gothic romance
I almost tripped down the stairs a few weeks ago. My toe caught in the spindles as I turned the corner. Luckily I was able to catch myself, because it’s a long way – 18 steps – from top to bottom.
At about 120 years old, our house is a true grande dame, and living in her is all my childhood romantic old-house-loving dreams come true. Her ceilings are high, her radiators Victorian, her foundation stone, and her cellar dark, somewhat spooky, and filled with spiderwebs. She’s got the most amazing flight of stairs and a long, long (long!) banister made from a single piece of oak. The only thing that’s missing is a cavernous attic filled with musty steamer trunks!
ghostly shadow rails on the way upstairs…
The funniest thing about almost tripping (if almost tripping down a flight of stairs is funny) was that in the exact moment of almost tripping, I projected myself into the middle of a gothic romance – the heroine, in a silk gown of deep emerald silk lying crumpled at the bottom of the stairs, golden locks tumbling around a pale face, a deep red halo expanding around the back of her head.
No matter that I’ve never had golden hair or a pale face. Or that I’d never wear a gown of emerald silk unless forced into some bizarre cosplay. There I lay. Blonde. Pale. Silk. Splayed. A mystery waiting to be solved.
Fortunately none of this came to pass. I caught myself, and made it safely from top to bottom.
I wonder about the stories this staircase might tell. Who has walked up and down these stairs over the past 120 years? Did anyone trip and tumble? Or did they slide down the banister, whooping all the way? Or were they gracious in their descent, knowing that all eyes would be on them as they entered the candle-lit living room?
Did they crawl up the stairs, their stomachs roiling after a night on the town? Or did they bump their way down, sliding from one to the next, thick diapers protecting soft toddler bottoms? Were they bouncing – eager and alive – the air thick with giggles and conversation?
Did they storm up and down, raging and roaring? Did they tiptoe, doing their best to avoid the creaks (spoiler: it’s impossible)? Did they rush down early on Christmas mornings, determined to find stockings filled with treasures? Or did they move cautiously, holding tight to the banister as cats tangled themselves between their legs?
Was there, once upon a more gilded time, a pale, golden-locked woman gliding through our rooms in emerald silk? Or was she more like me, a lumpier and not particularly graceful woman with brown skin baked deeper by the sun, greying wavy curls, a penchant for big earrings, and nary a hint of silk in her closet?
These stairs, their treads worn into subtle waves by a century of feet, hold so many possible stories: whispers that accompany me every time I ascend or descend, mysteries waiting to be solved.
