On Victorian fantasies, questionable acquisitions, and a husband who never existed
I am 37 years old, have never been widowed, and am inexplicably furnishing my home as though my wealthy husband died in 1893.
I don’t know exactly when this happened.
Until recently, my decorating style was decidedly country. Primitive furniture, Americana, rustic accents. I loved all of it. I spent years collecting things that made my first house feel warm and lived-in, with a distinctly old-fashioned farmhouse aesthetic.
And then, apparently, I changed centuries.
I no longer want to live in a farmhouse.
I want to live in a Victorian estate.
Preferably one with a substantial inheritance, a mysterious family history, and a housekeeper who knows things but refuses to discuss them. Unfortunately, my actual circumstances are somewhat less glamorous.
I am a single mother of two, employed by the State of New York, and purchasing an older house in a small Western New York town with the assistance of a USDA mortgage. There is no inheritance. There is no housekeeper. There is certainly no deceased wealthy husband. There is, however, a very ambitious decorating plan.
It began innocently enough.
The house has a room I intend to turn into a library. A real library, with bookshelves and antique chairs and a fireplace. I have always wanted one, and the prospect of having a room devoted entirely to books was almost enough to make me forget the considerable financial commitment involved in purchasing the rest of the house.
Naturally, I began looking for furniture.
And somewhere between searching for a bookshelf and discovering antique fireplaces, I lost all sense of proportion. I wanted carved wood. Ornate details. Brass accents. Rich colors. Furniture that looked as though it had survived several generations of family scandals.
I found a pair of magnificent Victorian chairs that I thought would look beautiful flanking the fireplace. They were enormous. My library, unfortunately, is not. It measures approximately nine and a half feet wide. This did not initially discourage me. I simply began exploring increasingly creative furniture arrangements, apparently operating under the assumption that the laws of geometry were more like suggestions.
I wanted the chairs. I wanted the fireplace. I wanted a room that looked as though an elderly aristocrat had spent forty years accumulating rare books and refusing visitors. What I had was a narrow room and a tape measure.
Reality is frequently disappointing.
I have also considered Victorian sofas, antique buffets, and various other pieces of furniture whose dimensions suggest they were designed for rooms considerably larger than mine. Some of these pieces do not even look particularly comfortable. This is apparently no longer a significant consideration.
I have reached a point in my decorating journey where I am willing to sacrifice lumbar support for historical atmosphere. I don’t necessarily want furniture that invites people to sit down. I want furniture that makes people feel they should ask permission first.
The deeper I ventured into Victorian decorating, the more particular I became. I didn’t want just any fireplace. I wanted one with character. I didn’t want furniture that looked new. I wanted furniture that looked as though it had witnessed things. A marriage. A death. An inheritance dispute. Possibly a scandal involving the gardener.
I also developed an alarming interest in antique objects whose original purposes are only vaguely familiar to me. Old typewriters. Ornate mirrors. Decorative fireplace screens. Brass fixtures. I recently found myself researching whether a typewriter would be historically appropriate in a Victorian library.
This is the sort of question that now occupies my evenings. Not whether the house has sufficient electrical outlets. Not whether I have remembered to arrange utilities. Whether the typewriter is historically accurate.
I have begun to suspect that I am taking this entire historical fantasy a little too seriously.
After all, I am not restoring a grand estate that has been in my family for generations. I am furnishing an ordinary house in Le Roy, New York. I will not be receiving callers in a drawing room or summoning a maid to bring tea. I will be answering emails, helping with homework, and asking Alexa to play music while I fold laundry.
And yet, I find myself considering whether a particular chair looks sufficiently aristocratic.
I imagine the widow of North Street would be a formidable woman. She would have excellent posture, an extensive personal library, and a reputation for being difficult to impress. She would wear elaborate dresses, maintain a small circle of acquaintances, and occasionally stare out the window with an expression suggesting that she knew considerably more about her husband’s death than she was willing to reveal.
She would certainly not tolerate cheap-looking furniture.
She would also probably have someone else responsible for moving it.
This is where our circumstances differ considerably.
My imaginary widow has servants. I have a small SUV, a tape measure, and an aunt with a truck. The widow can simply point at an enormous antique cabinet and instruct someone to place it beside the fireplace. I have to determine whether it will fit through a doorway, whether it can be transported without damaging the upholstery, and whether the seller is willing to answer a message.
The widow has inherited wealth.
I have a mortgage.
The widow has a grand estate.
I have a room that is nine and a half feet wide.
Nevertheless, I believe we share an appreciation for fine furnishings.
There is also the question of how this elaborate historical atmosphere will coexist with the actual people who live in the house. My children, for example, are unlikely to appreciate the distinction between an authentic Victorian antique and a piece of furniture that simply looks old. They will probably be more concerned with whether a chair is comfortable, whether the Wi-Fi works, and whether they are allowed to eat snacks in the library.
I can imagine myself explaining that a particular piece of furniture is quite old and should be treated carefully.
They will ask why I bought it.
I will explain that it has character.
They will ask whether they can put their feet on it.
The widow would undoubtedly be horrified.
I will probably tell them to take their shoes off.
And then there is the matter of my romantic prospects. A proper Victorian widow might spend her afternoons awaiting correspondence from a distinguished gentleman who owns a considerable amount of land.
I do not have a distinguished gentleman. I have several gentlemen on dating apps, which is arguably a more exhausting situation.
At least in 1893, a woman could reasonably expect a suitor to write a letter. Today, apparently, I am supposed to be impressed when a man sends a message containing three words and no punctuation.
Perhaps the widow had the right idea. Acquire a fortune, furnish the house beautifully, and spend the rest of one’s life reading books in peace.
Unfortunately, the fortune remains elusive.
I have also considered whether my sudden fascination with Victorian furnishings says something profound about my personality. Perhaps it represents a desire for stability, permanence, or a connection to the past. Perhaps I am drawn to the craftsmanship and history of objects that have survived longer than many modern relationships.
Or perhaps I have been possessed by the spirit of a nineteenth-century widow. At this point, I am keeping an open mind.
What I do know is that I am enjoying the entire ridiculous process. I love searching for unusual pieces, imagining their histories, and figuring out how to incorporate them into a house that was not designed to accommodate the furniture of the landed gentry. There is something particularly satisfying about finding an object that has already survived a century or more and giving it another place to belong.
Even if that place is considerably smaller than the one it was originally intended for.
Of course, the finished result will probably be less historically accurate than I imagine. My beautiful Victorian library will contain electrical outlets, modern lighting, and a phone charger. There will be no household staff. There will be no elaborate afternoon teas. There will almost certainly be a child sitting in an antique chair watching YouTube.
And I will be there, drinking a large McDonald’s Diet Coke, wearing sweatpants, and wondering whether the room could possibly accommodate one more piece of furniture.
I may not have inherited a fortune. I may not have married a wealthy gentleman. I may not even have enough room for all the furniture I want.
But I am determined to have a library worthy of a woman of considerable means, even if the woman in question is currently checking her bank account and negotiating with strangers on Facebook Marketplace.
And if the furniture is uncomfortable, the room is overcrowded, and absolutely nothing fits the way I imagined?
Well.
Nobody ever said being a wealthy Victorian widow was easy.
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