Page 32 of The Missing Pages
We were staying at the Ritz in London. With my parents’ being part owners of the hotel and its sister branch in Paris, not to mention the expansion of the brand in our own native city, we were treated like royalty when we arrived.
That first afternoon, Mother and I took tea in the beautiful salon with its pistachio green walls and pink chairs. It struck me then why she had selected similar tones in her own sitting room: the place suited her. Mother bloomed like a hothouse flower whenever she was ensconced in such luxury.
“Harry.” She touched my hand gently; her fingers always felt as light as rain. “Tell me what you’re eyeing for your library. Does Mr. Quaritch have something special on hold for you?”
I laughed. Around us, the mirrored walls shone with our reflection. Tables were filled with women in their feathered hats and sparkling jewels. Mother’s eyes glinted with delight.
“Actually, he’s saving quite a few things for me to see. One in particular has me very excited.”
She leaned in. “Is it another Dickens?”
“He is holding a rare edition ofCopperfieldfor me, but he has something else I’m coveting even more.”
“Oh Harry, do tell me!” She squeezed my hand again, this time harder. “You shouldn’t tease your old mother like this.”
If anyone looked old, it certainly wasn’t my mother. Her adventurous spirit lent her a preternatural ability to look far younger than her age, despite the powder, silk dresses, and pearls a woman in her position was required to wear.
“It’s a secret for now, but you’ll be the first to know if I’m successful in obtaining it.”
And as I uttered those words, I wasn’t even sure myself if I was talking about the Little Bacon or my other secret: Miss Ada Lippoldt.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
FORGET THE SMOG, THE DAMP AIR, AND THE RAIN.BEINGin London felt glorious! It pulsed with its own energy with its slick cobblestone streets, rolling black cabs, and marbled horizons.
But best of all, the city smelled of books to me. From the moment I stepped off the boat, I knew the places I wanted to go to inhale the luxuriant scents of paper and pulp, of leather and ink. Bookshops were plentiful. One could pop into Fortnum & Mason for some sandwiches and then round off the meal by stepping into Hatchards, the city’s oldest bookshop, next door. And if that didn’t sate your appetite, one could go to Francis Edwards Antiquarian Bookseller in the West End or head over to Foyles in Charing Cross. I was thrilled to be back in this great city.
I left my parents recuperating from the journey in their oyster-colored suite at the Ritz. My mother had taken over an entire room just for her suitcases, and Amalie was busy trying to make sure Mother’s dresses were pressed and in order.
The only trace of my father was three fine dinner jackets hanging in the wardrobe and his shaving pomade and razor beside the porcelain sink.
“I’m off to go to Quaritch’s,” I told my mother as I stood in the least congested part of her sitting room. A bouquet of sterling roses sat on the coffee table next to a card from the concierge.
“Where’s Father?”
“At the Athenaeum, with some business associates,” she answered as she stood in front of the long mirror. Amalie was on her knees sewing a hem that had snagged on one of Mother’s heels. “Will you be joining him there after you see Bernard Alfred?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “I think Bernard Alfred and I are supposed to have dinner together, but Rosenbach said his health hasn’t been so good lately.”
“Well, if he cancels, you can always have dinner downstairs with me. I’m meeting Annabel Harkness. She’s here in town as well.”
I smiled. My mother would have relished having me beside her to elevate the conversation with Annabel. But there was another person who I wanted to see infinitely more.
Ada.
It was a short walk from the hotel to Griffin Street, where Quaritch Ltd. was located. Centered in Piccadilly, the store occupied a prime spot of real estate amidst the bustling shops and the city’s best restaurants and entertainment.
As I stood on the sidewalk across the street, it struck me how different the shop now looked to me than it did on my previous visit there a few years earlier. I gazed at its large window with its many rare editions displayed as elegantly as if they were jewels, and all I could imagine was lovely Ada inside at her desk, her nimble fingers carefully examining one of the books in their collection.
The last time I came, I had just graduated Harvard. I was young and eager, a novice collector who was only then just starting out. The mere fact that a bookseller as esteemed as Quaritch was even willing to meet with me was then one of the high points of my life.
But I was a few years older now, and my library had since grown to contain several thousand rare editions. I had put my stake in the ground and proven I loved the hunt just as much as the best of the bibliophiles. I was a member of the Grolier Club in New York City, an endorsement that signaled I was now recognized as a serious book collector. I had also published my own catalog of books in my collection as well as created my own personal filing system. No one could label me an amateur.
I crossed the street, adjusted my hat, and walked toward the door. Behind it, so many wonderful opportunities awaited me. I reached for the brass handle as if it were the brightest star.
“Mr. Widener, we’ve been expecting you,” an older woman greeted me at the door. She led me into the store’s main room as my eyes searched for Ada.
Carved brown bookshelves. Glass cases displaying rare etchings. Thick leather bindings in burgundy and cognac brown filled the room from floor to ceiling, the gilt letters glinting in the sunlight that dappled the room.
