Page 38 of Holding Onto Love

“Myself.”

His head tilted to the side. “We can do small ones, I suppose. But they’ll be plain.”

“That’s just what I want. To walk about the fields; they don’t have to be pretty.”

She’d seen women wearing boots to match their husbands’. Maybe they were their husbands’.

Bitter glanced down at her feet. “Seems a shame to give up those.”

She was wearing her only remaining decent pair of shoes. Silk slippers. They would not last. They would not have lasted long in London either, not in London’s mucky, uneven streets, had she walked them. But in London, she had hardly ever gone about on foot. That was what the carriage was for. She had done enough walking for a lifetime, sometimes twenty miles in a day—and in ill-fitting boots salvaged from dead men. She’d sworn she would never wear awful, ugly shoes again. She didn’t know what she’d imagined, coming to Cartmel. That it would all be pillowy meadows of grass paved with wildflowers?

“Too frivolous, I’m afraid. I shouldn’t have bought something so fine. I need shoes that will last.”

“Ah.” He chuckled. “So Nan’s right. She says bonnets for finery. High up on the head. Says I’m daft for wanting to make pretty shoes to scuff about in the dust.”

Nan could not have said all that. Nevertheless, she believed Bitter had heard it.

“Perhaps I’ll buy a bonnet next.”

“Climb up onto the box. Let me measure the foot.”

She imagined Jon would have squatted down to measure. But for Bitter, customers stepped up. She stood on the box beside his chair and let him chalk around her feet.

“It’s ten shillings, 2 pence, Mrs. Wardrip.” Then he frowned. “Seems a lot for such tiny feet. Maybe…”

“The work’s the same, isn’t it?”

“Less materials, though.”

“Well.” She wasn’t going to argue to pay the full cost. No one would. But she made no effort to bargain him down.

Will had sold the brooch she sent him and returned to her a staggering sum. She’d gone straight to the market in Paxton Downs, a two-hour walk, and filled her tea caddy. She stocked her larder. Then she went back three days later and asked Mr. Filbert, whose shop seemed the most likely, if he could place an order for her for a few books. She had an idea of how to reignite Charlotte’s enthusiasm. The purchases made no visible dent in the mound of coins stashed in a box under her bed. So it seemed petty to argue over a few pence’s worth of leather.

Bitter pulled at his lip. “I’ll ask Jon what he thinks.”

“I appreciate it. But I need these boots. I’m willing to pay full price.”

“Ha! Promise me you won’t ever go alone to a horse trader.”

She stepped down from the box.

“Two weeks?” he said. Then hemmed and said, “Maybe three. For you, pay on delivery.”

“Why, thank you.” It still surprised her that people were ever expected to pay in advance. She was certain Jasper would think she was inventing such a tale. He paid his people on time, meaning no more than three months late. That was how it was done.

“Wish they were all like you, Mrs. Wardrip. Make my life easier.”

She wished there was a way to make it easier. No matter his good humor, it had to be hard. She stepped to the door.

“Have a good day, Bitter.”

“What?”

“Bitter, you idiot.”

He laughed. “Good day to you, too.”

She had no further business at anyone’s cottage but her own. A cold pot of soup awaited her. It wouldn’t take long to heat it for supper. If she had her new boots, she might wander off into the countryside, pick mushrooms, or gather flowers, but her feet already hurt.