The Missing Pages

by Alyson Richman

Genres: Ghost; Historical Fiction; Literary Fiction

Synopsis

From internationally bestselling author Alyson Richman comes a love story, a ghost story, and an elegy to the healing power of books

Harry Widener boards the Titanic holding tight to a priceless book he just purchased in London. After mayhem strikes the ship, Harry’s last known words are that he must return to his cabin for his treasure. Neither the young man nor the book will ever be seen again. In his honour, his mother builds the Harry Widener Memorial Library at Harvard to memorialize her son and house his extensive book collection.

Decades later, Violet Hutchins, a Harvard sophomore recovering from her own great loss, is working as a page at the Widener Library. When strange things begin happening at the library—books falling off shelves or opening to random pages—Violet wonders if Harry Widener’s ghost is trying to communicate the missing pieces of his story from beyond the grave.  

This powerful and haunting novel is perfect for readers of Marie Benedict’s The Personal Librarian and Sulari Gentill’s The Woman in the Library.

Publisher: HarperCollins Canada

Print pages: 352

Sample

It had taken nearly all of Violet’s strength to get herself out of bed that morning, but she’d managed to pull on her jeans, slip on a sweatshirt, and tie back her mane of red hair.

Exiting her dorm, the world bristled against her and the sting of the crisp air awakened her senses. Violet had barely looked up from the ground as she walked the narrow path behind Dexter Gate toward Widener Library. As she entered the Yard, the still of morning had vanished and Harvard buzzed with life. Beneath the canopy of autumn foliage and against the stretch of carefully manicured green lawn, students congregated in groups, their heads tilted back in laughter. Athletes rode by on bicycles, and a lone couple kissed before parting for class. She adjusted the straps of her backpack and treaded up the building’s stone steps. Everything felt so heavy it hurt.

But as she entered the marble lobby, Violet’s mood shifted. The frenetic world of campus life slipped away and the quiet fell around her like snow. She closed her eyes and inhaled the smell she’d loved since she was a child, as if she were arriving now into a world of familiar friends. The fragrance of paper, glue, and leather. The scent of books.

Her job as a library page for Harvard’s rare book and manuscript collection, was the only thing that had kept Violet grounded since the accident. When she applied for part-time work through the Student Employment Office, she had no way of knowing that the position she’d receive would provide more than the extra money she needed, but also a refuge. Upon learning about the job, Violet had assumed it would be mostly running rare books that were requested by students or scholars, shepherding them from the stacks, to the peaceful sanctuary of the Houghton Reading Room. Only later would she realize it was so much more.

Madeline Singer, the head of special programs and the librarian curator for the Harry Elkins Widener Collection, was the last person she met in the interview process.

“I’m so pleased to meet you.” Madeline gestured for her to sit down. “I’ve already gone over your application and heard many wonderful things about you from my colleagues.”

“It’s great to meet you too,” Violet said, as she settled into the spare chair. She glanced at the tower of papers on Madeline’s desk, the stacks of books with sticky notes peeking out, and the coffee mug that said in bold block letters: JUST ONE MORE CHAPTER. Her initial nervousness softened.

“I’ve met with my staff and we’re happy to be able to offer you a job as a page at the library. We have an amazing team of students working with us, every single one of them is a great lover of books. As you can imagine, we only offer this job to students who are extremely mindful of the precious nature of our collection.”

“Thank you,” Violet stressed the words, hoping to magnify her gratitude. She had wanted the job so much. “I know how priceless so many of these books are, Ms. Singer. I’ll be extremely careful.”

“Good. That’s what we want to hear.” Madeline pushed a strand of silver hair behind her ear.

“The majority of our rare books and manuscripts will be accessible when a request comes in. You’ll get an index card with the necessary information and call number to retrieve it,” she elaborated. “We trust our pages to put each book on a trolley and transfer them through the library tunnels and elevators that connect to Houghton’s reading room. All of that is quite straightforward. Later today, one of the other student pages will be sure to run through the protocol with you.

“The only exception is when you get a request for the Widener Memorial Collection. Those books are especially precious to Harvard. It wasn’t an accident that Mrs. Widener made sure that Harry’s collection was the central room of the library.”

It was true. From the moment one walked through the building’s entranceway, you could see Harry’s memorial room and his oil portrait above the fireplace emerging just beyond the top of the marble stairwell.

“I didn’t even know you could take his books out,” Violet admitted. The wooden bookshelves in Harry’s room ran from the floor to the ceiling, each one filled with precious leather volumes. But a protective glass covering shielded them. The collection had always appeared to Violet like a permanent museum exhibit. One could see his vast library, just not touch it.

“Yes. They’re available to read, but there’s an alarm code. So when a book needs to be taken out, you’ll need to find either me or another librarian to put in the code so you can retrieve the book from behind the glass casings with a key.”

Violet nodded and made a mental note.

“And while we’re on that subject, you might have read in last week’s Crimson that we’ve had some extremely unfortunate vandalization at Widener recently. Several books have been discovered slashed or with pages torn out.”

Violet had seen the report in the last issue of the school paper. She’d been so disturbed by the thought that anyone would purposefully destroy a book. “Yes, I did see that… it’s just awful!”

“It really is. And we have to be extra vigilant about our security now. I’m particularly concerned about the Widener collection and the Memorial Room. The staff has to take every precaution. We’ve even stopped putting a book from Harry’s collection on his desk because we need to keep every volume safe.”

“That’s understandable,” Violet said.

“The administration has asked that we only have library staff inside that room, not the independent custodial company we use, while the investigation is ongoing. So while I know it’s not in your job description, I’m wondering if for the next few weeks I could entrust you to just take a damp dust rag and wipe down Harry’s desk and the table in his room?”

“Of course.”

“Then there’s just one more thing…” Madeline leaned forward.

“I’m sure you know the Widener Memorial Room has had fresh flowers placed on Harry Widener’s desk each week since the inception of the library.”

“Yes,” Violet answered. She had remembered being very moved when her tour guide had stood outside the steps of the library and described how Mrs. Widener had asked for fresh flowers to be delivered weekly to Harry’s Memorial Room and that they be placed on his desk so it looked like her son might arrive at any moment and sit down and read.

“While a standing order with the florist is easy enough, I’ve always ordered the flowers myself in the past because I wanted to add a personal touch and honor Harry’s legacy. The curator before me did this as well. I remember her telling me that ordering the flowers helped her feel connected to Harry’s spirit. Madeline’s eyes softened. “I’ve always felt the same.”

“That’s a lovely sentiment,” Violet said. “And I’m sure if Eleanor Widener were alive, she’d be extremely touched that so many curators have taken her request to heart.”

“Yes. Absolutely. So you can imagine how annoyed I was with myself when I actually forgot to order them last week! I blame it on the investigation and the looming deadline for an article I’ve been working on.

“Anyway, I was thinking it might be smart to give the responsibility to a motivated student like yourself who can keep track of these things.” She folded her hands. “I don’t want to overburden you, but of course, we’d be paying you for the extra time you put in.”

“Honestly, that sounds great. I’d be happy to have a few extra hours of work.”

“Wonderful. I appreciate it so much.”

“This will allow me to keep focused on my research.” Madeline let out a deep sigh of relief. “I’m hoping to publish my paper this spring.”

“It’s a pleasure to help out.”

“Good. It will be one less thing for me to worry about, thank you. This paper’s been a passion project for me and I’m anxious to wrap it up.”

“Can I ask what it’s about?” Violet was naturally curious. She always liked hearing what professors or the faculty at Harvard were working on.

“I’m focusing on the booksellers who helped shape Harry’s early collecting, particularly A.S.W. Rosenbach.”

“The book dealer from Philadelphia?” Violet’s voice perked up.

Madeline was surprised. “You’re familiar with him?”

“Actually, I am.” Violet’s posture straightened with an unexpected surge of confidence. She could hardly believe she had something to contribute to the conversation. “I grew up in Philly. We visited the Rosenbach library for a school trip in high school. That was the first time I saw so many beautiful books under one roof.”

Madeline chuckled. “You’re in the right place then. I’m so pleased you’ll be working here. And if you’re interested in my research… I’ve been looking for a bright student to help transcribe some of the letters between the two men.”

“Really?” Violet was definitely interested in learning more about Philadelphia’s most famous bookseller. The memory of Rosenbach’s townhouse on Walnut Street and its antique and book-filled rooms had stayed with her. “I’d love to help you.”

“That’s music to my ears.” Madeline’s eyes twinkled behind her glasses. She shuffled through her papers and pulled out a photocopy of Rosenbach. Dressed in a tweed jacket, spectacled and scholarly in appearance, the image showed he possessed all of the distinguishing characteristics of a bibliophile.

“Rosenbach was the one who guided Harry as a young Harvard student in his first foray into book collecting. He not only helped purchase the majority of the books now in the collection here, he also knew why Harry would appreciate them in the first place.”

“Wow,” Violet said as she gazed at the image. “They definitely didn’t mention that at all on our school field trip.”

“I imagine they didn’t have time. Rosenbach had quite the full life. But of course, he lived to a ripe old age, unlike Mr. Widener. Only twenty-seven when he drowned.”

Violet’s expression changed.

Madeline studied her for a moment. “I should be completely transparent with you. I heard about what happened over the summer. Professor Gupta shared it with me when I was checking references for your work application.” She paused and considered her words. “I hope this job will help you heal.”

Violet stiffened. “Thank you. It’s been hard, but I’m trying to move forward.”

“I’m sure you know the history of this library. How it was born from grief.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t want to suggest that I chose your application over the others because of what happened to you. But I will say that I’m very conscious of the emotions that motivated the building of this library in the first place. Eleanor Widener created it not as a mausoleum to her son’s memory, but a celebration of his life and his love of books. I think that spirit remains essential to Widener.”

“I understand that connection completely,” Violet said. “My grandmother’s books were her legacy to me.”

“Then it’s another reason why you’re a great fit for this job. That and Professor Gupta saying that you were one of his most gifted students. He showed me your paper on Francis Bacon. It was quite inspired.

“Bacon,” Madeline added, “has a special place in Widener’s story, too.”

Violet’s mind rushed to recall any connection she might have come across during her research, but she could think of none. “I didn’t know that…”

“Yes, well,” Madeline quickly glanced at the clock on the wall. “It’s unfortunate I have to rush off to an appointment now. But consider today an amuse-bouche, then, in whetting your appetite for working here. I’ll save the Bacon story for another time.”

“I’ll look forward to that,” Violet said.

“You’ll be busy here at the library and I couldn’t be happier to have you with us.”

Madeline stood up from her desk and grabbed a folder, stuffing it into her leather satchel. “So, first things first. Order the flowers to be delivered on Wednesday. And then do the same weekly. Francine will walk you through the protocol of retrieving the books, and you and I can discuss my Rosenbach research next time we meet.”

Madeline reached into her bag, pulled out a pen and notepad, then scribbled down a phone number. “The florist certainly knows us well. Her family’s been providing the flowers here ever since the library first opened. It should cost forty-five dollars, including delivery. And whatever flowers you do select, just keep them within the palette Mrs. Widener always preferred. The colors of sunshine. Keep them bright.”

Two days later, Violet moved past the protective rope and walked into the Widener Memorial Room clasping a glass vase filled with yellow freesia and white roses. The bouquet had been ordered by Madeline a few days earlier, just before she’d handed over the responsibility to Violet. With all of the concern surrounding the book slasher, Madeline had specified that Violet be the one responsible for picking the flowers up at the main desk and bringing them up to the Memorial Room.

Violet had been happy to oblige. Now, as she placed the flowers down on the desk, she felt her body relax as she glanced at all the beautiful books that filled the space.

Violet had not felt well that morning, as she’d slept poorly yet again. She had stayed up late staring at her computer screen trying to finish a paper on the impact of Emily Dickinson and Feminist theory, only to spill coffee on it after she’d printed it out. She had to rush to print another copy early this morning at the science center, dropping it off at Professor Gupta’s office before racing to the library to make sure she would be able to retrieve the early-morning floral delivery and get the bouquet to Harry’s desk before Madeline arrived for work.

Violet felt something spiritual about entering the room. It wasn’t just the intimacy of being in a space that was created to evoke an Edwardian gentleman’s private reading room; it was all of the details that had been placed there with such consideration and care.

Behind the reflection of glass, the shelves were alight with different-colored leather bindings, a patterned rainbow of oxblood red, cognac, and pine green. Above the black marble fireplace hung an oil portrait of its namesake, Harry. Forever twenty-seven in his finely cut suit; his dark hair carefully parted in the middle; his gaze prescient and calm.

Framed by oak panels and decorated by a frieze of gilded laurel leaves with a female head at its crown, the painting was a focal point in the room. The artist, Gabriel Ferrer, had rendered Harry sitting in the comfort of a chair upholstered in claret-colored silk. One hand tipped to his cheek and the other held a book with a single finger between its pages, as if the painter had just caught him taking a momentary break from his current read.

Violet looked up at the portrait and a bittersweet feeling came over her. Here was yet another young life cut short. A tragic death, just like her Hugo’s. Every day she now spent at Harvard seemed like she was walking around without a key part of herself.

“A phantom limb,” her therapist had called the sensation. The way an amputee might feel after having lost a part of their physical self.

But, honestly, Violet felt she’d lost more than a limb. A missing appendage she could have dealt with, but losing Hugo was not an ancillary loss, it permeated her whole being. They had been inseparable. Gone were the conversations where she and Hugo argued who had the best rocky road—J.P. Licks on Charles Street or Emack & Bolio’s in the Square. She missed him pulling a melting ice-cream cone from her hand, helping her so it didn’t drip all over her cotton dress. She missed him sneaking glances at her while they studied in Lamont, the light flickering in his amber eyes. She missed his throaty laugh. The sound of his voice.

Violet and Hugo had been together since the fall of their freshman year. They had been as entwined as any two bodies could be. Even now, nearly three months after his death, Violet struggled to believe he was really gone. She’d lost track of how many times she’d been some place on campus, whether it be the leafy, overgrown Dudley Garden or outside the Athletic Center, and thought she’d seen the back of his head, his distinct mop of curly brown hair.

Although she knew she wasn’t meant to linger in the room, Violet stepped closer to the carved mantel and looked up at the portrait hanging above it. It was strange, almost as if her mind were playing tricks on her again. In the past, she’d heard other students mention that when they visited the Louvre in Paris, the eyes of the Mona Lisa felt as though they were gazing solely upon them. “You could move to another corner, take a step back or to the side, and you felt like her eyes always followed you,” one student had shared during her freshman art history class. Now Violet felt the same way about the eyes in Harry Widener’s portrait.

She was tired. That had to be the explanation. She wasn’t just dealing with her grief, but also the demands of her new classes and work obligations.

Violet tried to settle her nerves, but suddenly she was struck by another odd sensation. Cold air rippled through the room. She glanced to see if there was a window open somewhere nearby. But there were no windows in this interior space. Violet stood absolutely still, trying to find the source of the breeze.

Another gust of cold air soon hit her; this time she was certain it had come down through the fireplace. It traveled eerily through the study, moving across the room to Harry’s desk, where the vase of fresh flowers seemed to shiver. A few petals fell to the desk’s wooden surface.

Violet’s eyes traveled up once more toward the portrait of Harry. She knew it sounded absurd, but she felt as if he were looking right at her.

DEATH DID NOT SILENCE ME. IT DID NOT STIFLE MY ABILITY to feel or to love. It did not pull me forever into the depths of the great, dark sea and extinguish my spirit. I emerged after the boat’s sinking, no longer in my physical form, but limitless, light-filled, and transformed.

It would be wrong to think that the dead remain static. Our curiosity does not die with us. We seek knowledge. We crave empathy. A ghost is the greatest reader of all.

Over the years, I have turned countless pages while watching the lives of those I love unfold. In the case of my mother, I witnessed her unfathomable grief, followed by her ultimately discovering a new sense of purpose in building a library to ensure that my books had a permanent home.

I have witnessed births and deaths. Peaks of triumph and valleys of despair.

And I have my own memories that return to me. My mother, sitting in her Philadelphia drawing room, dressed in waves of blue silk, a book spread open on her lap.

“You will love it,” she informs me. She had just purchased a new translation of The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. The verdant green cover, with its title pressed in gold foil, looked almost like a piece of jewelry as she lifted it up for me to see.

She always loved tales from distant lands. She was born with an explorer’s soul. Behind her dove gray eyes, a fiery inquisitiveness and desire to learn smoldered.

When she quoted one of the verses from this Persian poet, a smile rippled across her face, as if she were revealing a secret only the two of us shared.

It was my mother who revealed to me the world that existed in the inches between the reader and the writer, where two souls could mingle without ever touching. She believed a good book spoke through you. That is why she never collected books merely as display items. She instead had her menageries, her collections of French porcelain, her silver, and her jewels to fill her appetite for beauty. With books, she simply purchased what she loved to read.

That was my first lesson I learned from her about collecting. “Only buy what you love” was one of her favorite mottoes.

The men in my family, on the other hand, often bought prized pieces to elevate their reputation as connoisseurs. They wanted to rise above the adage that those with new money didn’t appreciate elegance and good taste. On the walls of Lynnewood Hall, my uncle and grandfather worked together to build one of the most enviable art collections in the country. The walls of our family’s estate were adorned with paintings by Rembrandt, Van Dyck, Titian, and Raphael. Grandfather commissioned the famous John Singer Sargent to paint his portrait and others in our family, hoping the outcome would be reminiscent of the sixteenth- and seventeenth-century Flemish painters he so admired.

But there was always something deeper to the way grandfather collected. For beneath the facade of a shrewd businessman, he was particularly sensitive to the fragility of life.

He did not speak often about the two children my grandmother and he had lost in the early years of their marriage. I had been named after my uncle Harry who had died at the age of eleven, and the weight of that loss often returned to him.

“You’re still too young to know this,” he reminded me as we stood outside our family’s estate, Lynnewood Hall, in its final days of completion. Above the grand columns, inside the limestone pediment, Grandfather had commissioned a rather unusual design. In the center, above the small circular window was a carving of an hourglass. Flanking its sides were four figures: a mother, a father, and their two children.

“But the two most important things in this world are family and time,” he reminded me.

And while he didn’t say it aloud, I knew that as much as he loved to collect priceless works of art, my grandfather was sharing his wisdom with me. The most valuable things in the world could simply not be bought.

Madeline lifted a large, thick folder from her desk. “Here are photocopies of the letters between Harry and A.S.W. Rosenbach that I’ll need you to transcribe.” She handed the bundle of papers to Violet. Around the folder, the collection was secured by a thin cord of string.

“I hope you find them as intriguing as I did. It was because of Harry’s friendship and business relations with Rosenbach that he was able to ask for an introduction to the famous British bookseller Bernard Alfred Quaritch shortly after he graduated from Harvard and began collecting for his library. Harry was traveling to Europe with his family in the spring of 1912, and Quaritch’s store was one of the last places he visited before he boarded the Titanic. Quaritch was actually the bookseller who sold him the famous ‘Little Bacon.’”

Violet raised an eyebrow. “So that’s the Bacon connection you mentioned at our first meeting.”

“Ah, yes,” Madeline smiled. “The Harvard tour guides never mention the priceless book that Harry allegedly ran back from the lifeboats to his room for, do they? It was Francis Bacon’s Essays. That was Harry’s last significant purchase, and it was clearly important to him.”

“I had no idea,” Violet said as she patted the top of the folder. “It’s interesting. We hear that ice cream is always served in the dining room because it was Harry’s favorite dessert, and that all freshmen have to take a swimming test because he drowned. But this is the first time I’ve ever heard about Quaritch or the ‘Little Bacon.’”

Madeline nodded. “But the story about Harry running back inside to get the Bacon has always seemed apocryphal to me. The volume was so small, he could have just kept it in his pocket.” She pointed to the folder. “There’s actually a letter he wrote to Rosenbach shortly after acquiring it in London where he states that he’s never taking it off his body. So if he intended to carry it with him everywhere, I don’t see why he would have had to run back to his cabin to retrieve it.”

She focused her gaze on Violet. “I have a sixth sense that there’s something very special hidden in those letters. That there’s another story about what happened while Harry was in London arranging his big book purchase that goes well beyond the Bacon alone.” She reached over her desk and grabbed a tissue and blotted her nose. “Well, that’s a conversation for another time.” She shoved a second folder into her leather briefcase. “As usual, I’m late for a meeting.”

“I’ll start typing them up this afternoon,” Violet promised.

“Wonderful, it will be very helpful to have a transcription. As you begin working, try to create what we like to call a “miniscula,” a chart of how Harry’s wrote his lowercase and capital letters so we can include it in the archives to make things easier for future scholars who want to read the originals.” She smiled. “Perhaps begin reading the letters somewhere in Widener. I think hearing his voice within the walls of the library will inspire you.”

Violet longed to sit down in Harry’s study to read the letters, but despite the two wooden tables with chairs that were inside the memorial room, she knew that it was prohibited. So, instead, she settled on the reading room near the front entrance. There, at one of the desks, she opened the folder and pulled out the letters Madeline had photocopied when she’d visited the Rosenbach archives down in Pennsylvania. Violet had been doing a little digging of her own in order to familiarize herself with some of the main players in Madeline’s research. What she learned felt almost like she was reading about the characters in a novel.

Harry was the middle child of George and Eleanor Widener. His parents both came from great wealth and privilege. But his grandfather, P.A.B. Widener, had far humbler roots. A butcher with an extraordinary entrepreneurial spirit, P.A.B. made his fortune selling mutton to federal troops during the Civil War. He then expanded his business into Philadelphia’s rapidly growing trolley car industry with his close friend William Elkins, who was Eleanor’s father and Harry’s grandfather. The two men would go on to invest in Standard Oil, U.S. Steel, and the American Tobacco Company, making both families extraordinarily rich.

Harry’s maternal grandfather started collecting books around the same time as other magnates like J.P. Morgan and Henry Huntington, who supposedly said that “the ownership of a fine library is the surest and swiftest way to immortality.” And while still here on earth, nothing gave off the whiff of old money like a library full of antiquarian volumes and rare manuscripts. The man who helped these titans of industry build their personal collections was the famed American bookseller George D. Smith, whose impressive client list would secure him tremendous success at all of the competitive book auctions.

But the young Harry discovered his own primary contact as his book-buying impulses emerged. Shortly before his twenty-first birthday, while home during Christmas break from his junior year at Harvard, he was introduced by a family friend, Clarence Bement, to the fledgling bookseller Abraham Simon Wolf Rosenbach.

Looking up from the letters, it was easy for Violet to envision the young and handsome Harry on that cold December day stepping into “Rosenbach and Company,” the elegant store on Walnut Street that A.S.W. Rosenbach and his brother hoped would cater to the. . .