Page 36 of The Missing Pages

“DO YOU HAVE A FAVORITE BOOK, ONE THAT YOU RETURN to above all the others?” Ada asked over dessert.

“That would probably be Treasure Island,” I told her as I broke the crust of my crème br?lée with my spoon.

“And why that one?”

“Well, every time I read it, I see something new. When I was younger, I read it purely as an adventure book. I loved Jim Hawkins’s quest for treasure.

The treacherous voyage. But as I became older, the coming-of-age narrative became more poignant to me…

a young man’s journey from boyhood into adulthood.

And, of course, the painful lessons about human nature he learns along the way. ”

“It’s wonderful when one finds such a deep connection with a protagonist,” Ada remarked.

“More than that.” I laughed. “I wanted to be Jim Hawkins!

“And what about you?”

“Ah,” she said. “I guess I’ve always had a weak spot for Dante Gabriel Rossetti.”

“Really?” Her answer surprised me. I was expecting her to say Jane Austen or Charlotte Bronte.

“Yes. I’ve been positively mad about his poetry since I was a first year at college.” She grinned like a Cheshire cat. “Can I let you in on a little secret, Harry?”

“Please do. I’m all ears.”

“I’ve been working on trying to secure a book of his poetry that was once in the estate of Lord Frederic Leighton, a baron, a painter, and a friend and benefactor of London’s bohemian art set.

Particularly the Pre-Raphaelites. One of his late sister’s friends, Emilie Barrington, has spearheaded a campaign to make Leighton’s former residence in Mayfair a museum, and she’s considering now selling that book as part of her fund-raising efforts. ”

“You’ve piqued my curiosity,” I said. I wanted her to share more with me. “Would you be buying it for Quaritch to sell or for your own collection?”

The light in her face dimmed. “I doubt I’ll ever be able to afford such a special book on my salary. But I thought I’d first get a sense of how much Mrs. Barrington is willing to sell it for, before I inform Bernard Alfred of my interest in purchasing it.”

“A wise strategy. When are you meeting her?”

“This Sunday afternoon.”

My heart skipped a beat. That was in a mere two days’ time.

“Perhaps you’ll be in need of a chaperone?” The thought of missing out on any opportunity to spend time with Ada while I was in London was an impossibility for me.

“Am I now like a jeweled book?” she teased.

“A jewel, yes,” I insisted. “But far more precious than any book.”

She took a bite of her crème br?lée. “A tempting offer, Mr. Widener.”

“Now you must finish your dessert,” I urged. “A little temptation is a good thing.”

On Saturday, I spent the afternoon with my parents. They seemed happy to be in London, though my father’s business apparently traveled across the Atlantic with him. My mother, too, was trying to manage the raft of telegrams pouring in.

My sister’s impending nuptials also required major intercontinental planning efforts. Over breakfast, my parents exchanged information between themselves about it like they were in a board meeting.

“We’re now up to nearly 183 guests for the wedding, and that’s not even including anyone from Fitz’s side,” she bemoaned.

“I hardly think the Dixons are going to complain about the size of our guest list,” Father said as he placed the morning newspaper on his lap. “Fitz Dixon is lucky to be marrying our Ellie.”

“True.” My mother smiled.

Father’s ruby pinky ring caught the morning light as he lifted his teacup. “I will be happy when this wedding is behind us and we can concentrate on other more important affairs.”

Mother looked annoyed. She pushed her shoulders back. “Ellie’s marriage is important. It will be major news, darling.”

“Anyone can get married, Eleanor,” Father sighed. “Having one of our horses take first place at Saratoga or my father’s securing a Gutenberg, now that’s news.” He shook his head, clearly bored.

My mother glanced over at me, looking for sympathy. “Fitz is a good match for Ellie, don’t you think?”

I smiled. I knew my sister had asked Rosenbach to purchase some sporting books for him last Christmas, hoping to spark an interest in collecting to help forge a bond with our family.

“He’s a sportsman,” I said. “And being married to Ellie, endurance will serve him well.”

“Emilie Barrington is quite brilliant.” Ada’s voice sounded giddy when she met me in Holland Park. She had an aubergine-colored duster with a maroon embroidered trim. She kissed me on the cheek and I inhaled the light scent of lavender wafting off her skin.

“She was a dear friend of Alexandra Leighton, Lord Leighton’s eldest sister, and was entrusted to write his biography after his death.”

“Impressive indeed…”

“With the Lord having no heirs, and Alexandra now also gone and another sister having predeceased her, it’s been Emilie who’s taken up the mantle of preserving the Leighton house and studio.

I can’t wait to show it to you. I’ve been told it feels like you’ve stepped into another world when you enter. ”

Ada was correct. When we arrived a few minutes later at the iron gate of Lord Leighton’s private residence, we were greeted by Emilie Barrington, a petite woman in her seventies. Her ash gray hair pulled into a neat bun, her dress dark and somber.

We walked past the dark-paneled foyer and the archway that once led to Fredric Leighton’s private office.

“I’m still trying to get his old desk back,” Emilie lamented as her eyes cast down on the empty room. “All the furniture was put up for auction after he died, so it’s now my mission to track it down and return it to its rightful place.”

Ada and I exchanged glances. I was so happy she’d invited me to partake in this adventure with her.

While my mother was busy picking out peignoirs for Ellie’s trousseau and Father was having lunch with one of the executives at the White Star shipping line—which he’d recently invested in—I was here with Ada to try to sweet-talk this formidable dowager into selling her a book of poetry.

My day could not have been more perfect!

“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 of The 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.

“‘Sudden Light.’” Emilie said the name of the poem. “It’s one of my favorites. Especially now that I’m in the November of my years, it gives me hope that perhaps love continues after we’re gone.”

“Yes, I’d like to believe true love is eternal,” Ada said.

Several respectful minutes passed between us and the lines of the poem still hung in the air. I heard Ada’s voice saying the stanzas in my ear over and over. I wanted to own the book myself just to return the memory of her speaking its words.

It would be Ada however who finally broke the silence. She delicately asked Mrs. Barrington the price.

Emilie Barrington had clearly contemplated the amount before she’d agreed to meet Ada. She was shrewd and knowledgeable. I could sense that within moments of meeting her.

“Twelve pounds,” she pronounced, her voice unwavering. Despite the brief moment of sensitivity, she revealed after Ada had read the poem, Emilie was now focused on tying up the business at hand.

I intrinsically knew it was far too much.

Emilie had already admitted that the Pre-Raphaelites were no longer in fashion.

She also had not put the book up for auction, thus indicating her belief that there was little public demand for the book.

All she did have before her was a potentially eager buyer who had an emotional attachment to Rossetti’s poetry and who wanted something that had actually been inscribed with his pen.

Ada sat there quietly. I could tell she was contemplating her response.

It was hard for me not to jump in and tell Emilie the price was far too high, but I knew this was not my acquisition to negotiate.

Ada had acquired books before and had done so on behalf of the most important booksellers and antiquarians in the business. She was hardly a novice.

“That’s more than Mr. Quaritch intended to spend.”

Emilie raised an eyebrow.

I kept my expression blank. I relished seeing Ada in action. It was like watching a chess match. Ada was not going to reveal that she really wanted the book for herself.

“So it’s simply too much, I’m afraid.” She answered politely, but firmly.

If Emilie was taken aback by Ada’s answer, she didn’t show it.

“Tell me, Miss Lippoldt, how much do you think this book of poetry is worth?”

Ada smoothed the folds of her skirt with her palms. When she lifted her head, she looked directly into Emilie’s eyes.

“It’s priceless,” she replied. “But its market value, well… that’s another story entirely.” After a brief moment’s pause, she served notice that the game was indeed now afoot. “My offer is eight pounds.”

Eight pounds might not seem very much now, but it would have been close to eight hundred in today’s dollars. A rather significant sum, particularly for a young working woman like Ada.

“That’s significantly less than I was expecting,” Emilie answered. “And as you know, the impetus for selling the book is to raise funds for the restoration of this house. It is my intent to make it a museum that will long outlast me and preserve Lord Leighton’s important legacy.”

“I understand. And I appreciate that the funds received will go to a most worthwhile cause,” Ada answered. “But, nonetheless, eight pounds is all I can offer.” Her professionalism was pitch perfect.

“Then what about you, Mr. Widener?” Emilie’s head swiveled in my direction. Her eyes danced, and though her hair was streaked silver and her skin lined with age, she was a connoisseur at flirting if it served her purpose. “Perhaps you would like this book for your collection?”

I politely declined. There was going to be no other owner for this book but Ada.

Emilie just hadn’t realized that yet.