Page 51 of The Missing Pages

WE SPED ALONG THROUGH THE LONDON STREETS AND headed toward the station. In the backseat of the car, Ada kept the wrapped Rubaiyat on her lap.

I had learned from my father and grandfather to always have a plan. So it was no surprise to me that as Ada sat so comfortably beside me that I began to imagine different scenarios in which I could extend her stay in the States, perhaps even have her prolong her return to London indefinitely.

“Would you ever consider working as a personal librarian?” I asked her.

“You mean like Belle da Costa Greene?”

“Yes. I know you met her while you were in New York the last time. Honestly, she’s one of the most celebrated professional women in the city. I’ve always been so impressed by her when we’ve crossed paths.”

She tipped her head against the window, her razor-sharp profile looking like a cameo cut against the glass. Her red hair glinted like a shiny copper penny in the sunlight.

“I have tremendous respect for Miss Greene and what she’s accomplished, particularly as one of the few women in the field. Mr. Morgan now has one of the most enviable libraries in the world… and so much of it is because of her expertise.”

“And his respect for her knowledge.”

“Yes, exactly.” Her eyes locked with mine. “I would be a fool if I didn’t consider a similar offer.”

Without me explicitly saying it, I sensed she knew why I was asking.

Offering her a position as our family’s librarian would be the perfect solution to keep us close to each other.

But I was also keenly aware that such a scenario had its own limitations.

I wanted Ada to stay in America because I craved a future with her.

I wanted the opportunity to court her publicly.

But if she was employed by my family, the social gap between us would only deepen and increase nasty gossip and salacious headlines in the society pages.

And while I knew that I could tolerate that, I wanted to find a way forward that prevented as much distress for Ada as possible.

Really what I needed to do was to find a graceful way to introduce Ada to my parents and have them discover her elegance, intelligence, and charm for themselves, just as I had.

Her lack of social standing or familial wealth could not dampen their opinion for long.

How many times had my father and his brother been snubbed by the old monied families of the East Coast because of Grandfather’s humble origins?

Why, even my own sister had found herself often without an invitation to the most coveted balls in New York and Newport.

My parents surely could not be guilty of doing the same thing to someone I adored.

I was confident I only needed to find the right situation to introduce them.

And nestled in the comfort and luxury of the Titanic, I would find the opportunity.

A gleaming black hull, sparkling white decks, and plumes of steam rising from its four funnels; the Titanic soon greeted us in all its majestic splendor.

“I can’t believe it. It’s even more beautiful than I imagined.” Ada gripped my hand. From behind the car’s windshield, we inhaled the sheer wonder of its graceful lines.

“It looks infinite, Harry.”

Once again, she had chosen the perfect word. Indeed, it looked endless. Nearly nine hundred feet long, the vessel looked like it stretched for an eternity.

“And we’re only seeing the outside,” I added. With Father having invested in the White Star Line, I often heard him extoll the technology that had gone into its costly construction.

“It has the best engineering to date,” I told her. “The ship has sixteen watertight chambers that can be sealed off if the hull ever gets punctured.”

“It’s simply incredible,” she said, grinning as she took it all in.

The newspaper cameramen’s flashing bulbs sparkled along the dock as our car moved closer.

“I’ll let you get out first. The driver will make sure a porter takes your trunk.”

Without saying it, both of us knew it was best not to be photographed together and have any unnecessary gossip swirling before we’d even left Southampton.

“Thank you,” she said. “Mr. Quaritch has already given me instructions to bring this to the boat’s safe as soon as I board.”

“I was just about to suggest that,” I said. As our car came to a stop, the driver left us to find a porter. For a moment we were completely alone.

“We’re supposed to arrive at Cherbourg after six this evening,” I said.

“Yes, that’s when your parents arrive. You’ll be busy with them tonight, I imagine.”

“I would much rather be dining with you.”

She smiled. “We will have nearly a week on the ship. I’m sure there will be plenty of time to share a meal.”

“Maybe once you’re settled in, we can meet in the library,” I suggested. “I’m curious to see what the Titanic has on its bookshelves.”

“Me too. What a job that must be, to have to satisfy so many varied tastes on board. Maybe I should apply to be the boat’s personal librarian!”

“Now that’s an idea!” I slapped my knee.

She laughed, both of us bemused about what a wonderful job that would be.

“Miss Lippoldt, I have a porter waiting to escort you to the deck,” our driver informed her as he pulled open her door. Morning sunshine poured in and the briny air filled the car.

“See you in an hour in the library?” She clasped the Rubaiyat to her chest and made her way to leave.

“Yes,” I told her. As she headed toward the gangplank, I could hear her laughter still in my ears, as bright as bells.

I wished I had been able to record those first moments of stepping on board the Titanic with Ada.

The beautiful carved staircase. The glass domed ceiling.

The marble floors. Even for someone like myself who had already experienced some of the most luxurious settings in the world, it was intoxicating.

A group of musicians played lively tunes as flutes of champagne were offered from silver trays.

Women with feathered hats and fans glided like swans through the reception rooms. I recognized some of my parents’ friends immediately, John and Marian Thayer traveling with their seventeen-year-old son, Jack.

Mrs. Thayer greeted me warmly and asked where my parents were.

“They’ll board in Cherbourg and be here by dinnertime.”

“We can’t wait to see them.” Marian leaned in and kissed me on the cheek. Her perfume contributed an extra note of gardenia in the air.

“Your father will be having a cigar with me tonight.” Mr. Thayer came over to me and slapped me on the back. “The finest humidor awaits him. At least that’s what I hear.”

“He will look forward to that,” I told him. All I could do was wait to extricate myself from these well-meaning people and freshen up so I could find Ada in the library.

Walking down the long, white corridor toward my stateroom, I inhaled the heady scent of varnish and fresh paint. Everything on the Titanic smelled new.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Widener,” a young man in a White Star uniform greeted me.

“Your trunk has just been unpacked for you.” He opened the door to my cabin with a flourish.

I stepped inside and discovered a room as beautiful as the brochure had promised.

Satinwood paneled walls, Italianate-style furniture, and a meticulously crafted coffered ceiling.

Straight ahead, just beneath one of the windows, stood a mahogany desk with a matching chair upholstered in rich sapphire-blue silk.

“I hope it’s to your liking,” the steward said. “Please let me know if there’s anything else you might need. Your dinner jacket is being pressed as we speak.”

Room C-82 was indeed to my liking. It had everything I could possibly want on the high seas. In the corner of the room was a majestically appointed twin bed with a carved head and footboard. The mattress and pillows were fitted with Egyptian cotton sheets as white as fresh snow.

“It’s perfect,” I said. Shafts of golden light poured into the room from the one window. All of the brass and crystal fittings sparkled untouched. There was something novel knowing I would be the first passenger to ever sleep in this room.

What I didn’t tell the steward was that there was one thing missing from the room: Ada.

My parents’ suite was directly adjacent to mine, so perhaps it was a good thing Ada’s room was on the D deck. Sangorski had purchased a more modest first-class cabin for her.

These past three-and-a-half weeks in London had made me certain of one thing.

It pained me not to have Ada by my side.

I wanted to travel the world with her, comb every library and bookshop on the globe as partners.

I wanted to see her smile in the morning when I awakened and hear her laughter like music every single day.

I had come to a decision. I wanted Miss Ada Lippoldt to be my wife.

The official lending library of the Titanic was conveniently located on the same level as my room, but on the other, less desirable end of the ship that overlooked the stern deck.

It was an ideal place for me and Ada to meet, not only because it had the largest selection of books for the ship’s passengers, but also because it technically served as the social lounge for all of the second-class passengers.

I doubted anyone in my parents’ social set would be there, opting instead for the more intimate and sumptuously appointed first-class lounge on the A deck just off the beautiful grand staircase.

It was still a lovely place to meet. With its neoclassical accents and walls made from contrasting mahogany and sycamore panels, the space was warm and inviting. Ada was already nestled into one of the comfortable chairs at the far end of the room when I arrived.

“You got here early,” I said as I took her in. She had changed into a new dress, a delicate mauve silk dress with pearl buttons. “I hope you haven’t been waiting for me too long.”

Her eyes flickered. “I wanted to beat you to the chase. I had to see what they had on their shelves first.”

I laughed. “I appreciate your competitive spirit. And what did you discover?”

“Edith Wharton, James Fenimore Cooper, the usual fare. But there’s also one very special book I was surprised to see.”

I leaned in closer. “Now you’ve piqued my interest, Miss Lippoldt.” I spotted a book beneath her folded hands. “Do show me.”

She lifted her hands.

“Dare I say the Titanic librarian is a bit of a romantic?” I smiled. Lord Byron’s Hebrew Melodies lay in Ada’s lap. It contained 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’s Valperga will 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 of bouts-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.”

“Yes, of course.” She put the Byron volume back into her lap. “I’ll have more than enough to read to keep me busy,” she said as her eyes moved toward the ship’s bookshelves.

“And tonight, we can continue our game where we left off,” I added. “Perhaps by the end of the trip, we will have our own book of sonnets.”

“I would love that,” she said.

“I still have the Little Bacon here.” I tapped my breast pocket. “But a miniature version of our own book of poetry, now that’s something I’d really like to keep next to my heart.”