“I would, too,” I said firmly. “I’m sorry to say it, but many people don’t treat these rare books with the reverence they deserve.”
He scooted forward on the couch. “I don’t share my library with most people, Brooklyn dear, but I know you would appreciate it. Do you have time for me to show you some of my special treasures?”
“I would love to see your library,” I said eagerly, elated by the offer.
On the way down the long hallway, he entertained me with the story of how Mae West met Frances Hodgson Burnett. It was the same basic story I’d read in her biography, but Edward peppered it with interesting details and humorous asides.
Both women had been living and working in New York in 1912. Mae came to see Frances’s Little Lord Fauntleroy on Broadway and Frances was thrilled. She’d seen Mae onstage in a little-known revue the previous year, and then again more recently in the opening performance of A Winsome Widow.
“Frances told Mae that she was destined for stardom.”
“She was right about that,” I said. “But how did you discover all these stories? I’ve been looking everywhere for information like this.”
At the end of the wide hall was a closed door. Edward pulled a key from his pocket and unlocked the room before glancing at me. “Mae told me the stories herself.” He walked into the room, leaving me aghast.
“You met her?” I followed him into the room. “Really?”
“Yes. She had long been an idol of mine and I made it my goal to meet her one day. And to become friends. And perhaps more.”
“Wow.”
He smiled at my expression. “It’s good to have goals, don’t you think?”
I laughed. “Definitely. But . . . I’m not sure how to say this, but weren’t you quite a few years younger than she was?”
“Oh, my, yes,” he said, chuckling. “But I still loved her as a man loves a woman.”
I blinked at his words, but they faded from my mind as I turned and gazed around the big, elegantly wood-paneled room. “This is a beautiful space.”
“Thank you. Have a look around.”
The ceiling was at least twelve feet high, with solid wood beams running its length. The walls were paneled in a rich mahogany. Two arched windows faced south and west, allowing for stunning views in both directions. Bookshelves and glass display cabinets lined the walls. In the center of the room were six pedestals holding one book each, displayed under glass domes.
“The surface of the windows is coated so the sunlight won’t damage the books.” He strolled past glass-fronted cabinets filled with rare collections of beautifully bound works. “I couldn’t bear to block the view.”
“I don’t blame you,” I said, following him slowly, taking it all in. It was as though a treasure chest had been opened and I was trying to keep my greedy fingers from grabbing the jewels.
In one oblong, glass-fronted case were six finely bound books by Jane Austen. Each had a miniature portrait of the author or the subject matter encased in glass and inset into the leather binding.
“I can’t believe what I’m seeing,” I murmured. “Are they all by Cosway?”
“Yes.” Edward stared at the display with his hands clasped together. “I do love his miniatures. The detail is exceptional. I have other artists’ works on the shelves, but Cosway’s are so special to me.”
Richard Cosway was a Regency-era artist famous for his miniature portraits. Book lovers knew his name because so many of the portraits had been set into the covers of the finest leather-bound books of his time. They had come to be known as Cosway bindings and were beyond rare.
On a nearby shelf was a collection of six delicate, colorful, gem-encrusted eggs, each set on a matching three-legged stand. One was studded with diamonds. Another was fashioned to look like a flower basket. Yet another was opened to reveal the tiniest royal coach. I was pretty sure it was made from solid gold.
“Are these Fabergé?” I asked in a whisper.
“Yes. Aren’t they fun? I couldn’t resist.”
It must have been nice to buy priceless artwork just for fun.
Several paintings on the walls were familiar to me and I wondered if they were original. There was a large Titian that I thought I’d seen at the Palace of the Legion of Honor. Or was it in Los Angeles at the Getty Museum? How had it ever ended up in Edward Strathmore’s library?
I stopped to admire a lavishly jeweled binding of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales. “This is fabulous.”
His eyes lit up. “It is, isn’t it?”
I frowned at him. “Don’t tell me Mae West was a rare-book collector.”
He tossed his head back and laughed out loud. “Oh no, no. These are my own little obsessions. But Mae did enjoy spending time with Frances and collected her books.”
“Did they have much in common?”