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 huffed, ‘And in the meanwhile?’
‘It’s the best I can do.’ Brandon muttered something inaudible and turned on to the wide streets of the affluent neighbourhoods. The Cat had elected to return that way, knowing the streets would be empty and everyone still at home.
He changed the topic, hoping for better. Didn’t the woman understand he was only one man? ‘You said last night that you intended to take my measure today. Did I measure up?’
The Cat was silent, seeming to weigh her answer. ‘I will say that, for the most part, you did not disappoint.’
‘Where was I lacking?’ His chagrin was petty, but he thought he’d done very well considering the circumstances.
‘You did very well for one day. What will you do for the next three hundred and sixty-four?’ she answered coolly.
The last vestiges of Brandon’s restraint vanished in the face of her charge. ‘We can’t all be like you and burglarise homes for our livelihoods.’
They were cruel words and he regretted them instantly. He spoke them in anger but it wasn’t anger, directed at The Cat alone. Her words shamed him. It was difficult to admit to one’s hypocrisy. The Cat risked her very life for those less fortunate. Certainly, he advocated worker’s legislation in Parliament, but compared to The Cat, he did painfully little in his daily life to act as a true champion of the cause. That was about to change.
Brandon yanked on the reins and pulled the wagon over to the side of the deserted street. The sounds of music and singing filtered out of the houses in fits and starts.
‘Wait here.’ Brandon leaped down from the wagon, the flaps of his greatcoat flying behind him. He strode up to the largest house on the street and knocked.
Fifteen minutes later, Brandon returned and settled on the wagon bench, clucking to the horse. When he spoke, his tone was gruff. ‘Are you happy now? That man owns a number of shops in town. I have asked him to send ready-made clothes and shoes along with foodstuffs to your families. They will be set until spring.’
The Cat said nothing.
Brandon let silence grow between them as he mulled over his recent action. When he’d leapt down from the wagon and arranged for supplies, he’d only thought he was acting of his own volition. It was clear to him now that it was the reaction The Cat had been angling for with the request that he visit Manchester, the very outcome she had been seeking when she changed the nature of redeeming his ring. He had never met a more manipulating minx.
Brandon chuckled softly into the darkness, his breath hanging in the frosty air. ‘That’s why you wanted me along today,’ he said, referring to the purchased supplies. ‘It’s quite a gamble you took, wagering a guaranteed three hundred pounds against my merit.’
The poor of Manchester were blessed with a resolute benefactor whether they knew it or not. What a comfort it must be to be cared for with such dedication. For a moment, Brandon gave in to the fantasy building in his mind—one where the resourceful Cat turned her devotion on him.
Brandon cast a cautious sidelong glance at the woman who sat next to him, staring straight ahead into the gloom, her posture rigid, her features hidden by the dark and her veils. What was she celebrating—her triumph or was she simply satisfied in knowing she’d helped the ones she cared about?
‘Why do you do it? Sooner or later, it will end badly. You can’t walk this road for ever,’ he asked softly when it was clear she wasn’t going to remark on his action.
‘As long as it’s later rather than sooner, I won’t mind. I’ll have my satisfaction.’
‘Or you could