Page 33 of The Missing Pages
In the center was a large wooden table with chairs, its surface broad enough to support even the most monolithic of texts. I circled around it. And I waited.
Bernard Alfred arrived within a few minutes. His soft round face, his mighty girth, and his sparkly eyes framed by wire glasses made him look like a distant cousin of Rosenbach’s.
“Master Harry!” He welcomed me with genuine warmth and affection. “A pleasure to see you again!”
“The pleasure is all mine,” I replied after shaking his hand. “It was such a disappointment I had to cancel my trip last year.”
“Well, now you’re here! And I’m happy to see you’re in good health!”
“Yes, I’m completely restored,” I said beaming.
“Wonderful.” He clasped his hands in front of him. “I can’t wait to show you the books you requested we hold for you.” Bernard Alfred walked toward a corner of the room and lifted a stack before placing them down on the table.
On top was the signed edition ofDavid Copperfield, then a copy of John Addington Symonds’sRenaissance of Modern Europe.Beneath that was a rare edition of Thomas Malory’sKing Arthur.
I took the gilded copy ofKing Arthurin my hands and carefully opened it to the title page. The printing was even more exquisite than I had imagined. The paper felt like velvet to my touch.
I had only glanced at it for a mere second, my mind doing the math on how much I could negotiate with Bernard Alfred down from the asking price he’d quoted by mail.
“I hope you have room for more,” he said playfully. “I’ve saved the best for last.”
“Ada!” he called out towards the door.
Soon Ada stepped into the room, clasping a small brown book.
“You wanted to see the Bacon, sir?” She stood there, slender and tall, adorned in a tailored suit; her throat was wrapped in the same lavender scarf she was wearing the first time I’d met her.
She offered the book to Quaritch with reverence, but her eyes lifted and she looked only at me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
ADA’S LONG TAPERED FINGERS HELD THE MINIATURE, RAREsixteenth-century edition carefully. The book was so small it could have fit cupped inside an entire hand.
“Mr. Widener,” her voice lilted as she said my name.
“Hello, again, Miss Lippoldt.”
“Oh yes, I almost forgot, the two of you met in New York last month!” Bernard Alfred cut in. “So, Harry, you’re already acquainted with our lovely Ada!” he remarked. “As beautiful as she is smart! It will go down in the history books that hiring her was one of my sister Charlotte’s wisest business decisions.”
“You sing my praises far too generously,” Ada said as she placed the Bacon down on the table. “I know you’ve been eager to see this one, Mr. Widener.” She smiled. It felt like we had a secret between us.
“Indeed, I have.”
The three of us peered down at the tiny brown book. It was a marvel to behold. The cover was in near-perfect condition, despite it being exactly three hundred years old. The leather was a deep burnished shade. Bernard Alfred pulled it closer, then took his forefinger and opened it to the title page.
“How can something be printed so small and yet with such perfection?” I asked. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“We haven’t either. Isn’t that right, Ada?”
“Yes, that’s certainly true,” she said softly.
I wished Bernard Alfred would leave us alone to turn the book page by page. I wanted our wrists to touch, our breath to merge, as we took in the sheer wonder of that book together.
I know to those who have not experienced love it may sound utterly ridiculous, but that afternoon I became convinced that her soul and mine had been cut from the same piece of heaven. When I stood next to Miss Ada Lippoldt, for the first time in my life, I felt completely whole.
CHAPTER THIRTY
IBOUGHT ALL OF THE BOOKS THATBERNARDALFRED HADput aside for me that afternoon. Not only the Dickens, the Malory, and Addington Symonds editions, but also a few others he pulled from the bookshelves and back room of the store.
