Page 28 of The Missing Pages
SO MANY WRITERS AND POETS HAVE SPENT EVERY LAST drop of their ink writing about the thrill of love. And although I was not blessed with a Byronesque talent for words, I knew as I boarded the RMS Mauretania bound for England that every other thought in my head was about seeing Ada again.
I had wrapped the children’s book I had purchased from Rosenbach and already sent it by mail to Ada.
Inside, I put a note with a little drawing of a steamer ship with a stick-figure fairy holding a wand and sprinkling stars over it.
“See you soon” was all the note said along with my initials, H.E.W.
Though before I left New York I’d sent a letter confirming where we’d eat dinner together that Saturday, I knew I’d see Ada first at Quaritch’s shop on Griffin Street on Thursday, when I went there to inspect what Bernard Alfred had put aside for me.
Adrenaline rushed through me as I imagined seeing Ada in her element.
I did not fantasize about being on a tropical island with her, or sailing on a yacht together in the Mediterranean.
Instead, I preferred to close my eyes and envision her moving through the stacks at Quaritch, smiling as she pulled down books she knew we’d both love.
My parents were preoccupied during the first days into our voyage with so many things other than me; my sister’s wedding, the building of their Newport mansion, and the ongoing quest to find a French chef for the new Ritz-Carlton in Philadelphia Father was backing.
It was a blessing to be able to nurture my own excitement as I inhaled the briny air and counted the days until we reached land.
We were staying at the Ritz in London. With my parents’ being part owners of the hotel and its sister branch in Paris, not to mention the expansion of the brand in our own native city, we were treated like royalty when we arrived.
That first afternoon, Mother and I took tea in the beautiful salon with its pistachio green walls and pink chairs. It struck me then why she had selected similar tones in her own sitting room: the place suited her. Mother bloomed like a hothouse flower whenever she was ensconced in such luxury.
“Harry.” She touched my hand gently; her fingers always felt as light as rain. “Tell me what you’re eyeing for your library. Does Mr. Quaritch have something special on hold for you?”
I laughed. Around us, the mirrored walls shone with our reflection. Tables were filled with women in their feathered hats and sparkling jewels. Mother’s eyes glinted with delight.
“Actually, he’s saving quite a few things for me to see. One in particular has me very excited.”
She leaned in. “Is it another Dickens?”
“He is holding a rare edition of Copperfield for me, but he has something else I’m coveting even more.”
“Oh Harry, do tell me!” She squeezed my hand again, this time harder. “You shouldn’t tease your old mother like this.”
If anyone looked old, it certainly wasn’t my mother. Her adventurous spirit lent her a preternatural ability to look far younger than her age, despite the powder, silk dresses, and pearls a woman in her position was required to wear.
“It’s a secret for now, but you’ll be the first to know if I’m successful in obtaining it.”
And as I uttered those words, I wasn’t even sure myself if I was talking about the Little Bacon or my other secret: Miss Ada Lippoldt.