There, it was cooler and less crowded—empty, in fact—and I settled my body onto a soft couch next to a tall bookcase. I expected to feel his weight drop onto the cushion next to mine, and the thought sent a pleasant shiver up my legs, but there was nothing. I looked up. He was facing the bookcase instead.
“Have you read any of these?” he asked, gesturing toward the books.
“I don’t think I’m allowed.”
“You’re that obedient? I didn’t take you for a child.”
“I’m not a child.”
“How old are you?” he asked.
“A lady never tells.”
He stared me down. There was an intensity to him that I found unsettling and comforting at the same time.
“Fifteen,” I said. I knew I looked older, because the other girls said so, but the truth would do well enough.
Chuckling, he said, “That’s what I thought.”
“How old are you?”
“Seventeen,” he said. “But I feel like I was born much older.”
“Tell me what you mean.”
“Another time. You should take a book or two whenever you want. They never check. I take them all the time.”
“You steal Mr. Vanderbilt’s books?”
“Borrow. I borrow. And mostly when Mr. Vanderbilt is traveling.”
“What do you read?” I asked him.
“Come here, I’ll show you,” he said, and I did. As I stood next to him, he ran his fingers along the spine of each book as he talked about it. I was close enough to feel the warmth of his body and smell the mint in his lapel, and the music drifted in from the other room while he talked to me about the beauty of Shakespeare and Donne and Zola. When I told him I’d read all that and more, he grinned and nodded and said what a pleasure it was to talk to a well-read woman for a change. He went on to tell me about a particular book called The Picture of Dorian Gray, which he had just finished reading but had not had the chance to place back on the shelf. While he talked about that book, he stroked the spines of the books on either side of the empty space. I began to imagine his fingers stroking my body instead of the books, those careful long fingers against my bare skin.
I couldn’t help it. I reached out for his hand. He turned his body toward mine. The intensity of his gaze unsettled me and I froze, fearing I’d been too bold. But then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he entwined his fingers with my fingers, and his lips came down on mine.
The second kiss was different from the first. Hotter and sweeter. Instead of the brief firm touch of the kiss under the mistletoe, I felt his tender, playful mouth against mine, shifting and asking and answering all at once.
My body, with a will of its own, drew closer to his. I felt his fingers on my neck, the calluses rough against the tender skin but his touch nimble and teasing, setting my nerves atremble. I’d imagined the touch of his fingers, months ago, and they were exactly as gentle and graceful as I’d imagined.
Then I heard shouts from the other room and realized belatedly that the music had stopped. The riding party had returned. They’d come flooding into the entryway at any moment. Mr. Garber might not be obligated to receive the guests and assist them, but I was. My absence would be noted if I stayed.
I broke away from him, my cheeks flushed.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I have to go.”
His hand was still on the warm flesh of my neck. He let it linger there a moment longer as he said, “Ada, it was a true pleasure.” Then it fell away, and he left by another door.
Late that night, after the guests had been carefully tucked under their fine duvets, with that day’s elegant gowns packed away and different elegant gowns laid out for morning, I went to bed with a strange, hollow feeling in my stomach. Some of the less discreet girls gossiped in the laundry room in great detail, and I knew what men were capable of on a good day, or during a good night. There was a storm in my blood, however calm I looked on the outside.
I had cherished a private fantasy of this young man, but now I had something new. The warmth of him, the rumbling sound of his voice, the sweet yielding pressure of his lips on mine, the feeling of those hands. It was almost too much all at once. The dizzying possibilities. I imagined him next to me as I lay down to sleep, picturing his head sharing my pillow, those sky blue eyes closing slowly, his face so close to mine that I could feel the stirring of his breath. I fought sleep even as I welcomed it, stretching out those moments, thinking, wondering.
How do we know what love feels like? Especially the first time we feel it? I was unprepared. For the first few days, I couldn’t stop stroking my lips with my fingers, grazing them against my chin, touching the places he had touched. He was more than on my mind. He was everywhere I looked, even when he wasn’t. Had he thought me a silly girl, too simple and too forward, or would those tender moments ripen into something more lasting? I wouldn’t know until I could talk to him again.