The Trader''s Wife

Book 0: The Traders

by Anna Jacobs

Genres: Historical Fiction; Sagas; Victorian Romance

Synopsis

Singapore in the 1860s is exotic and yet terrifying for Isabella Saunders, a penniless Englishwoman, alone and vulnerable after her mother''s death. Too pretty to obtain a governess''s job, she accepts an offer from Mr Lee, a Singapore merchant, to teach him English and live with his family. Two years later Bram Deagan arrives in the country, determined to make his fortune as a trader. Mr Lee sees a way to expand his business connections and persuades Isabella to marry Bram, and she bravely sets sail for a new land and life. But the past casts a long shadow and together they face unexpected dangers. Will they ever be able to achieve their dreams - and find happiness together along the way? ******************* What readers are saying about THE TRADER''S WIFE ''This is women''s fiction at its very best'' - 5 stars ''I loved this book'' - 5 stars ''Fantastic, couldn''t put it down'' - 5 stars ''I love Anna Jacobs books and never want them to end'' - 5 stars ''Like all her books, excellent'' - 5 stars

Release date: October 13, 2011

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 336

Sample

Prologue

Singapore, April 1865

The steamy heat of Singapore wrapped itself round Isabella Saunders like a warm blanket as she walked to the interview. She’d been applying for positions for three weeks now: governess, nursery governess, companion, lady’s secretary, anything she saw advertised in the Straits Times. Most of the people to whom she’d written hadn’t even bothered to see her, had merely sent a one-line response saying the position was filled.

But this employer had sent her a pleasant note inviting her to take tea. Surely that meant she had a chance? Because if it didn’t . . . she shuddered to think what she would do then.

She knocked on the door and was shown into a very comfortable house. She smiled as children’s voices echoed from upstairs. She liked children. They were so honest about life.

The maid left her in the hall, then went to tell her mistress. When she returned, she showed Isabella to a small room at the rear.

Mrs Wallace stood up and stared at her in dismay. ‘Oh, dear!’

Isabella stiffened. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘You’re much younger than I’d expected.’

‘I’m twenty-nine, Mrs Wallace.’

‘You look younger.’

The door opened suddenly and a young man put his head round it. ‘Mama, I—’

He broke off to stare at Isabella, smiling, and her heart sank. The last thing she wanted was a son of the household showing an interest in her. She glanced quickly back at Mrs Wallace and saw that the woman’s face had gone rigid.

‘I’m busy, James. Come back later.’

He lingered for another stare at Isabella then left, his whistling echoing back down the corridor.

‘I’m afraid you won’t suit, Miss Saunders.’ Mrs Wallace took a folded, lace-edged handkerchief and patted the sweat off her upper lip in an automatic gesture.

This was the bluntest and quickest rejection Isabella had yet had. ‘Why not? You haven’t even asked me about my experience or knowledge.’

‘It must be obvious why not. I have an impressionable son at just the wrong age to have someone like you in the house. I never employ young and pretty governesses.’

‘But I wouldn’t—’

Mrs Wallace held up one hand. ‘You might not do anything wrong, but he is young enough to act foolishly. I’m sorry.’ Her voice softened a little and she pushed a coin across the table. ‘This is to pay you for your time and trouble in coming here. I really am sorry.’

Isabella would have liked to shove the coin back across the table, but she couldn’t afford to be proud. She forced herself to say, ‘Thank you for your kindness, ma’am. And if you hear of any other position where I might suit . . .’

‘I’ll let you know.’

She managed to get out of the house before the tears overflowed and stood for a moment fighting to regain control. When she had banished the tendency to weep, she set off back to the lodgings she had shared with her mother until the latter’s death the previous month.

She crossed the Elgin Bridge, a long iron structure, heading south towards the native area of town, specifically the Chinese district, weaving her way in and out of the bustling crowd. Children ran past shrieking and calling, sturdy matrons gave ground to no one and coolies with bare chests and baggy, knee-length trousers trotted along, carrying loads of this and that, sometimes balanced on the ends of a pole.

None of them seemed affected by the steamy heat, but most Europeans found it trying and took their exercise very early in the morning. Isabella was used to it now. Sometimes, though, she longed quite desperately for the cool, invigorating breezes of England.

Below her, tied up round the edges of the water, were rows of small vessels, on many of which whole families lived. She slowed down because she never tired of watching them, envying the way they had lots of other people to turn to. They watched her too, because European women didn’t usually walk out unaccompanied.

She was alone in every way now that her parents were both dead, and in the slow, dark hours of the night that terrified her.

Her father had been a clerk, working for the East India Company, and her mother a parson’s daughter, who’d married beneath her. At first they’d all enjoyed living in Singapore, where servants were so cheap. Her father had brought them here with high hopes of making a fortune in the East, but instead he’d started smoking opium and gambling, gradually losing everything, even his life.

Now, with everyone gone, Singapore felt more like a prison to Isabella and she grew more afraid for her future with each day that passed. She had no money to pay for her passage back to England, no friends to turn to, either here or back in England, not even a language in common with most of the people she passed.

Her cousin Alice, who was more like a younger sister, had lived with them for several years. Then three years ago, her stupidly naïve cousin had believed the lies told her by Nicholas Renington and when forbidden to associate with him, had run off to marry him. Of course he hadn’t married her! That sort of man never did.

A few months later another woman had moved in with him and no one seemed to know or care what had happened to her cousin. Isabella had stopped Renington in the street one day to ask him and he’d shrugged, saying Alice had run away from him and he didn’t know where she was now, or who she was living with. He’d stared at Isabella’s body in such an offensive way as he spoke that she’d hurried off, blushing.

She often thought about her cousin and wished she at least knew that she was safe. Alice had been lazy and not at all clever, but she’d also been affectionate and fun. They’d been close because they’d had no one else – until Renington. After that episode, Isabella’s mother forbade her to have anything more to do with her cousin if she ever came back, or even speak to her in the street.

She shook her head. Why was she dwelling on that? It was over and done with. Alice was gone.

Once she left the crowded bridge, Isabella walked more briskly, eager to get home. She felt a surge of relief as she turned into a narrow side street where fewer people stared at her, because they’d grown used to her presence. Why should they bother about her? She wasn’t a rich Englishwoman, accompanied by servants, or a European man striding out as if he owned the world. She was almost as poor as most of them.

What was she going to do if she didn’t find employment? There were no lowly maids’ jobs, because the natives worked so much more cheaply. She didn’t have the skills to become a lady’s personal maid, nor, if truth be told, the inclination to fiddle with another woman’s hair and body. She preferred to use her brain, but that was as suspect as her appearance. No one trusted a clever woman, especially if she was reasonably pretty as well.

And although she was a competent needlewoman, she didn’t have her mother’s skill at creating gowns or altering old ones to look new. For plain sewing and mending, once again the native women were far cheaper. Anyway, she couldn’t have lived on what they were paid.

When her lodgings came in view she gasped in shock at the sight of her possessions piled up anyhow outside the house. As she ran forward, her landlady’s son used a stick to drive away a ragged Malay who was trying to steal her hatbox.

‘What’s happened?’ she asked, knowing he spoke some English.

‘Mother find new lodger. Pay more. You go away.’

‘But I have nowhere to go! And I paid my rent till the end of the week.’

He shrugged and turned back towards the door.

‘Missy.’

She spun round. A man stood to one side, taller than most Chinese, but still shorter than her. He seemed neither old nor young, and had a calm, confident expression. When he spoke to her in his own language, a few slow words, she wondered if she’d understood correctly. There were so many languages here, because there were Malays, Babas and Chinese – and the latter meant several languages since people came from various regions of China. She understood a few words here and there because of needing to shop at the markets, but that was all.

The man waited for a moment then repeated what he’d said. It sounded as if – no, surely he wasn’t offering her a room?

When he took a step forward she shrank back, afraid of what kind of price she would have to pay for a room, as well as surprised by his offer. The élite of the various races living in Singapore mingled at social functions, she knew, but although this man was decently dressed, he didn’t look rich enough to attend those.

Did he think she would sell her body for a room?

He studied her face, then as she took another step backwards, he shook his head, as if reproving her, and with a slight smile, beckoned someone forward, a much older woman. She was dressed in dark baggy trousers and a tunic, and she had an extremely disapproving expression on her face. He put one hand on the woman’s shoulder and said simply, ‘Mother.’ He waited, cocking his head to make sure Isabella understood.

She nodded and repeated the word.

He pointed to her. ‘You – sister – room.’ He repeated the last two words.

She guessed he was trying to tell her that she would be safe with him, and would either be sharing a room with his sister or be like a sister to him, but she wasn’t completely certain which. And she didn’t understand why he would offer this anyway. He must want something from her in return. What? She sought in vain to ask this in one of the local languages and failed to find a word, so said it in English, ‘Why?’ spreading her hands and trying to show she was puzzled.

He nodded as if he understood her question and pointed to himself. ‘Spik Englis.’ He gestured to his own mouth, said something in his language, then shook his head, frowned and said again, ‘Spik Englis.’

‘You want me to teach you to speak English?’

He nodded several times, looking as if he understood what she’d said. Well, people often did understand more than they could say in a foreign language.

If she’d understood him correctly, if it was a genuine offer, it might solve her problems, temporarily at least. But did she dare trust him? She didn’t even know his name.

Just as she was about to ask, an Englishman walked along the street, moving arrogantly and forcing people to get out of his way. That man was the last person she wanted to see her like this.

He stopped beside them and stared from her belongings to her face, then eyed her body as he always did. Renington, the man who had ruined her cousin Alice.

‘Trouble, Miss Saunders?’

‘None of your business.’

‘Looks to me as if you’ve been thrown out of your lodgings. I wonder why that happened?’

As he pretended to rub two coins together, she realised in sick horror that he must have bribed her landlady to throw her out.

‘What did you do to upset the respectable people in this street?’ His predatory smile made her shudder.

‘What I do is none of your business,’ she repeated, moving away from him. And if that brought her closer to the Chinese couple, she infinitely preferred them to him.

‘Perhaps we can discuss my proposition again? I can offer you a home and bed.’ Renington winked. ‘I’ll treat you well, give you money, buy you pretty clothes.’

She drew herself up to her full height. ‘I’ve already said no and nothing has changed.’

‘Oh, I think it has. Where are you going to sleep tonight? My young friend Wallace said you didn’t get the job with his mother.’

How had Renington found that out so quickly? He was like a spider, spinning a web to trap her. That thought made up her mind. Turning to the couple waiting patiently to one side, she said, ‘Yes, I’ll teach you to speak English.’ She tapped her chest. ‘Like sister.’

The man bowed his head as if in acceptance and said something to his mother, who nodded. He clicked his fingers and two coolies came forward from an alley. They were strong, well-built men and moved forward so determinedly that Renington fell back before them.

She watched as they began sorting out her luggage and possessions, but it was soon clear there was too much for them to carry, so one said something to her companion then ran off.

The Englishman stared at her in shock. ‘You’re going off with him? A native?’

‘I’m going off with this Chinese gentleman and his mother. He wants to learn English. I need a roof over my head. I’ve been looking for a job as a governess. Now I’ve found one.’ She prayed she’d understood the offer correctly, but at least she had some hope if she went away with the two Chinese. She’d have no hope whatsoever if she went with Renington. He’d destroyed her cousin Alice’s life and now he wanted to destroy hers.

One reason she thought there was a better chance that her new employer didn’t have designs on her virtue was because he hadn’t looked at her in that way. The European residents considered that she and her mother had ‘gone native’ since her father died, which was not approved of at all. When her mother died and she continued to live alone in the native quarter, the European women treated her very frostily and their menfolk sometimes made remarks she considered insulting as they passed her in the street. All she could do was ignore them.

The Chinese and Malays muttered when she passed at the markets, but didn’t say anything to her, nor did they touch her or pester her. From the bits she could understand, they were fascinated by her red hair and white skin, though some seemed amused by her feet, which were much bigger than most of the Chinese women’s, especially those hobbling along with bound feet. She hated to see that.

‘Missy!’ The Chinese man beckoned.

She suddenly realised she didn’t know what he was called. ‘Your name, please?’

‘Lee Kar Ho.’

She knew the Chinese put their family name first, so presumed Kar Ho was his given name. ‘My name is Isabella Saunders.’ She pointed to herself and repeated the name, ‘Isabella Saunders.’

‘Isaberra Saunda,’ he repeated, speaking slowly.

His mother repeated her name too, though less accurately and it came out as ‘Is-beh’.

Isabella wondered how much he had understood of her exchange with Renington, but there was something more important to do before she left with him. She pointed to her old lodgings and pulled a coin out of her pocket. ‘They owe me money.’

He frowned and she tried to work out how to explain that they owned her four days’ rent money. She took some small change out of her pocket, indicated the pile of possessions in the handcart and pointed to the house, miming paying them money, then miming holding out her hand as if waiting to be given something.

‘Ah.’ He walked to the door, where her landlady and son were standing watching. They bobbed their heads to him respectfully and after a rapid exchange of words, the woman scowled at Isabella and fumbled in her pocket, counting out some coins.

He brought them back to Isabella and offered them on his palm. She nodded at the amount and he took her hand and tipped them into it.

For some reason this exchange had his mother nodding approval at her.

When Mr Lee beckoned again, Isabella cast herself into the arms of fate and turned to follow him. His mother fell in beside her, not beside him.

‘Whore!’ Renington yelled after her. ‘Chinese whore!’

Tears came into her eyes and she tried to wipe them away surreptitiously, but the old woman noticed and called something to her son.

He stopped dead, turned round and stared at Renington. He said nothing, but his expression was somehow threatening and the Englishman was the first to look away. Then he walked off quickly without so much as glancing back.

Mr Lee looked at Isabella. ‘Name?’ He pointed to Renington.

‘Nicholas Renington.’

He repeated it twice and frowned, knowing he’d got it wrong, so she said it again slowly, and this time he got it near enough correct, nodding and saying it again, as if to seal it in his memory.

His mother muttered something and they continued walking.

Isabella could see the cart with her possessions bobbing ahead of them, could sense the people they passed staring at her. A lazy breeze stirred the hot air briefly, blowing in the same direction they were taking. I’m following the wind, she thought. I don’t even know where I’m going. But I know where I’m not going, at least.

Holding her head high, she walked in silence. Whatever came, she would face it with the best courage she could summon up.

This might be her last chance at making a decent life for herself, earning enough money to go back to England and hunt for Alice. Surely her cousin would be there somewhere? Where else would she have gone from here?

Please let it not be a mistake to take this job.

Mr Lee led her to another part of the Chinese quarter, turning into a better street than the one where she’d been living. It contained neat rows of shophouses, built in brick and tile, three storeys high, with the shop itself on the ground floor. She’d occasionally visited shops like these with her mother or cousin, walking along the verandas which ran along the front of each row, gazing at the wares, buying something for one of her mother’s clients, material or trimmings, rarely anything for herself.

The verandas were about two paces wide and food hawkers or other street sellers were offering their wares there, so as usual in this quarter, you couldn’t walk quickly but had to thread your way in and out of the obstacles. Her mouth watered and she sniffed appreciatively as a man offered her a tray of skewered meat.

The old woman gave her a sharp look, as if she’d guessed her companion was hungry. Isabella looked away quickly. She’d been subsisting on one meal a day, usually fried vegetables and rice, with a little plain rice in the mornings.

To her surprise, they stopped at a shop selling beautiful materials. Lengths of vivid silk were suspended from rods near the ceiling, the colours arranged harmoniously but to catch the eye, with other pieces neatly folded on the shelves which covered the side walls and rear of the shop. A young woman, immaculately dressed in dark trousers and red tunic, was serving a customer, and she kept her attention on that until the woman had bowed herself out of the shop. Then she turned to smile at them.

‘Sister,’ Mr Lee said to Isabella, then said something in his own language to the young woman, who smiled and nodded to the newcomer.

He led the way through a narrow corridor to the back of the building. Goods were piled neatly in the rooms they passed, and only at the very rear was there a large room devoted to daily living.

Two young girls were in attendance there. They wore shabby clothing and Isabella guessed they were servants. One was working in a cooking area, where a huge metal pan sat on a hole above a beehive-shaped clay oven with glowing charcoal inside it.

The room also contained a table and chairs, shelves of crockery, smaller cooking utensils and blue and white crockery containers which might hold food and spices, as well as some smaller glass jars. On one shelf was a stack of bowls of the sort people ate out of, a jar containing chopsticks, a broader jar with some stubby pottery spoons sticking out, and one or two larger platters. Everything was immaculately clean.

Mrs Lee spoke to her son and when he nodded, she gave some instructions to the girls, one of whom left the room and pattered up the stairs that led up from the corridor. He went to the back door and called something to the coolies who’d taken Isabella’s luggage. They were waiting patiently in a narrow rear area between their row of houses and the next.

They brought in her trunk and portmanteau first. Mr Lee beckoned to her and without waiting, led the way out of the kitchen and up the narrow stairs they’d passed earlier. He climbed the stairs so quickly she had trouble keeping up and he had to wait for her at the top of the second flight of stairs. This led to a row of narrow, open-ended cubicles, some with sleeping mats, others filled with goods.

There was a vacant cubicle next to the end, which the servant had just finished sweeping. A few items were standing in the corridor nearby. He pointed to Isabella and gestured to it.

Was this narrow little cell her new abode? When she hesitated, he pointed to the two cubicles at the darker end and to the servant. The next two looked slightly larger and as he pointed he said ‘Mother’, ‘Sister’. Finally they came back to the bare cubicle and he pointed to her.

What could she do but bob her head in agreement?

The coolies brought up the trunk and Mr Lee looked at her then at her cubicle, as if to ask where they should put it.

She pulled herself together and indicated a spot near the open end. One by one they brought up the few pieces of furniture she’d managed to keep, including her mother’s small table, which she used for writing letters. There were too many to fit in as well as leave space to sleep.

Mr Lee frowned and indicated the next cubicle. The servant hastened to make room in it for some of her furniture. Stepping back, he let the coolies position the chest of drawers where she indicated in her cubicle and other things next door. Finally they dropped the bundle of bed linen and her rolled sleeping pad. Other people might be able to sleep on straw mats on the hard ground; she found it too uncomfortable.

Even with some things next door, her possessions were crammed so tightly into the small cubicle that she only had enough room for the sleeping pad, which would be rolled up during the day.

Mr Lee looked at her, studying her face. When he reached out towards her, her heart skittered and she jerked back. Had she made a mistake about what he wanted? But he shook his head, smiled gently and pointed to her mouth and then to his own. Beckoning her to follow, he led the way downstairs again.

Relief made her feel weak and she stumbled on the stairs. His arm was there to steady her, but he let go immediately and continued on his way.

In the kitchen one girl was cooking something which smelled delicious and the other was setting out bowls. Mrs Lee indicated a place for Isabella at the end of a wooden bench, and the cooking girl carried a huge bowl of steaming white rice to the centre of the table. The other carried two bowls, one containing some sort of meat, not a lot and sliced very thinly, the other containing vegetables in a sauce. Then both the servants sat down at the end of the table.

Mrs Lee began to spoon rice into the bowls, passing one to her son first, then to the others.

Although she was ravenous, Isabella waited to start eating, worried that she didn’t know anything about correct table manners. She was relieved that she’d waited when everyone looked at Mr Lee and he looked at his mother, who picked up her chopsticks and took a mouthful of plain rice. Everyone else did the same, so Isabella followed suit.

She’d learned to eat with chopsticks but was not nearly as skilled as they were. They all took a little meat, and a bigger helping of vegetables, but the rice was the main thing they were eating, even Mr Lee. She couldn’t help contrasting this with the huge meals the Europeans ate, the large helpings of meat.

The food was delicious and when her bowl was empty, Mrs Lee gestured to the container of rice. Isabella hesitated, not wanting to appear greedy, but the old woman looked at her shrewdly, grasped her thin wrist in one hand and shook her head, making a tutting sound.

It was that almost motherly concern for her health which made Isabella feel truly safe here. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she bowed her head gratefully and accepted another bowl of food. When it was finished, she offered her first English lesson, which Mr Lee was quick to accept.

‘Bowl, chopsticks, table . . .’

She was so exhausted she was ready to go to bed at nightfall, which was about six o’clock in this part of the world, with only the smallest variation, because of being just about on the Equator. Sometimes she missed the long summer evenings of England, the soft, cool air, the filmy, clinging rain and oh, the crispness of an autumn morning! Here, it often poured down in the afternoons and the air was hot and humid all year round.

Only when Mrs Lee and her daughter led the way upstairs did she get her wish. They showed her how to deal with her bodily needs, the servants brought her a jug of water for the morning, then everyone settled down to sleep.

Isabella felt exhausted. Lying on her mat, covered only by a sheet for decency, she allowed a few tears to fall, tears of relief as well as unhappiness.

But following behind them came a tiny warm thread of hope. She hadn’t felt this safe for a long time, hadn’t eaten so well, either. Perhaps things would be better for her now.

1

April 1867

Bram Deagan stood at the stern of the Bonny Mary, staring back towards a glorious sunset as they sailed away from Galle in Ceylon. He’d travelled to Australia with his boyhood friend Ronan, and then come back to Galle. But from here onwards, his friend would be travelling back to Ireland and Bram would be going to Singapore. He doubted the two of them would ever meet again.

It was painful to think he’d never be able to go back, never see his family. He’d been dismissed and if he’d refused to leave the village, his family would have lost home and jobs.

His friend had never cared that he was gentry and Bram only a groom, and had assured him there was always a place in Australia for a man who was good with horses. But it was Bram’s own choice to go to Singapore, which was to the north of Western Australia, right on the equator.

Sure, at the rate he was travelling, Bram might even find one of those fabled lands he’d read about, marked on the old maps ‘Here Be Dragons’.

He’d have to rely on his new friend Dougal, the captain of this schooner, to show him round Singapore, because Dougal had traded there before.

Bram couldn’t see his new path in life clearly yet, but after sailing halfway round the world and meeting new types of people on the ship, he’d begun to think differently about his future. Hearing their stories, seeing places like Alexandria and Suez, had set a flame burning inside him – just a small flame at first, but one which burned brighter and higher as it took hold.

When he first asked himself in the quiet reaches of the night whether he could be more than a groom, he’d been terrified by the daring of that thought. But it wouldn’t go away, creeping into his mind again and again. Other people had made their fortunes in Australia, why not him?

Could he make a success of his new life? Could he really do that? He knew he wasn’t stupid, but did he have the talent to make money? He looked down at himself with a wry grin. Nothing special about a medium height body, rather on the scrawny side, because he’d never had enough to eat when he was growing up. The food had seemed very lavish on the ship to Australia. It might have been plain, but he’d had as much as he could eat and more at every single meal, for the first time in his life.

He was by no means a weakling, because hard physical work in the stables built muscles, but it was his brain he needed to use now if he was to make money, and he worried that he wouldn’t know enough. He wasn’t stupid, had learned to read easily in the village school and continued his meagre education after he started work at ten by reading any book he could lay his hands on. His employers hadn’t approved of that and he’d quickly learned to keep the books out of sight of the head groom.

You could learn a lot from books. He’d brought one with him on this voyage, about accounting it was, and a dry old thing too, but still – if he earned any money, he must learn to manage it carefully. Fools were easily parted from their gold, and he didn’t intend to be taken for a fool. There had been other books available on the ship, and long hours of leisure in which to read them or simply chat to the other passengers.

If Dougal was right, in Singapore Bram would be able to buy trading goods cheaply to sell at a good profit when he went back to the Swan River Colony. He could also sell the rest of the contents of Ronan’s mother’s trunk. She’d died on the voyage to Australia and Ronan, grief-stricken, had said to throw her trunk overboard.

The waste of it! Why, the clothes and trinkets it contained would bring in enough to give Bram a modest start. So he’d spoken out, ignoring the disapproval in his friend’s eyes, and got the trunk for himself. He’d sold several things from it on the ship and more in Fremantle, so now had a few coins to jingle in his pocket – if he were the sort to jingle his money for others to hear, which he wasn’t.

I’ll open a shop, he’d told everyone, seizing the first idea that came into his mind. But he wasn’t sure he wa. . .