Bah. Catchpole couldn’t be more wrong. It was God who’d shownhimgrace! Guilt stuck thick in Jackson’s craw. All this time he’d been wishing away the very man who needed to see God’s love…and it was by God’s restraint alone he’d kept his frustration in check and shown it to him. Jackson gripped the side of the carriage—hard—shame tugging at his heart. “I fear you credit me far too much, my friend.”
“Oh, I realize it was small enough, your acceptance of the crushed bag of sweets, the fish on your desk, the many times I stopped you in the street and you gave me the time of day. But it is in the little things Christ’s love is shown most. And that was all I needed. Just a glimmer, a faint flicker, of love.”
They rode in silence then, mist curling on the night air the closer they drew to the canal. Catchpole had given him much to think on, and he would, but for now there was still an unanswered question dangling between them.
Jackson faced him. “I yet find it hard to understand the need for the disguise. Are you hiding from your brother?”
“No. From notoriety.” Hesitant at first, then with a quicker working of his fingers, Catchpole pulled off the mask.
Jackson’s jaw dropped. He knew the face. He knew the Roman nose and the thick brows unified into a single line. Why, this man was the mirror image of one of the most powerful men in Parliament. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were the Viscount Eldridge Suthmeer. But…you cannot be him. It is not possible.”
Catchpole smiled widely as he once again lifted the mask and laced it behind his head. “Eldridge is my twin, born mere minutes ahead of me. I am Ezra Suthmeer.”
Jackson sucked in a breath. A thunderbolt couldn’t have struck any harder. “So that is your connection to Parliament.”
“It is. And had you not encouraged me to seek reconciliation with him, I doubt we’d yet have said a single word to each other. I wonder if you know, Inspector, just how much a few words spoken in love can impact a man?”
He worked his jaw, once again feeling the nip of shame. In truth, his words had been spoken more in exasperation than in love, but—wonder of wonders—God had apparently seen fit to use them. He smiled at the man as the carriage rolled to a stop. “I am happy to have played a small role in your journey towards resolution with your brother. Thank you for trusting me with your story. I vow it will go no further than my ears.”
“I have no doubt on the matter, and I thank you for the ride.” He reached for the door latch.
“Mr. Catchpole—” The name felt strange on his tongue now that he knew the man was a mighty Suthmeer. “I hate to ask and yet there is a need. I wonder with your connections if you could do me a favour?”
“Oh!” He clasped his hands to his chest. “It would be my greatest delight!”
“I was supposed to meet with a Mr. Child tonight. I wonder if you know him?”
Catchpole dropped his hands, the corners of his mouth turning downwards as well. “Odious man.”
For a moment, Jackson sat dumbfounded. Perhaps God had been working all things towards this moment, for here was a man with the contacts he desperately needed. “Could you help me find him? I should urgently like to speak with him.”
“Ahh, that is why all this.” Catchpole circled his fingers to include Jackson, the barouche, and even the hulking Shivaji up on the driver’s seat. “But of course. I shall see what I can manage and get word to you at the station on Monday morning. Does that suit?”
Jackson gave him a sharp nod. “It does.”
“Excellent. Then good night.” Catchpole hopped to the ground and shut the coach door, then took several paces before doubling back. Behind the mask his eyes were troubled. “But a word of warning, my dearest friend. Of all the wickedness I’ve seen in both rich and poor, there is a blackness about Mr. Child which tops it all. Be careful in your dealings. Beverycareful indeed.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Kit always knew she was different, a fact she’d spit shined and worn like a badge of honour. But this Monday morning, pushing Bella in the pram amidst other mothers haggling at the Leadenhall Market, she wasn’t so sure she wanted to wear that badge anymore. Not that she’d throw it away entirely, for to do so would erase who she was at the core, but maybe—perhaps—she didn’t always have to be such a stark anomaly.
Rising to her toes, she shaded her eyes and searched for Martha. Bonnets were everywhere. Women clutching the hands of little ones. Wives bartering for the best price on melons, cheeses, bread. Good homemakers, all. She’d wager five pounds not a one of them had been out on a street corner last night with a knife in her hand looking for trouble. No, each and every one of these skirts was dutifully living out her womanly roles…and a small part of Kit wondered if she ought to be doing the same.
She gripped the pram handle tight and veered around a pickle barrel. Could she truly be happy shoehorned into a life of nothing but dishes and laundry? Surely there must be some way to find a balance that wouldn’t forsake her individuality.
Wasn’t there?
She spied Martha chatting with an apple vendor, a pleasant little laugh trilling from her lips as she handed over some coins and placed the fruit into the basket on her arm. Her friend was a shining example of what society expected from a female, and—surprisingly—a pang of jealousy stabbed Kit in the belly.
Annoyed with herself, she pasted on a smile and rolled the pram alongside Martha. “So, when were you planning on telling me?”
“Tell ye?” Her friend wrinkled her nose. “Since when do ye care a fig about a change in menu? Hungry bellies don’t mind if ’tis apples or pears what’s in the sweet bread.” She leaned over the pram and tickled Bella. “And how is me girl today, eh sweetums?”
“Ba-ba!” Bella hooted, feet kicking, arms flailing.
Kit arched a brow at Martha. “You’re right, I don’t care about what you serve, but I am more than vexed I heard of your upcoming nuptials from Mr. Baggett instead of from you.”
Martha straightened, fire in her cheeks. “Ahh. That. Ye’ve got to admit ye’ve been flittin’ in and out so fast I scarce get a word wedged betwixt us.”
