‘I’m Maarten Horst,’ the gentleman says gruffly, looking at last in Anna’s direction. ‘I’m an officer with the VOC and this is my wife, Blanche. Thank you for assisting her. As you could see, I was doing my best to dislodge a sweetmeat she’d swallowed.’

The lie drips smoothly from his lips and Anna’s dislike of him rises.

‘How do you do?’ Blanche says, hoarsely. Her Dutch is bad and she mangles the greeting. Maarten frowns.

‘I’m afraid my wife is still learning our language,’ he spits. ‘It’s been six weeks since we left England, but she’s yet to master any long sentences or any of our customs.’

‘I know who you are,’ the girl says. ‘You’re Anna Tesseltje, Lady van Shurman’s new companion. I overheard you speaking with the Queen. I heard her praising you for improving Lady van Shurman’s spirits.’

‘Van Shurman?’ Maarten says, sharply.

‘She’s my employer,’ Anna says. ‘Along with Master Crispijn.’

Maarten sniffs and fiddles with his coat sleeves, his expression sour.

‘And you, Mistress Horst?’ Anna says, trying to lighten the mood. ‘How did you come to Holland?’

Blanche darts a glance at her husband who gives a curt nod. When she begins speaking, Anna regrets asking. The essence of Blanche’s story is there, buried beneath her bad Dutch. Blanche’s parents, Lord and Lady Battenham, lost their titles and their lands during the English war and arranged a match between their daughter and Maarten Horst before fleeing England for France. Anna finds she must concentrate hard though to understand the details. Blanche’s voice rasps, she starts and stops, stumbling over the unfamiliar translation and Anna attuned to her heightened panic. Eventually, at a look from her husband, she falls silent and lifts her fingers to the silk scarf at her throat, as if she anticipates her punishment. In the awkward silence that follows, Anna is grateful she never married.

The Dutch East India Company dominates the global spice trade, controlling ports in Batavia, India, China and Japan, among others. Their reach is long, their wealth almost incalculable, piling up more swiftly than the many vessels that cross the sea bearing their flags. The vessels carry nutmeg and coffee, tobacco and cinnamon, priceless silk, finer even than the shining fabric used to create her mother’s gown. If Maarten Horst is an officer, he’s either worked his way up through the ranks or else his family are rich. They must have paid for his appointment, but if this is so, why didn’t they have him promoted straight to Commander? Her father often talked about the smalle burgerij – a class of men and women who could afford to place their sons in high positions within the company’s ranks. No such position ever exists for women. Women must marry into their good fortune, their ill luck assuaged by the exchange of guilders and the birth of heirs. Perhaps Maarten means to encourage her to think of the future. But his abhorrent conduct towards his young wife is enough to turn Anna against him forever.