Chapter 23: French Lessons

[Early Autumn, 1678]
At the print shop, Oxford

THE MOST BEAUTIFUL woman in the world.

When he reached his majority his parents had insisted he learn French at the small college where he’d enrolled several years earlier. Exceptional promise brought him to the attention of his instructors. For his first years he was among the youngest students at the college. He did not understand the reasons for learning French, but he was used to doing what his parents told him to do and so he set out to find a tutor.

When it came time he discovered there were tutors at the college fluent in French who would accept him but not until the spring term.

“You might consult the printer who lives nearby,” his favorite tutor in history told him.

“A printer? Does he speak French?”

The tutor laughed.

“I doubt it, young James. But in his household there is someone who does.”

“Who is he?”

“She, James. The printer has a young woman relation, the daughter of his relative who lives overseas, living in the household. The woman came to Oxford along with her foster brother, who is enrolled at B— College. Her parents insisted she have a companion, and so a family servant came with her.”

“A servant who speaks French?” The servants Roger knew were maids or cooks and seemed to barely speak English, much less French. “How is that?”

“She grew up speaking French. She has had schooling and speaks both languages. In fact, the two women are well-enough educated to assist the printer in correcting proofs and editing some manuscripts. She assists even with French manuscripts.”

Roger was doubtful. A servant who spoke French well enough to teach him?

“I’ll give you a note to take to the printer, Roger.”

The tutor clapped him on the shoulder.

“There is nothing to fear, Roger. And you may just be surprised at what people can do for you.”

At the printer’s establishment the following morning, Master Heathcoate read the tutor’s note carefully. He looked up at young Roger standing before him and motioned him to sit.

“I’ve known your tutor for years, Roger. If he sends you to me it is because he knows you are capable of making use of your time here, that your efforts will be fruitful.” An odd expression seemed to cross the printer’s features. “Yes, fruitful.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Wait here.”

In a few minutes the printer returned and stepped aside to usher in a vision. Slender, taller than Roger, with high cheekbones and smooth skin. Her gown concealed more than it revealed, but Roger could see curves underneath the clothing.

Her color. Deep, rich, dark, so black her skin was almost blue. Flawless, it seemed to welcome his sight and, Roger thought, touch, but he put that last thought out of his mind. Her brown eyes were clear and she looked at him directly, with none of the subservient or submissive nature of many college servants and others he’d known. Despite her color he thought he saw kindness in her face and eyes.

He rose to his feet when she moved closer to him and extended her hand. “Hello, Roger,” she said in a voice that increased his heart rate in the instant. A voice that seemed to make promises it did not have to set out in detail. Her hand, when he took it in his, was firm even as his seemed to tremble, but a soft squeeze of her fingers reassured him there was nothing to fear. “My name is Sandrine.”

He goggled at her for a moment and thought he saw a gentle laugh in her eyes. She did not speak. Her smile was warm and she waited. He seemed to come to his senses, at least momentarily, and released with great reluctance the warm soft hand he’d been holding.

“I am Roger, Mistress Sandrine.” Belatedly he remembered his manners. “I am very pleased to meet you.” His smile was a little crooked, but at least he made the attempt. She did not seem to be offended, which was a relief.

“I am pleased to meet you, young Roger.” She took a half-step closer and he could smell her perfume. He had no idea what it was or what it was called, but unlike the fussy floral scents his mother and aunts seemed to favor, this had an exotic sensation. Perhaps it was only his own free association with her color, but her perfume evoked islands far away, sea breezes and bird calls and warm flesh. His head began to spin. Sandrine stepped forward immediately and with the printer’s help led Roger to the nearest chair and got him seated.

She leaned close and her perfume was stronger in his nostrils and he thought he was about to faint. “Stay here, Roger. Don’t move.”

The printer looked down at him with a faint smile on his lips. Sandrine returned with a glass of water and held it for Roger as he drank slowly.

“A short session today, perhaps, Sandrine,” said the printer. Sandrine laughed and put her hand on the boy’s cheek. “Yes, Master Heathcoate. We’ll just chat for a bit and arrange our next meeting.”

With that the printer left them, and Sandrine pulled a second chair close.

“Don’t try to talk, Roger. Just relax.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, until Roger put his now-empty glass on a small table beside his chair. He reddened once more.

“Forgive me, Mistress Sandrine. I don’t know what came over me.”

She laughed, but it was a friendly laugh.

“No harm done, Roger. None at all.” She refrained from adding she had the same effect on other men and especially on boys.

“Tell me a little about yourself, Roger. Are you from Oxford?”

He told her about his family, his mother, his sisters, and how his father had arranged for him to enroll at college a few years earlier despite his youth. Sandrine was attentive but not overwhelming. She interrupted only to ask him to repeat or explain some part of his history he had not been clear about. At last he ran out of things to recount. She could see he had questions he seemed to be reluctant to ask.

“You’d like to know about me, Roger, is that not so?”

He nodded.

“I was born in Martinique,” she began. “Do you know where that is?” Roger nodded. “My mother was a slave, brought as a child to the island from Africa. I am told my father was white, but I never knew him. To judge by my color, I’m not really sure he was white. At the time, my owner was a successful businessman. It didn’t matter in the end whether my father was white or black. I was still a slave from birth, but my owner saw that I was educated by the same tutors who gave lessons to his other children.”

Roger was uncertain whether to ask a question. Without thinking about it, he raised his hand. Sandrine stopped and smiled.

“You may ask me anything, Roger, anything at all.” Her smile invited him to ask. Even as young as he was he saw the invitation in her eyes.

“Why did he do that, Mistress Sandrine? I mean, weren’t slaves supposed to work and not study?”

Sandrine chuckled, but it was partly a bitter chuckle. “Yes, Roger, but not all slaveholders believed that.” She shook her head. “He wasn’t being kind or caring, Roger, not entirely. For certain tasks an educated slave is much more valuable than an uneducated one. Slaves were clerks, bookkeepers, assistants in business, and many more things besides that. My mother, for example, was a housemaid, but he had assigned her responsibility for ensuring the household had the supplies it required and to arrange for the replenishment when needed. This meant she had to be able to read and write and do simple arithmetic.”

Sandrine elected to keep to herself, at least for the moment, some of the other services she had provided to her master in the years after she entered puberty. Indeed, for some activities she had begun even earlier.

“Roger, I think we’ve done enough to get acquainted today. I shall see you three times a week, at this hour and here at Master Heathcoate’s establishment. Do you agree?”

Roger nodded. Sandrine rose and extended her hand. “Au revoir, Roger.” She laughed. “There’s your first lesson.”

Roger left in a semi-daze. She was a goddess. He had never seen such beauty in his short life. It did not matter that she was dark. He’d heard stories about black slaves but disregarded them as the ravings of lunatics. No matter for him. He couldn’t wait to see her again.

That night in his bed he thought of her again and his hand found its way to his manhood and he did what every boy learns to do. He didn’t care that night if he had to sleep with wet clothing. He’d do it again the following morning.

The first dozen lessons passed as if in a dream to Roger. He treasured the time he spent with this dark goddess, but his language suffered. He could tell Sandrine was growing impatient with his seeming inability to absorb her lessons. Part of him knew it was his fault. After all, who could conjugate verbs when the smooth silk of her skin just below her ear beckoned to him? Who could ignore the soft tones and the unspoken passion in her speech? And her eyes. He thought he’d never seen eyes with such depth he wanted to sink into them and never again rise to the surface.

At night he rubbed himself sore and soaked his underclothes as he imagined what she might look like without her clothes. He didn’t think his mother noticed but he was wrong. She noticed and she smiled to herself every morning as she arranged the bedclothes from what had evidently been a very active night for her boy. His father only laughed when she told him. He secretly envied the boy. Roger Senior was not the only male in Oxford who had seen Sandrine and wondered and speculated.

“Roger?” Sandrine voice had not lost its sweetness, but it was firmer than it had been. “Roger, what is wrong?”

He shook his head. What, after all, could he tell her? That he had fallen in love, in lust with her? That he wished to worship at her feet? That he almost could not stand being apart from her and that his hours with her three times a week were the only times he felt whole and cherished and listened to?

“Roger?” Sandrine repeated. He looked at her, stricken, because he knew, he feared, what was coming. “What is it, Roger?” She touched his hand with her own warm palm, and Roger almost had a stroke. “Is it something I do that troubles you? Is there something or someone else who is causing you distress?”