Elizabeth Hopkinson has a passion for history, fairy tale and Japan. She has lived all her life in Bradford, West Yorkshire (UK). She has had over 30 short stories published and won prizes in three writing competitions. Silver Hands is her first novel.

Silver Hands

By Elizabeth Hopkinson

John Hunt Publishing Ltd.

Copyright © 2012 Elizabeth Hopkinson
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-78099-872-5

Contents

1. July 1706………………………………………………………12. The Mysterious Bridegroom………………………………………..133. A Terrifying Revelation………………………………………….294. The Sailing of the Hopewell………………………………………415. Bound for the East Indies………………………………………..546. The Flying Dutchman……………………………………………..697. The Black Bottle………………………………………………..788. Crossing the Line……………………………………………….929. Pirates of the China Sea…………………………………………10710. Flight and Fall………………………………………………..11811. Lord of the Secret Empire……………………………………….13412. The Floating World……………………………………………..14613. Fear in the Night………………………………………………16014. The Weaver and the Cowherd………………………………………17215. “Everything to me”……………………………………………..18616. A Chill to the Blood……………………………………………19817. The Road to Misery……………………………………………..21218. Van Guelder’s Curse…………………………………………….22819. Old Friends……………………………………………………24020. The Dragon’s Lair………………………………………………25121. Riding the Storm……………………………………………….26122. The Island of the Lonely Monastery……………………………….27023. The Edge of the Map…………………………………………….280Author’s Note……………………………………………………..289

Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

July 1706

Until the day Mr. Van Guelder came, I had never once doneanything adventurous or defiant. The nearest I came was tellinga French lace merchant that his cargo would be delayed becauseof storms. This was only what Father had told me to say, butsince I was keen to show off my French at the time, I might havegot a bit carried away in the translation. The Frenchman said avery rude word (which unfortunately I also understood) andrefused to use Father’s ships ever again.

After that all the French went home anyway, since theirfamous Sun King had decided to make another war on England,and Father set me to learning Dutch instead.

My sister Susanna – one year my junior – could never understandhow I could live as I did and not go mad.

“You’re always studying, Margaret,” she said. By this time Ihad become reasonably fluent in Dutch so that Peg Brown, ourhousekeeper, said it quite frightened her when I practiced it overthe laundry. “Always reading books, and for what? Father hasenough apprentices, you know. And I’m sure we do enough inthis house as it is.”

“It’s …” I shrugged. How could I explain it to Susanna, whothought that reading through an overly long letter from an auntwas tedium beyond belief? “It’s a challenge. It gives mesomething to think about, something different and interesting.”

“Interesting?” Susanna rolled her eyes. “An old Dutchgrammar and a book of sermons? Don’t you ever dream ofanother life, Margaret? Haven’t you once in sixteen yearsthought there could be something other than this?” She wavedher arms over the small-beer she was brewing at the time.

“Such as what?” I said. “Be careful; you’re going to fall intoit.”

“What do you think? Romance. Adventure.” Her cheeksflushed as they always did when she grew excited, reminding meyet again why the women of Hollyport considered her the familybeauty. “Don’t you ever look out to sea and wish you could besailing to the Indies like a boy?”

“Not really. Ships smell, you know, and you have to sleephanging above cannon.”

“Well, not that then. I shouldn’t like to sleep among a lot ofrough sailors either,” she said, in a tone that suggested otherwise.”But there are other things to long for. Adventures of the heart.”She lowered her long eyelashes. “Don’t tell me you never think ofthat. I know you had a sweetheart once, even if you did send himaway. I wouldn’t have.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Susanna.”

The truth was I had once been handed a sprig of floweringrosemary by an apprentice named Harry with a pockmarked faceand the personality of a boiled egg. Father had seen fit to tan hisbackside for it, but he needn’t have wasted his energy. It mayhave been Susanna’s constant hope to have verses written abouther in the attic by candlelight, but I greatly doubted that the sortof cross between Mr. Greatheart, Adonis and Robin Hood whowas my idea of a suitor would be found among a group of lankyboys with appetites like pigs at a country fair and clothes thatwere always too small.

“It doesn’t matter what I dream or don’t dream about,” I saidseriously. “The fact is that Father is the head of this householdand he decides what happens. Our role is to be his dutifuldaughters, just like it says in Scripture: Children, obey your parentsin the Lord: for this is right.” I gave my best motherly look. Susannashrugged impatiently. “You must know that by now. That’s justthe way it has been ordained. There’s no escaping it.”

“Well, you don’t have to be such a prig about it,” Susanna saidinto the beer.

I bit back the choice Dutch word that came into my mind. Iknew I was right and I wasn’t going to be drawn into a pointlessargument. Girls like us – or girls like anyone else – had no choiceat all over what happened in our lives. We did as our fathers, andthen as our husbands, told us to. At fifteen, Susanna ought tohave seen plainly how fortunate we were to have had such anactive place in the business, ever since Mother died. We couldjust as easily have been confined to sewing and spinning.” Countyour blessings,” I said with a grin. “And then hurry up and finishthat. We need to do the kitchen accounts.”

Had I known then exactly what Father was planning for me, Imight have been less certain what my blessings were. But thatsurprise was still to come.

It came on a warm day in July. I was sitting in the small parlorwith Martha – the youngest of us three sisters – listening to herread from a well-worn book of instructional verse that hadbelonged to each of us in turn. The shutters were open and thesun hadn’t yet come round to this side of the house. A bright butcool light touched the pale blue paintwork and rested gently onthe wall-mounted candlesticks with their mirror backings. Itplayed over Father’s chair with its leather back and heavy brassstuds. A smell of salt and seaweed wafted in through the openwindow, along with the cries of gulls and dock workers. Thisside of the house looked onto the west harbor; the other sideoverlooked the street and let in some rather more unpleasantsmells at this time of year.

“Can I go and play yet?” Martha was saying. “I’ve read ‘InPraise of Prudence’ three times over now.”

“You still have your chores to do after this,” I said. “Peg needsa hand with the …”

I broke off as the door opened and a familiar figure came in.The hint of a rolling gait to his walk showed that he had neverforgotten the sea.

“Father.” I got to my feet and dropped a small curtsey. “I hopeyou’re well today. Do you need me to help with something?”

“Sit down, child, sit down.” Father waved the cuff of thesomber brown coat he preferred to wear. “Where is Peg Brown?”

“Filling the linen presses with Susanna,” I said. “And Mercyand Hannah are shelling peas.” (Mercy and Hannah were themaidservants).

“What have you ordered for dinner?” Unsurprisingly, Fathertook no interest in either linen or peas. But then it was unusualfor him to take a hand in ordering dinner either. I started towonder if something was troubling him. His face was unusuallyred beneath his grey wig and he kept fiddling with his waistcoatbuttons.

“I’ve got the cold mutton ham from yesterday,” I began. “AndI told Peg to do an herb pudding because the apprentices alwaysget so hungry, you know …”

“No, no; that won’t do at all.” Father waved his hand again. “Ishall send John out for a lobster. And do we have any claret?”

“I … don’t think so. Father, is something the matter? Are weexpecting a guest?”

Father muttered to himself for a moment, as if doing additionsin a vexing sum. Martha sat silent at the other side of the table, allbrown eyes and it-wasn’t-me.

“The apprentices must dine in their lodgings today,” he saideventually. “I have told them so already. And I will speak to PegBrown myself. We must have a lobster. And a soup. And Johnmust wait at table. Margaret, child, why are you sitting there?”

“You told me to sit here yourself. Father, are you quite well?”I was starting to become worried.

“Perfectly well, child. But you must not sit around. I want youto go and put on your Sunday dress and make your hair … well,I’m sure one of your sisters can help you arrange it in a suitablemanner. And tell Susanna I wish to speak with her. Go, child, go.”

I got up slowly, feeling as if I must give him space.

“May I ask who you are expecting, Father?”

Father gave a snort of exasperation. “Hurry and change yourdress, child. Mr. Van Guelder will be here shortly and we do notwish to keep him waiting.”

“Mr. Van Guelder?” I had never heard the name before. AndI thought I knew all Father’s clients. “Does he wish to dobusiness with us?”

“Business?” Father blinked as if he had no knowledge of theword. “Mr. Van Guelder is a gentleman-merchant. A traveler.From Amsterdam. And there is much to be done before hisarrival. Now go.”

Looking back, I think that we all did the very best we could atsuch short notice. Father was not generally given to announcingunexpected dinner guests, but Peg Brown was a good housekeeperand I felt sure she would rise to the occasion with herusual vigor. From my seat before the looking glass in thechamber I shared with Susanna, I could hear her brisk orders.They mingled together with repeated grumblings from Mercyand the tread of John and Thomas as they ran here and therewith baskets and platters. Outside the window, the sea sparkledand glared between the dark shapes of fishing cobles, as the sunrose to its highest point. It was going to be another hot afternoon.I was glad not be in the kitchen, but rather to be changing into alight print dress, which was cool and comfortable, in spite of themany whalebones beneath its bodice. But I couldn’t helpwondering why I was doing it at all. Surely I would have been ofmore use supervising the servants while they laid the table,instead of sitting here like Queen Anne on her throne, having thelast touches put to my hair by Susanna.

“I hope he is a real gentleman and not just another dull oldpottery merchant.” My sister paused to inspect her handiworkbefore ramming another bone pin straight into my skull. “Thatwould be so exciting. We could have cultured conversation, talkof gardening and architecture.” I could almost feel her romanticimagination surging into my scalp through her busy fingers. “I’mso sick of boring conversations about revenue and all that.”

“He’ll have come to talk to Father about business and religion,like everyone else,” I said. Father was at heart a Puritan, althoughhe had no desire to go all the way and become an Anabaptist. Hewas too sound a businessman to stand out from the establishment.But he liked his religion plain and his preaching Bible-based,just as many of the Dutch did. It didn’t bode well for alight dinner-time chat. I had sat in on enough conversations withDutch merchants to know that the table-talk was likely to be asstodgy as the herb pudding I wanted to feed to the apprentices.

“Susanna, are you sure that pin should go there?”

“Trust me.” Susanna put another pin between her teeth andtook a handful of my hair between her hands. “This is quite thelook of the season. Of course, if we were only allowed a few falsecurls …”

“Well, we’re not.” My hair may have been unfashionably allmy own, but along with the womanly curves I had finallymanaged to achieve by the age of sixteen, it was my best feature,thick and the glossy color of conkers. The rest of me, I could livewithout. Susanna and Martha had inherited the large eyes andheart-shaped face that I think had been my mother’s. I was leftwith a strong jaw and a snub nose, neither of which I likedanyone to look at for very long. In fact, I started to wonder ifFather had sent me up to get ready early simply because I wasnaturally the least presentable.

Susanna thrust in the last pin with a final, excruciating stab,and tucked a lace cap firmly into position. I looked at the resultin the uneven surface of the glass and felt the usual feeling ofdeflation. Nothing had improved. The lock of hair left to trailartfully over my neck only seemed to emphasize how long myface was. I grimaced as Susanna peered round over my shoulderwith a look of smug satisfaction.

“Exquisite,” she said, blowing herself a kiss. I sighed.

“Whoever this Mr. Van Guelder is,” I said, “I just hope heappreciates all the fuss he’s causing.”

Whatever he did or did not appreciate, Mr. Van Guelder turnedout to be a surprise.

For a start, he quite obviously was a real gentleman. Hisbearing and his clothes spoke that at once. Not the English sortof gentleman, with a lavishly embroidered and skirted coat, anda wig curling halfway down his back. Instead he was a rathermore sober-looking Dutch variety in a close-fitting dark coat andbreeches, long fair hair tied with a black ribbon, and unmistakablesilk stockings set off by spotless buckled shoes. Foranother thing, he was young. No more than five-and-twenty wasmy guess. Certainly no contemporary of Father’s.

And for a third thing, he was heart-stoppingly handsome.

“Oh my goodness!” Susanna breathed in my ear as we camedown stairs into the parlor. “Forget conversation. I’ll just belooking.”

For a moment, I entirely agreed with her. Mr. Van Guelderhad the most piercing blue eyes, the straightest nose and themost strikingly sculpted cheekbones I had ever seen. I started towonder if I had met my Adonis after all. But, as we got closer andthe light from the window fell on him more clearly, I noticed justhow cold those blue eyes were, and how they rested on me witha look almost like hunger.

“My eldest daughter, Mistress Margaret Rosewood.” Fatherbustled me towards our guest with what felt like embarrassingpride.

“Mistress Rosewood.” Mr. Van Guelder kissed my hand,producing a sigh of jealousy from Susanna. “An honor.”

“Mr. Van Guelder.” I made a deep curtsey and greeted himcourteously in Dutch, keeping my eyes low and demure. He hada small sword or hangar at his side with an ivory hilt carved inthe likeness of a two hounds devouring a hart. Ivory. An exoticsubstance. It suggested a connection with the Vereenigde Oost-IndischeCompagnie: the Dutch East-India Company. And therewas something else, I noticed, something less obvious. Somethingabout the smell of him. I couldn’t figure out what it was.

And I had no chance to do so. Susanna and Martha had to beintroduced and John could be seen hovering in his footman’swaistcoat.

“Shall we sit to table?” said Father, indicating the open doorto the dining room. “Mr. Van Guelder, do have this seat next toMistress Margaret”.

The business of settling ourselves to dine soon took over fromeverything else. There were seats to be taken, glasses to be filled,dishes to be passed. Looking up and down the table, I was struckwith admiration. Peg and the servants had surpassed themselvesin what must have been the hastiest preparation of a guest mealon the English coast. The dining table was covered with a damaskcloth, and the best antler-horned knives and forks laid out. A jugof our finest home-brewed ale graced the center. The lobster hadmade a glorious appearance, along with dishes of peas, beans,pastries and a miraculous soup. The humble mutton ham wasdisguised with herbs, the suet pudding banished to the apprentices’attic. The sideboard was piled high with plums, raspberriesand nuts from the cellar. I thought of the weekly accounts andcringed.

Not only was the food impressive, but the conversation wasnot what I expected either. Almost as soon as Father had finishedsaying Grace, it became clear that Mr. Van Guelder had not cometo discuss the shipping news or the authority of the Bible.

“I see your boast was true, Master Rosewood,” he said afterthe first dishes had been passed around. His English wasexcellent, with no trace of a Dutch accent. “You have extremelywell-educated daughters.” He leaned towards me. “Your fatherhas a rare belief in the education of women, does he not?”

“He believes a good daughter should be taught her father’sbusiness,” I said. “And his religion.” I hadn’t expected to bequestioned like this.

“And so you read the Bible and your father’s account book?”Mr. Van Guelder took a sip of ale.

I felt my face flush. I did indeed read both those venerabletexts, but I had the distinct feeling that Mr. Van Guelder wastesting me and I didn’t like it. I wondered again what it wasabout the smell of him that was so strange.

“Not only those. I am very fond of Pilgrim’s Progress. AndFather let me borrow Paradise Lost from the circulating library.There is much in it that is hard to understand but there is suchimagination and awe in it.” I had never forgotten the scene inwhich Satan came upon the world hanging by a golden chain inthe midst of the stars; it took my breath.

“Ah, yes, Paradise Lost. Which way I fly is Hell; myself am Hell.An unexpected choice for an innocent young girl.”

There was something about the way he said the quotation thatmade me uncomfortable. He put far too much feeling into it thanseemed appropriate for the dinner table. And I didn’t like theway he kept twisting everything I said. I tried to think of a wayto change the subject but, before I had the chance, Marthachanged it for me.

“What’s that?” she said, pointing to something around Mr.Van Guelder’s neck.

Instantly, Susanna and I both kicked her under the table forbad manners, but Mr. Van Guelder merely smiled.

“This?” He drew out a pendant on a brass chain. Contained ina brass setting worked to look like a flaring sun, was an uneven,rough-looking stone that glittered here and there as thoughsprinkled with diamond dust. “I should imagine your father cananswer that.”
(Continues…)Excerpted from Silver Hands by Elizabeth Hopkinson. Copyright © 2012 by Elizabeth Hopkinson. Excerpted by permission of John Hunt Publishing Ltd..
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