Page 61 of Holding Onto Love

As she understood it, Lydia and the corporal slept in the loft. Brother Jon slept downstairs in the corner of the workshop. Another corner now housed Bitter and Nan. The lack of privacy made Vanessa cringe. Of course, on the Peninsula, it had been worse. She and Henry had never been truly alone. But life with Jasper had spoiled her. Or returned her to the expectations of the comfort of her coddled youth. Expectations of unlimited resources. What a skewed vision of life she had had.

She approached the door and heard voices. Raised voices.

“If we increase the price to cover the tax, we will lose the few customers we have.”

That was Jon speaking. Although it was wrong of her, Vanessa paused outside the door.

“But if you don’t, you’ll lose money on every pair you sell,” said the corporal. “It’s not as if we can compete on price with the likes of Brunel and his factory.”

“Even Brunel may have trouble selling boots once the war ends.”

“The difficulty is your labor,” Bitter put in. Vanessa barely recognized the voice as his. It held none of Bitter’s usual sunniness. “You cannot keep us all. It was good of you, Jon, to take me on, but I understand…”

“No talk of that,” Jon said gruffly.

Just then, Lydia tapped Vanessa on the arm, and she jumped. Lydia carried a basket draped with a large napkin. She’d been to Cartmel’s market. Or perhaps to one of the neighbors to barter. She frowned. Vanessa expected to be scolded for listening to what was none of her business. Instead, Lydia said, “Are they arguing again? Come in.” She took Vanessa by the elbow and dragged her inside.

“A customer come for her boots,” she announced.

The small front room was dimly sunlit and felt blessedly cool. The Compton brothers stood along the back wall, beside the door leading into their workshop-living space. Vanessa could not help looking at Bitter, seated behind a narrow table with a battered ledger in front of him. He hadn’t had time to mask his anguish.

“Ah, Mrs. Wardrip,” Jon said. “Your boots are ready. I’m sorry. I can’t imagine what took so long. They’re in the back. I’ll fetch them.”

“Oh, it’s no matter.” They all looked so dejected, she could not bear it. If the boot mill closed, what would they do? She glanced again at Bitter, who looked the most agitated. Of course, he had Nan to worry about. And that went both ways. From the times she’d spoken with Nan, Vanessa thought her a more than capable woman despite her impediments, yet Nan must have her hands full caring for Bitter.

Jon returned with a canvas satchel.

“Try them on,” he urged, handing it to her. “If they don’t fit, we’ll make it right.”

“If she doesn’t like them,” Bitter said, shooting an anxious look not at her, but at Jon, “I’ll make it right.”

It made her self-conscious, all those eyes upon her. She sat on an empty stool and slipped the first boot from the satchel. Her jaw dropped.

The leather had been tooled, and decorated with roses on a trellis. The workmanship was superb. She shook the other boot from its bag. It was a mirror image of its mate.

“What is that now?” Jon said, stepping closer.

“Oh, but they’re beautiful!”

She heard Bitter’s little sigh of relief. She kicked off her worn slippers and pulled on the left boot. It was tight, but not uncomfortably so and she knew the leather would give.

“Perfect! I’ll try the other.”

She had never seen boots this sturdy look so lovely. Nevertheless, she was aware of the eyes in the room. Lydia looked stunned. Bitter, pleased. The corporal, confused. And Jon looked wary and annoyed.

“Did Bitter have your permission to attempt this?”

Nan says I’m daft for wanting to make pretty shoes to scuff about in the dust.

“He certainly would have, but I would have offered to pay more. I should pay more. Jon, anyone would.” The words soured in her mouth. Not anyone. They made boots for men who could barely afford the ten shillings and two pence.

Jon sniffed. “You pay what you agreed upon, Mrs. Wardrip. We should refund your payment, seeing as they weren’t what you ordered.”

“Refund?”

“I didn’t take her money,” Bitter said weakly. “I thought…”

“I brought payment with me,” Vanessa said, fishing the coins from her reticule. She thought again of offering more, but feared that would add fuel to the fire. The Comptons’ boots were not meant for ladies who could have the bills sent to moneyed protectors or indulgent husbands. But they could be.