Maplecroft (The Borden Dispatches #1)(20)

I was sent home like a naughty schoolboy, ostensibly to rest and recover, and to consider my actions.

Fine, then. I consider them.

While I consider them, and consider how grand it felt to squeeze the boy’s pulse in his throat, as he struggled against my grip, I consider what on earth could have prompted him to make his unfair, unfounded accusations. What have I ever done to him, prior to this afternoon? Nothing, and that’s another fact which has gone overlooked altogether by my superiors. I’ve never shown him anything but the fondest feelings of paternal kindness, in my efforts to instruct him.

I too am an actor, and a good one in my own right.

But. As I replay the events, today’s and those which remain alleged . . . I am forced to wonder. I struggle to recall. What was I doing on Monday afternoon? Where was I? What inane, ordinary set of tasks did I perform? They must have been ordinary indeed to have slipped so precipitously from my memory.

I’m sure I was reading essays, or otherwise considering the grades of the same ungrateful slugs who watched me warily as I made my exit.

The last thing I recall with any great certainty is mundane enough to imply that the rest of my day was equally so. I was at home, in the office I’ve made for myself on the second floor, where I keep my samples, my supplies, research volumes, my periodicals. I was reading, I believe.

I was reading, and the window was open, and I fancied that I could smell the ocean.





Nance O’Neil


LETTER ADDRESSED TO LIZBETH A. BORDEN, FALL RIVER, MASS., MARCH 29, 1894

You’re wrong, you know: I don’t need your parties, your money, or even your smile—keep all that to yourself, and it makes no difference to me. I’ve never asked you to put on a show; if you’re unhappy, be unhappy and I’ll be right there with you, doing my best to change the situation. I lie for a living—I don’t need more lies cluttering up my leisure time. Even the gentle sort, offered with good intentions.

Your insistence that I should stay away from Fall River “for my own good” is nonsense. I’d like to say we both know that, but perhaps it’s only me, after all. Perhaps you honestly feel you’re doing me some favor, by sending me away like a nervous child to a boarding school, for my own protection and well-being.

Unfortunately for you (but of dear happiness to me!) I am not a child, and I cannot be dismissed so summarily. Therefore, let this letter serve as formal notice that I am coming to visit!

Not in this next week or two, but surely by the end of April. You may expect that I’ll stay a few days or more, and I won’t hear any protests to the contrary. You miss me. I know you do! I couldn’t possibly miss you so thoroughly as I do, if it’s all for naught and unreciprocated. I refuse to believe in a God so cruel as that.

(He’s plenty cruel enough as it is, don’t you think?)

Oh, Lizbeth, if you had any idea, these last few months . . . it’s been a nightmare. The whirlwind kind, where you’re tossed about from place to place, and can’t remember anyone’s name, or any of your lines . . . and the curtain is about to rise. They’re the worst nightmares of all, the kind you can’t wake up from—when it’s all too real, and I’m all too awake, and none of this is anyone’s fault but my own.

I could’ve taken the winter off, you know. I could’ve stayed in my apartment and rested, or I might’ve even sneaked into town to see you. For just one party, perhaps? Just a few short nights, and then back to New York on the train. You could’ve come with me, if you liked. They’re different about things, in the city. I could tell you I loved you, if I wanted, and not worry so much that someone might overhear.

But I didn’t take the winter off. And you didn’t come to New York. And now I’m stuck here by my own design. This season, all the blame can lie with me. I took the second play, when I should’ve thrown my hands into the air and pleaded exhaustion.

(It would’ve gotten me out of The Wanderer, anyway. I mostly took that one because the director wants to arrange Sappho sometime this summer, and I want him to be happy with me, so he’ll keep me in mind; but it wasn’t a project that was near or dear to my heart, and I would have happily skipped it otherwise.)

And now, when I’m almost too tired to hold a pen and write this note, I have all these second, third, and fourth thoughts about the matter.

I should’ve sent Peter to Cathy Francisco or Mabel Lee. Either one of them would’ve done a perfect job in the role he wanted. And by “perfect” I mean, neither of them is a better actress than I am, and he wouldn’t prefer either of them over me.

But no. I’m too frightened of being without work. Acting is such a terrible business! If only I’d been bitten by some other bug . . . but it’s too late for that now, isn’t it?

It’s a permanent worry, I swear. Never confident of the next year’s employment, always in fear that the critics will hate you—and even more afraid they won’t notice you at all. It’s a system designed to tug and batter at one’s vanity. That’s why, I think, so many vain fools survive it.

Sometimes I worry that I’m not vain enough, and this is making me ill, or unnecessarily frantic. I don’t want to be unnecessarily frantic. I want to be calm, and quiet, with you in that lovely little town that leaves you alone. At least for a few days. Well, however long it takes for me to recover from this terrible exhaustion that’s settled so deep into my bones.