both women!” He laughs, enlivening his stern good looks.
“It was post-Civil War, in America. You had journeyed to a teaching post in northern Maryland, near the Pennsylvania border, not twenty miles from Gettysburg. You were a tall, strong-minded woman, and you were proud of yourself for having journeyed alone, all the way from Albany, to take up a position that would make you self-sufficient.
“Your family remained a constant reminder that you were a failure as a woman and an embarrassment to them for not having married. You'd had only one real offer, from a much older man who'd been widowed with five small children, who'd insulted you when you'd refused him. You had passed thirty and found being alone much more appealing, and even satisfying, than marriage seemed. You loved teaching, as you always have, and felt it was important work. You looked forward to being on your own and making your own home. You'd arrived in Pennsylvania to find that your quarters were under repair for the next few weeks because a large leak in the roof had become apparent during the spring rains. The school board had decided that you could stay at the farm of one of the area's largest landowners, who was away on a cattle buying trip with his wife. It would serve him to have his kitchen remain functional and his house kept occupied and tidy while he was gone.
“After getting over your initial disappointment following your long trip, you discovered it was a large house, with rooms upstairs and down, and a spacious porch in the back. He had much acreage and a large pond. The grounds were being looked after by a neighboring farmer's son, so your duties were minimal.
“You were told to stay in a small bedroom on the first floor, but something about the room made you uncomfortable, and you kept smelling something burning in it, though it was much too warm for a fire. So you slept instead on a sofa in the side sitting room, just off the main sitting room. You settled in to the comfortable and well-appointed home, enjoying the cool mornings and the quiet nights, the smell of fresh cut hay, and the sounds of nature all around.
“Now, here's where I come in. One night, a few days later, you were sitting on a sofa in the main sitting room, facing the large staircase that gracefully curved down from the upstairs, its bannisters gleaming in the firelight that you read by. You were engrossed in the teacher's manuals you'd been reading, but suddenly you felt the hair stand up on the back of your neck, and you looked up the staircase. You saw a woman coming down the stairs, looking at you.
“That was me,” he said with a proud smile. “I didn't mean to frighten you, but I did mean to get your attention. You were the first person I felt drawn to in a long time. Most people I avoided. You froze, sensed the woman must be a ghost, even though she looked so real you could see the tiny tucks going down the front of her black dress, the narrow band of lace at each cuff, and the small crystal earbobs showing beneath the dark hair drawn over her ears into a low bun in the back.
“I was well-appointed, too,” he laughed, “and my name was Lucy. I came downstairs and sat in the chair opposite you, and told you my story. And you listened, despite your initial fear. You anchored me with your listening. You can't imagine now how important that was. I had been aimlessly floating in a field of misery, unable to find my way home. Continued trauma will do that to you.
“You were afraid, but you felt drawn to me, too, so you stayed with me rather than fleeing out the door, as so many would have. I told you how my family lived in the next farm over and had arranged my marriage, at age fifteen, to the man who used to own the house you were staying in. My sisters and I expected arranged marriages but always wished for at least a livable match, if not one with romantic potential. We were young, after all, and still felt at home with hope. But this was a man without
“It was post-Civil War, in America. You had journeyed to a teaching post in northern Maryland, near the Pennsylvania border, not twenty miles from Gettysburg. You were a tall, strong-minded woman, and you were proud of yourself for having journeyed alone, all the way from Albany, to take up a position that would make you self-sufficient.
“Your family remained a constant reminder that you were a failure as a woman and an embarrassment to them for not having married. You'd had only one real offer, from a much older man who'd been widowed with five small children, who'd insulted you when you'd refused him. You had passed thirty and found being alone much more appealing, and even satisfying, than marriage seemed. You loved teaching, as you always have, and felt it was important work. You looked forward to being on your own and making your own home. You'd arrived in Pennsylvania to find that your quarters were under repair for the next few weeks because a large leak in the roof had become apparent during the spring rains. The school board had decided that you could stay at the farm of one of the area's largest landowners, who was away on a cattle buying trip with his wife. It would serve him to have his kitchen remain functional and his house kept occupied and tidy while he was gone.
“After getting over your initial disappointment following your long trip, you discovered it was a large house, with rooms upstairs and down, and a spacious porch in the back. He had much acreage and a large pond. The grounds were being looked after by a neighboring farmer's son, so your duties were minimal.
“You were told to stay in a small bedroom on the first floor, but something about the room made you uncomfortable, and you kept smelling something burning in it, though it was much too warm for a fire. So you slept instead on a sofa in the side sitting room, just off the main sitting room. You settled in to the comfortable and well-appointed home, enjoying the cool mornings and the quiet nights, the smell of fresh cut hay, and the sounds of nature all around.
“Now, here's where I come in. One night, a few days later, you were sitting on a sofa in the main sitting room, facing the large staircase that gracefully curved down from the upstairs, its bannisters gleaming in the firelight that you read by. You were engrossed in the teacher's manuals you'd been reading, but suddenly you felt the hair stand up on the back of your neck, and you looked up the staircase. You saw a woman coming down the stairs, looking at you.
“That was me,” he said with a proud smile. “I didn't mean to frighten you, but I did mean to get your attention. You were the first person I felt drawn to in a long time. Most people I avoided. You froze, sensed the woman must be a ghost, even though she looked so real you could see the tiny tucks going down the front of her black dress, the narrow band of lace at each cuff, and the small crystal earbobs showing beneath the dark hair drawn over her ears into a low bun in the back.
“I was well-appointed, too,” he laughed, “and my name was Lucy. I came downstairs and sat in the chair opposite you, and told you my story. And you listened, despite your initial fear. You anchored me with your listening. You can't imagine now how important that was. I had been aimlessly floating in a field of misery, unable to find my way home. Continued trauma will do that to you.
“You were afraid, but you felt drawn to me, too, so you stayed with me rather than fleeing out the door, as so many would have. I told you how my family lived in the next farm over and had arranged my marriage, at age fifteen, to the man who used to own the house you were staying in. My sisters and I expected arranged marriages but always wished for at least a livable match, if not one with romantic potential. We were young, after all, and still felt at home with hope. But this was a man without
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