Regency Sins: Pickpocket Countess / Notorious Rake, Innocent Lady

Even the austerity of her bedroom mirrored the colourless winter. The room was ascetic and clean, fitted only with the most rudimentary of furnishings: an iron bedstead, washstand and wardrobe. By necessity, her lifestyle required an existence as bland and colourless as the landscape outside. The Cat’s successes depended on remaining aloof. She had to be able to pick up and leave at a moment’s notice. She couldn’t do that if she formed attachments.

Her personal road through life was a lonely one. By choice, she spent her life gathering what hope there was in the world and giving it to others. She saved no hope for herself.

That was the purpose of her trip into Manchester today; to give hope to others, a break from the tedium of their lives as they struggled to survive in a world gone grey. And because she couldn’t bear the thought of donning the façade of Eleanor Habersham and frittering away the day sitting in front of the Squire’s fire with knitting needles, watching young people play silly parlour games.

Nora rummaged through the wardrobe, nimble fingers finding the catch that revealed the hidden chamber in back. She drew out a heavy cloak she kept for just such occasions. The Cat was well received in the slums, but she still needed to be agile and alert in case of trouble. She could not afford to be numb or sluggish from the cold.

And it would be cold. That was a guarantee. She’d told Stockport not to bring his coach. It would attract too much attention and make people suspicious. The ride to Manchester would be a frozen one carried out on the moderately sheltered bench of her closed wagon, loaded with baskets and gifts for those who had nothing.

She dressed quickly and went down to the warm kitchen for a sweet roll and hot tea. She let Hattie fuss over her and wished them Happy Christmas. They’d have their own celebration tonight when she returned. Alfred, Hattie’s husband and, superficially, Eleanor’s man-of-all-work, had already gone out to hitch up the wagon and load its cargo. They both walked Nora out to the yard.

Alfred volunteered to come with her and Hattie urged her to stay home altogether after feeling the bite of the wind. But Nora would not, could not, be swayed from her mission. She seated herself on the bench of her plain wagon with its wooden sideboards and clucked to the horse.

Nearing the crossroads where Hyde and Stockport Roads met on the way into Manchester, Nora paused before the last corner to tie on her mask and to lower a heavy veil over her face. Checking her veils and mask one last time, Nora turned the corner, surprised to see Stockport already waiting there. He sat atop his big bay, garbed in mufflers that covered him up to his blue eyes and a greatcoat, his gloved hands resting negligently on the reins at the horse’s neck. He appeared to be at ease, feeling none of the nervousness that roiled around in Nora’s own stomach.

The nerves were due to the dangerous nature of this adventure. To ask her nemesis to accompany her on such a trip was more than bold. There would be little to stop him from taking advantage of their situation and forcing her to reveal her identity. All that stood between her and exposure was his gentleman’s creed. Her protection depended on it and in her intuition about his nature.

‘Good morning and Happy Christmas,’ Stockport called out, surprisingly cheery after the late evening. ‘I thought you said no carriages.’ He gestured to the closed wagon.

‘I needed a way to carry my supplies and keep them protected from the weather.’

‘Well, then, at least let me drive. I doubt you can see well at all through that veiling.’ Stockport dismounted and tied his horse behind the wagon, oblivious to her protests. Within minutes, he’d secured the horse and climbed up beside her on the wagon seat.

Nora had not counted on such close proximity. She’d thought he would ride silently alongside the wagon. Even then, the bench had looked like it would hold two, but that was proving to be an illusion. Stockport was a large man, a fact amply demonstrated by the space he took up next to her. His thigh rubbed against her leg and his arm brushed her sleeve, conjuring up hot images of the way he’d held her on the dance floor. She could not create another inch between them. But she could make a buffer.

Nora fussed with the lap robes, tucking one around her legs and offering the other to Stockport. He ruined that plan too.

‘We’ll be warmer if we share them.’ To demonstrate, he took the lap robe she offered and shook it out. ‘There, it’s plenty large enough to cover us both. Layer yours over the top and we’ll each have two robes to warm us instead of one.’

What could she say? It was too cold to deny his good sense, so she found herself neatly tucked under the robes, bouncing along the Manchester road next to Stockport, his muscled thigh pressed against hers. The intimate contact didn’t seem to bother him in the least, but Nora couldn’t help wondering if she’d gone completely mad to put herself into the hands of the one man who could stand in her way. As long as she remembered the old adage ‘keep your friends close and your enemies closer’ she’d be fine. It was only when she started thinking of him as an ally, like she had last night on the dance floor, that she got herself in trouble.

The trip to Manchester was accomplished in short order and without mishap. The Hyde and Stockport Roads entered the city through the elegant suburb of Ardwick. A few people hurried along the cold residential streets paying Christmas visits to neighbours, but for the most part families were tucked up in their homes.

She had counted on that. It was the reason she’d opted to come into town on Christmas Day instead of a few days before when the streets would have been filled with last-minute shoppers. But today, in spite of Nora’s precautions, no one was interested in the plain wagon and the barely visible veiled woman who sat beside the driver.

Peering into windows as they passed, Nora could see people in the midst of their celebrations, faces wreathed in smiles and dressed in fine clothes. The occasional smell of roasted goose and winter treats wafted out to the wagon. There would be none of that where she was going.

The bustling streets of Manchester were deserted. The business centre of town was locked up tight and the factories for which Manchester was becoming famous were shut down for the day. The city looked almost ghostly in its desertion, as if she and Stockport were the only two people in it.

Nora pointed out directions to Stockport and he steered the wagon away from the wide avenues of the merchant homes into the narrow, broken-cobbled streets of the poor. The smells were not so pleasant here, nor were the sounds. The cries of hungry babies reached the streets, mingled with the shouts of angry men who lashed out any way they could against life’s injustices. It could have been just another day of the week for this part of town.

She stole a glance at Stockport to see how he was taking their surroundings. His firm jaw was set tightly, causing a tic to jump in his cheek. His eyes peered straight ahead and there was a rigidity to his posture that suggested he was on full alert. As well he should be in these parts, Nora thought.

To his credit, he’d had the foresight to dress in nondescript clothing. His dark riding breeches and greatcoat did nothing to deliberately attract attention, but there was no mistaking the expense of his boots and the care they’d been given.

In a world where greatcoats were a sign of status, often handed down father to son for generations before they finally wore out beyond repair, there was no hiding the fact that the man with her was a gentleman of the highest calibre.

Their first stop was the Hulme neighborhood, once a peaceful area of town, now destroyed by the influx of industry. Bordered on three sides by the Medlock, Irwell and Corn-brook Rivers, Hulme had become a prime location for factories dependent on water for operation. All placidness was gone, giving way to pathetic slums and dense overpopulation.

‘Park the wagon over there.’ Nora gestured to a spot next to an entrance to a tenement. ‘Wait here with the wagon while I go in and let them know we’re here.’

Stockport looked sceptically at the building. ‘Are you sure you’ll be safe alone?’

‘Absolutely. These are The Cat’s people.’ There were those who didn’t like The Cat, but they were outnumbered by those who did. It was an unspoken law of the tenements that any attempt to expose The Cat would be met with ruthless retribution.

‘Ah, the queen and her loyal subjects,’ Stockport remarked as if he’d found a chink in The Cat’s democratic armour. She knew what he thought. He thought this was an egoboost, a thrill of power, that The Cat did this as self-promotion. He couldn’t be more wrong.

‘Oh, I don’t rule them in any way, but I provide for them as best as possible, which is more than I can say for the other monarchs in their lives; their landlords care only for rent, their bosses care only for labour and the King himself cares naught at all about these subjects.’ Nora’s tone was bitter. ‘These people have their own code of loyalty. Don’t forget that today. You will have safe passage because you’re with me and no other reason.’

‘Is that a threat?’ Stockport raised an elegant eyebrow.

‘It’s a reminder. You’re in The Cat’s territory now,’ Nora said sharply and jumped down from the bench. ‘I’ll be right back.’

When all was ready, Nora returned to the wagon with a boy to watch the horses and another boy to help carry baskets. She was almost certain Stockport looked glad to see her. It served him right to be at least a little bit uncomfortable in his surroundings. However, she wasn’t about to mistake uncomfortable with vulnerable. The set of his shoulders indicated he was fully prepared to defend himself if the need arose.

To his credit, Stockport swung off the bench and joined in, loading himself down with the heavier baskets. Well, she’d see how much he was truly willing to participate once they got inside.

Nora led the little group to the first floor and stopped in the dingy hallway. She gave orders regarding the delivery of the baskets and sent them off. She motioned for Stockport to follow her.

They went from door to door, delivering packages from the baskets, sometimes food, sometimes a tiny pouch of coins, sometimes oranges and wooden toys for children. At each stop the cry was the same, ‘God bless The Cat’, or a similar variation of the phrase.

It tore at Nora’s heart. There was so much need and her baskets were empty far too quickly. It was tempting to bring in the other baskets, safely covered up in the wagon, but then there would be nothing left for the other neighbourhoods she must visit.

They didn’t stop at every door and Nora wondered if Stockport would notice the doors without the discreet marker that indicated The Cat was welcome.

Not everyone was receptive to her aid and reciprocally, not everyone was deserving of her efforts. Nora had decided ages ago that there were some who her efforts could not help—drunks and ne’er-do-wells who didn’t lift a finger to help their families or change their lots in life.

Climbing back up on the wagon, amid cries of gratitude and wishes for a Happy Christmas, Nora gave directions and they drove on to repeat the process. The day passed rapidly as they moved from slum to slum, stopping in Chorlton-on-Medlock, and Beswick, the neighborhoods all looking the same with their uniformly terraced workers’ houses.

The last visit was Anacoats, the poorest section of all, where she stopped at Widow Mary Malone’s.

Nora knocked on the door. Excited voices of children whooped and shouted on the other side, followed by a light scolding for manners and a fit of coughing. Her heart sank. Desperation seized Nora and she gathered her strength for what lay beyond the door. If she didn’t think of some way to help the widow recover, the children would be orphans by spring.

‘What is it?’ Stockport asked quietly, coming up beside her, so near she could feel the heat of his body next to her.

‘It doesn’t sound like Mary Malone has got better. She took sick in November and that cough has been lingering.’

‘Has she seen a doctor?’

Nora shot him an incredulous look. ‘If they had that much money, she probably wouldn’t need one in the first place.’ She pushed open the door and entered, leaving Stockport to follow in her wake. No matter what lay ahead, the kids deserved the best Christmas she could manage for them. Originally, she’d felt very good about the entire basket she’d put aside for the Malones. But now, Nora felt like the basket was inadequate. She should have done more.

The moment she entered, children ran to her, dancing around her skirts and begging to be picked up. She picked up the smallest, a blonde-haired girl of three with huge brown eyes that gave her an irresistible doll-like appearance. ‘Anna, have you been a good girl?’

The little girl nodded solemnly, sucking on a dirty thumb. She pointed at Stockport. ‘Who’s dat man?’

‘He’s my special helper today,’ Nora said, setting her basket down on the one table in the room. The two older boys looked at the basket in anticipation and Nora gathered them to her. ‘I’ve brought treats for a Christmas dinner. I’ll need your help getting everything ready. I might even have a few presents.’

She assigned the boys their tasks, set aside her figure-disguising voluminous cloak and veiling and rolled up the sleeves of her dark blouse. She looked around the room for Stockport, amazed to find him deep in conversation with Mary Malone. He’d discarded his greatcoat and had rolled his own shirtsleeves up. He nodded at something Mary said and leaned over to tuck a thin blanket about her knees.