Northern England, 1690
Margaret Alder’s hands were aching as she pushed the final hole through the upper of a shoe. Now the pair was ready to be sewn to the soles.
Her work had begun just after dawn. The sun must be high now. She laid the leather piece to one side, along with its match, and turned down the lamp.
Thoughts of her father came unbidden. He was greatly missed. It came over her in waves, this feeling, with no warning, no reason, nothing to encourage it.
A fever took him a year ago, yet it might have been yesterday, she remembered it so vividly. And the memory caused her heart to pain, turned her into a child longing for apron strings to cling to.
A grown woman of almost 20 summers, with a home and a shop to run, and a younger brother who could not be prevailed upon to assist.
This had been her father’s business, built up over years, since entering the Guild of Cordwainers, of which he’d been very proud. It was a small place, with rooms above, to live in.
Wood-built and prey to the bitter winds that came from the sea, there were no windows in the shop. It would be a gloomy place were it not for the oil lamps, or the opening at the front which afforded such light as there was from outside.
Each wall was used to its fullest purpose. Lasts hung in pairs, various sizes to fit various feet. There were repaired shoes sitting on the top shelves; others, at different stages of making, were arranged on the lower
