Free Charity Begins at Home by Alicia Rasley Page A

like to compete, they do, and if you charge an entry fee—"
    "Dolly, you are a genius." Charity smiled warmly on the abashed girl. "An entry fee. Just a few shillings, but that will pay for supplies to build the dragon. Now which do you think will want to compete?" She considered her brothers: Francis would never risk winning and then having to dress up in costume—he was so very stuffy. Barry, if he could get down from Oxford, would think it a great lark, but he was too gangly to be much of a swordsman. Ned, now Ned would have loved it, competing with his friends, garnering the congratulatory kisses of the ladies afterwards
    "Crispin Hering would never turn down a dare," Polly remarked. She smiled in such a way to suggest that she had dared him once and he hadn't failed her, and Charity wondered just what form that challenge had taken.
    "His cousins, too," Molly put in. "All the Herings love to fight. Who else?"
    "Malachi." Dolly's voice dropped into gloom at that last syllable; the innkeeper's son was obnoxiously competitive.
    "What about Lord Braden? Is he adept at swordplay?"
    Polly looked archly over, and Charity realized that she had been designated expert on the elusive artist, having met the man once already. "I don't know," she snapped, turning to leave and colliding with Dolly's bucket. Then she recalled her second brilliant idea. She turned slowly back to the girls. "Why don't you ask him yourself? You can, if you go up to Haver Hall and help me put it to rights. It needs—oh, just a bit of cleaning."
    "Just a bit?" Polly picked up tier mop and turned back to stretch for the cobweb in the corner above the doorframe. "How long's it been since the housekeeper left? Two months?"
    "Perhaps more than a bit," Charity admitted. "But if they haven't paid a housekeeper in two months, the pay is likely to be more than a bit. In fact—" She clapped her hands as if she had just been struck with a joyous thought. "Lady Haver's going to be in mourning dress forever. I wonder . . . she has no lady's maid to be given her old gowns. I might persuade her to give you a few silk dresses in time for the Midsummer Banquet."
    This last incentive swept away all of Polly's unspoken objections, and she tossed her mop to Molly, who caught it and gazed at her with scant comprehension. "You finish the floor. I'll get the wall done, and then we'll go earn our silks."
    "I never had nothing silk," Molly said, wistfully ducking her mop into the bucket of water. "Does it feel lovely?"
    Charity moved back into the doorway before Polly's energetic swiping splashed dirty water on her new dress. "Silk feels exquisite. Especially to men. They just love to let silk run through their hands."
    "And they call me wicked." Polly looked back, laughing. "Is that silk you're wearing now? Is some man going to run his hands through it? Her ladyship's brother maybe?"
    "It's only muslin, worse luck." Charity glanced deprecatingly down at her peach gown strewn with violet knots, refusing to let Polly discompose her anymore. After all, they had known each other all their lives and compared notes about the kisses of every one of the squire's boys. So she answered back in the same teasing way. "I couldn't justify silk for a picnic. Not in Kent. In London, of course, a picnic calls for a satin court gown, near enough!"
    She made a last survey of the hall, then went out the door, calling back over her shoulder, "You'll be up this afternoon, then? I'll tell them to expect you. Silk, remember. You must do an impeccable job to deserve it!"
    Cammie, the Calder governess, was waiting as arranged by the front gate of the churchyard, sitting on the wall, her round face raised to the sun, a carpetbag at her feet. Charity felt a moment's unease, seeing that carpetbag. It seemed so permanent, as if Cammie were leaving them forever. And perhaps she would leave, for once Charlie went off to school there would be little for her to do. If Joey were still at home, of course, she'd