Mr Morton's Shoes by Valerie Fletcher Adolph
Mr. Morton needed a new pair of shoes. I had known it for weeks and I’d mentioned it several times. Mr. Morton, or just Morton as my husband called him, had responded each time with the obligatory “Yes, m’lady,” but nothing changed.
Perhaps I should have been firmer, but Morton had been the butler at Widdlesham Hall for almost half a century and I had been Lord Widdlesham’s wife for only half of that. My position was even weaker because I had not produced an heir in that time. Myself, I just wished I’d had my own baby, my own child.
However, I forgot it the evening Morton, his back straight, his highly polished shoes flapping, tripped over the edge of the dining room carpet and flung my husband’s best port widely across the tablecloth and over Lady Arabella Pembroke’s blue silk gown.
My husband fussed over Lady Arabella's décolleté which surely did not need so much dabbing and wiping when the port stains were down along the hem. A couple of footmen stood immobile against the wall while the maid, Maggie, ran in to pick up shards of glass.
“I blame that new Queen Victoria.” boomed my husband, his voice resonant with this perceptive announcement. “Nothing good will come of having a young girl on the throne. Thrones are for kings.”
I won't bore you with the details of the rest of that evening. I managed to persuade my husband to forgive Morton for tripping over the edge of the carpet. Still, I was left with the issue of persuading Morton to buy new shoes.
You might wonder why our butler’s shoes were my concern. It’s partly because our housekeeper seems not to care about the welfare of any of the staff so it’s up to me to be responsible for them. I come from a much smaller household than this – we only had a cook, a maid and a gardener. My mother, who came from an even smaller household, looked after them like family. Somehow, I picked up the habit.
It started with my own personal maid, Dora. A kinder girl you couldn’t meet. Time after time she explained the customs of this grand hall, or covered up my mistakes so I evolved into Lady Helen, rather than just plain Helen, without embarrassing myself too often. I came to depend on her, assuming she’d be looking after me forever.
But about twenty years ago she left quite suddenly, saying her mother was ill and needed care. I was devastated when I lost her – she’d been more like a sister than a maid. I tried to keep track of her but my questions to other staff produced only blank looks. Still, I tred to be as kind to them as she had been to me. Mostly I looked after the maids, because they’re so overworked and the footmen are always trying to slide into their beds. Morton should keep them in order but he’s getting a bit doddery and he doesn’t notice.
However, Morton had been wearing shoes with loose soles for a week. The day after his tumble I called him into the morning room and told him firmly, “You must purchase new shoes. Today.”
I thought perhaps money was the difficulty so I laid two golden guineas on the table before him. I'm sure it was far too much but a little bribery never hurt.
His face paled.
“New shoes!” I repeated in my most commanding voice. “I insist you buy new shoes.”
I pushed the coins towards him, already regretting my generosity. He made no move to scoop them up, in fact he took a step back.
I sighed, annoyed because Mr. Morton, as butler, was supposed to take staff discipline off my hands. Now he was requiring a firm hand himself.
“What exactly is the problem? Why is buying new shoes so difficult?”
He shuffled his feet, glanced out of the window, then fixed his gaze on the portrait of the Tudor duke, fifth was it, or seventh? I gathered my wits.
“Do you need to take the carriage into town, to the shoemaker? If so, take it. You have my permission.”
A shake of the head.
“Do you know the shoemaker’s place of business? Do you need someone to show you?”
Another head shake.
“Are you at odds, is he angry at you? Has he vowed revenge for something?” I almost laughed as I said it. I was sure Mr. Morton was born with correctness ingrained. His youth and foolishness probably lasted all of five minutes.
He didn't even shake his head. I decided on a change of tactics.
“Mr. Morton, please sit down so that we can discuss this.”
Quickly I realized I had overdone it, shocked him on three levels, - Mr. Morton, please, and sit down.
I fingered my pearls and gave a little giggle. Sure signs of a weak woman.
His expression said he forgave me, but he did not sit down. It would have been improper.
Right. Time for the cavalry.
I rang the bell and a footman appeared, the good-looking tall one, Joe I think. The one I keep warning the maids about.
“I want the carriage brought around. Immediately.”
He glanced at Mr. Morton who gave a slight shrug.
“Mr. Morton, I am going to escort you into Magnum Parva today. We are going to buy new shoes.”
He turned pale. “But m’lady....”
“No buts. I am sure the carriage driver can find a shoemaker.”
“Cordwainer.” he said faintly.
“Excuse me?”
“The craftsman who makes shoes is a cordwainer. Those who merely repair them are cobblers.”
“And do you know the cordwainer?”
“His name is Protheroe. Just off High Street.”
The carriage driver, I forget his name, found the place and helped me to step down. Morton appeared to be glued to his seat.
“Come along, Morton.” I used the tone I find effective when I'm chivvying maids out of the still room where they like to gossip.
Slowly, with exaggerated care, he climbed down and followed me into a large workroom where an array of fine shoes was displayed. A craftsman was bent over near the window massaging two soft pieces of leather into the shape of a shoe. A young lad stood by his shoulder watching.
“Aye?” Mr. Protheroe did not look up, which I thought was rather cavalier treatment considering we were potential customers.
“Mr. Morton here needs a pair of shoes.”
“I can see that.”
He stood up. “Come over here to the light so I can see to take measurements.”
Morton moved over and stood as directed while Protheroe measured and made notes in silence. The young lad offered me a seat and I was glad to sit down; the room was oppressively warm and the smell of freshly tanned leather unpleasantly sharp. No wonder tanners live in the furthest part of town.
“Tha’ll be wanting this leather.”
Morton nodded. I had the impression he would have agreed to anything and I certainly knew no better. Was it the most expensive or the cheapest? Hard to say. I was about to ask when the door to the rest of the house opened and a young woman came in.
“I brought you….” Her voice faded away then, after a deep breath, she turned to Morton, “Good afternoon, father.”
Father? But he’s our butler for heaven’s sake! I tried to maintain my composure but my mind was running in tiny circles. Butlers don’t, but even butlers might…. Surely not, whenever could they?
To cover my confusion, I produced my coldest voice “An introduction would be in order, Morton.”
His voice flat, his eyes on the wall behind me, “Madam, allow me to present my daughter Helen.”
Helen? I almost gasped - that’s the same name as mine.
She gave a little curtsy, but she was anxiously watching Protheroe as he got to his feet holding the paper with Morton’s foot measurements.
I caught Morton’s attention. “Helen Morton or Helen Protheroe?”
Speaking through clenched teeth, “Protheroe, m’lady.”
Protheroe gave the measurements paper to the boy, who looked around as if he did not know what to do with it.
The cordwainer straightened up tall and immediately looked younger. He walked over and put his arm protectively around Helen’s shoulders. He looked older than her by a dozen years; she could be no more twenty, but there was no mistaking the closeness between them
“My wife.”
Morton inhaled deeply. I listened for the patter of children’s feet and little voices calling for mama. This would, of course, have been one of those, ‘Oops, we made a mistake and now we have to get married’ affairs. I began to understand why he had avoided them.
Helen took her husband’s hand and drew him forward. “I don’t know what my father has told you, but Mr. Protheroe and I were married in church after a proper courtship. He did nothing wrong and we are ashamed of nothing.”
Morton’s calm exploded. “He did nothing wrong? He stole you, stole my only child, all I had. He never asked my permission, he sneaked around, behind my back, took you away to this…this hovel.”
“This is no hovel.” Helen said. “This is a respectable workshop in a reputable business. My husband is a man of standing in this community. Ask anyone.”
“A cordwainer!” I wouldn’t have been surprised if Morton had spat in contempt. “I had imagined far better than that for you. I raised you to marry a gentleman, or at least a man of substance. But a cordwainer? How could you?”
“You raised me?” Helen’s voice was cold and held at least as much contempt as Morton’s. “You really think you raised me? I don’t remember seeing you until I was eight years old. And then maybe twice a year until my mother died. Then you farmed me out to old Mrs. Garner who had me feeding pigs and chickens instead of doing schoolwork.”
“You were always well dressed and well fed.”
“On the occasions of your visits, yes. The rest of the time I wore the clothes her daughter died in. I thought I was going to die in them too.”
“But I paid for you, all the years you were growing up. It took all the money I had.” He looked down at his shoes, worn out but immaculately polished.
“Don’t blame me for that,” Helen said. “You haven’t paid a penny since I’ve been married.”
For a moment they both paused, as if needing time to think up the next accusation. I decided to take advantage.
“Mr. Morton, who was Helen’s mother?” As the lady of the house, I have responsibility for all within it. And while this must have happened years ago and I might not have been as observant back then, still Morton had shown an unusual lack of discretion. I ought to have known about it.
“It was one of the maids.”
“Which one?” I tried to think back. We’ve had a few changes of maids; not many because they know I treat them well.
“I think her name was Doris or Dora.”
“You think! Don’t you even remember?” But the name had jolted my memory back to my own maid, Dora, who had been my mentor as I grew into being lady of the manor during those early days. Thoughtful Dora with soft brown eyes and thick dark hair that she bundled under her cap. I had been heartbroken when she left so suddenly saying her mother needed care. No, it couldn’t be that Dora, whose name he hardly remembered. Not my Dora.
“What was she like, this Doris or Dora?”
But I found myself staring at Helen’s soft brown eyes and the thick, dark hair that tumbled below her shoulders. I didn’t have to wait for his answer. I reached out to her and folded her into my embrace as if she were my own daughter.
