Free Rose by Martin Cruz Smith

parts of the world. North America, South America, England. I work as a mining engineer.”
    “Yes, I know that.” Lady Rowland had the theatrical quality of a flower that was slightly past its prime, still beautiful but pouty. She asserted the ancient right of aristocratic décolletage, and had a manner of playing with the string of pearls that lay upon it. “I meant, what were you doing in Africa? We read about explorers and missionaries. It seems to me so important that the first white man that Africans encounter be the right sort. They frame their impression from the first contact, don’t they?”
    “Well said,” agreed Hannay, a host who liked to see the conversational ball in play. Lady Rowland was young Lord Rowland’s mother, the same Rowland whom Blair had described to Hannay as a “murderous cretin.” Maybe this was family courtesy, he thought.
    Blair refilled his wineglass, prompting a footman to come to life and bring out another bottle. Leveret lowered his eyes from the sight. The estate manager had tried to be a social palliative and was obviously dazzled by the sheer radiance of Lydia Rowland, but small talk was notin his nature, no matter how well he dressed for the occasion. It was like asking a walking stick to be an umbrella.
    “Well, explorers are good at finding lakes, and missionaries are good at singing psalms, but neither of them is good at finding gold,” Blair said. “That’s what I was in West Africa for, to map where gold was most likely to be found. It’s there; that’s why they call it the Gold Coast. As for being the first white man, the Ashanti have already met Arab slavers, Portuguese slavers and English slavers, so I’m probably not going to lower their respect for the white race too much.”
    Lydia Rowland was seventeen or so, Blair guessed. She was as fresh and milk-white as her dress. Her hair swept back in golden wings tied with velvet bows, and everything she said was with a breathless sense of discovery. “I understand that you’re the only man in England who can say what Ashanti women are like. Flirtatious?”
    “Don’t be grotesque, dear,” Lady Rowland said.
    “It’s a rash matter to send men who have no moral base,” Reverend Chubb said. “Missionaries don’t just sing psalms, Mr. Blair. They also conduct the saving of souls and the introduction of civilization. That never requires fraternization.”
    Blair said, “You can always stay ignorant of people you’re supposed to save. Anyway, the missionary is there to introduce English business, not civilization.”
    Earnshaw said, “Surely the second white man into such places is the scientist. Your Grace, the Royal Society sponsors botanical expeditions around the world, does it not?”
    “The rhododendrons at Kew Gardens were spectacular this year,” Lady Rowland said.
    “Yes,” Blair said, “but the botanist who brings rhododendrons from Tibet also smuggles out tea plants, and the botanist who brings orchids out of Brazil also smuggles out rubber trees, and that’s why there are teaand rubber tree plantations in India. That’s also why botanists are knighted, not because they find flowers.”
    “That’s a very jaundiced view of the world, isn’t it?” Earnshaw looked over his beard. If on the train from London he had regarded Blair with suspicion, he now had the certain air of a man who had identified a snake by species and size.
    “It may be a different point of view, but it’s rather exciting,” Lydia Rowland said.
    “It’s not exciting to support slavery. Isn’t that what you were doing in the Gold Coast?” Earnshaw asked.
    “I think the stories we’ve heard about Mr. Blair are just that—stories,” Leveret said.
    “But there are so many stories,” Earnshaw said. “How did you ever pick up that interesting sobriquet Nigger Blair? From your close association with Africans?”
    Blair said, “Funny you should ask. In the Gold Coast if you called a free African a nigger, he could