“Mrs. Penhale?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said with a smile while trying to keep from blushing. She was still not used to her married name.
“Mr. Leavitt,” he said by way of introduction. “Let me finish this seam, and I’ll be right with you. Mind you take a look at that basket of samples and choose the leather you prefer.”
She looked around until she saw a basket the size of a cooking pot on the far side of the counter. She limped over and shuffled through the irregularly shaped scraps. She’d only ever worn a black boot, and the leather needed to be quite stiff in order to give her foot the proper bracing. She chose the blackest and stiffest leather in the basket before returning to the counter.
The cobbler stood from his task, bringing him to his full height, which was only a few inches taller than she was. He had tufts of gray-white hair above each of his ears and a shiny pate that reflected the light from the oil lamp burning in the corner. He wiped his hands on his thick canvas apron that was smudged and smeared with a variety of polishes.
“Come around to the back,” he said as he turned, waving his hand to indicate she follow him through a doorway. “We’ll get started on the fitting.”
He gestured her toward a low chair as he sat on an even lower chair on the other side of a small bench between them. He took the leather sample she handed him.
He rubbed it between his fingers and then tucked it into the front pocket of his apron. “Put your foot up here on the bench so I can see what you have been using until now.”
Hazel hesitated, pushed away the shame she always felt about her foot, and then lifted her leg so the heel of her atrocious boot rested on the bench.
He turned her foot this way and that, then pulled a knotted string from his apron pocket and took some measurements. He did not write down any of the measurements. “You’ve put this boot to good use, I see.”
“Yes,” Hazel said simply.
He ran his finger on the portion of sole that was worn almost to the leather along the inside edge. “Does your left hip give you trouble when you have to walk a fair distance?”
“It gives me trouble all the time,” she said with hesitation, as though admitting a shameful secret. She was not used to talking about her body.
“That does not surprise me. This boot is not properly balanced.”
“I have worn it more than three years, which accounts for the state it is in. The cobbler I have always used is in Northampton, you see, and I have been in King’s Lynn a year and a half, and I have put off finding a new cobbler to make a new boot.”
“It was never properly balanced, I’m afraid,” the cobbler said, looking at her over his glasses again. “If it had been, the wear would be evenly distributed.” He rested the boot on the bench again and began to undo the laces.
Hazel tensed. She could count on one hand the people outside of her immediate family who had ever seen her foot—two cobblers and two physicians.
When the laces were loose, he carefully slid the boot from her foot, revealing a thick sock meant to help cushion the points of pressure caused by the boot. Without asking her permission, he slid off the sock, then turned her twisted foot this way and that as he’d done with the boot a minute earlier. He made a tsking noise, then pressed against a deep bruise on the outside of her ankle.
She hissed slightly at the pain that shot up her foot.
“My apologies,” he said, but then turned her foot and pressed against another area that was nearly black with bruising. She’d had the bruises for months now.
She winced again.
“Oh, my dear, I am so very sorry that you have had such a poor device. You have suffered with this boot three years you said?”
“Nearly four,” Hazel admitted. “But it was sufficient up until just this last year.”
“We can do better than sufficient,” he said, looking up at her and smiling. “I can only suppose that this boot, nor any others you might have had previously, was not made from a mold of your foot.”
“A mold, sir?”
“I mix a quantity of plaster which I put into a tray in order to preserve imprints of your foot. It allows me to create perfectly shaped interior.”
He must have seen the fear in her expression because he smiled calmly. “Making a mold is a painless process, I assure you. Having the exact shape of your foot allows me to add cushions and braces into the structure that will support your foot in the best alignment possible. I cannot promise that you will not still have some discomfort when you walk, but I do believe I can create a device that will offer better support than what you have had.
“The boot I design will not be as bulky as what you are used to, and I shall make the leg portion of the boot longer, partway up your calf, so as to better brace your ankle, and therefore replace the need for such stiff leather as what you chose.”
He patted the pocket where he’d deposited the sample of leather she hadn’t chosen as much as believed was her only option. He turned her foot again, tsking as he rubbed his thumb over a callous that had formed on the top of her foot. “I can see you take proper care of your foot, which is excellent and will allow quicker healing of the injuries caused by your current boot.” He looked at her again. “Shall I mix the plaster, then?”
“You—you seem quite experienced at this,” Hazel said, still feeling awkward despite his ease.
“Started my work in the King’s army,” he said, getting to his feet. He stretched out his back, and she heard two distinct cracks that he did not react to in the slightest. “I made boots for the most part and, in time, had to learn to adapt existing boots when there was a soldier missing a few toes or even an entire foot.”
“You made boots for men without a foot.”
The cobbler nodded. “After I returned to Ipswich, soldiers still managed to find me. I chiefly make the same shoes every other cobbler does, but I also make any number of specialty shoes now—prosthetics, weighted shoes, built-up soles, crafted things like what you need. Mr. Penhale found me through one of my clients who works with Perkins & Cromley. He gave me a fair enough interview before granting me the work.”
He smiled, which helped ease Hazel’s embarrassment at the imagined interview or, rather, interrogation, Duncan likely administered.
“You did not know Mr. Penhale previously?” Hazel asked.
“Not personally, no. Though he’s the sort of man everyone in town knows of, I suppose.”
She needed no clarification of what he meant, Duncan certainly stood out, but she was relieved that there was no animosity in the cobbler’s voice.
The cobbler lifted a bulky paper bag off one shelf and a metal bowl off another. “If you can afford the expense, I would suggest having two sets of boots made from this mold, perhaps two different leathers for the sake of variety and matching them to their pair. If you can alternate which pair you wear every other day, it will allow the leather to rest between wearings and extend the life of both boots.