The barmaid returned with their order, setting two tankards on the table. Brody picked his up as soon as she was gone and waited for Mr. Michaels to do the same. “To new acquaintances.”
Mr. Michaels echoed his words and took a sip, his eyes widening with surprise as the ale slid down his throat.
“You’ve never had ale before?” Brody asked, once again puzzled by the younger man’s inexperience with things he himself had been introduced to by the age of fifteen.
“Of course I have,” Mr. Michaels said, his voice breaking enough to reveal a higher pitched sound for a second. He cleared his throat, and when he spoke again, he did so in the lower tone Brody had grown accustomed to. “I’m used to a different flavor, that’s all. I actually prefer this. It’s really good.”
“Glad to hear it.” Satisfaction settled somewhere deep within Brody’s chest. It felt like his heart was expanding with warmth and… Best return to the previous subject of conversation. “About your concern, any man with an ounce of brain will make sure to use a French letter.”
“I see.”
Noting Mr. Michaels’ puzzled expression, Brody had to ask, “You do know what a French letter is?”
“Of course.”
Brody frowned. It didn’t sound like the lad had a clue, which could prove dangerous for him if he decided to seek out the wrong sort of woman.
“It’s a sheath made from pig skin.” When Mr. Michaels stared at him as though with incomprehension, Brody decided to add, “Men can put them on their rods to protect themselves and the women they bed, both from unwanted pregnancy and from disease. Apothecaries carry them.”
Clearly, this was news to Mr. Michaels. The poor lad looked like he might be in need of smelling salts soon. Which was also rather odd. It was common behavior for men to engage in casual discourse with each other. He did so himself all the time. At Eton and Oxford, the lads had not held back with regard to crass language or subjects relating to sexual experience. Not once had any of them appeared shocked.
If anything, it had been considered normal male behavior, as long as it never took place in the presence of women. So it was strange to meet a young man of roughly eighteen or nineteen years of age who balked at such things. The only explanation was he didn’t have close male friends and wasn’t accustomed to such conversations.
Taking pity, Brody said, “I’m sorry if speaking of such things offends you. My only intention was to make sure you’re well informed.”
“Ah… Thank you. I’m…er…much obliged.”
Mr. Michaels reached for his ale and drank a fare measure while Brody tried to think of something else to discuss. Something more appropriate perhaps? “I’m curious. How did you become a compositor at Hudson & Co.?”
Relief softened Mr. Michaels’s expression. He was clearly glad to have moved away from the previous subject. “I came to London a couple of years ago. After Papa died.”
“I’m sorry,” Brody murmured with genuine sympathy. “The death of a parent is hard. My own father died when I was roughly your age.”
“My regrets,” Mr. Michaels said. His hand moved toward Brody’s, only to halt mid motion. Snatching it back, he said, “My sister and I lost everything when it happened. The only solution was to find work, but our village had little to offer in that regard. So I decided to come to London where I believed there’d be more opportunities.”
“You didn’t inherit anything?”
“No.” Rather than elaborate, Mr. Michaels quickly said, “I’ve always been fond of books. They fascinate me. All the knowledge and information packed between those pages. The stories that can take you to faraway places or let you experience things you’d not be able to otherwise. Books are a gift to the world, Mr. Evans, and I wanted to have a part in creating them.”
The wonder with which he spoke was spellbinding. “You’ve certainly achieved that.”
Mr. Michaels nodded. “I started out at Hudson & Co. as a delivery boy. When George, the previous compositor, left on account of better pay elsewhere, Mr. Hudson gave James, Matthew, and Oliver a chance to try out for the position before placing an advertisement in the paper. I asked if I could try as well, and instead of snubbing me, Mr. Hudson gave me the opportunity I needed to prove myself.”
“He strikes me as a really good man,” Brody said.
“He is. Gave me the job on the spot and hired a new boy to do the deliveries.”
“And your colleagues don’t mind that you got the job instead of them?”
Mr. Michael’s shrugged. “No. James and Matthew can’t sit still. They need to move, so working the press is perfect for them. As for Oliver, he’s happy avoiding the responsibility placed on my shoulders. And besides, none of their fingers are slim enough to place the sorts with the sort of precision I’m capable of.”
“Sounds reasonable,” Brody said, his gaze instinctively going to Mr. Michaels’s hand, which did appear rather petite. Another curiosity, considering his age. It was as though parts of him belonged to a young adolescent, not someone who’d reached the cusp of manhood. Could it be that he’d lied about his age?
That would explain why Mary’s advance might have scared him.
“How about you?” Mr. Michaels inquired.
Brody stared at him for a second. “What?”
