The Secrets of Lizzie Borden

The Secrets of Lizzie Borden

by Brandy Purdy


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In her enthralling, richly imagined new novel, Brandy Purdy, author of The Ripper’s Wife, creates a compelling portrait of the real, complex woman behind an unthinkable crime.

Lizzie Borden should be one of the most fortunate young women in Fall River, Massachusetts. Her wealthy father could easily afford to provide his daughters with fashionable clothes, travel, and a rich, cultured life. Instead, haunted by the ghost of childhood poverty, he forces Lizzie and her sister, Emma, to live frugally, denying them the simplest modern conveniences. Suitors and socializing are discouraged, as her father views all gentleman callers as fortune hunters.

Lonely and deeply unhappy, Lizzie stifles her frustration, dreaming of the freedom that will come with her eventual inheritance. But soon, even that chance of future independence seems about to be ripped away. And on a stifling August day in 1892, Lizzie’s long-simmering anger finally explodes…

Vividly written and thought-provoking, The Secrets of Lizzie Borden explores the fascinating events behind a crime that continues to grip the public imagination—a story of how thwarted desires and desperate rage could turn a dutiful daughter into a notorious killer.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780758288912
Publisher: Kensington
Publication date: 01/26/2016
Pages: 384
Sales rank: 1,139,456
Product dimensions: 5.50(w) x 8.20(h) x 0.90(d)

About the Author

Brandy Purdy is the author of several historical novels. When she's not writing, she's either reading, watching classic movies, or spending time with her cat, Tabby. She first became interested in history at the age of nine or ten when she read a book of ghost stories that contained a chapter about the ghost of Anne Boleyn haunting the Tower of London. Visit her website at for more information about her books. You can also follow her via her blog at where she posts updates about her work and reviews of what she has been reading.

Read an Excerpt


I awoke from the dream, wishing, as I always did, that it would vanish right away without lingering to torment me, or, better yet, never come to visit me again. I hated it! And I didn't want anything to spoil this special day I had been looking forward to for so many months. But it had already begun to work its evil spell. Curiously, it often came as a herald to announce the coming of my monthly blood, and this time was no exception. It was as though those terrible long-ago memories of the smell of fresh-spilt blood, my bare feet slipping and sliding in it, my bottom thudding down to sit in it, and feeling it soaking through my skirts and drawers seemingly into my very skin, enticed the blood to flow from my own body. How I hated it. The blood and the memories so intricately bound they could never be divided.

I have always claimed to have no memories of my mother, Sarah Morse Borden, who died when I was only three years old, but that is not true. Sometimes it is easier to tell a lie. To say No closes the door on the conversation, whereas saying Yes flings it open wide and invites further inquiry and to slam and bar it then is to be branded rude and inhospitable.

There are actually three things I remember about my mother.

The first is her appearance, her Gypsy-black hair and deep-set dark eyes, brooding and mysterious, the kind of eyes you could imagine intently scrutinizing a spread of tarot cards, shrewdly divining their secrets. Perhaps these recollections owe more to photographs than actual memories; I only know that she had such a stabbing deep stare that to even look at pictures of her makes me uncomfortable, as though her eyes could bore right through my skull and read every thought inside my head plain as words printed on the page of a book. Had she lived, I doubt I would have ever been able to keep a secret from Mother. As awful as it sounds, sometimes just the sight of those sharp, piercing eyes makes me feel relieved that she died before I had any secrets worth keeping. It is disconcerting at times just how much my sister, Emma, with her dark hair and prying and intrusive eyes resembles her; only the full, womanly curves are lacking. Emma is as skinny as a starving bird, with shoulder blades like scalpels.

The second thing I remember about Mother is her clothes. Everyone said she had the fashion sense of a color-blind gypsy. She loved to wear bright colors, fussy, bold, and garish prints in which violent wars raged perpetually between the shades, and fancy fringed shawls and flowered hats and bonnets the louder and livelier the better, and a crude string of coral beads she clung to religiously, superstitiously convinced that they would ward away all evil.

Maybe it was simply that she didn't know any better. She was after all just a poor farm girl who had the good fortune to attract a prosperous undertaker, and there was no mother- or sister-in-law to take her hand and gently guide her in the direction of good taste and refinement. My father, Andrew Jackson Borden, was a tenacious, bull-headed Yankee businessman who knew nothing, and cared even less, about fashion, only what it cost him. But Mother knew how to make the most of a cheap dress goods sale, it was amazing how far she could stretch a dollar at such events, and Father felt blessed to have such a thrifty wife who could bargain a bolt of mauve and orange flowered calico that no one else seemed to want down from a nickel a yard to three cents. And her Sunday best bonnet — a wide-brimmed red-lacquered straw hat adorned with red and green wax tomatoes and a wild spray of sunny yellow dandelions and white meadow daisies sprouting like weeds, cherry-red and apple-green ribbons, and a lace curtain veil — bought on a rare trip to Boston, Father often recounted with great pride, she regarded as her greatest triumph won at only 75¢. If the tomatoes had been real instead of waxen, he always said, they would have rotted long before she bartered its freedom from the milliner's window where it had been languishing the better part of a year. It was the ugliest and loveliest hat I ever saw.

The third, and last, thing I remember about my mother is her blood. The blood that came every month was a time of terror for us all. Father tore at his carroty-red hair and whiskers with worry yet tried to keep his distance, disdaining anything to do with "female matters," preferring the company of corpses instead during what he privately called "hell week," and busying himself with his never-ending, all-consuming pursuit of the almighty dollar. Money was Father's religion, his muse; it occupied his thoughts all day and his dreams all night. He rarely willingly parted with his hard-earned dollars unless he was sure he could make them breed like green rabbits. And my sister, Emma, ten years older than myself, was at school for most of the day, so I was left alone at home with Mother.

Mother hated the monthly blood. No medicine could soothe her. She would throw the bottles at the wall when they failed her, devil-damning the false promises printed on their labels. She would crouch down upon the floor, bracing her back against the wall, and howl like a mad dog at the moon, rocking, crying, and screaming as the blood oozed out and the cramps seized her. Demons, she insisted, were trying to crush her skull; she could feel their talons digging in, and making wild displays of colored lights dance before her eyes. She would rage against God for unfairly visiting this curse upon all womankind to punish one woman's sin. How my mother hated Eve! If a preacher mentioned her in a sermon, Mother would stand up, slash him with the daggers of her eyes, and stomp out of the church as though she were crushing a detested enemy with every step.

It was not time for the blood when she died. I had no inkling that anything was wrong, and neither, I think, did she. She had just finished braiding my unruly red hair into crooked pigtails tied with sky-blue ribbon at the ends and we were in the kitchen baking gingerbread. She was happy and humming as she bent to pick me up. The cookies were shaped like little men and I was to give them raisins for eyes and red currants for mouths and she was going to make some white icing for us to dress them in. What fun we would have, she said, drawing in bow ties and buttons and stripes and flowers on their suits and vests. She swung me up onto her hip, then suddenly her face went white as the new paint Father had just put on the farmhouse, and she dropped me. ... She just let go and dropped me!

I was more surprised than hurt, though I skinned my elbow on the floorboards. I sat up in surprise, rubbing it, whimpering a little when I saw blood, and staring up at her with trembling lips and tears poised to pour. I knew something must be wrong. Mother had never dropped me before!

She gasped and hunched forward, hunkering down, hugging her lady parts, and I saw the blood seep, like a slow-blooming red rose, through her white apron. She gave a choking, anguished cry and fell to the floor and lay there, her body jerking and spasming while her hands still clutched tight between her legs as though they could somehow stanch the fatal flow. Then she was still. I had never been so afraid. I shook her, and cried, slapped, and shouted at her, but she just lay there, still, silent, and so very white as her blood seeped out and spread slowly across the floor, inching toward me, as if it were a monster reaching out ravenous red fingers, coming to get me, steadily advancing, to grasp the hem of my sky-blue cotton dress and white pinafore. I backed away until my spine bumped the wall and my bottom thudded down onto the floor.

When Emma came home from school she found me crying, howling like Mother used to do, reaching up to her with blood-gloved hands, sitting in the sticky, cooling dark-red pool of our mother's blood. The backside of the ruffled white pantalets I wore beneath my skirt had turned completely red and was glued to my skin. That day my whole world seemed to have been suddenly dyed red. I thought I would never feel clean again.

Serious and grave even in childhood, Emma calmly knelt down in the blood — I vividly remember the ends of her long black pigtails trailing in the blood, like an artist's sable brush being dipped in crimson paint — and rolled Mother over onto her back to make sure the flame of life had truly gone out. Tenderly, Emma kissed the stone-cold brow and closed the wide staring eyes. Then she took Mother's hand, kissed it, and clasped it to the heart beating fast beneath her flat, childish breast covered by the garish purple, yellow, and magenta plaid silk of the last dress Mother had made for her, and solemnly promised to "always look after Baby Lizzie all the days of my life." Only then did she release Mother's hand and turn to me. She gathered me up in her arms, promising my clinging, wailing self that she would "never let go."

It was a promise the child I was then was glad she made but the passage of time would often give me cause to regret. What was comforting to a hysterical three-year-old felt to a woman of thirty like a kraken's crushing embrace of the ship or whale it was attacking. Every time I saw paintings or engravings of such scenes I always thought of Emma. Once, as a subtly intended hint, when I was well into my teens, I gave her such a painting that I found in a little shop in New Bedford as a birthday present, but Emma never guessed its significance; she just couldn't see that I was the whale and she was the kraken.

I tried valiantly to shake the remnants of the dream off, but it kept clinging to me like that red sticky blood. I didn't want to think about Mother or her blood that morning. I was going away. I was excited and didn't want anything or anyone to spoil it. For the first time in my thirty years of life I was about to spread my wings and fly out of Fall River, Massachusetts, and escape into the great big, wide, wonderful world and put an entire ocean between me and the cramped closeness of the place my sister called "the house of hate" because the anger, resentment, and frustration that lived inside it was far stronger than its flimsy drab gray-tinged olive walls, so powerful and palpable it seemed to be the only thing holding our family together. Without that simmering animosity gluing us together, I sometimes thought, we'd fall to pieces and have nothing to say and never give a single thought to one another.

I rolled over and curled onto my side, drawing my knees up tight against the cramps, frowning at the faintly metallic tang and disgusting dampness of blood on my light flowered cotton summer nightgown. Always erratic, defying the discreetly penciled notations on my calendar trying to predict its arrival, my despised monthly visitor had come early.

I had bathed late last night, the lamplight giving a soft golden glow to the dark, dank cellar, keeping the dusty boxes of old tools and odds and ends, and the cobwebs in the corners, in the shadows where they belonged, while I sat with my knees drawn up to my breasts, my ample hips and thighs squashed uncomfortably into the old dented tin hipbath, soaking in lukewarm water heated on the kitchen stove and carried down the steep dark stairs in heavy pails by our Irish Maggie before she retired for the night. I had stopped my ears as usual to Father's penurious tirade, exclaiming for what must have been the ten thousandth time that we women should all arrange to bathe upon the same day — not the night, mind you! — and be quickly in and out of the tub, none of this slothful sitting and soaking, a swift scrubbing with strong lye soap — none of that expensive lavender and rose or lily-of- the-valley nonsense! — then a rapid rinse and a brisk rubdown with a towel was all that was required. Father would never even think to take a bath any other way, for his was the right way and his mind was a barred and locked door to the idea that someone else's way might be the right way for them. And we should use the same bathwater, he insisted, to save time and water and cause less trouble to the Maggie. None of us were filthy as coal miners after all. We hardly did anything anyway to raise a sweat or gather grime onto our persons; we were just a lot of lazy females who, between the three of us, could not even keep a decent house and had to waste $4 a week — the stupendous sum of $208 a year — upon a maid. And my stepmother, Abby, was so fat she couldn't fit into the tub at all, and could only stand in it and sluice and scrub as best she could, sometimes using a rag tied to a stick to reach difficult areas, since none of us ungrateful girls were charitable enough to help her, so the water could hardly be considered used at all.

The bar of lavender soap that I had stealthily slipped into my purse while I was perusing the wares on display at Sargent's Dry Goods one day, was the only luxurious thing about me as I sat there shivering and hugging my knees, dreaming of a proper, modern bathroom with a big porcelain tub I could stretch out in, like a reclining mermaid, basking in water that ran hot or cold at the mere twist of a nickel-plated knob, and a real toilet, instead of a crude hole covered by a wooden box seat, standing regal as a porcelain throne, shining like a pearl, on a floor of gleaming tile instead of hard-packed earth, with proper paper to wipe with instead of a stack of old magazines to rip pages from as the need required. I remember I used to sit there while voiding my bowels and in the dim lamplight gaze yearningly upon the fashion plates depicting the latest styles from Paris, and pictures of beautiful ladies enjoying a life of luxury and ease, of dining and dancing, opening nights at the opera and plays, boating excursions, sleighing parties, oyster suppers, clambakes, and games of tennis and croquet with their beaus, and imagine I was one of them — the belle of the ball in strawberry-pink taffeta dancing till dawn in the arms of a prince! Or a grand lady in pink satin, pearls, and point lace surrounded by adoring gallants serving her dainty cakes with pastel-colored frosting upon a silver tray. When the time came to wipe, I would always seek a page of print instead of soiling the images that inspired my dreams, though the others in the house were not quite as discriminating.

I had so wanted to feel fresh and clean when I awoke and put on my new midnight-blue bengaline dress figured with a delicate pattern of arctic-blue roses and the matching wide-brimmed hat, its crown wreathed with a ring of dainty ice-blue satin rosebuds, and now my monthly visitor had come and spoiled it all. Even my underthings were new, pure white cotton with white lace threaded with blue silk ribbons, and now I must either don old or risk soiling them if the blood overflowed or leaked through the bulky towel pinned to my homemade blue calico waistband and slung between my thighs, raising blisters and chafing them raw every time I moved.

I had been frivolous and ordered an ice-blue satin corset, matching garters trimmed with lace, and black silk stockings from Boston, and navy-blue kid gloves and button boots with French heels, the very height of fashion, instead of the usual sensible and sturdy low-heeled brown or black best suited for everyday wear. How Father had frowned over the bills!

"Blue boots and gloves, Lizzie! Mother-of-pearl buttons dyed blue! Shame! French heels! I doubt they will last a fortnight! And blue silk ribbons on your unmentionables! Ribbons and lace where no one but you, and the Maggie when she does the laundry, will ever see them! Even if you had a husband, men don't notice things like that, not even on a painted Parisian whore! Shame, Lizzie, shame! Will you ever learn the value of a dollar? You cannot possess a penny for even half a day without it burning a hole through your pocket! Your mother could stretch a dollar like molasses taffy. I was always amazed at how far that woman could make her pin money go! She could have outfitted herself three times over for what you've spent on your underclothes! Why, all the Sunday dresses she owned during our entire marriage, God rest her frugal soul, cost less than your traveling dress alone! People said she had the dress sense of a gypsy, it's true, but that woman was canny with her coins! But you ... ! I almost died when the dressmaker's bill arrived! Just thinking about it gives me heart palpitations! You'll have us all in the poorhouse yet! Blue boots and gloves, French heels, mother-of-pearl buttons, God help us all! Do not expect me to sell fish out of a pushcart like my father did to support this family after your excesses have ruined us, you greedy, ungrateful thing!"


Excerpted from "The Secrets Of Lizzie Borden"
by .
Copyright © 2016 Brandy Purdy.
Excerpted by permission of KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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The Secrets of Lizzie Borden 4.2 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 5 reviews.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I liked the part where Lizzie went to Europe before settling down at home, and all the details of what she had done while there.
Mirella More than 1 year ago
The story of Lizzie Borden and the murder of her parents have fascinated generations. Did she or didn't she do it? This question circulates to this very day. Now, Brandy Purdy has stepped up and wrote a compelling biographical novel about Lizzie Borden, her life, and her dark motivations. Anyone who reads a novel by Brandy Purdy must be prepared for a grippingly well told story that often bend the facts to enhance the story. And that's what I love most about Brandy Purdy! She knows how to spin a tale and make it soar. She definitely did just that with The Secrets of Lizzie Borden. By using a very person, first personal narrative, the author knows how to delve deep inside her protaganists thoughts and emotions to make them larger than life, and that's what stands out the most about this novel. Lizzie Borden became so real that I truly felt I understood her and why she did what she did. I instinctively knew that I was not supposed to like or hate her - rather to comprehend her motivations. This book definitely left me haunted, exposed to conflicting feelings of loathing and understanding. And that's the sign of a great book. For anyone who loves biographical murder mysteries and novels set in Victorian times, then this is a book you have to read. Compelling, engrossing, shocking! I loved it. Thank you to the author and publisher. I received a free copy of this book in exchange for an honest review.
eternalised More than 1 year ago
The Secrets of Lizzie Borden is one of dozens of books based on Lizzie Borden, the infamous axe murderess (or alleged axe murderess) who supposedly snapped one day and killed her stepmother and father in a most gruesome fashion. Lizzie was eventually acquitted of the crime by a jury. The story is almost as famous as the history of Jack the Ripper, so I’m sure you’ve all heard the tale. In this book, the author dives into Lizzie’s life (fictional, of course) and tries to establish a different kind of Lizzie, one who travelled the world, felt locked in a cage when at home, had a frugal father who denied her frivolities like new dresses and such, had a terrible love life, and eventually murdered her stepmother and father. The story is an okay one, although it drags on a bit in the middle after the supposed climax (the murders) has happened, and then you still have over a hundred pages to go. It makes sense, because Lizzie’s life naturally didn’t end up with the murder of her parents, she lived on for many years after that. But as a reader, you’re most interested in the build up toward the murder – what made her do it? what were her thoughts? – and everything after that isn’t all that interesting anymore. The writing was all right, although a bit quaint, a bit flowery and wordy. The plot was pretty decent too. We see Lizzie go on a trip to Europe, we see her falling in love and then being denied said love, and so on. My major problem with the book, however, is Lizzie. Here, Lizzie is portrayed as a child. She may be thirty or forty years old during some chapters, but she’s still portrayed as a child, looking for love, doing everything she can to find it. She acts very childish when she doesn’t get what she want, she’s so naive that at times I wanted to slap her and basically she holds nothing of the allure, charm, or just general complexity you’d expect from Lizzie Borden – or just from about any person. Lizzie annoyed me so much that I couldn’t enjoy the book because of that. She didn’t seem realistic at all, more like a child stuck in an adult’s body. I received a free copy in exchange for an honest review.
amybooksy More than 1 year ago
The Secrets of Lizzie Borden is an interesting look into a fictional Lizzie Borden. I found it fascinating how the author portrayed Lizzie growing up what led to her step mother and father's murder, and after. I thought she was written to be a likable but sad character. Brandy Purdy did a fantastic job with this book and I highly recommend it! 5 stars.
Griperang72a More than 1 year ago
I enjoy reading books by this author as she has a knack for telling us historical stories and making them more interesting, so when I was offered this book to read I was happy to say yes. Brandy Purdy does a very good job of protraying Lizzie Borden and all the dark things she went through in life. After reading about her childhood and young adult years you can kind of understand why she went a crazy and committed the murders. I can not imagine all that she had to endure although this book gives us a pretty good idea. Her father was so mean and crazy. There is such vivid description in this book you feel as if you can really feel the emotions that Lizzie felt. You felt as if you were right there alongside her throughout her sad life. It seems as if there was not much happiness in Lizzie's life and I felt bad for her. You could tell that the author did a lot of research to get this book just right. I would recommend this book if you are looking to learn a little more about a dark piece of history.