Cords of Blood, Chords of Love

By Josephine Ellis

Following her father's death, Sara Ferris and her beautiful, flighty mother, Celia, head to Regency Harrogate to take refuge with Celia's wealthy sister and her boorish husband. At first all seems to be going well. Celia basks in the admiration of the newly-fashionable spa town. Sara, assigned to the task of educating her young cousins, strikes up a comradeship with her uncle's clerk, Josiah, which quickly blossoms into love.
But the storm clouds are brewing. Celia has other ideas about how Sara ought to bestow her favours. So does Uncle Isaac, preferring himself - although, as it turns out, he isn't fussy about whose favours he takes. Celia's search for a replacement husband goes terribly awry, and the resultant crisis forces Sara and Celia back to London, to live in penury and servitude. In order to find happiness together, Sara and Josiah must travel the length of the country, take on London thugs, crooked lawyers and the prejudices of their age, and unravel the secrets of his family.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Josephine Ellis
• Release date: Oct 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005680213

Book preview

Cords of Blood, Chords of Love

by

Josephine Ellis

Smashwords Edition

Copyright: 2022 Josephine Ellis

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Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

About the Author

Chapter 1

Sara had not expected to enjoy the journey north. Her father was barely cold in his grave; she was leaving the city where she had spent all of her life; and she knew that her future, and that of her mother, was uncertain. But, as the coach slowly made its way up the country from London to York, she felt her spirits lifting. From her seat, crammed in between a fat man in the clothes of a City merchant on one side, and her mother on the other, she could catch glimpses of the passing countryside, which the spring was beginning to touch with fresh new growth. The sun glinted off the puddles in the road and the water in the ditches and furrows of the fields, and as they passed through villages along the way, the women were busy turning their houses inside out- shaking out bedclothes, beating mattresses and hanging out clothes. In the still-skeletal branches of the trees overhanging the road, small birds were furiously singing at one another. When the fat man shook some crumbs out of his handkerchief - which had been harbouring a small meat pie – the sparrows flew down together to feast upon them upon the ruts and puddles of the road. It was as though, after the dullness and sadness of the last, terrible winter, all the world wanted to leave confinement.

And besides, the journey had been an adventure so far. Merely leaving the city was a novelty for Sara, whose life had been spent almost entirely within walking distance of her parents’ lodgings. The frantic activity of the building sites on the outskirts of London was a novelty to her, as were the small villages that they passed through, with little low dwellings in clay and thatch clustered around village greens or ponds, and the open expanses of the fields of Huntingdonshire where (as the merchant informed them) the very latest agricultural techniques were being trialled, so that hunger would be a thing of the past. What an age we live in! he cried, gesticulating at the countryside outside the window, and managing to jostle Sara’s mother so that she glared at him.

Then there were the coaching inns. As stopping points on journeys have always been, they were frenetic places, with people bustling past on contrary errands – but they were warm and welcoming, especially when the hosts saw Sara’s mother. At only thirty-eight, Celia was still beautiful; her skin was still almost unwrinkled, and she had not a single white hair in her dark ringlets, which she carefully tied up in rags each night, even in the worst of places. Besides this, Celia had a commanding poise, like that of a figurehead or a statue. When she marched into the parlour of any inn in the country, she seemed to cause everyone to think of her as the most important person present. Landladies fawned upon her and landlords asked her permission to seat her at the head of the table, where she reigned over the proceedings. The next morning, as the coach departed, Celia would make lengthy and gracious speeches to the hosts, thanking them for their generous hospitality and presenting them with gifts which, as Sara knew, were not of very great monetary value; but then poor Father had died with barely a penny to his name.

At York, the stagecoach stopped, and Celia and Sara alighted, taking with them their meagre baggage – a basket each and a canvas sack-bag. It’s no good to be seen carrying cases and trunks, said Celia, as if to console herself, if you haven’t a manservant to carry them for you.

Sara looked around, doubtfully. The yard of the coaching inn was full of people: stable-boys unhitching horses from the coach and leading out fresh ones; servants running across the yard with pans and firewood, and gentlemen and ladies taking their seats for the next stage of the Great North Road. Nobody paid any attention to the two black-clad women in the corner of the yard, not even to Celia – for there was a fine drizzle, and she had put up the hood of her cloak.

Your aunt Thompson writes that we should take the coach to Harrogate from the King’s Head, said Celia, consulting a letter from her reticule. I dare say we should ask a servant. But none of the bustling crew so much as caught her eye. Celia let out an impatient sigh and marched over to the coach from which they had just alighted – letting her hood down as she did so; she did not normally like to get her ringlets wet, because it put them out of curl, but the situation called for it. Sara, waiting in the corner with the baggage, saw the coachman beckon someone from outside the yard; then another man - dressed similarly, with a long leather coat to protect against the rain – came in, and, bowing deeply, followed Celia over to where Sara stood. He took up the sack-bag – the heaviest of the three items – upon his back, and carried the baskets, one in each hand. Then, bowing deeply to Sara, he led them out onto the road and escorted them towards a waiting coach. He looked inside the coach; then Sara heard muffled voices from within, civil at first, then rising in annoyance, the coachman’s low and definite tones alternating with another man’s voice, higher and slightly cracked. Eventually the coachman stepped back and a thin man of sixty or so, wearing an unfashionable wig and a creased coat, got out and climbed onto the roof of the coach, not without some assistance from the coachman. The coachman beamed at Celia and stood aside from the coach. Celia tipped her head graciously and stepped aboard.

It has always been thus, reflected Sara as the coach lumbered on its way. Her mother could always make men do what she wanted them to. Local tradesmen, back in London, would deliver more meat and bread and fruit when she asked, even though they had only called to ask for their bills to be paid. The owners of assembly rooms and theatres would let her in when she promised to send a servant with the entrance fee the next day, and then they would not pursue her for it. And poor Father would do anything she asked, allow her to have whatever she wanted, and it all worked, until the day of his funeral, when suddenly Celia and Sara found that nobody would give them anything any more.

All, that was, apart from Sara’s Aunt Maria – Celia’s sister in Harrogate, whom Sara had not met since her marriage, ten years previously. She remembered, vaguely, a plump woman in sprigged muslin and a kerchief over her ample white bosom, clutching a small nosegay of roses, bending down and saying So, this is young Sara, then? A pretty little thing! and then melting away into a crowd of people. Perhaps that had been her wedding day; that would account for the nosegay.

According to Celia, Aunt Maria had written to her on hearing of her bereavement, asking her to come and live with them in Harrogate. She was always a good kind girl, said Celia, and devoted to me and our brothers. Here, Celia gave a sigh; her two brothers, Alfred and Constantine, had both joined the Army and, with the wars ongoing, their whereabouts were quite unknown. It’s a good thing for family to stick together, she went on, you can be a help to your aunt; she shall need someone to teach the children their letters, and help her to make their clothes. They will be growing fast.

What shall you do, Mother? said Sara, unguardedly.

What should I do, child? I shall keep your aunt Thompson company. No doubt there is little society in Harrogate. She will be longing for news of the wider world.

That had been only a few days after Father’s death, and only a week or so after that, here they were, lurching along the road towards Harrogate. Sara had no idea what to expect of the place. The coach was passing through rougher and wilder countryside, with tough-looking, short-bitten grass and stony outcrops upon the hillsides; the trees were wind-blown and not yet coming into leaf, and the villages were sparse and cold-looking. She began to wonder whether her mother’s estimation of Harrogate – a place without society and far from the wider world – was correct. Night began to fall, and, with the coach’s lanterns the only light visible, Sara began to wonder whether she and her mother would ever see a friendly human face again. The other passengers, wrapped up in cloaks and coats, had fallen asleep (apart, Sara presumed, from the old gentleman on the roof). Celia, meanwhile, was sitting straight-backed, looking straight ahead, her lovely features set.

But some time later the coach stopped lurching and started to run smoothly, as if on a paved street, and, when Sara looked out of the window, she saw that they were passing by a row of tall, newly-built, elegant-looking houses, as noble as those in London – in fact, more so, because they were built of stone rather than brick. From some of the windows, the soft light of candles was dimly visible, and on the street, a link-boy with his torch could be seen escorting a smartly-dressed gentleman and lady.

The coach drew up at last, outside a spacious and new-looking inn. Porters were obtained to carry the baggage, and before long Celia and Sara arrived outside a tall, stone-fronted, modern house, a short walk from the town’s centre, with two lamps burning profligately in the windows.

This’s Mr Thompson’s house, said the porter, banging on the door. Thankyou, my man, said Celia, and turned as if to bid him farewell, but the porter did not leave. He coughed politely, and held out his hand.

Oh, ah – let me just see, said Celia, fumbling with her reticule, of course..

Just then the door opened; a young girl with pale blonde hair straggling out from under her white cap opened, followed, close behind, by a large lady in a vast quantity of lace, her round face beaming with welcome.

Celia, my dear! she exclaimed, and flung her arms around Sara’s mother, almost losing some of her lace in the process. And this must be dear Sara – my poor girl, welcome to our home. We hope you will be very happy here. I am your aunt Maria, my dear, and this is your uncle Thompson – your uncle Isaac. She indicated a sturdy gentleman standing behind her, broad-shouldered, strong-jawed, his sandy hair only slightly receding. His mouth was set in an expression of determined self-satisfaction.

Welcome, my dear sister, said Uncle Isaac, lifting Celia’s hand to his mouth. And welcome, my dear niece. How you resemble your dear mother!

The children are abed, said Aunt Maria, but tomorrow they will be delighted to meet you, dear Sara. I understand you’re good with your needle? Without waiting for an answer, she ran on – for the poor dears grow so fast, like the green bay tree. I sewed a new gown for little Emily only last week; it was almost as much work as if it had been for a grown woman.. She prattled on, and Sara allowed the river of words to flow over her head. She was terribly tired, at that stage of exhaustion where it is possible to fall asleep, just for a few seconds at a time, while sitting at the dinner table.

And have you dined along the way? Uncle Isaac said.

We were able to take some sustenance at an inn, said Celia, but we would not be so churlish as to turn down your hospitality.

In fact, Celia was not being quite truthful; the money in her reticule was running low by the time they reached York, and after paying for the passage to Harrogate, there had not been enough left for food. Remembering the question of money, Sara turned to see if the porter was still there, and, of course, he caught her eye. As Uncle Isaac stepped forward to close the door, he said roughly, That’ll be sixpence. Isaac looked cross. Turning his head, he bellowed up the stairs, Josiah! My purse!

There was a quick trot-trot-trot down the stairs, and a dark-haired young man appeared, bearing a small leather purse. Isaac took it from him, rather roughly, and, to Sara’s great relief, paid the porter. Then he tossed the purse back towards the young man, who caught it and trotted back upstairs.

Come and share our collation, he said to the new arrivals. We have a humble repast to offer you, but we hope it suffices.

He led them into a room furnished in the height of fashion, with pale-blue striped wallpaper and friezes of foliage, flowers and figures from antiquity upon the walls. In oval frames, facing each other, were the portraits of a couple who, had Maria and Isaac been a little less plump, and a little neater in their person, might have looked quite like them. In the centre of the room was a table laden with meat, puddings and a pie almost too large for the plate on which it sat. Around the table were set spindly-legged chairs with upright, inlaid backs.

Aunt Maria sat down, her bulk almost obliterating the spindly chair, and started to cut up the pie and dish it out. Sara and Celia sat down too, but Isaac remained standing, next to the sideboard on which a bottle of wine stood next to some slender engraved glasses. He poured out a glass of wine for all the company and handed them out. Let us drink a toast, dear Celia, dear Sara, he said, a toast. To good wine and good company.

Sara glimpsed a look of slight distaste crossing Aunt Maria’s face; but Celia raised her glass, turned her lovely face towards Isaac and said Indeed, dear brother, and what better subjects for such an honour? She sipped from her glass. Isaac downed the contents of his; Sara noticed, as the plates went round, that he filled it up again to the brim.

How I admire your portraits, Celia said. Such a charming likeness!

Aunt Maria simpered, and was about to say something, but Uncle Isaac spoke over her. The best portrait painter in town, he announced, and most wonderfully obliging – I dare say any man can be obliging when he’s being paid as much as he was, ha ha! I said to the fellow, ‘You see how poor Maria has had four children in ten years, and she ain’t the slip of a girl she once was; now mark you don’t paint that!’ and nor he has done; he’s painted her as fresh as a young shepherdess in a wall painting, has he not? He knocked back his glass with an air of triumph.

No fresher than she appears to me now, said Celia, casting a consoling beam towards Maria.

O’course, continued Isaac, it had been impossible, were it not for Humphrey’s bales of fleeces. Do you recall, Maria.. and he embarked upon a long and self-congratulatory saga, laden with disparaging asides. Not knowing the jargon in which he described his endeavours, Sara was not sure exactly what had happened. It seemed to have something to do with a load of fleeces which Isaac had bought from a farmer at an astoundingly low price, and sold on to a Mr Humphrey for an astoundingly high price, which Humphrey would never have paid were it not for the precise condition of the market, and his, Humphrey’s, urgent need for a particular sort of wool at that point in time. And Humphrey said to me, ‘It’s a high price, but the deal is yours.’ And I said to him, ‘My dear Humphrey, if you paid me any less then you would be fleecing me’ – d’ye see? ‘Fleecing’ him? Ha ha ha! He looked around the table for signs of appreciation. Aunt Maria tittered obediently. Celia laughed out loud and said A dainty riposte, brother. Sara forced a chuckle. The heavy food and wine had only added to her fatigue. Celia, meanwhile, seemed to become ever more animated. She kept her gaze upon Uncle Isaac, laughing at his every word and imploring him to tell her more about his business dealings; she only stopped in order to compliment Aunt Maria.

It had always been this way. Celia thrived on being the centre of attention, or on being the most fervent supporter of the person who, as hierarchy dictated, had to be the centre of attention. She would have done very well as the hostess of a pre-Revolutionary French salon, surrounded by arch young men competing for her favours, or as a queen or countess, with a court to manipulate and charm. But Sara’s father had been unable to offer Celia any of these things. A promising young lawyer when she first espied him, he might, perhaps, have gone into politics, or become rich through his practice and become a lynchpin of London society. Instead, he had charged his clients far too little – nothing at all, sometimes – got interested in all manner of issues affecting the poor and the fairer treatment of felons, and eventually died with barely a penny to his name. At least, Celia had once said, in an unguarded moment, I did not allow him to make me into a brood mare.

Poor Father! Sara thought, allowing her gaze to float upwards, above the chatter and chink of cutlery and plates, towards the candles in their sconces, now burning low. The faintest swirls of smoke rose above them towards the gloom of the ceiling with its plaster vines. There was a crack in one of the vines, which ran across a leaf and then into the corner between its stem and the ceiling. Sara wondered whether the vine would be likely to fall any time soon. She craned her neck slightly to see if she could follow the crack around the other side of the stem.

Isaac’s bellowing voice burst in on her reverie. Our young mistress seems not to take an interest in our conversation. Were you lost in thought, niece?

My apologies, uncle, Sara said, I was merely reflecting upon.. upon your generosity at this sad time.

A sad time? said Isaac, momentarily perplexed. Why – ah, I suppose it is a sad time for you, my dear, is it not? Come drink and be merry, for all flesh is grass. He topped up Sara’s glass again. It ill befits a pretty face to be seen frowning. He chucked her under the chin. Is she not a pretty maid, ladies?

She is fatigued, said Celia, her pretty looks will be spoilt by lack of sleep.

Ah, yes, I dare say, said Isaac, of course, she is yet young. Susanna, fetch a candle! he bellowed at the maid, with quite unnecessary volume, since she was already in the room, collecting up the dirty plates.

Susanna – a pale-faced young girl of about Sara’s age – put the plates down on the table, wiped her hands on her apron, and made as if to leave.

No, girl, don’t leave the plates there! Isaac bellowed. Finish your task, and then – ah, no matter! He opened the door and bellowed up the stairs, Josiah, a candle!

Once again, there was the trit-trot of footsteps on the stairs, and the young man who had brought Isaac his purse appeared at the parlour door. He was carrying a candle in a pewter candlestick.

Josiah, light Miss Ferris to her chamber, Isaac ordered, and try not to kiss that pretty face in the dark, ha ha ha!

Will you go to bed too, sister? Maria asked.

Why, Maria, Celia replied, after such long separation, how can I bear to be parted from you? She sipped at her glass again. As Sara left the room, Isaac had already embarked upon another tale.

In the hall, flickering shadows fell across the stairs and the walls, so that it took a few seconds for Sara to work out their configuration. Let me go first, madam, Josiah said, leading the way up the staircase.