Page 112 of The Missing Pages
Suddenly Violet grew distracted. Her nose wiggled. “Theo… do you smell that?”
He sniffed. “I do. That’s Harry’s tobacco.”
Violet grabbed his hand and together they followed the scent, trying to find its source. Soon it brought them to a window that faced the side of the yard. They peered outside.
“Look!” Theo pointed to the sky. Hundreds of birds were dipping and diving into a vee formation. The flapping of their wings was so thunderous, it could be heard from inside the library.
“It’s a murmur of birds,” Violet whispered, turning to Theo. “I learned that phrase from Hugo.” This time when she said his name aloud, though, it no longer felt painful to her. Instead, she could smile at the memory.
“And they’re starlings.” He gripped her hand tight.
They both knew this was Harry communicating to them one more time.
Violet, however, sensed that the sighting was more than just her great-grandfather expressing his happiness that she had finally learned his and Ada’s complete story.
She would never know for sure, but she also felt that Hugo was signaling her to release her grief over him. But one thing was for certain. A hundred birds flew in the air. And it felt like an undeniable message of love.
EPILOGUE
Harvard University
1962
The steps up to Widener Library were not easy for Ada, but she managed them as she did everything in her life, with quiet determination. She was now over seventy years old, an expert on Pre-Raphaelite poetry, and a published author of several books herself.
She had carved out a prolific career after her return to London, first assisting Emilie Barrington in her efforts to restore Leighton House and then returning to study at Oxford at the age of thirty-three, when the university officially allowed women to take their degrees. She would become one of the first women to complete her doctorate in English there.
Still, despite the steady stream of academic invitations that had arrived on her desk since she returned to Newnham College to teach, Ada Lippoldt had never gone back to America.
“I have my research to do,” she told her colleagues. “I apologize that I have another obligation,” she would write to those who were organizing events stateside. But time had finally caught up with her. She was old now, her auburn hair had turned white. Her bones ached. How many more chances would she have to return, she reminded herself as she held the latest invitation between her two hands.
This request was also different than all the others—it had come from Harvard University. Ada glanced at the red and white crest on the top of the official letterhead that had arrived in the mail. “Veritas” it stated within the school’s seal. The Latin word for “truth” seemed especially poignant to her as she contemplated her own life story and her own encroaching mortality.
She had promised herself she would not visit the Widener library until she was ready. And while she was relieved that this time she would be traveling to North America by airplane rather than on a dreaded ship, she knew the purpose of her trip would not only be to lecture to academics at Harvard and other nearby institutions about the romanticism and passion for allegory that linked poets Dante Gabriel Rossetti, Christina Rossetti, or William Morris. Ada had a far more pressing reason to go now.
She booked her trip from London to Philadelphia, opting to take the train later up to Boston. The first place she told herself she needed to go to was the place where she had lost the thing most precious to her. She made a hotel reservation in a small bed and breakfast not far from Walnut Street and woke up early just to walk past Rosenbach’s old office. When she got there, she discovered another antique store had popped up in its place.
Ada went inside. Despite the decorative lamps and furniture in the main reception room, so much of the inner details remained the same. Even the air reminded her of her time spent there.
“I used to work here when it was the Rosenbach brothers’ store,” she told the man behind the counter.
“I’ve been here for about a decade,” he chatted freely. “Abraham and his brother died just a year apart from each other, and their store closed after that.”
Ada nodded. She had read Abraham’s obituary in one of the book trade magazines a decade before.
“Their family townhouse is now a library and museum,” he said. “On Delancey Street, if you’re interested.”
She thanked him. She would save a visit to the museum for another time. She had one other place she had to visit before she took a train up to Cambridge.
The small yellow building with the alabaster Madonna and child in front was no longer St. Anne’s Home for Unwed Mothers. Ada walked slowly up to the structure and saw that it was now an office for the diocese of Philadelphia. She had imagined herself walking through these doors countless times. And she had dreamt about this place over thousands of nights. It was during those nocturnal moments that Ada rewrote what had actually transpired. Then, the phantom kicks that swirled inside her belly were hardly noticeable as she stepped outside the home and into the blinding sunlight. Because in her dream, Ada was still holding her beautiful, redheaded baby girl.
Her lecture was on Monday afternoon and was to be held in a large lecture room in Emerson Hall, only steps away from the Widener library. Ada had purposefully arrived early to the campus. As instructed, she had registered herself at the Visitor’s Center and received a pass so she could enter all of Harvard’s buildings. She tucked it into her purse, along with the things in her bag that she believed to be essential. Her wallet, a comb, and a book.
She stood at the bottom steps of the Widener and took in its majestic lines. The towering brick walls and impressive twelve marble columns. Beneath its decorative cornice, engraved into its limestone frieze, the words HARRYELKINSWIDENERMEMORIALLIBRARYbrought tears to Ada’s eyes. She was breathless when she reached the entrance. She pulled open the brass door and walked inside.
Eleanor had outdone herself in this monument to Harry and his books. Ada dabbed away her tears as the security guard let her pass through, and she stood in the marble vestibule for several seconds. Her eyes followed up the marble stairs toward the entranceway to Harry’s Memorial Room, where his portrait could be seen even from the ground floor.
She treaded slowly up toward his image. The painting had forever preserved him as young as he was on the day he died. She smiled, remembering once again just how handsome he really was.
