The Wedding Veil(23)
She took a sip of her tea, the thin bone china warming her chilled hands.
“Yes ma’am. I had heard that. And he was generous with his books, too, always sharing them.”
Edith nodded, setting the cup back on the end table and gesturing to the carving of the oil lamp above the tapestry hanging over the fireplace. “Do you know what the oil lamp in the carvings and in George’s bookplates symbolizes?”
“I don’t believe I do, ma’am,” he said.
And that was what made Noble the best of the best in the service industry. Noble knew every inch of Biltmore far better than Edith. But he knew she needed a listening ear and so he lent it.
“The eternal quest for knowledge,” she said. “That’s why each book plate is engraved Quaero ex libris Biltmoris. Inquire in the books of Biltmore.”
“Mr. Vanderbilt certainly knew how to do that,” Noble said, smiling.
Edith finally looked up at him, taking in his sandy hair and expressive eyes, the way his fitted waistcoat—one brass button, one silver, as was the custom here at Biltmore—was so neat and orderly even at this late hour. It struck her how tired he must be after a day not only full of work but also emotion.
“Thank you, Noble,” Edith said quietly, releasing him, leaning back and closing her eyes. As she heard his footsteps reach the door, the full weight, peace, and comfort of home washed over her. Something cold on her hand jolted her eyes back open. But it was only Cedric’s nose. She fluffed the fur on his head. “Hello, dear boy. You miss him too, don’t you?” He lay down beside her, faithful as ever.
Edith sighed, soaking in the feeling. She was finally back in George’s library, where she could rest, where she could grieve. Not only was her husband gone but she couldn’t even visit his grave. At least, not practically. Going to New York to sit with him wouldn’t happen often. But surely he was here, among his most prized possessions: his books. This was, after all, where the ghosts lived, wasn’t it? Honoré de Balzac, Charles Dickens, Sir Walter Scott. Their cherished friend Paul Leicester Ford would forever remain here, his devotion to George and Biltmore immortalized in the dedication of his novel Janice Meredith. Edith wished that George had written a book in his life, that she had something in his voice. In lieu of his memoirs, she picked up what he had left behind: one of three leather-bound volumes of the darkest green embossed in gold. Books I Have Read, G.W.V.
“A man is created by stories,” George had told Edith once. Was that true? And, if so, could she find him in the pages of the books he loved so much? Could they bring him back?
What had George been reading before he died? Edith turned to the very last page, to the very last entry, running her finger over her husband’s distinctive, scrawling cursive. It was so distinguished, she always thought. Especially now, when it was all she had left of him. The last entry: 3159 History of the U.S. by Henry Adams Vol 3rd.
Her astonishing, studious husband had read 3,159 books in his too-short life. And those were only the ones he had recorded. What a feat. But still, Edith thought that she would probably not want something so dry to be the last book she ever read. It struck her that she should choose more wisely from now on, treat every book as though it could be her grand reading finale. The previous entry: 3158 History of the U.S. by Henry Adams Vol 2nd.
Her finger moved up a line and she stopped, her hand suddenly shaking: 3157 All Men Are Ghosts by L. P. Jacks.
All Men Are Ghosts. The words sent chills down her spine. Maybe she was reading too much into this. But could it be a sign? From her beloved George? Did he know that he was leaving soon and wanted to tell Edith he would come back to her? But he hadn’t come back to her. At least, not yet.
Edith took a deep breath and tried to calm herself. She hadn’t read the book. Perhaps it wasn’t about ghosts at all, but a lovely metaphor. Maybe it expounded upon the idea that all men were simply shells of themselves. Yes. That’s what it had to be. With a shaking hand, Edith located the volume and slid it off the shelf. She took a moment, as she sometimes did, to pretend that she was an outsider looking in on the situation. Did it make the least amount of sense that her dead husband had left her some sort of message in his reading journal, that she was supposed to read this book and he would come back to her?
No. It made no sense at all. But she was a widow now. A bona fide, alone-in-the-world, parentless widow at that. She was entitled to go a bit crazy, if only for a little while.
She opened the first page of the book, and, as if to bring George back to her, took a whiff of the pages. They smelled like leather and maybe a hint of smoke from the fire that was always burning in the library hearth. Edith felt hesitant as she began to read. Her breath caught in her throat when she came to: No genuine ghost ever recognized itself as what you suppose it to be.… In short, the attitude of mankind towards the realm of ghosts is regarded by them as a continual affront to the majesty of the spiritual world, perpetrated by beings who stand on a low level of intelligence; and for that reason they seldom appear or make any attempt at open communication, doing their work in secret and disclosing their identity only to selected souls.
She couldn’t go on. Would she be one of those selected souls? If George could come back to her, if he could appear to her, would she even want him to? Would it terrify her beyond imagination? She decided that it would. She felt determined to put the book back where it belonged, back in its proper place, to leave the tempting of fate and ghosts alone—even if it was the ghost of one she loved.