“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 brûlée. “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 businessapparently 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!
