Free Charity Begins at Home by Alicia Rasley

nails and lend the tools and even help out with the building, if she promised him one of their new retriever pups.
    The Ferris girls were still scrubbing the west wall, one kneeling, one standing, one on tiptoe, all glancing over their shoulders at her. When she finally said, "Hullo, Polly. Molly, Dolly," they halted in their labors and turned eagerly to her.
    "So," the eldest and boldest inquired with bright interest, propping her mop against the door, "do we get to do our kissing or no?"
    "Polly, do you think me a miracle worker? I couldn't even get the words out before he thundered that he would never allow it. Your mother was quite in agreement, to judge by her expression."
    Dolly, the youngest girl, giggled, but then, when Polly shot her a stern glance, she hushed and backed away into a pail of soapy water. Her apologetic murmur was barely audible in the clanging echoes the collision set up.
    "Dolly, you are such a gawk." Polly dismissed her sister with a wave of her hand and turned back to Charity. "St. Ann's Parish, I hear, earned forty pounds from its kissing booth. Did you tell the vicar that?"
    "No," Charity replied dryly. She picked up the discarded mop and used it to sop up the spill of soapy water before it stained the oak. "I thought he might come back with the amount the resulting parish bastards cost St. Ann's. It was never more than a gamble, Polly, you knew that. And—" She cast a knowing look at the other girl. "I shouldn't think any girl needs to shill for the Tower Restoration Fund to get a man to kiss her at Midsummer."
    "But it's more fun in a booth with everyone looking!" Molly, the middle girl, had dreams of a stage career, and Charity, fresh from her aunt's box at Drury Lane, had to agree that kissing practice would probably further that ambition.
    "Molly, you will just have to audition for the role of the princess in St. George and the Dragon! In the end, when you are saved by the brave St. George, you can throw your arms around him in a demonstration of gratitude."
    Molly was pleased enough with the picture, but Polly, more discriminating, broke in. "Who's to be St. George then? If it's Malachi Morgan, Molly may have him. But I might give her a bit of a contest, if St. George is. . .. mmmm—" She glanced mischievously at Charity. "Crispin Hering, perhaps."
    "I'm sure he'd love to be fought over." Charity kept her tone neutral. Crispin had always been one of her best friends, even after she rejected his marriage proposal.
    "Or that new lord in the neighborhood. Him I'd kiss for free! Lady Haver's brother, what's his name?"
    "Lord Braden," Molly supplied. "I hear he's ever so handsome. Could he be St. George?"
    "I don't know." A vision of Lord Braden in armor flashed in Charity's mind, bringing with it the glimmer of an idea—two ideas, really. "What would you think, girls, of a St. George competition? Among the young men?"
    All three of her advisors looked blankly back at her, and Charity sighed inwardly, wishing her tongue could keep up with her mind. "I mean, of course, what would you think of a contest, let me see, of swordplay and dragon-killing? A St. George sort of endeavor. The young men of the parish could demonstrate their skill, and the most proficient would be chosen St. George in the mummery play. No, Polly," she added, guessing the question hovering on the girl's full lips, "kissing will not be the skill tested."
    Polly shrugged her disappointment, then brightened. "It's a thought, Miss Charity. All them young men gathered, stripped to the waist for the boxing—"
    "No boxing," Charity said faintly, imagining the vicar's reaction. "Just fencing. St. George kills the dragon with his sword, after all. What do you think?"
    "When will it be held?"
    "Say a fortnight. That would give us time to get the word round. We could do it in an evening, and all the men—bachelors, only, of course—would be invited to compete."
    "It's a lovely idea, it is." Dolly spoke up for the first time. "Men