LITMIR.BIZ

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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

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