baskets for so many others,’ Mary said when they were seated near the fire.
‘I’ve done very little.’
‘Everyone will be grateful.’ Mary coughed into a worn handkerchief.
‘How are you, Mary?’ Nora asked cautiously.
‘It is taking me a long time to get over this,’ Mary confessed.
‘Should I send a doctor?’ Nora didn’t know how she’d manage that. She had spent all the money from her robberies on the baskets and rent was due on The Grange. Even if she could find the money, she didn’t know how she’d find a doctor who would be willing to come to such a neighbourhood.
‘This is nothing sunlight and country air can’t cure.’ Mary waved a dismissive hand that looked skeletally thin in the firelight.
Along with hot food, clean living conditions and freedom from worry over an insecure future, Nora mentally added. Out loud she said, ‘I’ll send more food over later this week. The soup and bread should last a few days.’
‘I wish I could say we won’t take your charity, but I have nowhere else to turn and I am grateful,’ Mary said sadly. Mary nodded to Stockport as he sat jiggling Anna on his knee and telling the children a story. ‘Is this man your beau? Does he know who you are? He’s lovely to look at and there’s something in the air between the two of you.’ The thought of love added a soft spark to Mary’s eyes.
Nora shook her head. ‘He’s not my beau. I thought there might be something in it for us if he came today.’ She was saved from saying more when Stockport’s story came to an end and the boys clamoured for presents.
Nora rose and clapped her hands for attention. ‘Gather round over here and Brandon will bring the basket. There might be some presents in there.’ Brandon. The boys had called him by his Christian name and it slipped as easily off her tongue as it had theirs. Perhaps her daydream wasn’t as tightly locked away as she thought. Most likely, it was due to the shirtsleeves’ intimacy of the afternoon.
Brandon placed the basket in front of her and Nora distributed the gifts. There were oranges for the children along with a wooden toy for each of them. For Mary there was a small leather pouch that jingled with coins. Her eyes glistened with tears.
Too soon it was time to leave, but Nora had one more stop to make. Bravely, she hugged the children and made promises to Mary to send more food, wondering all the while how she’d manage it.
Chapter Seven
Stockport watched The Cat make her farewells, the children clinging to her and to him. Anna had him about the legs. He’d had a surprisingly good time with the children. He’d been moved by their delight over the simple fare and gifts. But those had been smaller revelations compared to what he’d learned about The Cat.
His sharp-tongued thief was the very soul of compassion, reaching out with all she had at her disposal. He felt something of a cad to have so verbally doubted her motives. Guilt gnawed at him. He couldn’t help but compare the extravagant and wasteful largesse of the Squire’s ball to the simple surroundings he found himself in today.
The Cat, a common thief, had provided for these people. What had he provided? He had far more at his command and what had he done?
The Cat intrigued him more than ever. He wanted to know who she was. The secret of her identity was creating a feverish mystery he was desperate to solve. But he was no closer to that answer than he’d been last night. She hadn’t trusted him enough to remove her mask all day, although the veiling had come off briefly at Mary Malone’s. As well she might, his conscience reminded him sharply. What would you do if you knew who she was?
It was a valid question, one for which Brandon did not have a ready answer. He should place her under arrest. That had been his plan less than twenty-four hours ago at the Christmas ball. Had his plan succeeded last night, these people would have been denied the happiness she brought today. He thought of the Malone boys delighting in the simple wood toys and Mary Malone’s gratitude for the hot meal. In one fell stroke, he would have taken all that away from them.
It was a sober reckoning to grapple with. When had the villain become the hero? Somewhere between playing swords with the boys and watching The Cat stir Christmas soup over a fire, his priorities had begun to shift. He was no longer as interested in exposing The Cat as he was in protecting her.
Brandon turned to the remarkable woman beside him when Mary Malone’s door finally closed behind them. ‘You’ve given them something special today; something to take into the morning.’ To his disappointment, her veils were back in place.
‘We’ve given them a moment. That is as far as our meagre influence can reach.’ The self-deprecation in her voice stunned Brandon. She believed her efforts were minimal at best.
He offered reassurance. ‘Yet you went and offered that moment anyway. It is more than most people would have done.’
She said nothing and Brandon let the conversation die. Outside, enough rays of daylight were left to see them out of the tenements and back to the wide avenues of affluent Manchester, but the trip home would be conducted in the dark. Not that Brandon was worried. On Christmas night the short road between Manchester and Stockport-on-the-Medlock would be devoid of highwaymen.
They didn’t speak until they reached the wagon and paid the boys who had gathered in shifts to watch the horse. Brandon spoke first in a low, tight voice. ‘Why did you bring me today?’
‘You want to build a mill in bucolic little Stockport-on-the-Medlock. Are you prepared for all this as well?’ The Cat made a sweeping gesture to indicate the slums they drove through. ‘You see how fleeting my efforts are. Mary has her older children and they can barely scrape together enough to pay the rent and buy food.’
Brandon felt duly chastised. He knew children worked in factories. Many mill owners had no scruples when it came to labour. He’d read the reports that came across his desk. Children could be paid less. Before today, he’d never come to face to face with the reality behind the papers. He had seen much of the world, but not that world.
‘The mill in Stockport-on-the-Medlock won’t employ children,’ Brandon blurted out.
The Cat cocked her head in his direction. ‘We’ll see how long those noble principles last when your investors learn of the profit they could pocket if they were to use child labour. Adults must be paid ten times more than a child’s salary.’
He expected the news to please her. He’d intended his statement to be an olive branch of sorts to The Cat, something that bridged the differences between them. He’d wanted to prove they weren’t as dissimilar as she thought.
His temper rose. ‘Nothing is ever enough with you, is it?’
‘That’s because there is never enough of anything!’ she snapped in quick reply. ‘There isn’t enough money for Christmas baskets for everyone who needs them. There isn’t enough money to send a doctor to Mary Malone. There isn’t enough compassion in the world to help those who really need it. There are five-hundred-and-sixty cotton mills in the Lancashire area. One factory not employing children isn’t enough to change anything.’
‘It’s a start,’ Brandon barked, rising to the fight.
She
