After a couple of minutes, Jesse felt a presence behind him. He looked up from the forme to see Mr. Hughes watching, his lips slightly pursed, hands hooked behind his back.
“Don’t mind me,” he said.
Jesse forced himself to look back at the forme, the words “how could I not?” perched on the tip of his tongue, begging to be set free. But Jesse kept his mouth shut, resentment over his own past failures, not to mention his station in life, making his blood run hot.
After the forme was complete, Jesse readied the press for the next job, setting the previous platen aside to clean later. Before he could push the flywheel and press the floor pedal, Mr. Hughes began talking.
“Hmm, I’ve never seen someone operate one of these,” he said softly, as though mostly talking to himself. Adjusting his spectacles, the man leaned in close to inspect the machinery. “I only have rotary and cylindrical presses at my other shop. And it’s beenyearssince I’ve even been around to see either of those in operation.”
Jesse hummed and nodded, barely mustering the will to feign even mild interest. He began priming the rollers, which still retained some ink from the previous job. Once they were ready, Jesse put in a test sheet and ran the press for one cycle. Afterward, he reached for the finished sheet, planning to check it for errors, but Mr. Hughes snatched it from the bed first.
“Glove-fitting corsets,” the man read aloud before looking up through his lashes and locking eyes with Jesse. “New clothing shop?”
“Apparently so,” Jesse said.
Mr. Hughes handed Jesse the paper.
“Does everyone here make those, ehm, plates with the... letters?” he asked.
“Formes?” Jesse asked, his tone spiked with a tiny bit of irritation he hadn’t managed to hold back.
“If that’s what they’re called, then, yes,” Mr. Hughes said, mostly unfazed, though there was a hint of exasperation in his voice. “Does everyone here make them?”
“Only me.”
“Only you.” Mr. Hughes rubbed his chin, seeming to chew on this for a moment. “Interesting. I wouldn’t have thought that only one person would be trained in that.”
Jesse let out a breath, one that was dangerously close to sounding like a sigh.
“Almost everyone here has been trained, but I’m the only one who makes them. Because I’m the only one who makes them without mistakes. If I’m not here, others will try.”
Yes,try. Jesse hoped his word choice effectively communicated the level of skill he possessed. If Mr. Arthur Hughes insisted on watching him for God-knows-how-long, Jesse wouldat leastsee to it that the man wouldn’t think of him as some mindless factory worker. Composing was a true talent. Not one that everyone possessed, either. It required a lot of things. Literacy. Patience. Precision. Jesse had enough knowledge and skill to open his own shop. If only he had the money.
Mr. Stevenson came over.
“I see you’ve met Mr. O’Connor,” he said to Mr. Hughes. “He’s the most skilled man here.” Jesse pressed his lips together to fight back what he knew would have been a fairly smug-looking smile. “College educated, as well. Partially.”
Partially.Jesse’s stomach roiled, warm embarrassment trickling up his neck and robbing him of that brief moment of pride. Sometimes it felt like he would never escape his background or hispast, no matter how hard he worked or how much knowledge or skill he cultivated.
While Jesse was trying to concentrate on keeping his burgeoning embarrassment contained, Mr. Williams called Mr. Stevenson over to the Grasshopper. In a matter of seconds, he and Mr. Arthur Hughes were alone again.
“College?” Mr. Hughes inquired.
“Engineering,” Jesse confirmed, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
Mr. Hughes narrowed his eyes, as though scrutinizing him. Again, Jesse couldn’t resist taking notice of the man’s pleasant features—his strong nose, high cheekbones, perfectly shaped lips—and his stomach flip-flopped in a way that it hadn’t inyears.
Damn.
Mr. Hughes tilted his head.
“Do you know how to operate every type of press here, Mr. O’Connor?”
Jesse’s cheeks warmed. It was terrible how handsome this man was.
“Yes,” he managed, his voice barely above a whisper.
“What about a Bullock rotary?”
