Chapter 13: The Print Shop

August, 1678 Oxford, Oxfordshire

“DO YOU HAVE sharp eyes?”

The question was not a rhetorical one. It had become apparent after only a few days that Merle Heathcoate required more assistance from the two women than fetching and carrying and running errands. He already had young Harold, a scrawny kid of eleven or twelve years, for that. Harold was too small to carry the trays of heavy lead fonts, but he could be relied upon to deliver packets of printed jobs to clients, to return with payment and, often, further work.

The women found the aroma of printer’s ink strangely attractive. It meant words and thoughts and emotions barely held in check by the ink that bound them to the page.

Heathcoate himself was the muscle behind the operation. One glance at the giant press with its central screw and plates and the long rod Master Merle inserted for additional leverage was sufficient to explain his overdeveloped shoulders and arms. Printing was man’s work. Each sheet was impressed separately, but with clever typesetting and layout a sheet could carry eight pages of text. Master Heathcoate passed the printed sheets to be cut and sewn into signatures for binding by a worker in fine leathers at the bindery in the next street.

“Yes, Master Heathcoate,” said Amélie.

“I do, too, sir,” added Sandrine.

“Know your letters, do you? That’s what your father told me. Is that true?”

The two women nodded.

“You as well, Sandrine?” Heathcoate was not convinced an African woman could read.

“Yes, sir,” answered Sandrine. With that she reached behind her to remove a sheet of text drying on a rack. “You mean, like this?” She began to read from the top.

His manhood, the flower of his youth, saluted her beauty in the most unmistakable manner. Her eyes widened as she absorbed the magnificence of his member.

“Give me that!”

To Sandrine’s laughter Heathcoate took the sheet and put it back on the rack. His expression was fierce, until he burst out laughing as well. Amélie retrieved the sheet and began to read.

Entranced by its size, her dainty fingers enclosed the proud stalk of flesh. Without thinking she began to stroke it.

It was Amélie’s turn to laugh.

“Master Heathcoate, really? What is this?”

Heathcoate stopped laughing and caught his breath.

“It’s something one of the dons at the College asked me to print. He said it’s for a special friend.”

Amélie continued reading.

“My god, my god, Charlotte,” Rufus cried. Charlotte felt his organ throb when he began to spend. Great gobs of his essence flew from his tip to land on the creamy flesh of her heaving virgin bosom and coat her fingers when his spurts subsided.

Amélie doubled over in renewed laughter. Finally, she recovered her wits.

“A special friend, indeed, Master Heathcoate.”

He smiled. “Yes. He pays me well to print this for him and I’ve been printing it for years.” He laughed. “Some he didn’t write himself. He’s purchased books in France and translated them, too.”

Amélie and Sandrine exchanged looks.

“I read and write and speak French as well as I do English, Master Heathcoate,” Sandrine said. “Perhaps I could assist your friend in his literary research when my duties here permit?”

Heathcoate stared at Sandrine as though she’d grown a second head. After a moment he smiled and his laugh bubbled up. “Thank you, Sandrine. We shall see.”