A Collar and Tie (Ganymede Quartet Book 4) (28 page)

Paul returned with Martin and Peter at his back.

“Peter, we’re leaving,” Louis said. He opened the door for
himself and stalked out, startling all the slaves. Peter shot a confused glance
at Martin but followed his master out the door.

“Sir? Is everything all right?”

“Come upstairs,” Henry said, turning on his heel. He went up
the stairs at a normal pace, not wanting Paul to see him run or do anything out
of the ordinary.

He said nothing to Martin in the hall, and even in his room
with the door locked behind him, he hesitated to speak, as if by keeping quiet,
he could keep things controlled just a moment longer.

“What happened, Sir? Are you and Louis fighting? Is this about
Miss DeWitt?” Martin was worried, his eyebrows drawn together over his nose
with concern.

He couldn’t look at Martin while he said it. Once again,
Martin had cautioned him against following his romantic impulses, but he had
insisted, and now
this
had happened. “Louis saw us.”

“Sir?”

“Kissing. Louis saw us kissing at the hotel. You were right,
Martin. I’m sorry. Anyone could see us.”

Martin’s face went ghostly white. His knees buckled and he
clutched at Henry’s arms to stay upright. “Oh,
no
, Sir!”

“Are you going to faint?” Henry wasn’t going to be able to
cope if Martin fell apart on him. He needed Martin to be strong.

Martin flushed, ashamed of his failure of nerves. “I-I’m
just taken aback, Sir.” He steadied himself with a deep breath and asked, “What
do we do now, Sir?”

“
I
don’t know!
You’re
the smart one!” Henry
had gotten them into this, but he had no idea how to get them out.

“Can I sit down, Sir?” Martin didn’t wait for him to answer,
but went to slump down on the edge of the bed. Henry sat beside him. “We have
to think, Sir. What exactly did he say to you?”

“He wants me to get rid of you,” Henry told him. “He saw us
kissing up against the wall and thinks it’s all your fault. He says he won’t
tell anyone and I think I can trust him, even now, but what if I’m
wrong
?”
He pictured his entire class jeering and laughing at him. He recalled Father’s
harsh admonishments to behave himself, or else; his warning that Martin was a
privilege that he would not hesitate to revoke. “It’s like I’ve always known,
Martin. None of the people here will ever accept me for who I really am. Not
Louis, not my father, none of my friends.”

“I think your mother might be understanding, Sir,” Martin
offered tentatively, but Henry didn’t appreciate this information at all and
waved it off with a sneer.

“Louis won’t be my friend anymore,” Henry told him. “He says
not until I come back to my senses.”

Distressed by this news, Martin turned his face away.

“Are you crying? Don’t cry, Martin!” It was almost an order.
Henry didn’t know if he could handle Martin crying.

“I'm not crying, Sir,” Martin said, although he was. “You
shouldn't have to give up your friend for me.”

“I would give up everything for you,” Henry countered
angrily. “You're the most important thing to me.” Surely, Martin understood
this by now!

Martin lowered his face into his hands and his shoulders
shook as he cried soundlessly.

“Why does that make you sad?” Henry demanded, near panic.
“It should make you happy!”

Martin uncovered his face. “It does make me happy, Sir. But
it's not how things should be.”

“How should they be, then?”

“You shouldn't have fallen in love with me, Sir. I-I wanted
you to, but I didn't believe it would happen, so I was careless. I could have
been distant. I could have kept my feelings to myself.”

“I was going to fall in love with you no matter what,” Henry
insisted. “Stop crying about it,
please
. Help me figure out what to do!”

Martin did buck up, blowing his nose and squaring his
shoulders, gathering his resolve. “Forgive me for my outburst, Henry,” he said.
“It was inappropriate.”

“It’s all right,” Henry said, putting his arm around
Martin’s shoulders. “We’re both scared, is all.”

Martin leaned into Henry’s embrace and put his head on
Henry’s shoulder, slipping his arm about Henry’s waist.

“If Louis doesn’t tell, then maybe we don’t have to do
anything,” Henry suggested. “We’ll just have to be really careful from now on.
I’ll listen to you when you try to stop me doing stupid things, all right?”
Henry had learned his lesson now, and would behave in the future, and
everything would be absolutely fine. He tried not to think about how much it
hurt to lose Louis; he could think about that later.

“But if you and Mr. Briggs are no longer speaking, Henry,
don’t you think the rest of your friends will notice? You’ll have to explain it
somehow.”

Henry thought about this. If Louis were to simply stay clear
of him without fuss, their rift might go unnoticed for some period of time, but
if Louis were instead to be noticeable in his avoidance of Henry, questions would
crop up amongst their friends immediately.

“I know. You could hint that it has to do with his
brother—with James—and his threats at Halloween. You needn’t be specific, I
don’t imagine. Most of the boys in your class don’t much like Mr. Briggs’
brother, so they’ll definitely understand you not liking him, and they’ll also
understand that Mr. Briggs would necessarily need to stick up for his brother.”

“It’ll work unless Louis says something contrary,” Henry
said, carefully mulling over the possibilities. But Louis
could
say
something contrary at any time. He could tell Henry’s secret at whim. If it
came down to it being a matter of Louis’ word against his own, Henry wasn’t
sure he’d come out ahead. He was a bad liar, and Louis had both his persuasive
abilities and the truth on his side.

Henry didn’t know what to think, what to do. This James
story seemed like a good enough plan provided Louis was honorable, and Henry
thought Louis would be…but he hated the idea of Louis looking at him and
judging him and shaking his head. He hated the idea of Louis having the power
to humiliate him and ruin his life at any moment, for any reason, and he hated
the idea that getting rid of Martin was the only solution. He simply wasn’t
willing to be separated from Martin, not even temporarily, not even for show.

“I’ll stay home sick tomorrow,” Henry decided. “It’ll give
us more time to think.” And if Louis told everyone, then at least Henry would
have one additional day before his life was ruined.

“I wish your uncle was here,” Martin said wistfully. “He
might have some ideas, or could at least lend you courage.”

Henry wished Reggie had been more forthcoming about where
queer men might congregate, where he and Martin might find kindred spirits.
Reggie had yet to write with any practical advice, and all Henry had to go by
was his promise to help when he returned in the summer. Well, Henry didn’t have
time
to wait.

They lay back on the bed, Henry inside the circle of
Martin’s arms, his head on Martin’s chest as Martin petted his hair. Henry
tried not to think about all the bad things that could happen. He tried not to
think about social ruin, about Father taking Martin away and selling him, about
a life steeped in humiliation. He tried to make himself feel better thinking
about Uncle Reggie, but realized quickly that their circumstances were entirely
different. It didn’t really matter if Reggie Wilton was a fairy—the Wiltons
were no longer powerful or significant, and Reggie was the baby of the family
in any case. Henry Blackwell, however, was the scion of an industrial empire,
the only legitimate son, and he had to seem manly, commanding and strong or
else he might make Father look weak, as well. It was too much pressure. Henry’s
eyes stung with unshed tears.

“Henry?” Martin smoothed Henry’s hair off his forehead. “Do
you want lunch?”

They ate, and then Martin suggested that they might ride,
and Henry thought this was a very good idea. It was only when they were in the
park, well down the bridle path, that he was reminded of the last time he’d
been stupid and gotten caught, and he flushed angrily when they rode past the
trailhead for the faint footpath they’d taken into the woods, giving Marigold a
squeeze with his knees to urge her into a trot.

They lingered at the stables after their ride, watching as
Jerry and Arthur groomed the horses. Jerry, as always, behaved in a very
proprietary way with Marigold, and Arthur did the same with Partita. Martin
offered to help groom her, but Arthur turned him down, saying it was easier to
do it himself. Unneeded and unwanted, they left the stables and headed home.
Henry walked with his eyes cast down, embarrassed anew by memories of the
reporter in the park and upset about Louis.

“Try not to worry, Sir,” Martin murmured, bumping Henry with
his shoulder. “Worrying won’t make any difference.”

This just annoyed Henry, and it was an effort not to snap at
Martin. But this situation wasn’t Martin’s fault; it was entirely his own.

At home, they showered, Henry first, and when Martin came
out of the bath, Henry called him over to the bed and coaxed him to lie down.
Henry kissed him everywhere, thorough and lingering, and encouraged him to
touch himself while Henry licked his ass. Finally, Henry slid his fingers
inside Martin’s body and sucked him, letting him finish in his mouth.
Afterward, they kissed some more, but Henry wouldn’t let Martin do anything for
him in return. He felt like he owed Martin for getting them into this mess.

“Later, then,” Martin said, seeming a little uncomfortable
with the sexual imbalance.

“If you want to do something, read to me,” Henry suggested.
“You don’t have to do any voices except your own.”

“What would you like me to read?”

Henry had had a novel sitting half-unread on his nightstand
for weeks now, a story about pirates that was interesting enough, though
missing that Theo-and-George spark that he couldn’t help looking for in every
story he read now. “This will do,” Henry said, reaching for the book. “I can
barely remember the plot, but I imagine we’ll pick up the gist of it soon
enough.”

Martin sat up with his back against the headboard and Henry
lay with his head in Martin’s lap while Martin read to him. Martin’s voice was
calming, and in being read to Henry felt cared-for and protected. When Martin
didn’t need his hand to turn the pages, he was running it absently through
Henry’s hair and smoothing the skin of his forehead. Impulsively, Henry caught
Martin’s hand and brought it to his lips, kissing his fingertips.

“You’re sweet, Henry,” Martin said fondly, caressing Henry’s
cheek. He put the book face down on the bed. “That’s the end of the chapter. I
think it’s near my dinnertime.”

“Don’t let me keep you.” Henry sat up, freeing Martin’s
legs. Martin got up and went into his room to dress, then kissed Henry and left
for his meal.

Lying naked on the bed, Henry started immediately to worry,
wondering what Louis was going to do, or say, or even just think about Henry’s
situation. Was there some way to continue exactly as he’d been doing, yet
convince Louis that he’d given up his queer ways, stopped loving Martin? If
there was a way to do this, Martin was going to have to be the one to think it
up, as Henry simply wasn’t clever enough. He didn’t think he had the acting
skill necessary to claim that he’d reconsidered and now agreed with Louis and
have the subterfuge come off convincingly.

By the time Martin returned to dress Henry, Henry was fairly
anxious and feeling a little panicky. “I don’t know how to get out of this,” he
said. “I can’t give Louis what he wants.”

“Maybe Mr. Briggs will reconsider,” Martin offered, though
without conviction. “Maybe he will understand that you’re happy like this, with
me. I know he cares about you, Henry. Maybe that will matter if he thinks on it
a little longer.” He helped Henry put on his shirt and stood ready with his
collar while Henry tucked his shirttails in.

Henry was distracted and jumpy during dinner, annoying his
father, who was attempting to draw him out with questions about the ball, and
even Mother looked at him askance. Remembering his plan to stay home sick on
the morrow, Henry claimed a headache, as well as a stomach ache, and was told
to go to his room directly after the meal, skipping Pearl’s reading in the
parlor.

Henry got into bed fretful and broody, unable to relax and
talking at Martin non-stop about his worries. Martin, seeming quite fed up,
clearly didn’t want to hear any more of it.

“I love you, Henry,” he said. “No matter what happens, I
love you. No one can take that away from you.”

“But
you
,” Henry insisted. “
You
can be taken
away from me.”

“Let someone try,” Martin said with a confidence that was
surely misplaced. “I won’t let that happen.”

Henry was going to ask him what exactly he expected he could
do if they were forcibly separated, but Martin impressed upon him a flurry of
breathtaking kisses and shoved him over on his back. He then sat astride
Henry’s hips and reached for the oil bottle. When Henry opened his mouth,
Martin said, “Shut up, please. Whatever you were going to say, just shut up and
love me,” and so Henry did as he’d been told and felt much better afterward.

In the morning, Martin told Timothy and Pearl that Henry was
still suffering from a headache, possibly as a result of overindulgence in
champagne. However, as Henry had not complained of a headache the morning after
the dance, neither Timothy nor Pearl seemed convinced that Henry was truly ill.
Despite their doubts, it was agreed that Cook might prepare Henry a special
sickbed breakfast for one of the footmen to bring up on a tray.

Martin made Henry put on his pajamas, believing this would
help make him look more authentically ill than would his bare chest. Timothy
came up with Paul and the tray, and scolded Martin for not having placed a cool
compress on Henry’s forehead, saying, “If his headache is bad enough to keep
him at home, it’s certainly bad enough for you to treat.” Timothy mixed up a
headache powder for Henry to take and watched while he drank the bitter
beverage down.

Henry’s breakfast tray held just two soft-boiled eggs,
oatmeal with raisins and brown sugar, and his usual cup of milky coffee. It
seemed rather paltry to Henry, but he daren’t complain, not with Timothy
already so dubious of his malady.

While Henry ate, Martin told him what he already suspected.
“Unless you manage to break a bone, Mr. Tim is going to recommend to your
father that you go to school tomorrow.”

Martin read to him until lunchtime. The pirate story was
more interesting now, just because Martin was reading it, and although Henry
had told him he needn’t do voices, Martin had still managed to differentiate
the characters’ speech to a small but meaningful degree, and it did improve the
experience.

Martin went down for his own lunch and came back up with a
tray for Henry, vegetable soup and deviled ham sandwiches, and not enough of
either.

“I don’t think you can
starve
a headache away,” Henry
complained. “Am I being punished?”

Martin snickered. “We had cookies at our lunch. I’ll take
your tray down and sneak some for you, if I can.”

“Bring me a whole plate! My stomach won’t stop growling.” He
finished his sandwiches and soup and Martin took the tray away. Henry lay
staring at the ceiling. What was he going to
do
? He’d have to go to
school tomorrow–staying at home in bed playing sick wasn’t a long-term solution
anyway. He considered trying to talk to Louis, to reason with him, but that
sort of negotiation was hardly his strong suit and seemed likely to just make
things worse. Martin would be better at it, but Henry was quite confident that
Louis wouldn’t listen to Martin on any topic.

Martin returned with a plate stacked precariously high with
ginger cookies. “Cook likes you,” Martin said, smiling. “She says ‘get
better.’” He set the plate down on the nightstand, close at hand.

Henry stuffed a cookie in his mouth and chewed. It was
perfect: spicy, sweet, just crunchy enough. “She likes me?”

“She appreciates your appetite.” Martin took a cookie for
himself and sat on the bed at Henry’s side.

“Do the other slaves like me?” Henry had never thought to
ask before, but he supposed Martin would know.

“The ones who know you do. The maids really only know you by
your messes, but Billy and Paul love you and look out for you. Randolph cares
for you, too, and you know that Mr. Tim thinks of you as his own precious
child.”

“I guess I knew that,” Henry admitted. “I do love Timothy,
too. Until you came, he took the most interest in me of anyone in this entire
house. Well, him and Nurse.”

“But now
I
love you best,” Martin said, smiling. He
took Henry’s hand and intertwined their fingers.

Henry looked at their clasped hands lying on the coverlet.
Martin
did
love him best. What would he do without Martin? The
possibility of their being separated had to be eliminated entirely.

Martin squeezed and then let go his hand. “Might I play my
piece, Henry? I think I’ve figured out something about the bowing in the
chaconne
that I want to try.”

“Of course, of course.” Henry waved him off.

Martin went into his room and returned with his violin. He
began with the fifth movement, the
chaconne
, and got further without
stopping than he usually did, and Henry assumed this was due to the new bowing
idea. Martin then started at the beginning with the first movement, the
allemande
,
and Henry closed his eyes and let the familiar music wash over him, sprightly
yet plaintive, so much emotion in the violin’s throaty, sobbing tones.

Henry slept a little and woke with Martin snoozing behind
him on top of the covers, spooning him. He turned over with some difficulty and
tickled Martin awake. Martin screwed up his face and slapped at Henry’s hands
as he roused.

“Stop it! I hate that!” He held Henry’s wrists to still his
hands.

“Sorry,” Henry said, fond but quite insincere. He drew
Martin closer and breathed in the warmth of his neck. “Martin? I think we
should make plans.”

“Plans?”

“What we’re going to do if Louis tells.”

“But he said he wouldn’t tell.”

“I don’t want to depend on that,” Henry said firmly.
“There’s too much at stake. Do you remember what my father said? You’re a
privilege
.
You can be
revoked
.”

Martin frowned, not liking to recall this.

“He said he’d separate us if I made him angry again.
Remember? You were there. You heard it, too.”

“Maybe he’d be lenient,” Martin said, not sounding
convinced. “Last time we were caught, our punishment was very mild.”

“But it wouldn’t be a second time,” Henry said with
confidence. Father had no patience for Henry when he was behaving himself; he
certainly wouldn’t appreciate Henry defying him, and in such an embarrassing
manner besides.

“Maybe your father wouldn’t find out,” Martin suggested
hopefully. “Maybe Mr. Briggs would just…” Martin’s voice trailed off for a
moment. “Well, I was going to say that maybe he’d just tell your friends. That
would still be terrible, though, wouldn’t it?”

“You know it would ruin me. And it would get back to my
father anyway. He’d take you away, and I’d have to go to another school.” Henry
offered this next idea with the expectation that Martin would not take to it
initially: “We
could
leave.”

Martin shook his head. “We couldn’t.”

“We certainly could.”

“Where would we go?” Martin demanded. “We’d be much better
off throwing ourselves on your father’s mercy if it comes to that.”

Henry did not agree, not at all. “He might sell you, Martin.
He might send you back to Ganymede, and anything could happen to you after
that.”

He could see Martin was thinking about this.

“Martin,
Adam Pettibone
is looking for a new slave.
If you’re sent back to Ganymede, you could end up with him.”

“No…” Martin did not want to believe this, that much was
clear.

“You could be punished,” Henry said insistently. “You could
be hurt and scarred.” The idea of Martin bleeding and crying in pain made Henry
feel frantic.

“I just don’t think your father would go that far, Henry.”

“I’ve known him a lot longer than you have.”

Martin shook his head. “I don’t think you know your father
at all.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Henry was prepared to take
offense.

“I think he is a much kinder person than you credit him for.
He’s very kind to slaves.”

Henry had no reason to believe otherwise, but it did not
change the fact that he was intimidated by his father and feared his wrath.

“I’m sure he’d be angry, and he might separate us for a
time,” Martin allowed, “but I don’t think he’d sell me. He wouldn’t make his
money back, for one thing.”

“Why not?”

“Well, I’m not worth anything near what he paid for me.”

Henry took umbrage at this. “Of course you’re worth it!”

Martin sighed. “Thank you, Henry, but you know it was his
rivalry with Mr. Pettibone that raised the bidding so high. It set a record.”

“Yes, I know.”

“If I went up for sale again, all the prospective buyers
would know it was because I’d made a bad mistake, and they’d want to pay less
for me than for the average boy, not more. Your father would lose money, and
he’d still have to give you another companion.”

But Father didn’t need money, and if he was mad enough at
Henry, he might not care about losing some paltry sum. If Father was mad enough
at Henry, he might find it within himself to be unkind to a slave, and Martin
would be whipped.

“Or maybe he’d just want to be rid of you, and he wouldn’t
give me a companion at all. I’d be like Adam, making do without a slave, and
you’d go to someone else.” Someone like Adam. Someone who wouldn’t love him
like Henry did. Someone who’d hurt and abuse him. “I don’t want to risk that
happening.”

“I think it’s riskier to run away,” Martin said.

“But we could go anywhere. We’d pick a place that seems
safe.”

Martin scoffed at this. “How would
we
know if a place
was safe? And how would we live, Henry? There’s a lot of money in your tea tin,
I’ll admit, but it’s not enough to keep you in the manner to which you’re
accustomed.”

“I could get a job,” Henry suggested, feeling optimistic
about his possibilities.

Martin scoffed at this, too, which Henry did not appreciate.
“Doing what sort of work, Henry?”

“You know I’m really good at math. I could do accounts
somewhere.”

“There’s a big difference between doing figures on a
chalkboard and keeping account books,” Martin said with no small portion of
disdain. Martin’s lack of faith in Henry was irritating.

“Well, I’d find something,” Henry insisted. He’d have to,
wouldn’t he? Martin, with his Ganymede tattoo, would be ineligible for paying
work. Service slaves worked strictly for their masters’ households; only labor
slaves could be hired out by their owners. It was too bad, because there were a
lot of free people’s jobs that Martin would be good at.

Martin shook his head, firmly denying these possibilities.
“It won’t come to that, Henry.”

“But what if it
does
?” Henry didn’t understand why
Martin refused to acknowledge how dire the consequences could be. Martin could
be sold, whipped, and they could lose everything; they could lose
each other
.
Henry found these possibilities intolerable.

“We’ll figure something out,” Martin said. “We won’t have to
go anywhere.”

“What if I
want
to go?” Henry asked.

Martin rolled his eyes, seeming annoyed. “Why would you want
that?”

Just the two of them having an adventure, seeking safe
harbor like Theo and George—it appealed to Henry more and more. “Why
wouldn’t
you?”

Martin sighed. “You realize I’ve never been anywhere but the
farm and just a few parts of the city.”

Was Martin afraid? There was nothing to be afraid of!

“Traveling is fun,” Henry insisted. “I know you’d like it.”
Henry himself had not traveled overmuch, but he’d been to Philadelphia when he
was a boy and enjoyed the train trip. “You always like trying new things. Peep
shows! You’d never seen those before and now you love them.”

Martin made a sour face. “This is completely different,
Henry.”

“Well, you come up with a better idea, then.” Henry tried to
temper his frustration, reminding himself that Martin was not worldly and he
would have to be patient with him. Neither was he, of course, but the way to
become worldly was to go out into the world, after all. Why couldn’t Martin see
that?

“I
will
think about it,” Martin promised, ducking his
head so he could fit beneath Henry’s chin, curled against his chest. “But I’m
sure Mr. Briggs will keep his promise not to tell, Henry. We won’t need to
leave home.”

Henry wanted to argue this point some more, but bit his
tongue and decided against it. He would bring up the problem of a plan later.

Henry bent his neck and breathed in the grassy scent of
Martin’s hair. The idea of leaving home was daunting, but he thought he could
do anything so long as he had Martin at his side. They made a good team, didn’t
they? Martin was clever and good and lovable, and Henry was…well, he was
strong. He was brave sometimes. Perhaps his talents were yet to be discovered,
revealing themselves through adversity. Perhaps he would rise to challenges,
overcome obstacles, demonstrate hidden depths.

Thoughts of tribulation and calamity brought Theo and George
to mind again, and Henry recalled the passages about Theo saving George’s
life—paragraphs he’d memorized—cutting him down from the whipping post and
carrying him away. If he could do the same for Martin, keep him from harm, he’d
do it. He’d do whatever it took.

He pulled Martin close, his throat tight with emotion, and Martin
squirmed in his embrace.

“Ouch, Henry, you’re squashing me.”