The Widow's Demise

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“Hold still, please, Mrs. Edwards, or I’m gonnastick you with the needle.”

This warning was delivered by Etta Hogg, thelive-in, all-purpose servant at Briar Cottage.

“It’s only a small tear,” Beth Edwards said,twisting about to get a frontal image from the mirror that Marc hadset up in the parlour to aid the fitting of the ball gown.“Nobody’ll notice.”

“You don’t sound all that enthusiastic,” Marcsaid from his chair by the fireplace.

“You know what I think of fancy-dress balls,”Beth said. “Ouch!”

“Sorry, Mrs. Edwards, but I did warnyou.”

“Please, call me Beth, as I’ve asked you adozen times.”

“Yes, Mrs. Edwards.”

“Remember that we’re doing this for charity,”Marc said. “Look on it as a personal sacrifice or a form ofpenance.”

“I know the proceeds all go to the HospitalFund,” Beth said, “or else I wouldn’t’ve agreed to go.”

Each couple at the Charity Ball at Rosewood,Humphrey Cardiff’s palatial home on Front Street, had to contributeto the Hospital Fund, an annual rite that drew the largest crowd ofthe season. Old money and new, the established and the hopeful -all attended the Attorney-General’s extravaganza.

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