Page 12 of The Missing Pages
As I stood in the middle of the hotel’s main hall, I can tell you I finally understood what it meant to be instantly drawn to another human being.
My heartbeat accelerated; my palms grew damp. When she closed her book and adjusted one of her auburn curls, I felt I could hardly breathe.
I hadn’t managed to utter my apology before she cut me off and raised her slim hand.
“The weather today is horrid, so I rather anticipated you might have an unexpected delay. I’m just pleased we have this chance to meet before I return to London.”
She stood up and placed her book into her satchel, her slate gray eyes staring straight back at me. “So let us try again. I’m Ada Lippoldt, and it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Harry Elkins Widener,” I repeated my name again for the sake of formality. “A pleasure to finally meet you as well.”
“Well, let’s not waste another moment,” she said exuberantly. “There is a restaurant here where men can eat as well…” Her eyes glanced at the hotel’s clock. “We have an hour before the kitchen closes,” she calculated. “Shall we go?”
With her British accent, everything Ada said sounded beguiling. I unbuttoned my wool coat, still damp with melted snowflakes, and draped it over my arm. She rose to her feet, and Ifollowed her. The hotel’s soft globes of lamplight sprinkled over us like a blanket of stars.
In the main dining room of the Martha Washington Hotel, the atmosphere was different from Delmonico’s. There, the room was shrouded in a hush. Tables were illuminated by crystal votives and diners were bathed in quiet grace. Here, it was an arena of frenetic energy. Women sat around in groups talking excitedly to each other, including several suffragettes, still dressed in their purple and green frocks, discussing their latest mission.
On all fronts, I was the outsider here, a single man who was now a guest amongst a roomful of women. It no longer felt as though I was taking Ada out as my guest, but rather that she had invited me into a secret and sacred space. One that was occupied by unique women who traveled without chaperones or a gold wedding band on their fingers, and who did not need a man’s permission to speak their mind. It was as if someone had pulled back a curtain to a world I had hardly known existed.
Over warm bowls of mushroom and barley soup followed by chicken paillard, I peppered her with questions on how she came to be employed at Quaritch’s bookshop. She indulged me, her eyes glinting as she began to fill in the passages of her story.
“Ever since I was little, my path has always been clear to me,” Ada said, her eyes flickering above the candlelight. “I wanted to be close to books.”
She took another bite of her meal, then reached for her water glass and took a sip.
“I was fortunate to gain admittance to Newnham College, where I took a degree in English literature,” she added. “Newnham and Girton College, both part of Cambridge, are really the only two places a woman like myself can go to pursue a higher education in England.” Ada took a few more nibbles of her meal. “We were allowed to attend lectures at the other colleges at Cambridge, but we were still denied access to the main library.”
“How unjust,” I sympathized. “A library should be accessible to everyone.”
“It should! What a relief we’re in agreement on that.” She laughed.
“I wouldn’t want my sister or mother not to be able to access the same books that I love, if they wanted to visit them either at Harvard or any other library.”
“Precisely. Why should one reader be given preferential treatment based solely on their gender? It’s madness!”
I found her passion intoxicating. To be honest, I’d never given much thought to Harvard’s rules that Radcliffe women only be allowed to use their own library. And I certainly didn’t want to speak out loud about their reasoning, which I knew was attributed to their concerns that women might distract young men like myself from our studies. But now I found myself hanging on her every word.
“Yes, it is,” I enthusiastically agreed. “As the saying goes, knowledge is…”
“Power,” she finished my sentence. “That’s one of my favorite Francis Bacon lines.”
“Mine as well! I’m still on the hunt to have one of his books in my library.”
“I will keep that in mind then.” She grinned. “I admire your passion, Mr. Widener.”
“And I admire what you do. It’s rare to find a woman in the book trade.”
“At Newnham, we were lucky that our library was under the supervision of a force of nature—a woman named Katharine Stephen. She inspired me.” Ada put down her fork and a liveliness spread across her face. It felt as though I was watching the sun rise.
“She’s actually a cousin of Virginia Woolf. Can you imagine?”
“So she comes from fine literary stock, then,” I quipped.
“Yes.” She laughed again. “The absolute best… But honestly, I owe so much to Miss Stephen. She nurtured my belief that I could actually have a career in books. She provided me with a part-time job while I was a student, archiving Newnham’s rare books collection. We had so many gifts come in from different benefactors. First editions and illuminated manuscripts from as far back as the 1400s. I’m so grateful she took me under her wing.” She paused a beat. “And it was Miss Stephen who also introduced me to Charlotte Quaritch.”
“CharlotteQuaritch?” The name surprised me. I knew nothing about her.
“Yes. When Bernard, the founder of the Quaritch bookshop died, he left it to his daughter Charlotte, her younger sister Gertie, and, of course, Bernard Alfred, whom you’ve been in contact with. But it is Charlotte to whom I’m indebted for getting me my position. She believed in supporting other women who wanted to work in the book world. It was actually quite modern of her father to ensure she too became a director of the shop.”
