Bill Turner was not the father of English Botany but the name opened doors; in particular that of Lady Tansy Bistort.
“Tincture of Irish Moss for relief of bitter flux, Hawthorne pills; for strengthening the organ of the heart, Patent Powder to wage war on fleas and lice and nothing will do so well for lightening the hair as this preparation, Madam,” he assured, “bottled by my own hand.”
That was true. He’d squeezed the contents of the plastic tube into a glass jar moments before setting off in his time machine.
The colour proved most becoming and -- she was worth it.
“I trust I find you well, Madam?”
“Tolerably Sir, though...” a stray blond tress escaped beneath her cap, “your cure for sagging breasts tastes a tad bitter.”
“The broth was meant for unction, Madam. But, I have something better. Pray be so good as to try on this garment.”
The lady retired, emerging moments later. “How you tease me Sir,” she said. “Is levity then your cure for gravity?”
The pure silk, red bra with black lace trim, (minus Do Not Tumble Dry) was clasped under her chin; the cups, of no modest size, adorning her ears.
“I should certainly stand out in society, Sir.”
Bill was obliged to put his arms about her person to demonstrate how it should be worn. Her bosom heaved. His mind rehearsed the entire range of Anne Summer’s. And should she tire of him, he could always edge time back.
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