The Murder of Mary Russell (12 page)

Only when his hands discovered the old gold chain beneath her clothing and began to ease it from her dress did she stand, laughing a touch breathlessly, to check her hair in the glass above the mantelpiece.

She was really very lucky. She'd found a man she could not only bear, but even love, and at the ripe old age of twenty-two and a half. The two of them would make a formidable pair, although he might not realise it yet. With Clarissa Hudson at his side, all his lusts would be satisfied, all of his needs met. In the meantime, her father was off her conscience. Yes, Mr Bishop's loan was not about to go away, but she had some time to think about how best to pay him. He must be a reasonable fellow—and did Hugh have to know, really?

So: that was November.

For six weeks, apart from a niggling concern about her father, Clarissa clasped happiness to her as only an orphan who'd known hunger could do. For six weeks, as the winter drew in and wool gave way to furs, as Christmas carols rang in the streets and decorated trees began to appear in fashionable windows, Hugh Edmunds courted her, his hands making gentle, insistent inroads on her defences. He spent more time in her hotel, less in his club, and although his bank seemed to be making no recognition of the holiday (or the weather) in its demands on his time, she kept herself busy.

Christmas this year was a Wednesday, and his parsimonious bank had not given Hugh leave until the day before—ridiculous, he agreed, considering who he was, but he would go along with it this year. Therefore, he and Clarissa would take the train to his family home in Shropshire on the morning of the twenty-fourth, then return to London—parental blessings firmly in hand—on St Stephen's Day. She thought long and hard about her wardrobe for these three days: conservative but lovely; well-made but not costly-looking; of sufficient variety so as not to elicit disdain, but not so profligate as to appear a threat to their son's household accounts.

Early Sunday morning, December the twenty-second, when every piece of furniture in her rooms was covered by the lengths of silk and fine wool under consideration, the key sounded in the door and in came Hugh, wild-eyed and unshaven. He had never come to her rooms that early before—she was still in her morning dress! But her protests died away when she saw his state.

“Hugh, dearest, whatever is the matter?”

“It's—” He took a crumpled telegraph flimsy from his pocket, then shoved it back. “My mother.”

Clarissa opened her arms in pity, and the man, rendered a boy by the loss of a beloved mother, came to her with a sob. He dropped to his knees and pressed his face into the comfort of her embroidered taffeta. She was acutely aware of her lack of a corset, and the loose wrapper felt positively wanton in the situation—but it would be cruel to push him away, quite yet.

They remained there for what seemed a long, long time. Slowly, his body relaxed against hers; her hand caressed his hair. She was glad that she could provide him some comfort, and grateful (though she'd never have told him) that now she would not have to encounter the controlling old termagant in her sick-bed. She could also not stop her mind from speculating what this would mean for her and Hugh. The mourning period would be an irritation; on the other hand, Hugh's father would be far easier to swing to her side without a wife, and fortunately there were no other…

She became aware at this point that Hugh had been moving against her, a small burrowing sensation like an infant at its mother's shirt-front. At the same time, his arms had tightened around her, and seemed lower than they had begun. One hand was splayed, pressing against the folds of cloth that in a day dress would be the bustle. There was a fascination in the sensations, and nothing…indelicate. He and she were, after all, to be engaged. Were all but engaged.

When his other hand slipped up her body to her neck, tipping her mouth down to his, she did not resist. Not even when his gentle kisses became harder, when his breathing went rough and her own caught in her throat. Hugh needed her: needed
her,
Clarissa Hudson.

He stood, strong against her. One button parted. Another. His warm hand touched her skin, hesitantly, a request rather than a demand. And when his mouth teased at her nipple, she was lost.

The first time in bed was confusing, uncomfortable, awkward—and quick. Afterwards, he spoke of love, soothing her with hands and words, playing with the gold coin between her naked breasts. After a while, his caresses changed from comforting to urgent. This time it was easier, no longer distressing in body or mind. They slept, and the third time, as evening fell over the city, was slow, compelling, and deeply satisfying in all the ways she could imagine.

Their fourth time, as the windows began to grow light again, was initiated by Clarissa herself, reaching shyly for her lover in the rumpled sheets of the hotel bed.

When she woke to full daylight, he was gone.

Three days later, purring with contentment before the morning fire, she turned the page in the day's newspaper and his name leapt out at her: engaged, to the Hon Virginia Walthorpe-Vane, the eighteen-year-old only child of a wealthy manufacturer from Shropshire, over the Christmas holidays. His mother was among the four named parents. No mention was made of any recent bereavement.

A lie, all of it. Clarissa Hudson was alone and friendless, with a lot of bills, no partner for her Cheats, and any dignity and self-respect shredded by the clever hands of Hugh Edmunds.

In February, Clarissa surreptitiously moved out of the hotel, leaving her bill unpaid, and took a room in cheaper accommodations.

In March, she knew for certain that she was with child.

C
larissa spent precisely one hour weeping, before drawing around her shoulders the wrap of cold reason: when an upper-crust girl found herself in this situation, she could disappear for a tour of the Colonies and return once her figure had recovered, by which time her family would have arranged a quiet, brief courtship by some male who had not appealed to the marriage market. Or she could have the baby removed—but Clarissa had seen what happened to women who submitted to those butchers, and had no wish to end her days raving with the agony of a septic womb.

But if she was to have this child, how was she to live? It mattered not how many silk dresses a woman owned: in this unforgiving age of Victoria, ultimately the soup-kitchen and workhouse loomed. Her child would be taken, and Clarissa Hudson reduced to a grey drudge.

Which left…what? Turn to Hugh Edmunds for support? The bastardy laws would force his contribution, but she would have to crawl for it—and, prove it, never an easy task when it came to the well-defended upper classes. She could forge a character, but what honest employment could she find with that? Her mother had been a governess, but no family would employ a pregnant governess—and in any event, Clarissa could do little more than read and write, since the actual schooling had been left to Alicia. Her skills with sewing needles and saucepans were similarly basic, which left work in a factory, where she would spend every daylight hour spinning thread or making matches, giving her child's care over to the old witches who numbed their charges with a gruel of bread mashed with gin.

The coldly expected recourse for a woman in her position was prostitution. And yes, she possessed the wardrobe—and the demeanour—that would lift her above the poor diseased street-corner wretches. But she had met courtesans over the years, and had never failed to feel their self-loathing. The possibility of giving her body for profit had been the ghost at her shoulders since the day she'd donned a corset and put up her hair at the age of thirteen. Her father had (thank God) never countenanced anything beyond the flirtatious gesture. Indeed, he'd made it perfectly clear that using herself in that way would have caused him, and worse, her mother, to turn away in shame.

The idea of losing herself so thoroughly, of submitting to the hands and grunts of strangers, made Clarissa shudder with horror—although even with a belly that scarcely pushed at her skirts, she suspected that pride was a thing she could no longer afford.

Fortunately, she had other options, and easier skills. She needed only go back to her previous life, the life she had led before the Viscount Hugh Edmunds had made her his Mark.

The baby was due in September. If the child was to be born, and born healthy, Clarissa had to eat, and she had to be dry and warm. The thought of cursing her child with a criminal for a mother made her despair, but if she could not afford pride, still less could she afford scruples. The world cheated women like her, stacked the odds against them in so many ways. The only response was to Cheat in return.

By then she'd sold most of her jewels—those her father had not taken, back in September—and all of the furs. Dresses went next, to the second-hand dealers, although slipping out of the hotel bill had forced her to abandon the rest of her wardrobe. She kept a few good things, dresses that would not show much as she changed the bodices and let out the waistlines. Those few dresses, and a return to the basic skills the Cheat Teacher had given her fingers long ago, enabled her to raise the money for rent and food: an hour in Debenham and Freebody's, a few circuits through the Metropolitan Railway during crowded periods, and the contents of various pockets and bags were hers.

Spring refused to come, and the lingering winter was brutal. Palming goods from a shop was tough with gloves on. And some days, it took half an hour on the Metropolitan to warm her fingers enough for a dip. At times, she left with empty hands, when she'd felt the gaze of one of the more attentive guards. In the same way, she took care not to re-visit shops too often, as the guards got to know the customers—and their clothing. She rang all the possible changes on her appearance, adding lace or feathers to her hats, draping a shawl she'd lifted from a lady's shoulders, replacing the buttons: she could only move freely among her targets if she looked as if she belonged among them.

It was the gloves that made for a losing battle. One need only glance at a lady's hands to know her status, and keeping a soft kid surface clean, its stitches firm, and its knuckles snug were hard enough in good weather. Pawn shops sold gloves, although for not much less than the second-hand dealers. Only once did she manage to lift an unattended pair that came anywhere close to fitting.

It became harder and harder to make the rent for her ill-heated, ill-furnished room, even when the weather began to relent. For some reason, her hands became more clumsy as her belly expanded, and her self-assurance in slipping from one rôle to another became less reliable. Desperation proved no substitute for confidence, and a hesitant confidence-trickster was flirting with danger. Clarissa even missed her father. Without a partner, she felt very exposed.

Then in April, the baby moved for the first time. Clarissa was sitting on the Underground behind a tall man in a vicuña coat that would have set her up nicely for half a year. The car was crowded, and he had stood up so she could sit. She was rehearsing her move—make as if to rise, drop her bag, let him reach to the floor while sliding her hand into his coat—when suddenly, picking pockets was the last thing on her mind. The man heard her gasp and turned, his face—a nice face, a friendly broad face—going first questioning then, when he saw her hand resting on her belly, concerned.

“Are you quite well, Madam?” he asked.

“Yes, I—” She caught herself before she blurted out some intimate detail. “Quite well, thank you. Pardon me, this seems to be my stop.”

It was not, but he had seen her, would remember her face.

Besides which, she needed to be alone, to consider things a bit more closely.

A baby. A real, living, kicking baby.

She could not go on like this. She was good at what she did, and scruples or no, she had to feed this kicking thing inside her. However, she needed a partner, someone to help work her Cheats, someone with even fewer hesitations than she had.

And as it happened, she knew where to find one.