James Bond

When Lizzie Borden Went on a Date With James Bond

Fiction Maureen Mancini Amaturo

Rye, New York, USA

Spinster had never suited her. For Lizzie, the last phase of rebuilding her life meant a relationship. Not that she knew what she was missing. Too many years of control, monotonous responsibility, and unhappy years of confinement in the Borden household had eaten away at any chance she might have had at love or even a satisfying companionship. But that was over now. She was rid of that house, rid of those ways, rid of her parents.

Now settled into Maplecroft, her own home on the right side of the tracks, Lizzie was ready to explore life. And since her sister, Emma, recently had moved far north after their furious argument, nothing would stand in her way. Feeling more lucky than lonely to be living on her own, Lizzie was determined to find happiness finally. She glanced at a photo of her father that sat on her mantle and smiled a cruel smile. The picture of Abby, her stepmother, went out with the trash the day she moved out of the Borden home, after the ordeal came to a close. Overcome with passion for a new start, she removed her father’s photo from the frame and burned it in the cellar.

So much about her former life never suited her. To symbolize the newness of all that she envisioned for herself, she began to call herself Lizbeth. Even her name had to go. Like Andrew and Abby Borden, Lizzie was dead. Now, Lizbeth had a life to live.

Late one evening, after a raucous party she threw for her actress friend, Lizbeth considered an offer one of her guests had made. “I know a man, an interesting man. Mysterious, but adventurous. He’s single. A man of means and always welldressed, I might add. He travels a great deal. With your interest in travel, I always thought you two might get on. If you’re interested, I could speak to him.”

Lizbeth waved her friend away. “No, no, no. I’d like to but … it’s … it’s just that—”

“He’s from out of town, quite out of town. He’s British. He wouldn’t be quite so familiar with all the, you know, the ordeal.”

Lizbeth nodded. “Let me think it over.”

When everyone had gone, Lizbeth felt the silence in her empty, 14-room house. Maybe a dinner or a theater performance with a nice man would change things, she thought. No one could condemn me for wanting companionship. Lizbeth invited her friend for lunch later that week, and over dessert, she revealed that she most definitely was interested in meeting the man. Her friend was more than thrilled to help Lizzie escape the social jail she had been suffering. Though her parents’ murder trial had found her not guilty, society judged her still.

Lizbeth’s friend shared the good news two days later. “He’s interested in meeting you, as well. I knew he would be. I’m not quite sure what his business is, but whatever it is, it leaves him with little time to socialize. He’s looking forward to a nice dinner at Old Ebbitt Grill. What do you say?”

“I’ll go.”

“It’s settled then. I’ll give him your number. You two can arrange a day and time.” She hugged her friend. “And wear that new lilac dress.”

A week later, Lizbeth was on her way to Old Ebbitt Grill for the first blind date of her life. She pulled the door open and met a mumble of low conversations, the bustle of waiters weaving through tables, glasses and silverware tinkling, and the music of a woman’s voice. A songstress stood near a piano in a spotlight in an otherwise darkened area. She stood on the floor, not a stage, singing something that sounded sad, a song Lizbeth did not recognize. The aroma of sizzling meat and boiled potatoes veiled the dining hall. Lizbeth scanned the room. In the low light, she saw him standing in the arranged spot, just as they had discussed. Medium height, light hair, broad shoulders, wearing a formal dinner jacket, she was sure he was her date. She approached. “Excuse me, I’m Lizbeth, Lizbeth Borden.”

He extended his hand to her. “Bond. James Bond.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Bond.”

He eyed the room and glanced over his shoulder. He looked toward a far corner in the room. The table he requested, tucked in the shadows, was set for two. A

single red rose snipped to just inches tall leaned in a squat vase in its center. “Shall we? Our table is ready.” He pointed, then stood to the side allowing Lizbeth to proceed. “After you.”

A waiter appeared as soon as they were seated and handed them menus. “Good evening, would you like a drink to start?”

“Yes.” James Bond looked at Lizbeth. “For the lady?”

“An Old Fashioned, please.” Lizbeth unfolded her napkin and smoothed it onto her lap.

“Martini. Shaken, not stirred,” Bond said.

“I’ll return with your drinks and take your order.”

Bond handed Lizbeth a menu and opened his, holding it high, covering the lower half of his face. He peeked over the top, his eyes darting around the room. “Miss Borden, would you mind if we shift our chairs somewhat? Perhaps out of the line of the chill from the front door.”

“I don’t feel a chill.”

“I assure you, this room does tend to develop a chill as the evening goes on. May I?” He stood and walked to the back of her chair. She rose, and he moved both of their chairs further to the dark side of the table. He tugged at his crisp, white shirt cuffs, peeking perfectly beyond the edge of his jacket sleeves. “Quite crowded. I’ve never been here when it wasn’t. They make a killing.”

“Killing?” Lizbeth stiffened. Heat crawled up her neck. She felt her face get warm.

“Are you well?” Bond asked. “You look a bit flushed.”

She took a deep breath. “I’m fine.” She noticed his cufflinks. Their sparkle in the candlelight was nearly hypnotizing. “So, what line of work are you in, Mr. Bond?”

He did not answer right away. His attention was on a man in a blue suit who had just entered. “Mr. Bond? I asked, ‘What line of work are you in?’”

“Pardon me.” He placed his menu on the table. “International affairs. I do travel quite a bit.”

Lizbeth leaned forward. “Travel. I envy you. I’ve dreamed of traveling for so long. My father, you see, was quite strict. He forbade me from socializing and activities that were not related to my church duties.”

“How unfortunate. Do your parents live here in Fall River?” Bond lifted a small rolled paper from his inside pocket and slipped it into a compartment in the bottom of his cigarette lighter.

Lizbeth’s eyes followed his hand. How strange. “No.” She hesitated. “No, they are dead. I’m quite on my own.” She watched him place the lighter in a side pocket. “They are buried in a handsome plot here in town.”

“I’m sorry. My condolences. May I ask, how did they die?”

She froze. I should have known this would come up. “Under mysterious circumstances. I can’t quite say.”

Bond’s brows rose. “Mysterious circumstances? Mysterious circumstances are, shall we say, a strong suit of mine.”

“Well, not too mysterious. Blunt trauma to the head. Both of them. Brutal, so brutal.”

“Both of them?”

“Yes, both.” “Most unfortunate.”

Not really. Lizzie nodded and looked down at her napkin.

“An accident?”

Lizbeth hesitated. “No. Not an accident. Quite deliberate, it seemed.”

“Murder, then?”

“Perhaps. The horror of it all was just … just … such a shock.”

He folded his arms and leaned back against his chair. “I should think so. Did the culprit ever come to trial?”

I don’t know how to answer. What shall I say? She feigned sadness. “There was a trial. However, it has never been determined who the murderer was.”

“You were at the trial, I presume. Are you satisfied with their verdict?”

“I was at the trial, yes. Their verdict is completely agreeable to me.” Lizbeth cleared her throat. “I prefer not to speak of it, if you don’t mind. Quite upsetting. And certainly not the ideal topic to share on a first meeting.”

“Of course.” Their drinks arrived. Bond asked the waiter to return in a few minutes as they were not yet ready to order. He raised his glass and looked into Lizbeth’s eyes. “A toast?”

Bond touched his glass to hers. “Live and let die.”

She repeated, “Live and let die.”

Bond’s eyes shifted to another table. “I’m so sorry. Would you pardon me for a moment?”

“Of course.” Lizbeth sat up straight. She turned to follow Bond’s stare. A man in a blue suit had just been seated.

“If you don’t mind, please let the waiter know that I’ll be having roast grouse and asparagus with hollandaise sauce. If

you’re undecided, I suggest the Mayfair Stoned Crabs with melted butter. They are bloody good.” He rose. “Excuse me.”

Lizbeth watched as he approached the other man in the blue suit. She saw him hand the man his cigarette lighter. The waiter approached. “May I take your order?”

She kept her eyes on Bond as she gave the waiter their order and was relieved that Bond didn’t linger in conversation but returned to their table in a timely manner.

Bond noticed Lizbeth had finished her drink. “Another?”

“I couldn’t.”

“But you could. Who will judge you?” Bond raised his hand to call the waiter. “Are you feeling well? You look a bit uncomfortable.”

“Excuse me.” Lizzie fluffed her short bangs with her fingers. “Lost in thought. Things I’d rather not remember.” Lizbeth steered the conversation away from anything related to her past until the waiter brought their drinks and their food.

“Well, then,” Bond said. “Tonight is for finding some cheer. Let’s enjoy the night with conviction.”

Lizbeth jumped. That word again. I’ve heard it too many times.

“Perhaps another drink is just what you need. You seem on edge.”

Lizbeth forced a smile. “Odd, ‘old-fashioned' defined the root of my unhappiness before my parents … well, before. Now, an Old Fashioned may be just the thing to set me free.”

“That seems like an apt verdict,” Bond said. They raised their glasses in a second toast. “And if necessary, we’ll order a third until complete contentment has you under arrest.”

Lizbeth nearly dropped her glass onto her dinner plate. “I wish you would choose your words more carefully.”

“I do apologize. Have I said something wrong?” James Bond noticed that the man in the blue suit had passed the cigarette lighter to the songstress, who had just left the stage. That was his cue. “Miss Borden—”

“Lizbeth, please.”

“Lizbeth, I do apologize, but I must excuse myself one more time. Please, go right ahead and begin your dinner. I’ll only be a moment. Our last interruption, I assure you. When I return, my full attention will be on you. I will be here for your eyes only.” He placed his napkin on the table. “Pardon me.”

“Of course.” Lizbeth peeked over her shoulder. Her gaze followed him. She gasped when she saw him approach the vivacious woman with long, red hair who had just stepped away from the stage. She’s just the type. Moonraker. Man-stealer. Whore. Lizbeth imagined leaving before he returned. She imagined staying and giving him a stern word or two about his rude behavior. She imagined worse. Lizbeth’s whole being boiled with rage as she watched Bond follow the redhead through a shadowed door behind the stage, and she lost all awareness of the moment. As minutes ticked by, she couldn’t imagine what was keeping him. Her mind filled with assumptions, accusations, angry retaliation.

The waiter’s approach brought her back to the moment. “Is everything to your liking?”

Only then did she realize she had been gripping a knife tightly and had cut a small section of the table cloth to shreds. “Yes, thank you.” She loosened her grip on the knife and looked down. When she saw what she had done, she rested her hand atop the damage.

“Very well. Enjoy your meal.”

Her shoulders eased when he left. He didn’t notice. Lizbeth slid her plate over the torn cloth. Why does that happen? I have not had one of those spells since … She glanced toward the stage and saw a disheveled James Bond exiting that door, the redheaded woman nowhere to be seen. She wondered why Bond hesitated, leaning against a wall before returning to her, but his appearance was more curious. As he started toward their table, he smoothed his hair, straightened his sleeves, adjusted his collar. Lizbeth had no way of knowing that Bond had been ambushed in that back room and had thwarted an attempt on his life. The songstress merely lured Bond to his attackers, who were armed with rope waiting to bind and choke him. Lizbeth only knew James Bond left her at the table sitting alone for quite some time, feeling conspicuous and embarrassed and wondering if he was going to return at all. Ignoring the stares of other diners, ignoring the waiter’s pity, she had to camouflage her humiliation. The weight of being stared at and whispered about by other diners brought back horrible memories, and she did not intend to deal with public scrutiny and gossip a second time. Her blood boiled. She reached into her drawstring purse and found the small vial of prussic acid she always carried. Lizbeth eyed the