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to Apollonia, on the Gold Coast, where the writer faced down an insurrection by the paramount chief. Quite a feat. And he signed a treaty with the old scoundrel as well.”

      “That’s nice,” I said, not terribly impressed.

      “And the writer, who is governor of Cape Coast Castle, is on leave here and coming tonight to dine.”

      “And what is this paragon like?”

      “George? An excellent chap, one of our best. Of course you want to know if he’s handsome.”

      “That’s nonsense. I am much more interested in character than physiognomy.”

      “Then you must be the exception. In any event, you shall make up your own mind about him.”

      I took the report up to my room and read it carefully. There were words in it which set my blood racing: danger; price on my head; stood firm; the royal umbrellas; the heat; success; Africa. This last made me shiver with excitement. Our hero’s full name was George Maclean and so I sent the maid over to Regent Street for a length of Maclean tartan. By teatime I had concocted a shawl, a sash, and even a bit of ribbon for my hair. It was not that I expected much in the way of looks — or even manners. I had seen some of these Old Coasters at Matthew’s house before: stringy men, yellowish around the eyeball, prematurely grey or white, hands a bit shaky from the remains of fever or a steady diet of drink. After I became acquainted with cockroaches out there, I had a fancy, because of the similarity of skin colouring, that these ubiquitous insects were nothing but the souls of Old Coasters.

      I sat on a chair, in all my Scottish finery, and waited impatiently for George Maclean. Chatted to many of the guests — I was known for my quick wit and merry laugh — but kept an eye out for the hero of Apollonia. I must admit the idea of an Englishman getting the better of a black man out in Western Africa did not seem much of an accomplishment, but Matthew assured me it was, so I had practised looking impressed and intent in front of my looking-glass for a good half hour.

      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!

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