Page 43 of The Missing Pages
She turned and looked at me, the tip of her nose was rosy from the chill. Her cheeks flushed.
“But I’m also not a fool,” she said, exhilarated. “I know better than to pay an excessive amount above and beyond the book’s worth!”
I laughed. “The conundrum every book collector knows so well! But will you just walk away from it?”
“It’s too soon to tell. I’ll discuss with Bernard Alfred if he’s willing to buy it for more than the eight pounds I suggested.”
My fingers were now comfortably entwined in hers.
“But what about you? You want that book so much. Let me bid on it for you.”
She pulled away, abruptly letting go of my hand.
“Please don’t underestimate me, Harry. I’ve been working in the book trade for three years now and I know how these things are done. I wouldn’t have offered what I did unless I myself had the funds to secure it.”
“Of course.” My face grew warm.
“I’ve never told anyone else about this,” she said. “But when I was at Cambridge, I found a hidden treasure in one of the local bookshops. It wasn’t an antiquarian store, with a knowledgeable staff or anything like Quaritch. It just primarily bought and sold castoffs, mostly from graduating students clearing out their rooms, that no one wanted anymore. Anyway, in one of the bins I happened upon a first edition of Charlotte Smith’sCelestina. I think I bought it for just a shilling. But Bernard Alfred sold it on my behalf last month for thirteen pounds, and I got to keep ten of it. That’s nearly what I make in two months working at the store.”
Celestina, the book’s title, wasn’t one I was familiar with. Yet one couldn’t have scripted a more suitable title for her to find. “How wonderful,” I said. “You’re a bona fide collector on your own, now.”
“Well, let’s see if Emilie counters my offer.” Her lips curled into a smile.
“Yes.” I reached for her hand again and a relief washed over me when she accepted it. “As my mother always told me,” I said, turning to her. Our faces, our lips nearly close enough to touch.
“Things that are good are worth waiting for.”
We spent the rest of the afternoon strolling through Holland Park, the winding paths fragrant with the scent of sycamore and birch trees, their nascent leaves and damp bark ushering in the smell of impending spring.
We left the talk of books behind us and started new conversation about our families, our travels, our likes and dislikes. I learned she loved strawberry trifle and her favorite tea was lapsang souchong. When I told her mine was Lipton, she burst out laughing.
“I was not expecting that.” Her gloved fingers had briefly touched her mouth to stifle her giggles, and I wanted to kiss her so much it hurt.
“I know,” I teased. “I’m full of surprises.”
We walked for several minutes before we came across a row of cherry trees that had just begun to bud.
“These are my favorite,” Ada remarked. “I’m sorry you’ll miss them in bloom.”
No one was around us. I checked to see if there were any other couples or mothers out with their babies and prams. We were completely alone.
“Ada,” I said quietly. “May I kiss you?”
Her eyes glinted in the spring sunlight and a smile spread across her face.
“Why, yes, Mr. Widener. You absolutely may.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Harry had knocked back once. So hehadbeen in love. Violet felt triumphant. As far as she could tell, there had never been anything written about Harry’s having a paramour of any kind. Of course, nothing like that ever would have appeared in his correspondence with Rosenbach, Livingston, or Quaritch. But in all the other materials about him that she’d come across, including articles in theHarvard Crimsonfrom his time as a student as well as those written more recently by Madeline, no one had mentioned a fiancée, a girlfriend, or anyone else he might have had a courtship with.
Violet looked up at Harry’s portrait. He was young and handsome, and bore an expression of soulfulness. It would only make sense that he had loved someone, and that the feeling had been reciprocated. Butwhowas she?
After Mr. Berns reprimanded her, she left Harry’s desk, losing the chance to ask him any more questions. But Violet’s mind was racing with all the things she wanted to find out from him. Her body tingled with excitement. Scant details of Harry’s personal life had ever been revealed in the eighty years since his death. Could she actually be the one to now uncover something new to the Harry Elkins Widener story?
Before she began transcribing the Rosenbach letters for Madeline, Violet had done a cursory library search for information about Harry. She learned that while the Wideners’ archives contained ample material about the library’s construction and a large amount of letters from Mrs. Elkins Widener describing what she wanted the memorial to representand pledging her full financial support, there was only a handful of materials that illuminated Harry’s life beyond his tireless love of books.
From what Violet had read in old editions of theHarvard Crimsonnow stored on microfiche, Harry had been a member of the Owl Club and the Hasty Pudding, where he’d performed inThe Lotus Eaterswith his fellow troupe members. But she could find nothing referring to a marriage engagement, or even any newspaper article that mentioned he’d been spotted in a social setting with one particular woman, as some of the gossip columns of the day often liked to report.
