Page 41 of The Missing Pages
“Come…” Emilie urged. “Take a look at this before we get down to the Rossetti business.”
She waved her hand and we stepped into a room that took my breath away. Cerulean and marine blue tiles decorated the chamber from floor to ceiling. And wrapping around the edge of the domed ceiling was a sparkling golden frieze with images of birds and animals.
We stepped, awestruck, on the mosaic floor, peering around the room, completely silenced by its beauty.
“Isn’t it remarkable?” Emilie enthused.
I felt as though we’d been transported to a page from an illustrated edition ofThe Arabian Nights.
“The tiles were imported from Damascus,” Emilie informed. “You can imagine what this room must have been like when Lord Leighton was still alive. Fortunately, I remember it well,” she elaborated. “There were ceramic plates from Izmir, Turkey. A stuffed peacock with resplendent feathers on the balustrade of the stairwell.” She took a deep breath and closed her papery eyelids for a moment, as though once again envisioning the house in all its former glory. “Every wall was filled with numerous paintings. Not just his, but ones by so many talented artists like John Everett Millais, Thomas Armstrong, and George Frederic Watts.”
“I can just imagine how beautiful it must have been. Even as empty as it is now, it’s breathtaking,” Ada gushed.
“It really is,” I agreed.
We walked through another archway toward where the sitting room would have been. “I thought it was important to take you through some of the rooms here,” she said. “His studio upstairs is a mess, I’m afraid. Not suitable for visitors. A leak in the ceiling window has caused tremendous damage.”
“I’m certain we can still find a place to talk,” Ada suggested gently.
“Yes,” Emilie nodded. “Let’s go to the garden and speak there. The weather is lovely today, and I always sense Frederic’s spirit best while I’m out there amongst the trees.”
I followed the two women outside, where we sat on cast-iron chairs shaded by a canopy of verdant green leaves.
“So you’re here to discuss the Rossetti book,” Emilie said. “Fortunately, it was small enough to bring along with me.” She opened up her brass framed handbag and pulled out the book. “Would you like to see it?”
Ada’s eyes lit up. “Yes, please.” She held out both of her hands.
The book was larger than the Bacon, but still easy enough to carry. I watched Ada as she paused at its cover. “Rossetti” was printed in gold leaf letters on the front. The leather binding was nearly the same dark green as her coat.
“Open it,” Emilie urged.
Ada slowly turned to the title page. There it was written, “For my friend, Frederic—Truth and Beauty, Always,” with Rossetti’s curling signature beneath it.
Ada touched the parchment. I could sense her adrenaline rising as she held something in her hands that had once been exchanged between the artist and the poet.
“It’s a special book, as you can well see,” Emilie stated. “I realize Rossetti isn’t as much in favor these days as he once was. But genuine collectors aren’t ruled by fashion.”
“That’s quite right,” I said. I didn’t want to say too much, as I wanted Ada to get the best price, but what Emilie had just said rang true to me. As my mother liked to say, “You buy not to impress, but what you truly love.”
Ada silently turned several more pages. She was searching for a particular poem.
When she’d found it, her face transformed to pure sunshine.
“It’s this one,” she said, pointing to the page. Her eyes had grown glassy with joy as she began to read aloud.
“I have been here before
But when or how I cannot tell.
I know the grass beyond the door,
The sweet keen smell,
The shining sound, the lights around the shore.
You have been mine before.”
Ada paused before continuing to the last lines of the poem, but it was in that split moment, as her eyes linked with mine, I felt she was communicating a thousand words to me. I felt love.
