Читать книгу Local Customs - Audrey Thomas - Страница 14

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.)