“No, don’t!” Lizzie cried, and hurled herself upon her. “I don’t want to hear another word, I shan’t be able to stand it!” Kissing her fiercely, she murmured, “I love you so much, oh God, I love you to death,” crushing herself hungrily against her, and knowing in that instant that Alison was as much her own twin as she was Geoffrey’s. And suddenly, confronted with this darker knowledge, she wondered which of them — she or Alison — truly controlled their tumultuous joinings, and realized all at once that it was beyond the control of either; they were only what they were; she was all that Alison said she was. She allowed the raging sea to wash over her then, accepting wave after wave, no longer caring what she was or might become, no longer trying even to guess who this woman drowning in the arms of another woman might be.
On the twenty-third of October, they returned to London, where Lizzie was reunited with her friends at the Hotel Albemarle. Her letters to them had been full of lies about her continuing frailty, and they were surprised to see her looking in such good health, though, in fact, the color she had picked up in Cannes had faded with the September rains, and the unusually cold winds of October had kept her and Alison indoors much of the time.
Felicity confessed that a gondolier in Venice had pinched her bottom.
Rebecca said that her German had served them beautifully in Munich and Berlin, but that it had not been understood as well in the smaller towns.
Anna complained that the food had been virtually inedible everywhere — “especially in Italy”.
She saw Alison for the last time on a blustery cold Saturday, two days before she and her friends were to sail home from Liverpool. In the Burlington Arcade that morning, she bought Alison a small pillbox with the sentiment Thine Forever enameled in black script lettering on its bright pink top. She gave it to her over lunch at Gatti’s in the Strand. Alison’s farewell gift was a brilliant red orchid. To the crowds passing by outside the restaurant later that afternoon, the two women in tearful embrace on the sidewalk must have seemed indeed a commonplace. They kissed once more, lingeringly, and then walked off in separate directions, their heads bent against the wind blowing fiercely all about them.
The stateroom she and Anna were to share on the homeward voyage was the same one they had occupied on the outward journey, a luxurious compartment on the promenade deck, fitted with two bedsteads, wardrobes, armchairs, a writing table and a couch. A stained-glass shutter screened the window, and late October sunshine filtered through it, dappling with oranges, reds, yellows and blues the bed upon which Lizzie sat. Across the cabin Anna was unpacking. When Lizzie burst into sudden tears, she could not for the life of her imagine what the matter was.
“Lizzie?” she said, coming to her. “Are you all right, dear? You’re not taking ill again, are you?”
Lizzie shook her head.
“Then what is it?” Anna asked.
Lizzie choked back a sob, and then dabbed at her eyes with a lace-trimmed handkerchief. “I wish we weren’t going home so soon,” she said, tears brimming in her eyes again.
“Soon? But Lizzie, we’ve been gone...”
“Oh, Anna,” she said, “I’ve had such a happy summer!”
“Well, we all have, dear. But that’s no reason to...”
“I shall never be so happy again,” Lizzie said.
“Of course, you will. Lizzie, Lizzie...”
“Never,” Lizzie said. “My home shall be such an unhappy one now, I know it! I wish I could stay here forever, I wish I could...” and she burst into fresh tears again. “Such an unhappy home,” she sobbed into her handkerchief, “such an unhappy one.”
Patting her hand, embracing her — but not too closely, for Lord knew what she might be coming down with now — Anna tried to understand what Lizzie had meant. A happy summer? Why, she’d been sick most of the time! And she’d missed most of France, and all of Italy and Germany!
So far as Anna could see, Lizzie had hardly made any journey at all.
16: New Bedford — 1893
“I desire to remind the jury,” Chief Justice Mason said, “that there is still a further word to be said before this cause will be finally committed to them. The charge to the jury will be read by Mr. Justice Dewey.”
The courtroom today was as crowded as it had been yesterday when Lizzie had listened to Robinson argue on her behalf that the state had failed to prove its case. She could not have imagined then that the courtroom could have held a single person more, but today it seemed as though the crowd, should it take in its breath collectively, might cause the walls to swell and collapse into the street below.
Yesterday morning Robinson had begun his closing argument to the jury at nine o’clock, had spoken until the recess and had resumed his argument at two-fifteen in the afternoon. There were some among her supporters who had felt his address was not quite as eloquent as might have been expected of him, but she had been deeply moved when, in conclusion, he had said to the jury, “Gentlemen, with great weariness on your part, but with abundant patience and intelligence and care, you have listened to what I have to offer. So far as you are concerned, it is the last word of the defendant to you. Take it; take good care of her as you have, and give us promptly your verdict ‘Not Guilty’ that she may go home and be Lizzie Andrew Borden of Fall River in that blood-stained and wrecked home where she has passed her life so many years.”
Knowlton had begun his closing argument yesterday afternoon, had spoken through the remainder of the court day, and had concluded this morning with the words, “Rise, gentlemen, rise to the altitude of your duty. Act as you would be reported to act when you stand before the Great White Throne at the last day. What shall be your reward? The ineffable consciousness of duty done. There is no strait so hard, there is no affliction so bitter that is not made light and easy by the consciousness that in times of trial you have done your duty and your whole duty. There is no applause in the world, there is no station of height, there is no seduction of fame that can compensate for the gnawings of an outraged conscience. Only he who hears the voice of his inner consciousness — it is the voice of God himself — saying to him, ‘Well done, good and faithful servant’, can enter into the reward and lay hold of eternal life.”
It had seemed to Lizzie, soberly listening to him, that the jury was profoundly impressed by his words. He had ended his address at twelve-fifteen this morning, and it was now two o’clock. The jurors, who had returned after recess to hear Chief Justice Mason’s brief opening remark, now turned their full attention to Justice Dewey. He looked uncomfortably hot in his black judicial garments. He consulted the papers before him, looked at the jury once to make certain they were settled and awaiting his words, and then began his charge.
“Mr. Foreman and gentlemen of the jury,” he said, “you have listened with attention to the evidence in this case, and to the arguments for the defendant’s counsel and of the district attorney. It now remains for me, acting in behalf of the Court, to give you such aid toward a proper performance of your duty as I may be able to give, within the limits for judicial action prescribed by law. And to prevent any erroneous impression, it may be well for me to bring to your attention, at the outset, that it is provided by a statute of this state that the Court shall not charge juries with respect to matters of fact, but may state the testimony and the law.