The Shoemaker's Daughter

About the Book

When Hari Morgan’s father died, he left her nothing but an ailing mother and the tools of his shoemaking business. But what he also passed on to his daughter was a rare and unusual gift – that of designing and making shoes that were stylish and different. One of the first to realise this was Emily Grenfell, spoilt, pettish daughter of Thomas Grenfell, one of the richest men in Swansea. Emily, who resented the beauty and courage of Hari Morgan, nonetheless was delighted with the dancing slippers she made for her debut at the Race Ball, one of the grandest events of the year. It was to be the beginning of a lifetime of friendship, hatred and rivalry between the two girls for, as Hari's business and fame began to grow, so Emily’s fortune began to decline.

And between the two girls lay an even deeper tension, for Emily was about to be betrothed to her cousin, Craig Grenfell, a man whom Hari could not help loving and wanting for herself, a man who finally betrayed her. From then on, Hari was determined that nothing and no-one would prevent her rise to a triumphant success.

About the Author

Iris Gower was born in Swansea. The mother of four grown-up children, she now lives with her husband in a house in Swansea overlooking the sea she loves. She has written over fourteen bestselling novels, and has recently been awarded an MA in Creative Writing from the University of Cardiff.

The Shoemaker’s Daughter
is the first title in her
Cordwainers
series.
Sweet Rosie
, the third novel in her latest series, the
Firebird
sequence, is now available from Bantam Press.

HONEY
’
S FARM

This ebook is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form (including any digital form) other than this in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Epub ISBN: 9781446463703

Version 1.0

  

Originally published in Great Britain by Bantam Press, a division of Transworld Publishers

Bantam Press edition published 1991

Corgi edition published 1992

10

Copyright © Iris Gower 1991

The right of Iris Gower to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Corgi Books are published by Transworld Publishers,

61–63 Uxbridge Road, London W5 5SA,

a division of The Random House Group Ltd,

in Australia by Random House Australia (Pty) Ltd,

20 Alfred Street, Milsons Point, Sydney, NSW 2061, Australia,

in New Zealand by Random House New Zealand Ltd,

18 Poland Road, Glenfield, Auckland 10, New Zealand

and in South Africa by Random House (Pty) Ltd,

Endulini, 5a Jubilee Road, Parktown 2193, South Africa.

For the two Joans

– in love and friendship

Contents

1

Hari Morgan sat near the fire grateful for its warmth; lighting the fire had been a long struggle, the sticks were damp and refused to catch, but at last the coals had blazed into life. Her arms ached, her fingers were blistered from the hard leather she had been working all day, her back ached from bending over the wooden last and the only thing she wanted was to fall asleep.

But from the bedroom above her the insistent hammering of a walking-stick against the boards was beating like a recurring pain in her head.

Hari sighed heavily and forcing herself to rise from the sagging armchair, stared out through the uncurtained window to where the shimmering gas lamp threw its pale light on the cobbled street.

World’s End, that was what the locals called the small area beyond Wassail Square, a place of tall, decaying buildings, the slum area of Swansea according to the toffs. But Hari needed those toffs, they were her best customers. The richly dressed leather lords and the affluent copper barons in their fine houses on the open land above the town, it was they who paid her wages.

They all had a way of keeping her in her place, did her customers, only today Hari had been to Summer Lodge, the gracious house of the Grenfell family, perhaps the most influential family in Swansea.

In her basket, Hari had carried a pair of ladies’ fine riding boots, neatly soled and heeled and the leather lovingly polished.

Summer Lodge was a large, airy building facing the fresh breezes from the bay, and as Hari walked up the gracious sweeping drive, she heard the clatter of horses’ hooves behind her. She glanced round to see Emily Grenfell ride past her without a glance.

The kitchen of Summer Lodge was the only part of the house Hari ever managed to see, it was huge and always smelled of succulent food. To Hari it underlined the difference in her own life and that of the rich Emily Grenfell.

But Hari had her pride, she earned her own living and though she did not bring in a fortune, she at least made enough to pay the rent and to keep herself and her mother in relative comfort. Though, worryingly, the work had been slow coming in of late.

The banging became more insistent. ‘Angharad, what are you doing down there, have you gone deaf?’

Her mother never used the diminutive form of her name, but then Win Morgan was of the strong-minded Welsh stock that believed the old ways should be preserved for they had stood generations of her family in good stead. It was the sins of the present generation which would bring about the downfall of mankind, didn’t the good book warn of such happenings?

As Hari entered the room, her mother looked up from her pillows. ‘About time you brought me my medicine,
merchi
, I’m just about faint from the coughing that pains at my poor old lungs, mind.’

Hari resisted a smile, she was well aware that the gin in the glass did little to prevent the coughing that racked her mother’s thin frame. But it did put mam in a better frame of mind and Hari obediently poured a good measure of the sweet scented liquid into the mug on the table.

‘Angharad! You could at least get me a fresh mug,
duw
, the young people of today have no sense, mind.’ Win Morgan warmed to her subject. ‘In my young days we were expected to know how to raise a family by the time we were your age.’

‘Yes, mam, you’ve told me all that many times before.’ Hari sighed impatiently and her mother gave her a dark look.

‘It’s all right for you, my girl, you’re young and strong, you can still get about, I’m stuck in my bed most of the time, remember.’

Hari tried to conceal her weariness. ‘Can I get you something to eat, mam, a bit of egg custard tart or perhaps a little slice of bread and a bit of
cawse
?’

‘No, not cheese again, Angharad, I’m not a mouse, can’t you make me a bit of
cawl
, a nice hot bowl of soup would go down lovely now.’

Hari nodded wearily, there was a bit of mutton left from yesterday and if she cut the swede and carrots small enough it would not take long to cook her mother’s supper.

Come to think of it she could do with something substantial herself, she’d given mam the last of the meat pie for dinner while she had made do with a slice of bread and honey.

She looked down at her figure, she was very thin, her small frame covered with a leather apron was almost boyishly slender, but since the death of her father Hari had worked harder than she had ever worked in her life.

Left to look after her mother, Hari had been determined to continue the trade of shoemaking that dad had taught her so painstakingly throughout the happy days of her childhood.

But now she was no longer a child, she was a woman of seventeen years and proud of the living, however poor, she carved out for herself in long hours and hard graft.

‘Well, go on then, girl, don’t stand there day dreaming,
duw
,’ Win Morgan appealed to no-one in particular, her eyes raised heavenward. ‘Did you ever see such a one as my daughter for gazing into thin air as if a thousand ghosts stood in her way.’

Hari moved down the rickety staircase, her feet tapping against the bare wood. It was very dark, the stock of candles was running low, she really must get out tomorrow and do a bit of shopping and yet could she spare the money?

She quickly cut up the few vegetables that were left in the basket in the larder and, after washing them in the cold darkness of the pump in the yard, threw them into the pot with the rest of yesterday’s mutton.

The smell rose invitingly as the onions turned soft and simmered gently in the salted water.

What did her mother always say? A soup boiled was a soup spoiled. And it was true enough. ‘But my stomach thinks my throat is cut, I’m that hungry.’ Her voice fell into the silence of the kitchen and Hari felt suddenly so vulnerable. She sank into the old leather armchair that still bore the faint scent of her father’s tobacco and tears shimmered on her lashes.

The light of the candles in the worn china holders flickered before her blurred vision like so many ghosts.

‘Dad, why did you have to die?’ It was a question she had asked many times but only in the silence of her own mind, it was a subject that her mother would not discuss, not after her angry outburst on the day of the funeral, her last foray from the sanctuary of her house.

She had loudly and bitterly blamed
Dewi
Morgan for leaving his sick wife alone in the world. As she had leaned heavily on Hari’s arm, staring down into the black earth of her husband’s grave, there had been the pain and grief but no tears.