Chapter Nine
OF ALL THE EMOTIONS THAT WE EXPERIENCE IN A LIFETIME, joy is the one I wish I had the power to store away for a rainy day.
Wouldn’t it be a marvel to seal our happiness away in a book somewhere, and to be able to retrieve it?
In my short life, I had the comfort of knowing that every book in my library would wait for me there until I desired it.
Its story would never disappear from inside its printed leaves.
All I needed to do was to pull it down from the shelf and the flicker of light from its illustrations, the humor of its characters, the maze of its storyline, every bit of it would remain in stasis until I opened the leather-bound cover and turned to the first page.
And while the ability to bottle joy, to be able to imbibe it at my will, remained an impossibility, something opened inside me as I watched Violet pause over Ada’s name.
There was an urgency that I felt for the first time in years, a yearning for this melancholy girl to know the remarkable woman behind the name.
I was always grateful that the private correspondence between Ada and me had remained hidden.
That it could never be found in any archive or library.
I did not want our words read by my family or even scholars who were eager to fill in the gaps of my life.
I wanted to maintain its intimacy, a narrative that belonged to just us.
But after all this time, would those letters, if finally uncovered, reveal a story that deserved to be shared?
Even now, when I return to those first exchanges Ada wrote to me all those years ago, joy comes over me.
On those pages it is no longer elusive. It flutters open, released into the air for me to breathe.
Dear Mr. Widener,
January 18, 1912
Thank you so much for your most recent letter.
I’ve taken note of the authors you are particularly fond of, and we have several rare editions by some of them in our collection that I believe might whet your collecting appetite.
I’m very eager to show you one particular edition of David Copperfield that has been in a private collection in London for over sixty years and has only recently come into our possession here at the bookshop.
It is a true one of a kind and includes a note from Dickens himself.
On a side note, I have just learned rather unexpectedly that I will be traveling to America on Mr. Quaritch’s behalf.
I arrive on February 1st and will be in Manhattan for a few short days to meet with the personal librarian of another client of ours.
If you happen to have any reason to come to New York City while I’m there, it would be lovely to meet you in person in advance of your trip to London.
With warmest regards,
Ada Lippoldt
It was certainly a rather bold letter to receive from a woman at that time. Part of me wanted to run over to Rosenbach’s office and show it to him. But the gentleman in me instinctively knew it was better to keep it private.
Still, the secrecy of a correspondence with such an intriguing woman only added to the thrill. I wrote back to her the following day.
Dear Miss Lippoldt,
January 25, 1912
What welcome news to receive your letter. It would be my pleasure to meet you in New York. I’m very eager to hear about the Dickens book. It sounds like a real prize piece for any library, and I appreciate you thinking of me as soon as it came into your possession.
If your schedule permits, please allow me to take you to dinner during your stay in Manhattan.
Perhaps we could meet at Delmonico’s Restaurant downtown?
I think you will find it a perfect backdrop for conversation and the Baked Alaska is the best you’ll find this side of the pond!
Please let me know if you would at all be available.
Respectfully yours,
Harry Elkins Widener
When I recall those letters now, I am struck by the forwardness of each of our offerings.
Was it our shared kinship of books that enabled us to cut through the strict formalities of the time?
Or was it that I could already sense how truly unique Ada was?
To this day, I honestly cannot say. But what I knew to be true was that of all the women I’d crossed paths with during weekends at Harvard or through my mother’s parties and other assorted events in our family’s social circle, I had never encountered a young woman who loved books as much as I did.
And as her trip approached, the possibility of meeting Ada continued to occupy more and more of my thoughts.
So much so that, as much as I relished spending time in my private library, it became increasingly difficult for me to read.
“Why, don’t you look handsome,” my mother said on the morning I was scheduled to meet Ada in New York.
I had combed my dark hair back using my best pomade and had dressed in my finest suit from Wanamaker’s, a charcoal chalk-stripe with matching three-button waistcoat.
Beneath it, I wore a crisp white shirt and a black silk tie.
In her sage green and sky blue colored sitting room, Mother sat nestled in one of the silk divans, a book opened on her lap and a tea service at her fingertips. On the small side table, a half-eaten piece of cake remained on a dainty Limoges plate.
“Are you off somewhere?” she asked.
“New York,” I answered.
She looked toward the window. Outside, the grounds of Lynnewood Hall were covered in snow.
“Perhaps today is not the best day to travel,” she mused as she brought her teacup to her lips. “Maybe it’s better to reschedule. Are you meeting a friend there?”
“It’s for a book. A potential acquisition for my library.”
A smile curled at Mother’s lips. “Ah, the hunt!” she laughed. “Neither rain nor snow will keep you here, then,” she remarked, knowing it wasn’t worth expending any energy in protest. Though she did inquire if I’d be having our driver take me in our car or if I’d be going by train instead.
“The train,” I informed her.
“Good,” she said. “It will be safer than the car. You know how slick the roads can be, and I don’t want to worry.”
Our driver dropped me off at Philadelphia’s main train station and I boarded our family’s private Pullman car at one thirty.
I’d made the journey to Manhattan countless times before, and I knew it should only take three hours; that would give me more than enough time to drop my bag off at the new Vanderbilt Hotel on 34th and Park and then head straight downtown to meet Ada.
Tucked into the elegant confines of the compartment, I took out my novel and tried to relax.
But despite the luxurious appointments, the velvet seats, and the shiny brass fittings, it was difficult for me to quiet my mind.
I eyed the crystal decanter filled with sherry that rested on a bar top and poured myself a glass, hoping that it might help calm my nerves.
This was hardly a date with Miss Lippoldt, I told myself.
It simply was a business meeting between two like-minded bookish people.
At Harvard, I’d had few chances to socialize with women at all.
The two hundred or so young ladies who attended Radcliffe existed sequestered in their quadrangle, away from the rest of Harvard’s grounds.
Although their classes were taught by our same professors, they were not allowed in our buildings and certainly not in our classrooms or dormitories.
The main reading room in the library was also off limits to them.
Aside from my mother and my sister, women were wholly mysterious creatures to me. I imagined them like elegant white cranes that emerge at the steps of a marsh, beautiful and intriguing, but remaining out of reach.
Still, my curiosity about Ada had already been piqued.
I realized that I knew nothing about her, as I was unaware of her family background, her education, or even her age.
Mr. Quaritch had only referred to her as “Miss Ada Lippoldt.” Part of me felt as though I’d been placed in a novel that only Dickens himself could pen, where I was to arrive all nervous and flustered at Delmonico’s only to find a woman as old as Miss Havisham tucked into one of the banquettes.
Her girlish correspondence, a guise for its ancient owner.
I reached into my vest, pulled out my pocket watch, and glanced at the time. In a few hours, I knew I’d have all my questions answered.
We were due to arrive by 5 p.m., and I’d sent a telegram to Ada before she left London that I’d made the dinner reservation at Delmonico’s for 7 p.m. on February 3rd. Everything seemed to be running on schedule.
And despite the snow falling outside, the train continued chugging uneventfully over the rails toward Manhattan. Until suddenly it didn’t.
Just as I began to imagine the warm meal and pleasant evening ahead, a piercing, screeching sound and the pull of the brakes brought the train to an abrupt stop.
“Mr. Widener,” the conductor stepped into my car.
“There’s been an unfortunate accident.” He broke the news swiftly to me.
“A horse-drawn cart has slipped off the road and into the track. The poor animal is now lying on the rail as well…” His voice lowered slightly.
“We’ll have to wait for someone to come and get them off the tracks before we can start moving again,” he told me.
“And how long will that take?” I pulled out my watch again. I now had only a marginal amount of time before I’d be late in meeting Ada.
“I’m sorry, sir. It’s hard to know exactly. We hope help will arrive soon, but the snow is making it more difficult.”
“I imagine it is,” I said tersely. With each passing minute, I knew I was becoming that much closer to a late arrival or—even worse—missing our dinner altogether.
The thought of Ada waiting for me at the restaurant, the minutes turning to potentially over an hour, was incredibly distressing.
I loathed to cause her any embarrassment, and I also didn’t want her to think I was a thoughtless cad either.
My face grew red from frustration.
“We’re doing everything we can to get to New York as soon as possible, Mr. Widener.”
I nodded. There was nothing I could do but wait.
Two hours passed before the train began moving again.
During that time, I must have composed a new telegram to Ada a hundred times in my head.
We would need to reach the nearest station before it could be wired to a Western Union in Manhattan and then delivered via messenger to Delmonico’s.
So as soon as we reached Trenton, New Jersey, the words I’d written down were rushed to the office.
Dear Miss Lippoldt,
My train delayed due to accident. Must reschedule our meeting. Please leave word at the restaurant where I can reach you. I send my deepest apologies.
H.E.W.
When we finally pulled into New York City, I was two hours late. Hoping against all odds that Ada might still be at Delmonico’s waiting for me, I arranged for a porter to bring my bag to my hotel and I headed straight to the restaurant.
“She left as soon as we gave her the telegram, Mr. Widener,” the ma?tre d’ informed me when I stepped inside the elegant dining room. He handed me a piece of paper from a drawer. On it, she’d simply written: “H.E.W. - I’m staying at the Martha Washington Hotel until Thursday.”
At that time, there were almost no options other than the Martha Washington for an unmarried woman to stay in New York.
I should have known that already, but my mind was so flustered from my late arrival that I felt the need to see it confirmed on paper.
I hailed another cab and headed toward the hotel, hoping I could leave a message for Ada and find a way to reschedule our meeting.
And this is where the unexpected happened yet again. When I entered the tiled lobby of the hotel, I spotted a woman with coils of chestnut hair seated by the reception desk. She was dressed in a dark blue peplum jacket and long skirt, a lavender scarf tied artfully around her neck.
“Mr. Widener?” she asked, her eyes lifting up from a book. “I knew you would come.”