Page 37 of The Missing Pages

WE LEFT THE GARDEN OF LEIGHTON HOUSE WITHOUT THE Rossetti book. I watched Ada’s face for a clue as to how she was feeling.

“That Emilie is a fierce little barn owl, isn’t she?” Ada said, rather amused by what had transpired.

“I would say so. But the price she suggested was outrageous.”

“Indeed,” Ada agreed. “It was probably just a test. I know how much we would try to sell it for at the store. And I doubt there would be more than a handful of bidders for it if it ever went to auction.”

Again, she impressed me. Ada was smart, self-possessed, and unphased by the actions of others. If I was going to be marooned on a desert island, I would now happily cast away my beloved childhood copy of Treasure Island, which I’d always said would be my trusted companion. I wanted her.

“That’s true,” I mused. “But I know how hard it is to step away from something you love.”

Her gloved fingers grazed mine. Tiny currents of electricity flooded my body from her brief touch. Gathering my courage, I took her hand in mine and gently squeezed it.

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’s Celestina.

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.”