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  George

  I ALMOST DID’T GO TO FORSTER’S THAT NIGHT, for I was still recovering from a bad bout of fever and would have preferred dining alone. However, Matthew Forster was chairman of the Committee and I knew he was counting on my being there. Other members had been invited “and they will be most interested to hear how things are going along out there.” I knew that most of them really didn’t care so long as they made money. The abolition of the slave trade in ’33 had hit them in their purses and they were anxious that other trade goods should be found. Gold, palm oil, ivory from the north: none of these added up to the enormous profits of the slave trade. Of course we on the coast were not supposed to traffic in slaves and I never did, but I was an exception. It is not that I had ever been an active abolitionist, but somehow, putting a price on a human being — of whatever colour — bothered me. I arrived at the end of it, when the writing was on the wall and there was a desperation about the business — get as many niggers as you can before the curtain comes down. It was pretty nasty and some trading still went on, in spite of our patrol boats trying to apprehend the slave ships as they left. Not many were caught; those old captains knew all the bays and coves along the coast like the back of their sunburnt hands.

  The drawing-room was full of people by the time I arrived, but Matthew must have been looking out for me, for I was barely in the door before he greeted me, grabbed my arm, and said, “There’s someone I want you to meet.” Through the crush around her I had a glimpse of dark hair, a tartan ribbon, and a bit of tartan shawl. I assumed this was some long-lost cousin of mine that Matthew had dug up.

  Letty

  “LETITIA,” MATTHEW SAID, “I would like you to meet George Maclean, the governor of Cape Coast Castle. George, this is Letitia Landon.”

  LETTY: IF MY FEET HAD NOT BEEN so cold the winter before …

  George: If I hadn’t felt obligated to turn up that night …

  George/Letty: We might never have met.

  Letty: What I saw was an auburn-haired man of about my age, with the high colour that goes with the hair, rather full lips, and a very straight back. He looked uncomfortable; he looked as though he would rather be anywhere else.

  George: What I saw was a young woman (she looked and dressed much younger than she really was) with pretty dark eyes (slightly protruding), pale, almost translucent skin, and a lively expression. No one could have called her a beauty, but there was something very attractive about her; a sort of intelligent interest in the world seemed to shine forth from her very being.

  George

  “ARE YOU A MACLEAN?” I ASKED.

  “Oh, no, no. I have decorated myself like this in your honour.”

  “Pardon?”

  She patted the empty chair next to her.

  “Come sit down, please do, so that I don’t get a crick in my neck from looking up at you. I have been reading your report of the Apollonia affair and I must tell you how much I admire you.”

  She held up her hand. Both her hands and her feet were very small, almost child-like.

  “Now don’t say ‘It was nothing!’”

  “I would never say that; it was a very difficult situation.”

  “And did you really have a price of twenty thousand ounces of gold on your head?”

  “I did.”

  “Yet no one took the old king up on this rather splendid offer?”

  “No one.”

  “Weren’t you frightened? Might not someone have murdered you — now they do that don’t they, out there — then chopped you up and boiled you in a big, black pot?”

  He had nice straight teeth when he smiled.

  “They are not cannibals, on the Coast, but certainly someone could have shot me or garotted me or done something nasty. That was a lot of money.”

  “You must be very powerful.”

  “I think I was very lucky. But also, I didn’t back down. They admire that, out there.”

  Letty: Just then the dinner gong rang and we all went in. Although I was seated next to him, George barely said two words to me or anyone else. And after dinner, he left.

  George: Jammed up against two strange women and drowning in the scent of eau de cologne, I thought I might faint from embarrassment, truly, I did. I had no store of small talk into which I could dip and so I just kept my head down and ate the excellent oyster soup, the excellent sole, the excellent beef, and so on down the line. The sweet was some icy thing, which called forth oohs and aahs, although I preferred good old-fashioned puddings.

  When the ladies withdrew, I made my excuses to Matthew and left, walking back to my hotel in order to clear my head. It never occurred to me that I might see Letitia again. She had told me at one point that she was a writer and I expressed a polite interest, although I could just imagine the sort of romantic nonsense she wrote.

  Letty

  I WAS QUITE MOVED THAT HE HAD NEVER heard of me. That also meant that he had never encountered any of the malicious whispers that were spread around London from time to time. He did not look like the sort of man who would find such rumours amusing.

  And now he had left early, when I was so hoping he would sit by me when we all congregated once again in the drawing room. Matthew said George was recovering from fever and his headache had returned; that is why he left early.

  I bit my lip in frustration. Here was this nice man, a nice brave man, who commanded a castle on the Guinea coast, a suitable man, an attractive man (if a bit too serious), a single man (“Is your wife here in England with you?” “I do not have a wife”) and he had just walked away!

  Well, thought I, in for a penny, in for a pound. I knew he was staying at The Albany, so the next morning I sent round a small volume of my poetry with a note:

  Dear Mr. Maclean. I send this as a little token of my admiration. Perhaps there are other kinds of courage besides physical? The courage to bare one’s soul to the whole world, for instance.

  If you are remaining in town for a few days — Matthew tells me that your ultimate destination is your family home in Scotland — would you care to take a dish of tea with me on Thursday, around four? I will be back at No. 22 Hans Place by then and should be delighted to see you. Letitia Landon.

  Matthew said, “Well, what did you think of him?”

  “Who?”

  “George Maclean, of course.”

  “He seemed pleasant enough. A bit out of his element perhaps.”

  “I think he’s a cut above most of those fellows who make a career out there. I’d trust him with anything.”

  That night, as I sat brushing out my hair, I said a little prayer — oh please, oh please, oh please. It really was as though he had been sent to me and now I must make sure he didn’t get away. I would have to work hard, the way my father used to “work” a salmon trout when he took his annual fishing trip with his cronies. Taking the bait was only the beginning of it, he told me. You had to play the fish, let out a bit of line, then reel it in, let out a bit, until the beast grew tired. Then, and only then, did you bring him in close and net him. One of the few times I broke down, after my father’s death, was when I came across his rods and his wickerware creel in the back passage. That, and his spectacles, which he used only for reading the newspaper. My mother wept and carried on for weeks, but then she was of Welsh extraction.

  I went to Fortnum’s for good, thick-cut marmalade and Scotch shortbread. Ellen, the Misses Lances’ maid, put too much sugar in her marmalade, “to take away the bitterness, like.” When I attempted to tell her the whole point of using Seville oranges was because they gave such a nice “tang” to the jam, she just gave me a “sniff” — her sniffs were famous in that household — said “yes, Miss Landon,” and ignored the advice. I sponged my most demure frock and cleaned my prettiest kid slippers with soft bread. Behind all this activity, which made me abandon writing for a few days, was the terror of being a burden. All the young Oxford and Cambridge men, who flattered me and brought me nosegays, Lord This or Earl That, would
never marry such as I. A woman, to marry them, must have Money or Name, preferably both.

  George: I must have been mad. When I received her little parcel and the invitation to tea, I was tempted to just ignore it, or at least (it wouldn’t be good manners not to reply) send round a note saying I was so tied up with business I must regretfully, etc. etc. I was never sure why I did go; Letty hadn’t made such a great impression on me. She seemed a bit of a coquette, almost like an ingenue in a play, but she had read my report, had taken it seriously, and in the half hour before the dinner gong (some fellow Matthew did business with had brought it back from India and he liked to show it off) she asked intelligent questions. And maybe I was a bit lonely; yes, I’ll admit to that.

  Letty: Flattery and thick-cut marmalade. By four o’clock on a late October afternoon, it was coming on dark and so I could legitimately direct Ellen to draw the curtains in the parlour, make up the fire, and light the lamps. What George saw, when he arrived, was a scene of warmth and domesticity.

  “I’m afraid I can’t stay long,” he said, but of course he stayed and stayed.

  George: The teacups were so fragile that I was almost terrified to pick one up. She said they were a present from her late grandmother. I felt like a clumsy oaf in that room, all the little knickknacks on tables, antimacassars on the chairs. Again I was reminded of some play I had seen years ago on leave.

  “Are you too warm, Mr. Maclean? I can always ask the maid to open a window.”

  “Not at all. After one has been on the Coast for several years, coming to England seems like coming to the Arctic. We spend a great deal of our time here shivering.”

  “And Matthew said you have been ill as well.”

  “Just the usual, a bad bout of fever. Everyone goes through it. If you survive the first round, you’ll usually survive the next — and the next and the next. It’s a most insalubrious climate.”

  “Then why do you stay?”

  “I’m not sure, really. Africa will probably be the death of me in the end. I suppose I stay because I’m used to it, and because I’m good at what I do.”

  Letty: How pretty his hair was in the lamplight. He looked down at the tea tray between us and said, “Good Heavens, did I eat all that?”

  “I’m so glad you have an appetite and Ellen will be delighted. Her scones are famous.” (Famous for their rocky quality; I bought the scones as well. At least I didn’t pretend that I had made them.)

  Letty

  “NOW YOU MUST TELL ME ALL ABOUT YOURSELF,” I said. “I know from Matthew you are from the eastern Highlands, but how did you get from there to Western Africa?”

  “It’s a rather long story,” he said.

  “We have plenty of time.”

  And so began our courtship. By the time he finally went up to Scotland we were engaged. Informally engaged, with no one to know but ourselves. This was my idea, on the principle of letting the line out a bit now that I felt he was truly hooked. I said that I wanted to be convinced that he was sure before we told the world. Once in Scotland he might change his mind.

  “No,” he said, “the only thing that worries me is that I’m not sure you really know what you are getting into. The Castle is not like the castles in your childhood fairytales, and the climate really is deadly. I’m not sure I’m doing right by you to encourage you in this. And you will be the only European lady there, except for the missionary wives; the Wesleyans have begun a regular push toward converting the natives to Christianity. We’ve had missionaries before and certainly services at the Castle, but this is new. Perhaps you can get involved with them?

  I doubted that very much, but I just smiled and reminded him that I would have my work. Married or not, my writing would occupy me most of the day.

  “Good,” he said, “for most of my day will be occupied as well.”

  When a second week went by with no letter from George, I began to worry. Had I been foolish to suggest we keep our engagement a secret, had I, instead of reeling him in, let him off the hook altogether? I told myself that perhaps he was not a letter-writer, some men aren’t, but just a note about the weather, or the journey up, was that so hard to do?

  A month went by; my anxiety caused an attack of my old trouble and soon I took to my bed. The hero of Apollonia was not an honourable man. Since all was secret between us, I felt I couldn’t ask Matthew Forster if he had heard anything from the Highlands. Matthew was a tease; it would be too risky.

  Finally I wrote to Whittington. After all, surely a brother should support his sister in this crisis? He agreed to write to George and ask what his intentions were.

  Shortly after that we were engaged again.

  My favourite book when I was a child was Robinson Crusoe. How I admired that man; how clever he was, how brave! I thought it would be great fun to be shipwrecked on a desert island and have to create everything from scratch. I’d have a Friday, of course — a female Friday, seeing as how I was a girl. She would be big and black and strong, very good at chopping wood and doing manual labour. Even as a young girl I knew I was never cut out for manual labour. My hands and feet were meant to be pretty appendages. My ears were the important thing; my ears and my imagination.

  My father had been out to Jamaica when he was a young man. I think he hoped for a career in the Royal Navy, but then the uncle who would sponsor him died — or perhaps there was some quarrel — and I think there was a part of him that bitterly regretted it. He was a romantic, and I was my father’s daughter. There was a chief difference, however. He was no good with managing money and I was the opposite. And I had a marketable talent, which was just as well considering his premature death. I don’t blame him for dying — how could I? — but it made my life difficult. One shouldn’t have to write with one eye always on the purse. My brother needed an education; my mother needed help in the care of my sickly sister. There was no one but me, the eldest, to guarantee all this; my uncle did what he could, but he was a curate with a large family — all daughters — and he lived way up in the back of beyond, in Yorkshire.

  When I wrote to my mother to tell her that George and I were married (“Captain George Maclean, governor of Cape Coast Castle on the Guinea Coast, a fine man from a good family”) she replied almost at once to say she supposed that would be the end of her subsidy. I was so angry that I almost cut her off, but in the end I couldn’t do it. I never felt that Whittington or my mother were aware of how hard I worked to provide them with their extra money. I never felt any real gratitude from either of them. I suspect, like the rest of the world, they thought I just “tossed off” a poem here or a novel there in between going to dinner parties and soirées. Even some of my so-called friends said, “You’re so prolific, Letty,” and I was, but writing is drudgery, writing is hard work. There were times when my hand seized up with cramp and had to be massaged with creams before I could take up my pen again, and there were nights when my back ached and my head ached and my eyes felt full of grit. And always there was my old trouble, which sometimes kept me in bed for days at a time.

  I had been engaged to a fine man, although he and his crowd denied it later on. I broke it off because of malicious gossip about me and another gentleman.

  After that I was so ill I truly thought I was going to die. If it hadn’t been for Dr. Thompson and his ministrations I might have slit my wrists just to stop the agony. It is not that I was born sickly, like my sister; in fact I had a good constitution except for this one thing. My “Achilles heel” if you like, only a little farther up.

  (And in the evening I was supposed to change from drudge to dazzler, call for the maid to help me with my hair and fastenings. Ellen was a maid-of-all-work, as well as cook, but all-work did not include helping me with my toilette. I was maid as well as Mademoiselle, who struggled with buttons and bows, then pinched my cheeks to make them glow.)

  George

  I DIDN’T WOO HER; if anything, it was the other way around. Although Africa came into it — oh yes — and the uniform. If
I had been a gentleman farmer or a man of business (a man of non-literary business; publishers were a separate breed) I doubt if she would have given me a second look. In her eyes I was a romantic figure. Damned Forster had given her that Apollonia report before she even met me; it was almost as though she conjured me up from that, a different George Maclean from who I really was. Not that I ever pretended to her, never that.

  What was I thinking of? She was the last person I should have married — a city woman with city tastes. How on earth would she manage at Cape Coast? And yet, as we walked along together and she took my arm, I felt comforted by her presence. How long had it been since a woman had taken my arm, had pressed my hand, had said, “Tell me all about yourself.” You don’t think you’re lonely out there — or you try to convince yourself that you’re not. But you drink too much or you take a country wife, but that only helps with the carnal side of one’s nature. Even if you speak the language well (which I did) you can’t discuss ideas with such a woman. It’s not that I wasn’t grateful to Ekosua — she was a wonderful nurse when I was ill, bathing my face with lime juice and water, forcing me to drink some horrible concoction which almost instantly brought relief. And the carnal side — well, that was good too. Young girls mature early out there and I’ve been told that the old women, at the appropriate time, take them aside and teach them how to please a man. Can you imagine such a thing happening in England?

  I was sorry to send her away — Ekosua — but I knew she would understand. I made sure she was given a generous gift of money. William Topp took care of it for me — or at least I hoped he had. I left the ship in the middle of the night, and went in by canoe just to make sure. I told Letty the next day that I had wanted our apartments fumigated with charcoal and thoroughly swept before she set foot in the Castle. I don’t think she believed me, but she said nothing. (She knew about my “wife” out here — rumours had reached England — but she seemed satisfied when I said that had been over long ago. Not quite the truth, but a necessary half-truth, for the sake of peace.)