Maplecroft (The Borden Dispatches #1)(5)
After a brief hesitation she said, “Andrew is, a bit.”
“What are his complaints? Are they precisely like yours, or is there some variation to his discomfort?”
“I couldn’t say.” She shook her head. “He hasn’t spoken about it. I’ve only . . . noticed. As his wife, who shares the same household. You understand.”
“Of course,” I replied. “And what of your stepdaughters?”
Her face darkened and for a moment she quit worrying the pendant. “I wouldn’t know. I haven’t spoken to either of them lately.”
“Ah. Has there been any significant change in the family diet?”
She shook her head again and said, “No, I don’t believe so.”
I did not press her any further. I already knew what bothered her bowels, though I couldn’t bring it up without prompting denials and offense. So rather than invite confrontation, I said, “Perhaps it’s something seasonal, then. Dyspepsia can arise from almost anything—and rather than leap to alarming conclusions, I honestly think this can be handled with simple, common treatments.”
I offered her some harmless prescriptions, chiefly carbonate of ammonia pills and white bismuth. It wouldn’t hurt, and it might even help.
I did not doubt that she was suffering from indigestion. I only doubted my personal ability to address the root cause thereof.
? ? ?
It was no great secret that the Bordens had difficulties. Andrew’s spinster daughters never developed any affection for Abigail; and with the lot of them living under one roof, tensions could—and often did—overflow into arguments . . . the kind of arguments which nearby neighbors might hear, and pretend they hadn’t.
Not long before Abigail Borden sought me out for this first of many complaints, things at home had escalated in an unexpected and unfortunate fashion.
As I said, Andrew was older than his wife. He’d lived a full lifetime before ever meeting her. Whether or not she loved him I cannot speculate; but she was content with him, and by all appearances their union was a “good match,” as they say, even though he was widely regarded as a tight-fisted curmudgeon. Regardless, she was at ease with the decisions that had brought her to Andrew, an aged but still vital man—who had a fortune and a family, if few friends.
That said, I do not think she knew about his son. I’m not sure anyone did, until he appeared.
When William strolled into town claiming Andrew as his father, efforts were made to keep his existence quiet. I believe he stayed at the Borden home for a few days, though surely a hotel would have been a better choice. At any rate, I saw him coming and going repeatedly over a weekend once, and the timing was deeply suspicious: The elder patriarch was in the process of revising his will—a tense time in any moneyed family. But to a family so fractured already, and burdened with middle-aged daughters unlikely to marry? What added pressure would come with a shiftless bastard in search of an inheritance?
Little wonder Mrs. Borden was experiencing gastrointestinal distress. She’d hardly be human if she didn’t.
That’s why I gave her the harmless medicines to soothe her. And that’s why I looked no closer, not at that time. The situation was so clear to me! So obvious!
Yet the matters were so personal, I doubted she would speak of them; and I didn’t think she’d tolerate my talking about them with any frankness. After all, this was a woman unwilling to converse aloud about her husband’s flatulence. Dragging his past indiscretions into the conversation could only make things worse.
Or that’s what I told myself when I sent her away, bottles in hand, her pendant clinking against one of them as she walked.
The next week she came to see me again, twice in quick succession. Still she complained of the troublesome stomach, though the pains were worse, she said. I suspected the beginnings of a peptic ulcer, but I didn’t go so far as to suggest it. The treatments were similar anyway, with the added admonition to rest, avoid stressful engagements, and alter her diet.
Abigail was already resting more than might have been considered strictly healthful, and she was scarcely eating as it stood. I was afraid that any attempt to more closely restrict her intake would lead to emaciation.
There wasn’t much I could do about her stressful engagements. They all lived in her house, or insisted they had a right to.
Before long, Andrew sought me out as well. His complaints were similar, though never quite as advanced as his wife’s—for Abigail’s digestive issues continued and she grew paler before my eyes. Had the circumstances surrounding her decline been any different, I might have noticed sooner that I’d made some egregious mistake in the diagnosis.
But in my slim defense, William’s interference had crossed a threshold from nuisance to criminal mischief. The authorities were called on two separate occasions; and on one of these, to my serious concern, both Andrew and Abigail accused the wayward young man of trying to poison them.
Back then, I considered the accusation, turning it over in my mind. Given even what little I knew of William’s character, I couldn’t dismiss the possibility outright; and the Bordens did appear collectively weakened—even Emma and Lizzie were unusually wan. They too admitted feeling as if they’d eaten something tainted, though neither went so far as to accuse their half brother of any misdeed.
I offered my assistance, providing more bismuth, diluted nitrous acid, canella bark powders, and even charcoal in case they suspected poison in the future.