Elaine’s mother said, peering at the marred fabric. “It is such a lovely gown. Do you suppose it will stain?” The pale blue had been one of Elaine’s favorites—the color of a winter sky. With that delicate lace edging the sleeves, it had made her feel like an icicle—cold and unmelting, no matter how hot the fires of gossip burned. “A good thing this didn’t happen tomorrow,” her mother was saying. “It would have been so disruptive to my lecture.” Behind her, Elaine felt her maid, Mary, pause, her hands on the laces of the dress. Mary had heard the whole story. And without Elaine having to say so, Mary had undoubtedly understood what it meant. “Yes,” Elaine said. She’d meant to speak soothingly, but her bitterness came through anyway. “Because surely your lecture is more important than having a glass of wine punch spilled on your daughter.” But her mother was as impervious to sarcasm as she was to sly innuendo.
