There were more boats than Lizzie had ever seen in a single place before. They choked the river from shore to shore — sailing boats whose masts were covered with flowers, palms and exotic plants; rowboats decorated with flags and lanterns; canoes and steam launches, and dinghys and outriggers and houseboats; boats Geoffrey described as “dongolas” (had he twisted his tongue on gondolas?) and others he described as “sculls”; boats with brilliantly colored canopies and boats with striped awnings, boats poled by pairs and longer boats paddled by six or even eight — boats everywhere she looked! And all along the river bank were carriages and other vehicles, and gaily dressed people standing on the towpath under the hot summer sun, cheering or shouting or singing or simply watching the race — if indeed it was a race. But Geoffrey had made reference earlier to the Henley Regatta, hadn’t he? And what was a regatta if not a race? Still, none of the people here on the river seemed frantically striving to win anything, seemed instead to be caught in some joyous exodus, their exuberant voices rising above the clatter of the paddles to join the buzz of voices on the embankments. A summertime spirit of — gaiety, she supposed — hung on the air, as palpable as the warm sunshine and the cool river breeze. She had never known such gaiety in her life.
And later, as dusk claimed the countryside, electric lights flashed on many of the pilings up and down the river, and on some of the boats as well. A houseboat named Pitti-Sing had hanging over its doorway two miniature canoes, each aglow with what Geoffrey called “fairy lights”. The lone had her name spelled out in similar lights — the candles of these, however, flickering in red glass containers — and yet another boat was decorated with a large gilt crown outlined in lights, its center ablaze with the letters V. R. A punt slipped past, the name La Capa Negra stitched in white on a red bunting that flew from a tall pole, and the three musicians in the boat spoke Italian to each other and wore black crepe masks and sang Italian songs (though Geoffrey assured her the men were English) and then passed about a fishing net, soliciting money. In another boat there were men singing what Geoffrey called “nigger music”, and in yet another a young girl sang to the accompaniment of a harp, her lilting voice floating out over the dark waters reflecting the glow of Chinese lanterns and illuminated stars in lamps draped with flags.
They sat on the embankment later, eating sandwiches Geoffrey purchased in a garden immediately opposite a bridge glowing with electric lights, watching the boats passing by in what Geoffrey called “our Venetian Fête”. One of them was rigged as a Chinese pagoda, the children aboard dressed in Chinese costumes, a floating crimson palace lighted with an opal roof; another, smaller boat flickered with a myriad number of lanterns twinkling in a halo of greenery; yet another was startlingly decorated with a freshly cut tree festooned with lights on every bough. There was a boat with a large Japanese umbrella hung with small lanterns and fixed to its masthead. A punt decked out as a two-master floated past with lanterns hanging from the crosstrees of both masts. On one of the rowboats, a lantern caught fire, and one of the two men aboard seized a boathook and struck wildly at the flaming lantern, finally putting it out to the accompaniment of cheers from the crowd on the bank.
And then came the fireworks from the opposite bank, and the crowd held its breath as reds and blues and whites and greens exploded against the night. Lizzie’s heart soared into the sky with each successive explosion, trailed to earth again in a shower of glowing sparks. And when at last the hour-long bombardment of rocket sticks had ended, and the lights of the boats dwindled on the distant river to be replaced by starshine on the black waters, Geoffrey got to his feet and extended his hand to her and said, “We must go, Lizzie. We’ll be returning to Richmond by coach, and from there to London by train, but even so, the hour is late.”
Lizzie rose, smoothing the back of her skirt, slightly damp from the grass. “I hate for it to end,” she said, sighing. “You’ve made our stay here so wonderful. I can’t imagine how we shall ever repay you.”
“You’ve just repaid me more than adequately,” he said. “Although it mightn’t hurt,” he added with a wink, “to mention to my dear sibling, should your paths chance to cross again, how devastatingly charming, thoughtful and witty was her brother. I know it will please her.”
“You’re so very alike,” Lizzie said, as they walked up the embankment. “In so many ways.”
“As well we should be,” Geoffrey said.
“It’s not all that usual, you know,” Lizzie said. “Even in the closest of families, brothers and sisters...”
“Oh, but didn’t she tell you?” Geoffrey said. “We’re twins, you know.”
And all at once Lizzie realized that having spent these past several glorious days with Geoffrey as her guide and constant companion had been the equivalent, virtually, of having Alison by her side all that time.
“We must hurry, you know,” he said. “I shouldn’t want to miss our coach. Ladies!” he called. “Do come! Felicity! Anna! Rebecca! Never mind your skirts, I shan’t ogle your pretty ankles!” There was laughter behind them as the other women scurried up the bank, holding their skirts above their flashing legs.
“Presto, signorine!” he shouted in Italian, and winked at Lizzie and took her arm, and their smiles and their eyes met and joined in the star-drenched night.
6: New Bedford — 1893
“Be good enough to lift your veil. What is your full name? ”
“Anna H. Borden.”
“You live in Fall River, Miss Borden, do you?”
“Yes, sir.”
”And have all your life?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You are, I believe, not a relative of the prisoner.”
“No, sir.”
“How long have you known her?”
“About five years.”
“Did you at some time make a trip abroad with her?”
“I did.”
“In what year?”
”1890.”
“Did you occupy the same cabin in the steamship?”
“I did.”
“On the outward and homeward voyages?”
“I did.”
“When was your return voyage? What time did you arrive in New York, if you landed in New York?”
“I think it was the very first of November.”
“And your voyage was about the preceding week? The week preceding the first of November?”
“Yes, sir. The last week of October, I think.”
“During that voyage, did you have any talk — during the return trip, I am speaking of now — did you have any talk with the prisoner with respect to her home?”
“I object to that,” Robinson said.
“What year?” Chief Justice Mason asked.
“1890,” Moody said. “The week preceding the first of November in 1890. And this is simply a preliminary question. On the question of the admissibility of this testimony, I should like to say a word to Your Honors. I wish to call attention to the nature of the conversation in arguing upon its admissibility. Your Honors can very readily see that statements which indicate a permanent alienation may be of importance even though quite distant from the time under inquiry. In order to fully understand the nature of this testimony and its importance, I shall be obliged to state more fully about it. It is merely a preliminary question now.”