At the Farm

A work of fiction by Kathleen Carbone

First published in October/November, 2005, Volume 2, Issue 5, The Hatchet: Journal of Lizzie Borden Studies.

In the evening it took him about twenty minutes to circumvent his property, the farm at Swansea. Andrew noticed that when he went out in the heat of the day, it took thirty-five minutes; the blazing sun slowed him, made him lethargic and even a little light-headed. So tonight he’d waited until dusk.

It was much cooler at the farm than in Fall River. Tempers were cooler here too. Lizzie had joined them the evening before and she was mild-tempered, even friendly to her stepmother Abby. It must be the fresh air. She’d spent a week alone at their home in Fall River when Andrew and Abby had come here to the farm, and her sister Emma had gone to Fairhaven to visit the Reverend’s family.

Well, not completely alone. Her friend had joined her for the time, staying in the guest room. That Swede, or was it a German? Andrew could never remember. Why couldn’t Lizzie find another town girl to be friends with? Had they all been married off? Yes, they were all marred now, unlike Lizzie. 

His youngest daughter was a mystery to him. She was laughing and affectionate one day, cool and unapproachable the next. Yet he could not deny that she was the child of his heart, the one who elicited an affection that had all but left him. He loved Emma of course and was fond of Abby, grateful for her years of companionship. But Lizzie was his only darling. He had never even said the word “darling” to anybody since his first wife, Sarah, had died. 

Lizzie would one day take over his fortune, he was sure. He hadn’t been blessed with a son because Lizzie was meant to be his heir. They talked together about what it took to smoothly run a business, what was necessary to make money grow. He told her and she listened, asking questions and re-asking them in such a way that only a true businessman would. Or businesswoman, in this case. 

She was not going to marry some amorous, greedy swain who would run through his fortune in a few years and leave her penniless, not his Lizzie. Had dear Emma been romantically inclined, he could imagine that sort of thing happening to her. As it was, Andrew was content that both of his daughters had become spinsters.

Dusk had retreated into full darkness and an almost chilly breeze tossed the treetops above him as he headed back to the farm from his evening constitutional. Abby would already be in bed; perhaps he and Lizzie would sit up together. Here at the farm it was so dark that he allowed for kerosene lamp light, and he saw a dim glow from the front room, and another from the bedroom that Lizzie occupied.

Had she retired for the evening too? She’d seemed odd this morning, odd even for Lizzie. She was dreamy eyed and taciturn. Her ladies’ time, maybe? No, something else was on his daughter’s mind, and he knew that nothing would make her talk about it until she was ready.

The last time she had been so pensive was when another friend-that girl she’d been so close to, what was her name, Collins? Collinsworth?— had married. Lizzie had been disconsolate for months, had spent months moping about the house, eyes red and teary. What was it that went on in her mind? He would never know.

If she had retired early tonight then he would sit up alone, read for a while. It was lovely at the farm. So quiet.

An hour later, he had become too sleepy to read. He took up the small reading lamp to light his way to bed, passing Lizzie’s room on his way. He was very tired.

The doors at the farm were not locked fast, as they were at home. In fact the door to Lizzie’s bedroom did not even close properly, it stubbornly creaked an inch or so open after it was shut. He would have a look at it in the morning. As he passed he glanced into the room and the breath caught in his chest. He could see a reflection in the vanity mirror, and it was…Sarah? 

No, of course not. It was Lizzie brushing her hair out at the small dressing table, a lamp by her side. He had always admired his youngest daughter’s resemblance to his beloved first wife, gone twenty years now. 

Brushing her hair in a soft white nightdress, Lizzie was now the absolute image of her mother. The image of Sarah, he well remembered her sitting at her own dressing table, waiting for him to join her. How happy they had been, would his Lizzie ever know that happiness? His heart ached as he observed her beauty, only twenty-five years old, 

Might she yet find love, or at least a lasting companionship?

She finished brushing her hair and Andrew was about to resume his quiet way to bed, (he detested sneakiness and began to feel intrusive) yet he could not help but watch for a moment longer. She was beautiful in the gentle lamp light, and he couldn’t deny a flush of fatherly pride.

Lizzie placed the brush on the dressing table and closed her eyes. Her lovely hand (so like Sarah’s) went to the front of her nightgown and unbuttoned it, then separated the folds. Her hand slipped inside.

Andrew felt a flood of embarrassment and was about to withdraw, but again his eyes were drawn back to the figure in the mirror. She had opened the nightgown and his embarrassment turned to shock. On her right breast was a welt of some sort. Red and angry looking, bluish at the edges. What had she done to herself? 

And now she was caressing the bruise, her eyes still closed and a look of…a look of ecstasy on her face.

He squinted; it was not a bruise. It was a bite.

Rage engulfed him. 

Who had done this? Who had she been with? And could she possibly be pregnant now as well? Who had seduced his baby, his Lizzie? He would find the man and kill him.

And then it came to him; one of those moments in life when a thought, the realization of something so powerful nearly knocks a man off of his feet. It was like this when he’d first realized that Sarah was really dead; that his beloved wife would be in need of one of those caskets he sold back then. 

He realized that there was no man. It had been that girl that Lizzie had taken up with over the summer, that foreigner had done this ungodly thing. And as he watched Lizzie’s face as she touched the red mark, he knew that Lizzie herself had initiated the act. Had been encouraging and indulging in such unnatural pleasures under his roof for years. He had refused to see-how she coddled her young female friends, bought them extravagant gifts (he got the bills for them of course) took them to restaurants, slipped up to the guest room with them and closed the door. The whispers, the muffled laughter and worst of all, the sudden extended silences. God knew what they’d done up there! 

He’d known. He’d known all along, but the knowledge had been somewhere in a place without words. There were no words for this.

Her mystery had been revealed to him tonight, and the fruit of that knowledge was like a poison apple. There would be no going back now; the dreams of a happy future were simply snuffed out.

But she would pay. Somehow, he would make her pay for this unholy betrayal of his love. She would come to know, in that way without words that had enlightened him. She would know that he knew her secrets.

Suddenly he was flooded with tears, as bitter and sorrowful as the rage that still held him in its swift grasp. Grief and loss swallowed his heart and he felt that Sarah had once again been taken from him. He would never see her in Lizzie again, would not suffer her memory to such a thing.  He’d lost darling Lizzie now, as well as Sarah.

Andrew grasped the lamp tighter, his knuckles whitening around its ornate stem. Otherwise he would have dropped it to the floor and set the whole place on fire.