Page 63 of The Missing Pages
“Dare I say theTitaniclibrarian is a bit of a romantic?” I smiled. Lord Byron’sHebrew Melodieslay in Ada’s lap. Itcontained his most famous poem, “She Walks in Beauty.” I could not resist reciting its first stanza to her.
“She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies…”
“Did you know Quaritch just sold a first edition of this?” she said. “I was so envious of the buyer.”
“I had no idea,” I said. For a moment I wondered if I should share with her that Rosenbach had recently helped me acquire several books by Byron and even a few of his sketches.
“Yes. I wanted it for myself so much!”
Without her outwardly saying it, I realized she was privately building her own library of the Romantic poets. While Dante Gabriel Rossetti was technically a Pre-Raphaelite, his poetry had been influenced by some of the great Romantics like John Keats and William Blake.
“I can imagine your bookshelves more clearly now,” I said. All these little pieces of Ada were coming together for me. “Perhaps a copy of Shelley’sValpergawill be your next acquisition.”
Our eyes locked.
“You see me, Harry,” she said.
Her words were the highest compliment of all. Our books were clues into our souls. Every day, our lives were filled with obligations, formalities, and constrictions. But in our libraries, our thoughts—our longings—had a place to breathe. In that sacred vault, we were free.
Within the comfort and ease of the library, Ada and I observed an array of passengers playing card games, reading books, and even writing postcards from the small desks scattered throughout the room.
It was Ada who suggested we ourselves might play a game.
“Did you know Dante Gabriel Rossetti and his sister Christina invented a word game when they were children?”
“I had no idea,” I admitted.
“Yes! And supposedly it gave Christina great sustenance when she was in poor health.”
“My mother and I used to play Lewis Carroll’s ‘Doublets’ when I was home sick from school.” I hadn’t thought about that memory in years. Now it warmed me.
“I loved to play that, too,” she said and grinned. “But the Rossetti siblings were a bit more ambitious. They created their own version ofbouts-rimés,in which they challenged each other to compose a sonnet in a manner of minutes. Like this…” Ada seemed to pull the words from the clouds.
“Won’t you join me, for just a word or two,
The thrill of threading words together,
Just me and you.”
Ada was so quick-witted and smart. I tried to create my own poetic reply as fast as I could, despite the distraction of the room’s mantel clock chiming in the hour.
“I would like nothing more than to light the air
With words from books that speak of love
To the girl with the chestnut hair.”
After I said it, I felt the space between us shift. She did too. The distance between us shortened. I could almost taste the sweetness of her breath.
The clock finished chiming.
“I know you have to meet your parents soon.”
I nodded. But every part of me didn’t want to leave her.
“Can we meet here tonight? I will probably need to have a drink with my father in the smoking room after dinner, but I might be able to get away right after that.”
