere eight cents a yard . . .

“Maggie!” Lizzie Borden hollered up the stairs. “Maggie, come down!”

Bridget snapped back to reality, making a little groan. Just when she had a few minutes to escape off to herself! She dragged herself out of bed to the head of the stairs. “What is the matter?”

“Come down quick!” Lizzie yelled. “Father is dead! Someone came in and killed him!”

Good God in Heaven! Bridget raced down the stairs, taking them two at a time.

Lizzie was standing at the bottom, her back to the screen door. Bridget rushed past her toward the sitting room, but Lizzie cut her short, “Oh Maggie, don’t go in. I have to have a doctor, quick! Go over. I have to have Dr. Bowen.”

Bridget whirled around and Lizzie stepped aside to clear her way. She hadn’t needed to unhook the screen door, but the fact barely registered. She raced across the street to Dr. Bowen’s house, not bothering to look to see if there was any traffic. She quickly flipped open the catch on the gate and ran up to the door, rang the bell and pounded furiously.

Mrs. Bowen answered. Before the older woman could speak, Bridget breathlessly exclaimed, “We need the doctor right away! Mr. Borden is dead!”

Phoebe Bowen gave a start. However, she was used to these sudden urgent calls, and often they were not as dire as pronounced. Her voice remained calm and soothing, “I’m so sorry dear, but the doctor isn’t in. I expect him along any time though, and I shall send him right over.”

Bridget wheeled around and ran straight back to the Borden house.

Phoebe Bowen paused in her doorway, remembering how Abby Borden had been in such a state the day before. Her husband had paid a call across the street just to check up on them, and that Andrew Borden had practically thrown him out on his ear. Seabury had returned and told her, “He can’t be that sick; he’s still the same old quarrelsome curmudgeon.”

And yet, as she stood in her doorway, the air on Second Street seemed to change, growing thick and ominous. It became clear to Phoebe that something was terribly wrong.

“Doctor Bowen is out, but will be back soon!” Bridget announced. She had already started feeling guilty about the way she had scoffed about the locks all morning. “Oh Miss Lizzie, where was you? Didn’t I leave the screen door hooked?!”

Lizzie seemed far away. “I was out in the back yard and I heard a groan. I came in and the screen door was wide open.”

Bridget’s hands flew up to cover her nose and mouth, Oh dear God, I must not have been paying attention!

Bridget had not noticed Lizzie said she had been in the backyard, and therefore, Bridget could not possibly be to blame for leaving the door open.

 “Do you know where Miss Russell lives?” Lizzie asked.

“Yes.”

“Good. Go and get her. I can’t be alone in the house.”

Bridget grabbed her hat and shawl down from the hooks and set right off out again. She ran all the way to the house she’d imagined, only to find it was the wrong one. The lady had no idea where Miss Russell might live. Bridget’s mind raced so, she could barely think. How could this have happened? Oh dear God, it must be a dream! This can’t be so, it just can’t be!

Bridget started to ask everyone she saw if they knew where Miss Alice Russell lived. Finally, she found a man who knew, and he directed her, “Number thirty-three, around toward the back.” Bridget rushed off, finding the number just after she passed Third Street.

Alice Russell came to the door, and when Bridget relayed the urgent news, Miss Russell’s eyes grew wide with horror.  

“Miss Lizzie wants you to come right away!”  Bridget exclaimed.

Alice told Bridget that she had to change her dress, but then she would come right on over. 

The errand complete, Bridget ran back to the Borden house as fast as her feet could carry her. Let this be only a dream! she fretted as she puffed onward. Up ahead, she saw Dr. Bowen enter the house.

It was no dream.

Mrs. Churchill was now there with Lizzie, and Dr. Bowen was in the sitting room. When he came out, he turned to them. Before he even said a word, the look in his eyes told Bridget her life would never be the same again.