Page 17 of The Missing Pages

THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE IS A BEAUTIFUL THING WHEN the tongue surrenders to every syllable, every vowel. It sparkles with its own electricity, it possesses its own magic, when it’s spoken aloud.

That first night with Ada, the sheer thrill of language was something that we found connected us even beyond our shared love of books.

“What’s your favorite word?” Ada asked me that evening after our dinner. She stood in the hotel lobby, looking even more beguiling to me after our wonderful conversation at dinner than when we’d met hours earlier.

“No one’s ever asked me anything like that before,” I said, trying to buy myself some time. There were so many glorious words in the English language, but when I looked at Ada standing there, the word “celestial” flew out.

My answer seemed to tickle her. “What a rather unlikely word to come from a gentleman’s mouth,” she giggled. “Honestly, I adore that word, too.”

“And now, don’t tease me a second longer,” I protested. “If this is a game, you have to share yours.”

She contemplated her choice for a moment, and I could sense her mind moving quickly between more than one.

“Phosphorescence,” she declared finally in a decisive tone. “I like how musical it sounds and I love what it means.”

“An excellent choice.” I smiled, bemused. I didn’t want to leave her there in the lobby. I wanted to play word games with her all night.

“There’s that wonderful line by Emily Dickinson where she says ‘to find that phosphorescence, that light within, that’s the genius behind poetry…’”

I wanted to tell her that she was beaming now. That I understood exactly just what Dickinson was talking about when she said “the light within.” Ada Lippoldt was phosphorescent. She glowed as though there were a candle burning beneath her skin.

She looked at me again. But now my gaze traveled from her eyes to the perfect archer’s bow of her lips.

“Mr. Widener,” she said, pulling me back to our conversation. Her voice was a reminder to me to resume my good manners.

“I regret I must say good night,” she apologized. “I have a rather big day tomorrow. I’m meeting Belle da Costa Greene.”

“Ah, Mr. Morgan’s personal librarian,” I said. “Please send her my regards.”

“Yes, I certainly will. It’s a rare thing to find another woman in the book business. I’m rather excited to meet her.”

“I can imagine,” I said, keeping my thoughts about how Morgan had outbid my grandfather at several auctions to myself. Still, he’d been generous to endorse my membership to the Grolier Club, New York’s oldest society for book connoisseurs.

“But I will see you again in a few weeks when you come to London.”

Uncharacteristically, I decided to go out on a bold limb. “Is there any chance I could convince you to come to Delmonico’s with me tomorrow night? It’s a shame what I had planned got canceled because of the snow and my train.”

Her eyes drifted toward the window outside. The snow had tapered off and now only a few flakes fell from the dark sky onto the sidewalk, melting as they landed.

“I’m afraid I have another appointment planned.”

“Of course. Your schedule must be quite full.”

She seemed to still be considering the invitation.

“Well, perhaps I could move a few things around in the morning. I’ve never been to Delmonico’s before and your invitation is rather enticing.”

I put on my hat and grinned.

“Mr. Widener, your confidence that I’ll be able to arrange things to accommodate you is enviable,” she said.

“Well, I’m a book lover,” I reminded her. “And you’re coming to dinner with me, Miss Lippoldt, is the only satisfying ending to the story that I can imagine.”

I waited for Ada at the back corner table of Delmonico’s.

She arrived dressed in a plum-colored velvet jacket and a cream silk dress skimming her delicate silhouette beneath.

She wore no jewelry roped around her neck or from her ears.

While the few other ladies in the dining room were adorned with beads and ostrich feathers, Ada radiated in her elegant simplicity and exuded an inner confidence that set her apart from those draped in pearls.

The ma?tre d’ escorted her over to my table and pulled out her chair.

“I hope I haven’t kept you waiting,” she apologized. “Work was relentless today, but I negotiated the purchase of something rather important that we acquired in the Huth sale back in November,” she beamed. “Mr. Quaritch will be so pleased.”

“Well, now I’m intrigued,” I said as I put my menu to the side. “Tempting me like that is torture! Do spill the details,”

I said playfully.

“It would be premature,” she said, laughing. Her eyes flashed like two shiny copper pennies in the candlelight. “But hopefully soon.”

“Well, still, we must order some champagne and toast you!”

“Such an extravagance is hardly necessary.” Despite her protests, I could sense she was delighted by the prospect.

I flagged down the waiter and ordered us a bottle.

“If you can’t tell me what book it is or who has purchased it,” I teased, as our glasses were filled, “can you at least quote me one of the lines from its pages?”

“Ah, another game!” she said and giggled.

“Of course,” I said, delighting in all of the fun we were having.

“‘Some books are meant to be tasted,’” she said. “‘Others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested.’”

Her eyes were full of mischief as she waited to see if I knew the answer.

I lifted my glass and took the sight of her in, like one thirsty swallow.

“Let us make a little toast to Mr. Francis Bacon then,”

I announced.

“To Bacon.” She lifted her flute of champagne.

Our glasses clinked together, and we gazed at each other as the bubbles moved through us.

“Ada,” I said her name as I put down my glass.

“Yes?”

I hadn’t intended to ask her anything. I simply wanted to say her name, to have it fall from my lips. It sounded like music. It sounded beautiful. That was the magic of speaking something you love aloud.