“Miss Mallory is sweet and gentle,” Jack says. “And knows not to poke her nose where it doesn’t belong.”
It’s a credit to her acting ability that she can say that with a straight face.
“I am only fascinated by the presses,” I say. “May I ask why there are two?”
The woman sighs, as if I’m being unreasonably curious, but her eyes light with the look of someone who actually likes talking about her work. The smaller machine is a jobbing press meant for simple low-print tasks like letterhead or business cards. It takes about fifteen minutes to set up and can print a thousand copies an hour. The larger one is the proper press and can do about half as many copies an hour. Both are manual presses. Newspapers use steam-powered ones, which can do about ten thousand pages an hour, but her business has no need for that.
I cut my questions short at Jack’s obvious impatience, and then she says, “I come tonight with questions about pornographic literature.”
The woman eyes me again. “If you’re not Miss Mallory and you’re looking for a few extra coins in your pocket, I can suggest an artist or two. Sketches are best. Photographs do not flatter as well.”
“And if IamMiss Mallory, and I were still looking to make a few extra coins? Would your answer be something different?”
“In that case, it would. I’d suggest your chronicler print a separate set of your adventures... for a different but better-paying sort of customer.”
I smile and shake my head. “I can imagine the poor mother who picks up the wrong one to share with her children. No, in either case, I am not looking for that sort of extra coin. I merely accompany Jack on his labors tonight.”
“His labors being the pursuit of pornographic literature?” she says.
“Questionsabout pornographic literature,” Jack says as she lifts a chapbook from a box. “Like this.”
The woman sniffs. “You do not want that. It is far too pretty for a young man like you. That sort of thing is written for Miss Not-Mallory over here.”
I take the chapbook from Jack. It’s only about twenty pages long. On a skim, I can see it’s a story about a young woman alone in the city, innocent and sweet. By page five, she’s no longer so innocent and sweet.
I wrinkle my nose. “This is written for men.”
Jack’s and the printer’s brows shoot up in unison.
I wave the chapbook. “Innocent girl. Big bad city. Oh, please don’t touch me there. No, wait, I like being touched there. There would be a female audience for it, but it’s mostly aimed at men.”
“We have others,” the printer says.
“Such as?”
“Not-so-innocent governess who goes to work for a lord and his longtime friend.”
“Is the friend actually just a friend?”
She meets my gaze. “No.”
“Huh. That might work. The key is the not-so-innocent part. Women don’t want to read about other women being ruined. They want to read about them having fun.”
Jack chokes on a laugh.
The printer says, “We also have an entire series called The Merry Widow.”
That makes me think of Lady Inglis, but I hide my reaction. “Even better.”
“The Merry Widow, you say?” Jack murmurs, moving forward. “So there is an appetite for such things?”
“The fellow who has them printed up certainly seems to think so.”
“And if someone came by asking about printing intimate letters written by an actual widow, you’d send them to him?”
She waves a hand. “No, it’s not that sort of thing. This fellow has a writer already. And they aren’t letters. They’re stories.”
“So if I had such letters...?” Jack says.
