CHAPTER ONE
Agatha Warnell sat quietly on her cot, in the dimly lit corner of the two room clapboard house, thinking back to all she had had to endure over the course of the past several months. 'More than any ones fair share.' she thought to herself.
Her mind wondered back to the hours after the firm grip of death had taken her fiance', and when her innocents was taken by the only man whose kindness had given her charity and renewed hope. Her losses had been numerable. Her dreams shattered. Her past experiences trailed behind her, one tragedy after another, making a mockery of her persistence and good nature. Agatha had felt her future lay ahead of her with the same irony of life. Be it ill luck or just plain poor judgement.
A life she felt she no longer wanted to 'just hop a ride on' like Farris's grand wheel. She had encountered its magnificence at a Centennial Exposition the year she turned sixteen. She rather preferred to be like the man below...working the gears...controlling the ride. It was his charge that slowed the great wheel. It was his decision, alone, to speed it up...his to stop...at his will.
She felt she had mourned long enough and now needed to set her sights on taking control and on rebuilding her emotional strength to pursue a life on her own.
Since her return back to Ohio, from England, she had been sharing the home of her younger brother, Pete, and his wife.
His small house and its few acres once belonged to their father's brother, Silas, before he had passed away. Pete had bought the small farm when he was barely fifteen years old, with the purchase being from their uncle's estate. The whole lot had been sold to him at a-more-than-fair price, because the farm's condition was in poor repair, the land rocky, and Pete had proven to the court that he could manage the mortgage.
Thinking back over the years, Agatha had kept a dutiful watch over her brother, as an older sibling respectfully should, in a parentless situation.
When Pete was nineteen years old, she knew he could manage on his own. The farm was productive, he had been making his mortgage payments timely to the bank and he had just won in the pursuit of making a local girl his bride. Her name was Faith.
Faith was the helping hand to the town's only seamstress. She was a wonderful cook, as Agatha knew from the many Sunday suppers Faith had prepared for Pete, her, and Professor Hough Farnsworth. Faith's character could be summed up by a single word--fiery. From her fiery red hair, to her fiery spirit, to her fiery temper; but she had ice blue eyes that melted when Pete walked into the room. Agatha was without question that the young seamstress adored her brother.
It was on the very day Pete and Faith announced their wedding plans that she knew it was time for her to move on. She had raised her brother to be a respected and responsible man and she was as proud of his achievements as she was in the man he had turned out to be. Her brother had grown into a man, capable, in every way, of conducting his life and future in his own way. He no longer needed his sister as guide to adulthood.
The time had also arrived for her to start planning her own future.
Who was to know she would be planning a future more than once?
The Professor Farnsworth had twice proposed to her during a time when she felt her brother needed her most; but now that Pete had grown into a man, being Mrs. Hough Farnsworth sounded like a splendid and certain future. After all, he was a highly regarded man in the community and at the State College where he taught History.
He had the reputation of being boastful, self-serving and arrogant. Agatha could find the kindness and the well intended meaning behind his crude attitudes.
Though he was twice her age, he romanced her with a warm extent of adoration that was as sincere as it was secure. She felt she could manage to live with his cool degree of wit. Then again, obviously, for the most part of her decision, he had been the only man to have asked that had waited around for her, despite the fact that she was, now, long past an age that most young women opted as ideal for marriage.
When she accepted his open offer of marriage, The Professor, as she lovingly called him, bought her a charming, two-story house as a wedding gift.
The house was surrounded by a white picket fence, interlaced with ivy and rose briar. It resembled a cottage she had read about, and had seen pictures of, in a fairy tale. 'A perfect place.' she had convinced herself, 'Where love would grow and blossom along with the perennials.'
The house had been offered by the Widow Olson, who was anxious to join her son in Cincinnati. Agatha could recall the many years before, when Mr. Olson had hosted ice cream socials. He would invite the entire town and local churches to stop in and enjoy their fantastic garden of regional and imported flora, as well as yard games.
At these events Agatha's mother would dress them in their Sabbath finery and dare them to spoil the crisp fabric with a stain.
She could vividly remember the fence, white washed a bright, pure white and overgrown during the summer months with sun bursts of bold yellow and orange peace roses. Jade Ivy clung to the wooden slats with fingers of lush green.
Her mouth watered still for the icy cold desert Mr. Olson took his pride in.
The Olson home rested just inside the town limits of Shaw, Ohio. The only geography that would separate her new home from her brother's was about six miles, the Shaw River Bridge, and the Elderman-Shaw Cemetery. The town's cemetery was where their sister, Annalee, and their parents had been buried ten years prior, in the late summer of 1876.
Agatha's life's plan had appeared to be in order, until The Professor received a notice from a highly accredited learning institute in England. It seemed he had sent a query concerning a position there before Agatha had agreed to become his wife. He claimed in his excitement he simply forgot to cancel the application.
The letter indicated the school's Governors were impressed by his credentials and urged him, with 'grand reward', to join their selected staff.
Upon receipt of the invitation, The Professor had spoken of the offer with the excitement of a child, though, he insisted, he would never speak of it again should she not wish for him to take the position. He was delighted that Agatha would hear of nothing else should they go.
It was during one of Faith's, Sabbath, family suppers, Agatha had told her brother and his new bride that she and The Professor were planning an adventure.
"Pete...Faith." she began. "The Professor has let the house to Mr. McFarland for a more central location to house his family and his barber shop..." Through tear filled eyes she continued, "The Professor has accepted the position at The Institute for Higher Learning near his home place in London. We plan to be married in the gardens beyond the cottage that belongs to his mother."
Pete Warnell could see the excitement in his sister's bright green eyes through her tears of gladness. He could also hear the joy in her voice as she spoke of her up coming marriage, her travels, her meeting the elder Farnsworth, and her expectations of Europe and their new home.
Her brother had pretended to be overjoyed for his sister's sake. "If anyone deserves the right to all this happiness and excitement it is my sister. I wish you well on your journey."
Faith had cried.
As it would turn out, however, Agatha would return home sooner than expected, as her grand adventure would come to an abrupt end.
They had calculated an out-of-the-way stop at the State College at the onstart of the trip for Professor Farnsworth to finish business and to pack a few papers and personal items he deemed too important to leave behind.
She had visited the college on several occasions throughout the school season. When the Theatrical students put on their various plays and musicals, The Professor would always have the customary courtesy passes. She so adored the dramatics of the presentations and fabulously rich costuming.
On one occasion, nearly six years before, The Professor had asked her to pose for an artist who had seen her at one of the plays. The artist had been no student, rather a celebrated portrait painter and sketch artist, thus The Professor felt he was certain to make favor should she accept the flattering offer.
The artist insisted she resembled the likeness a young medical student had described. It was the student's desire to have a portrait made of his description and the artist's need to have a private model.
Agatha obliged The professor's wishes and agreed to pose for the artist. She had taken the train on three separate occasions to sit for him to render his drawings.
She so enjoyed the mystery of the private sittings and for the portrait he insisted would be a insult to his talent should she see it. He claimed it belonged only to the eyes of the medical student.
As she was accustomed to the flavorful excitement on these ventures, she had anticipated a great series of interesting sights and events on their adventure across the eastern half of the United States by rail, however, it was less than noteworthy. As a matter of fact, Agatha had penned her thoughts in a postette to Faith describing the travel, "Quite dull, actually."
The anticipated excitement found its way to her in the form of misfortune. From the very moment Agatha and The Professor stepped of the ship the couple was met with tragedy.
The elder Farnsworth had become quite ill and had been entered into a hospice care home for her final days. In her absence, the cottage had been ransacked by vandals, the thieves making off with everything from valuable family heirlooms to the blossom tops of the flora. The once fragrant gardens, now lackluster and weed grown.
Hours after their first time visit, the old woman surrendered her life. The joy of seeing her beloved son and the excitement of his upcoming wedding was more than her tired heart could bare.
In the dreary days that followed his mother's mournfully cold funeral, The Professor became congested with the croup.
Within a few weeks, the small cottage and yard was taken over by the district for the collection of back taxes, medical bills that had accumulated during her hospital stay, and for the funeral. They had barely the time to properly grieve.
The moneys Mr. McFarland was sending by post were always slow to arrive and never quite enough for living expenses. Agatha found herself selling nearly all of her belongings to buy necessary medicines for her fiance', who was now suffering from a constant cough and an up-again down-again fever.
Since Professor Farnsworth was obviously too ill to accept the position with the Institute, they regretfully informed him, 'the position had been offered to and accepted by someone else'.
Then, Agatha received a letter from Faith informing her that the farm's crops had been lost to a whirlwind during a early summer storm and that she and Pete were expecting a child. Their new expenses, as well as the repairs to the house and barn had depleted their savings. The mortgage was in arrears. Faith was fearful that the courts would soon present papers to repossess the house they called their home.
Agatha now added to her own concerns the worry of what Pete and Faith's future held and she could see only one possible solution for the situation. She was going to take her fiance' back home to Ohio, where the climate was more stable than unpredictable and damp.
Back home in Shaw, she could help her brother, nurse The Professor back to health, and begin to rebuild her hopes of the future she so adamantly wanted. She would do this at whatever cost.
With this plan in mind, she gathered together the last of her belongings of any value, including sentiment, to take to a local anomalies shop that had generously purchased the items she had offered up for sale a few weeks before.
She dressed in a powder blue suit, fashionable for the day by its thick black braiding at the jacket's cuffs and the skirt's floor length hemline. The black glass beads she usually wore around her neck had been sold to a neighbor that adored them as much as Agatha. The neighbor, because they reminded her of a long lost relative, Agatha, only for the fact they went very well with the suit.
The town square was only about an hours walk away. The great slabs of stones that paved the route would give way to smaller stones, broken and replaced many times over the years. It was a mosaic of odd sizes and assorted colors, giving it the look of a patch worked quilt.
Some of the stones had been lifted in favor of setting maple trees to enhance the beauty of the scenery.
During the walk, Agatha noticed the trees were beginning to sport a few dulling green leaves, their centers giving way to a late summer yellow. The air still smelled sweet with the fragrance of the tiger lilies that grew wild along the way. Splashes of lavender, white, pink, and gold graced every lawn as if brush loads had been dabbed on a green canvas.
As she rounded the corner, she caught a glimpse of powder blue in a millinery shop's glass paned front. She paused to catch her breath. The blue had been the reflection of a beautiful young woman with long, waving dark hair, held together by a black leather clasp. The late morning sun danced gleefully giving her eyes, her hair, and her flesh a healthy and exciting sparkle.
Pretending to be admiring only the hats, Agatha turned a bit sideways to reveal a well busted figure. The jacket's lapels rolled over and down her fleshy mounds like a highway disappearing to a point just about her trim waist ending at a swirl of black braiding. Agatha was not the kind of woman who stood in admiration of herself in a mirror often. This particular reflection, however, was being quite kind to her.
She glanced up to see the business across the street, beyond her, in the reflection. It was a brothel. The morning sun shadowed none of the regular girls standing in the doorway. 'Probably,' she reasoned, 'they had opted to sleep in from a busy night of business.' She rarely passed that way, not accustomed to the boldness of the trade being so openly advertised. She felt a weight of sadness for the women who lived there and wondered if they were there by choice rather than circumstance. She also entertained the curiosity of their wage. How many night's business could it possibly take to afford fare back to the United States.
The shopkeeper's name was Ira, "Simply Ira." he had stated at one of their meetings. "Simply Ira."
He had also told her oddities were often sent to other countries where American made goods were highly prized, bringing the best in trade or in dollar value. She understood the economics of it only enough to know he was always elated to see her and he had taken nearly every item she presented to him in the past.
During this particular visit the shop was unusually busy with customers, however, when He spied Agatha standing amid his patronage with her carefully wrapped packages, Ira, immediately approached. He, fully knowing, whatever price he paid to her, he could surely double his moneys in the matter of a few sales.
He greeted her eagerly. "Oh! My dear Miss Warnell, it is always a delight to see you."
"Ira." she acknowledged, "I see you are much too busy to give me your time."
"Pish Posh! Please. Why don't we retire to my office for a spot of tea and for a more private place to discuss our business?"
Agatha scanned the room. "Are you sure? You are very busy today. I could come back later, or tomorrow, perhaps?" she suggested.
Ira waved his arm to motion a young sales clerk to mind matters for a moment or so. "I wouldn't have it, Miss Warnell. If you would just allow me a moment of your tolerance." he stated excitedly while his motions summoned two men who were looking over goods in one of the shop's many glass showing cases.
One man, quite well dressed in fine business attire, though he sported an unkempt beard, she recognized as a local merchant. What he bought or what he sold was unknown to her.
The second man, older, wore common clothing of a rough, thick fabric. His garments showed signs of wear at the elbows and the knees. He smelled of the harbor. A ripe, pungent odor, that like no other, shouted that he made his living off the sea.
A brass and burgundy service trolley was wheeled in from a room beyond the office while a tea kettle sang nervously atop a round bellied coal warmer. Ira sorted three floral, china tea cups, three delicate saucers, three silver infusers, and three silver tea spoons. When his three guests were seated and offered the tea, however, it was unanimously refused with three proper 'No, thank yous.'
Ira sat the kettle atop the trolley, his knuckles whitened to the weight of the warmed water. He then took his place at the head of a large mahogany desk, three chairs faced him. Clearing his throat he made the appropriate introductions.
The first man, the businessman, was Mr. Edward Cunningham, the third. His expertise was revealed to be in the importing and exporting of goods.
When Ira introduced the second man as Captain Reyonald Davies of the 'Alexandria', Agatha smiled pleasantly and nodded towards the captain. The expression and gesture not so much out of polite acknowledgment, but, rather that her first impression of him as a seaman had been proven correct.
Captain Davies responded. His eyes smiled before the charm of a grin crossed his face.
Silken strands of salt white hair streaked his long, shoulder length, dark curls, telling the story of his age and the hard life of work he had led. His stern facial features, handsomely chiseled, were sun warmed with health. His cheeks were of a faded tint of rose. His well worn tunic was cinched at his waist with a leather strap and bronze buckle. Graceful in aging, he still cut a romantic figure of a man.
'No doubt dangerously adventurous with life and love in his youth.' she imagined.
Agatha had recently read an article describing a fictional pirate, its passage fitting, "...and with age comes wisdom, and with the wisdom, the knowledge to be adventurous without the danger.
"What brings you to us today, Miss Warnell?" Ira begged. "Do you have things for me to value?"
Agatha again nodded, impressed and yet surprised, at this formal showing of her hand held bric-a-brac. "Yes, Please. I've a need for moneys to buy passage back to America."
"The United States of America?" Ira quizzed.
"My fiance' is most ill. My desire is to take him back to Ohio." She continued to spill out her misfortune to a seemingly unconcerned audience as she slowly unwrapped each package.
Ira remained standing, leaning on braced arms locked taught at his elbows, to keep a clear view. The businessman oohed and awed as each piece became available.
Soon sitting before her was the most exquisite examples of common American kitchen gadgetry. Items that could be replaced easily and economically back home in Ohio. Items Agatha used every day in practicality the Europeans regarded as rare treasures.
Each piece she presented, some demonstrated when called for, was bought up quickly and each for a good price. Yet not quite enough.
When their transactions had ended, she sat holding her moneys in her hand, looking as if she were wishing it to multiply. Ideas wondered through her mind on where and how she could obtain the little more she needed to buy their passage back home, by moral means, or not.
"Your hair?"
Agatha glanced up. She searched each man for a visual sign as to whom had made mention of her hair.
The businessman spoke again. "Your hair, Miss Warnell, have you never thought of selling your hair? I can assure you a good price." Mr. Edward Cunningham, the third, leaned back in his seat waiting for her to process the thought, as it was apparent this idea had never before been considered by her an option. His wooden chair groaned.
In as much as she was startled at herself for having entertained the idea of selling her body, at least that wouldn't show. She shuttered at the very idea of selling an obvious thing. Agatha answered in disgust. "I've never heard of such a despicable thing. My hair! What deviant would desire my dignity? And what ever for?"
"Oh, my dear Miss Warnell, this is not a tasteless venture. On the contrary, you would be respected by the receiver. You see, human hair is quite valuable as well as quite hard to obtain."
Seeing that he needed to explain further, or perhaps, coax her with as much sympathetic spirit as he could muster, he added, "You see, Miss Warnell, there are many women, some even of noble birth, that have been stricken with thinning hair. You will agree with me, won't you, that there is nothing more tragic to a woman's vanity than hairlessness? Many a coiffure would pay a high price for a sampling of healthy human hair to weave hair pieces. As it appears to me you have a fine, healthy head of hair." he complemented. "...and certainly you would only miss it long enough for it to grow back."
She swallowed hard. Yes, indeed, her waist length, dark brown hair was richly thick and healthy and yes, indeed, it would grow back fairly rapid.
The Professor loved her long pretty hair and had often commented of it. She had found herself going to great pains in taking care of it and styling it in different ways to entice an attentive compliment from him. For such a man with unconcern for the passions of a woman he often caressed her hair at times when the warm evening shade of springtime conjured the mood for young lovers. His stroke always gentile and she enjoyed it such as a lap cat would relish his master's affectionate petting.
She envisioned how his pride would suffer should she announce her reasoning for cutting it away was to gain his passage home. He would be humiliated by the disgrace of it. Should she accept this wicked offer she would just have to convince The Professor somehow, that she had done it out of her regard for the fashion of it, rather than the desperation.
"How much?" she asked.
"Money? Surely enough, I'd think, to get you pretty close to home."
"Hair?"
"Oh, hair. I'm sure we can provide you with enough remaining for you to maintain your grace, my dear." he encouraged with a cautious voice. "We can go for an appointment immediately, if you like?" he finished. He held onto his last gap of breath in wait for a positive response.
Taking in a deep gulp of air, she relayed her affirmation.
Edward Cunningham, the third, arose from his seating laggardly, restraining to maintain a sense of dignified compassion. Apprehensive, lest his beautifully coiffed companion change her mind.
The mismatched group bid each other 'good days' and departed, each off in their own purposeful direction.
Agatha followed Mr. Cunningham out onto the busy cobblestone street, her anxiety mounting with each step.
The hair dresser was elated when the businessman escorted Agatha into his salon. He flitted here and about, excitingly waving his arms like a child on Christmas morning. He took up his scissors, and with one quick chop, her beautiful main was gone.
Agatha's eyes pooled.
Upon seeing the immediate fright and regret in his customer's tearing eyes, the dresser attempted to calm her by stressing how much the new look suited both her and her cheekbones.
Though he spoke naturally with an unnerving, high pitch, he had quite an assertive and honest tone as he prattled. "Quite becoming...quite. Short hair. It's all the rage...all the rage. I must admit, this look is you. Definitely you."
He pushed aside all of his business, including the long whip of dark brown hair, to show Agatha new and interesting ways to style her hair to make it look fuller and more flattering. His professionalism and reassurance had somewhat eased her discomfort. By the end of the appointment, she found herself smiling and rather enjoying the attention. She hadn't even noticed that her accompaniment had departed.
The dresser left her hair in a gentile upsweep that had been padded with a roll of soft cotton. It looked quite feminine. Unless one had been told of it, one would have never suspected she sported a short cut.
It took no time for her to find the Wharf Master to claim a ticket for the next vessel homeward. She but stepped out onto the wood decking that stretched from the harbor office to the water's edge when he startled her with his intimidating presence.
He was a gruff sort with a scroungy, white beard. His failing eyesight brought his stand closer, until his face was just inches from hers. The harsh wrinkles around his eyes were tanned so from squinting when he relaxed his face the crow's feet appeared like a white net over his face. Then again when he squinted to get a better look at her, the netting disappeared. She could smell the malt vinegar from his dinner on his breath.
"What ye want!" He growled, as if scolding some pesky child.
She told him of her plight, while counting out every coin she had. "I've shillings." she announced. "sixteen."
He had laughed at her. "Money's not enough!" he bellowed, "Need a pound, a full twenty shillings."
"...but sir."
" Don't start that with me. I'm not runnin' no char'ty here. Ye bein' a pretty young thing, maybe ye can find yerself some tired, old sailor to give you a six pence or two for what's up them skirts. Now, go away and don't ye come back here with no hard luck story. Bring yer purse."
With this, the Wharf Master disappeared as quickly as he had appeared, leaving her standing alone.
By the time Agatha made it to the business across from the milinary store's window, it was nearing the edge of evening. For the late hour, the walks were still busy with gentlemen looking for an ale or a bite to eat. The brothel was conveniently located between the businesses men frequented. At this time of evening the regular girls were standing posed at the doorway. They were scantily dressed in Venetian lace and satin bloomers.
She took a deep breath and headed towards the stone steps that led to the door. She knew fully well what moral value she was giving up for what she was about to do. She glanced up and down the street a final time, as if afterward the streets might take on a different look.
At last glance, she spied the sea captain that had been her meeting companion earlier. He was approaching her with purpose in his gait. He was looking directly her way, with his gaze set and a quick step as if he had some matter of importance to discuss with her. She waited, watching as his approach was greeted by passersby with a hat tip and the customary bows. He must be a well thought of man in the community to receive so many acknowledgments.' she noted to herself.
"Even', Missy. How ye be?" His soft blue eyes sparkled under the light from a nearby street lamp.
"I'm fine. I thank you for asking, Mister...er." she corrected herself, "Captain. I should apologize for not remembering your name, other than Captain. I'm afraid it has been an event filled day."
"Ha'e ye arrangements made?" he asked.
"Excuse me?" She gasped, wondering if he was referring to her decision to sell herself until she had a purse of twenty shillings.
He glanced at the brothel doorway, then back at her. The whores flashed him flirtatious curtsies and giggled like silly school girls. The sea captain blushed.
"I know ye be a lookin' for a ship to take ye and yer Mister back to the States of America. I've found that I've a bit of space aboard the Alexandria, that, perhaps, ye might find it be a suitable quarters for yer travel. 'Tis nothin' fancy, mind ye, for she's not a passenger ship, but the space be yers if ye wish it so." the Captain offered with goodwill. "I'm not expectin' a full fair."
She immediately accepted his offer. "I'd be grateful for anything you can provide."
"Have ready to sail the eve' aft'."
"I promise, Captain."
Captain Davies paused, his hands latched behind him with the puerile expression of a young lad who had just given his teacher the shiniest, red apple and was awaiting the gratis pat on the head. "I'd hoped to have caught ye afor ye met with the hair cutter, Missy. I'm sad to see that I did no'.
Practicing her response for the next time someone inquired of the short bob, Agatha lifted her delicate chin and tousled her head. A deliberate smile upturned the soft corners of her mouth. "Never mind about it." she assured him. "I'm quite delighted by the sport of it."
He stood his ground in front of the brothel until she bid him farewell. He called after her, "Davies, Miss. Cap'in Davies, but Cap'in is all ye need remember."
As she walked briskly away, she heard the young ladies give him the offer of their services without charge and the captain decline their propositions with gracious charm.
Agatha could hardly believe her good fortune. She had hurried home to relay the day's events to her fiance' and to get them ready for their voyage home. "The eve' aft'." she repeated.
Though he could get around somewhat, out of necessity, The Professor was now very ill. His energy diminishing, he remained on the cot Agatha had set up for him in the cottage's front room. The bay windows in the front of the house allowed him to watch her coming and going about her daily routine. It also provided him a more pleasant scenery than that of the unattended garden beyond the back gate. The eviction notice posted on the back fence was a disturbing reminder of their tragedy. She had dared not remove it for fear of reprimand, thus his bed, a makeshift cot, was wheeled into the front parlor with raves on how the view would be more to his liking.
Hough Farnsworth patted her on her tending arm, nodded in pleasure of the news, then settled back into a cough filled slumber. Agatha had not told him every event. She saw no reason to tire him further about her adventure to the hair salon, and he hadn't taken any notice.
She remembered how the village wives had been good to them, no doubt knowing their troubles, by the second eviction notice secured to the lamp post just off the front walk.
That night she busied herself reheating broth she had made with a chicken's neck a neighbor's house servant had brought over to her. She was raised to take care of herself, and her own, by hard work, saving hand outs to a body that wasn't able. Normally, she would never accept charity, but the neighbors hadn't made her feel as if she were being pitied. She knew they had more than a concern for the son and wife-to-be of the gentle soul that had occupied the home for more than Agatha was old. The elder, Mrs. Farnsworth, must have had a well established friendship with many of her neighbors.
Drawing herself a bowl of the warm liquid, Agatha sat down to do her planning. With the exception of a few articles of clothing, that were barely enough to fill the paperboard valise, there wasn't much packing to be done. Everything else had been vandalized, stolen, sold away, or taken by tax.
She had nearly forgotten the day's madness until she was preparing herself for sleep. As Agatha looked into a broken dressing mirror at the bereft image staring back at her, she had to cover her face with her hands and sob. She could barely stand the sight of her miserable looking, shaggy head.
After a moment, or so, she regained her composure and reassured herself it was a such a small price to pay.
Despite her many efforts, she was never able to pin it back into the lovely upsweep the hairdresser had done so easily back at the salon. She told herself she would have to rise before The Professor and practice a time or two more on recreating the look.
It didn't taken her long to fall asleep that night. She had been satisfied with the results of the day. As she lay quietly in the lonely still of the empty English cottage, she went over, once again, in her mind, just how wonderful things were going to be back home, in her hometown of Shaw. She imagined how elated her brother and sister-in-law was going to be when she and The Professor came jaunting up to the door without so much as a postette to let them know they were returning home. As a matter of fact, as slow as the post was, she would probably be sipping cool lemonade at the close of an autumn day, lazily sitting on the stoop of her brother's home before the mail arrived to announce their plans to return.
