Page 10 of The Missing Pages
Sylvia wiped her mouth with a paper napkin. “It’s good to finally see you so excited about something.”
“I’m hoping I can find some nugget of inspiration for my thesis next year. I still haven’t figured out my topic yet. Maybe I can enlarge my paper on Francis Bacon… Did you know Harry bought a rare, pocket-size edition of Bacon’s essays before he boarded theTitanic?”
“Nope. I had no clue. It’s like the answer to a finalJeopardyquestion,” Sylvia laughed. “But I do remember something about him being the reason why we always have ice cream in the dining room.” She eyed the freezer in the corner that contained tubs of strawberry, chocolate, and vanilla.
Violet watched Sylvia head over to the freezer to scoop out some vanilla and chocolate. She didn’t have the heart to tell her that a largepart of Harry’s legend around the university wasn’t actually grounded in fact. But did that even matter? A bunch of college kids hovering around a freezer digging into one of the buckets of frozen dessert all brought Harry’s name outside of the library, to the world of the living. Violet felt something shift inside her, the air softening around the room. It felt wonderful. It felt like joy.
CHAPTER NINE
OF ALL THE EMOTIONS THAT WE EXPERIENCE IN A LIFETIME,joy is the one I wish I had the power to store away for a rainy day. Wouldn’t it be a marvel to seal our happiness away in a book somewhere, and to be able to retrieve it? In my short life, I had the comfort of knowing that every book in my library would wait for me there until I desired it. Its story would never disappear from inside its printed leaves. All I needed to do was to pull it down from the shelf and the flicker of light from its illustrations, the humor of its characters, the maze of its storyline, every bit of it would remain in stasis until I opened the leather-bound cover and turned to the first page.
And while the ability to bottle joy, to be able to imbibe it at my will, remained an impossibility, something opened inside me as I watched Violet pause over Ada’s name. There was an urgency that I felt for the first time in years, a yearning for this melancholy girl to know the remarkable woman behind the name.
I was always grateful that the private correspondence between Ada and me had remained hidden. That it could never be found in any archive or library. I did not want our words read by my family or even scholars who were eager to fill in the gaps of my life. I wanted to maintain its intimacy, a narrative that belonged to just us.
But after all this time, would those letters, if finally uncovered, reveal a story that deserved to be shared? Even now,when I return to those first exchanges Ada wrote to me all those years ago, joy comes over me. On those pages it is no longer elusive. It flutters open, released into the air for me to breathe.
Dear Mr. Widener,
January 18, 1912
Thank you so much for your most recent letter. I’ve taken note of the authors you are particularly fond of, and we have several rare editions by some of them in our collection that I believe might whet your collecting appetite. I’m very eager to show you one particular edition ofDavid Copperfieldthat has been in a private collection in London for over sixty years and has only recently come into our possession here at the bookshop. It is a true one of a kind and includes a note from Dickens himself.
On a side note, I have just learned rather unexpectedly that I will be traveling to America on Mr. Quaritch’s behalf. I arrive on February 1st and will be in Manhattan for a few short days to meet with the personal librarian of another client of ours. If you happen to have any reason to come to New York City while I’m there, it would be lovely to meet you in person in advance of your trip to London.
With warmest regards,
Ada Lippoldt
It was certainly a rather bold letter to receive from a woman at that time. Part of me wanted to run over to Rosenbach’s officeand show it to him. But the gentleman in me instinctively knew it was better to keep it private.
Still, the secrecy of a correspondence with such an intriguing woman only added to the thrill. I wrote back to her the following day.
Dear Miss Lippoldt,
January 25, 1912
What welcome news to receive your letter. It would be my pleasure to meet you in New York. I’m very eager to hear about the Dickens book. It sounds like a real prize piece for any library, and I appreciate you thinking of me as soon as it came into your possession.
If your schedule permits, please allow me to take you to dinner during your stay in Manhattan. Perhaps we could meet at Delmonico’s Restaurant downtown? I think you will find it a perfect backdrop for conversation and the Baked Alaska is the best you’ll find this side of the pond! Please let me know if you would at all be available.
Respectfully yours,
Harry Elkins Widener
When I recall those letters now, I am struck by the forwardness of each of our offerings. Was it our shared kinship of books that enabled us to cut through the strict formalities of the time? Or was it that I could already sense how truly unique Ada was? To this day, I honestly cannot say. But what I knew to be true was that of all the women I’d crossed paths with during weekends at Harvard or through my mother’s parties and other assorted events in ourfamily’s social circle, I had never encountered a young woman who loved books as much as I did. And as her trip approached, the possibility of meeting Ada continued to occupy more and more of my thoughts. So much so that, as much as I relished spending time in my private library, it became increasingly difficult for me to read.
“Why, don’t you look handsome,” my mother said on the morning I was scheduled to meet Ada in New York. I had combed my dark hair back using my best pomade and had dressed in my finest suit from Wanamaker’s, a charcoal chalk-stripe with matching three-button waistcoat. Beneath it, I wore a crisp white shirt and a black silk tie.
In her sage green and sky blue colored sitting room, Mother sat nestled in one of the silk divans, a book opened on her lap and a tea service at her fingertips. On the small side table, a half-eaten piece of cake remained on a dainty Limoges plate.
“Are you off somewhere?” she asked.
“New York,” I answered.
She looked toward the window. Outside, the grounds of Lynnewood Hall were covered in snow.
“Perhaps today is not the best day to travel,” she mused as she brought her teacup to her lips. “Maybe it’s better to reschedule. Are you meeting a friend there?”
