Free The Murder of Mary Russell by Laurie R. King Page B

But she needs a proper upbringing, if…if she’s not going to go wrong,” she added slyly. “She needs a family.”
    “She has a family.”
    “We’re never here. There’s no one to make her do her schoolwork or come inside at dark. She’s going to get into trouble, Papa.”
    Neither of them so much as noted in passing that it was the child who was leading this conversation.
    “You want to quit?” Hudson asked.
    It did not need the dangerous edge to his voice to make Clarissa see the bad in that idea. Without her, Papa’s attempts at crime would lead first to the bottle, then to the police, and finally a return to rooms with peeling wallpaper and the stench of urine and cabbages. She shuddered, and brought out the idea that she had been aware of for weeks now: an idea both appealing and repugnant. “I’m sorry, Papa, but unless you want to get a regular job, I think we’ll have to find a family that Allie can live with. Just until we get more settled.”
    She hoped her father would object harder than he did. She knew that she was being selfish, wanting him all to herself. But he did not. In the end, it was Alicia who cried and sulked and dragged her toes—up to the moment when the spinster teacher in need of income opened the door of her guest bedroom, and little Alicia’s jaw dropped. Her eyes travelled across the frills on the bed, the crisp curtains on the window, the little painted bookshelf in the corner. There was even a brand-new dolly with a porcelain head and fluffy skirt, propped against the pillow.
    After that, it was Clarissa who had the tears in her eyes, leaving her sister with Miss Constable. And even when she and Pa did move, to a proper flat with a kitchen and housekeeper (of sorts) to keep it running, Alicia only came for the occasional visit.
    The following year, they had to buy a series of new frocks as the old ones became too short and too snug. Clarissa no longer looked like a child playing dress-up, when she wore bustled skirts. Once or twice that autumn, she caught an odd, thoughtful sort of look on her father’s face. Not until the closing weeks of 1871 did she understand.
    Clarissa Hudson was fifteen and a half years old. It took some work now for her to look like a child, but no effort at all to dress her as a young woman. They were in Ballarat, working their way through the booming mine towns, posing as the widowed owner of a large emporium looking to expand business into the hinterland. It was not entirely appropriate to take his shy young daughter into the meetings he held in restaurants and saloons, but his widowhood was recent, and surely it was all quite innocent…
    A survey of the railway maps had given them their plan. Three towns: Echuca, Bendigo, Ballarat. Find a Mark, soften him up, lighten his wallet, slip away.
    The first two went fine, the takings nice and rich. But Ballarat was a problem. For one thing, the town was in the midst of a slump, having over-extended in the madness of gold lying free on the ground. As a result, the people weren’t…happy. Not one expansive face in the lot.
    “I think we should go home,” Clarissa said to her father that night. “It would be a nice surprise for Allie.”
    “She’s not expecting us until Christmas,” Hudson said. “We can spend a few more days.”
    “Pa, I don’t like it here.”
    His face took on that hated expression of wheedling he got when he was either keeping something from her, or trying to convince her to do something she didn’t want to. “The place is one step up from the Bush, yes, but the men here have money.”
    “I know that, Pa, but—”
    “You losing your nerve, girl? Want to trade places with Allie for a while?”
    “Of course not, Pa. It’s just, I don’t like it here.”
    “Oh, for Christ sake, Clarrie,” he snapped. “I hope you’re not going to get all dithery on me. There’s gold here. We’ll leave when we have our share.”
    The next day, coax her as he might, Clarissa would not