A Collar and Tie (Ganymede Quartet Book 4) (47 page)

Martin’s cheeks pinked and he ducked his head. “Of course,
Sir. I’ll be back soon to dress you, Sir.”

At a quarter to one on Sunday, they set off for the stables,
walking abreast but not talking, the mood subdued. It would be better, Henry
thought, once they met up with Victor and Will. They would each have someone to
talk to and wouldn’t have to interact with or even think of each other until
the outing was over.

At the stables, Jerry held Marigold ready for Henry, and
Arthur was likewise waiting for Martin with Partita. The grooms had an air of
being somehow sorry for Henry, and Henry found it very irritating and
inappropriate. He wondered what Martin had told them. If it weren’t for the
fact that finding out would require extensive conversation between Martin and
himself, he would demand answers.

Henry wasn’t talking to Martin because he was hurt, and
because he meant to punish him, but also because he suspected that any
prolonged conversation between them would see him coming around to Martin’s
point of view. Martin was a clever talker, diplomatic, even manipulative, and
Henry would not fall victim to his blandishments and evasions.

They rode away from the stables, Martin riding a little
ahead, as usual. Henry had always liked the way Martin looked on horseback, and
he still looked very elegant, but without his hair he’d lost some of that
fairytale magic, and Henry missed it.

Victor and Will were waiting for them at the park. Victor
was on his big white gelding, which had grown quite fat, and Will was on an
unremarkable bay mare. Victor laughed when he saw them coming.

Henry gave him a little wave. “Hey there. What’s so funny?”

Victor was looking at Partita when he said, “My god, Henry,
no one gets a horse like that for a
slave
!” Victor gestured toward
Will’s bay mare. “
This
is a slave’s horse. That’s a…a show horse! Does
she do dance steps? She looks like one that would dance.”

“Very funny.” Henry rolled his eyes, but felt a flush
climbing his neck. “She’s a regular horse.”

“Your family does the weirdest things,” Victor remarked,
shaking his head.

“Different, maybe,” Henry said, not liking the direction of
this conversation. “I don’t think we do anything
weird
.” He gave
Marigold a little squeeze with his knees to get her moving.

Victor rode alongside. “Sure, different. Whatever. I don’t
mean anything by it, you know that. It’s just that the rest of us are used to
doing things the way they’ve always been done, so every little thing you do
differently stands out.”

Henry thought about his family’s idiosyncrasies. They didn’t
attend church. His mother neither visited nor received. His father went about
town with a mistress of long standing. They had too many slaves and their house
was too large, and they had allowed their slaves to hold a party in their home.
As for Henry himself, he wasn’t interested in girls, he didn’t swap, he gave
his slave extravagant versions of everything, and he had fallen in love when
all he was supposed to do was have rote sex for health reasons.

Henry frowned. “I don’t think we do things
that
differently.” He changed the subject. “Say, what have you heard about Adam? Has
he picked out another slave?”

Victor did not know, but they spent a long while discussing
Adam and the rest of their classmates. Victor tried to ferret out information
about Henry’s rift with Louis, but Henry kept his mouth firmly shut, although
he wasn’t able to forestall an angry flush. He did think, though, that Victor
still believed it was something to do with Abigail.

Martin seemed to be enjoying his time with Will. Henry had
glanced back a few times, just out of habit, and had seen him smiling. Once he
had caught Henry looking and had smiled at
him
, and Henry had gone red
immediately and whirled around to face forward.

Victor said, “The way you’re always blushing, Henry…it makes
everyone wonder what in the hell you’re thinking about. It must be something
really good.”

Henry flushed a deeper scarlet. “Not really,” he murmured.
“It just happens. I’m not even thinking about anything.”

Victor did not seem to believe this claim. “I always figure
you must have some huge stash of dirty pictures and you’re going over them in
your mind.”

Henry shook his head. “Nope. If I did, I’d share them,
wouldn’t I? I’m just easily embarrassed, is all.”

“Well, I hope you grow out of it,” Victor said. “Imagine if
you still do it when you’re an adult, in a business meeting or something.”

The very idea made Henry even more embarrassed. “Can we stop
talking about this? It’s making me really self-conscious.”

“Sorry,” Victor said, not sounding particularly sorry at
all. “Say, let’s run the horses. I want to see how fast Will’s can go.”

They galloped the horses around the top of the reservoir.
Partita was the fastest, Marigold second, Will’s horse third, and Victor’s fat
gelding labored along in last position. For just a moment, as he was urging
Marigold to go faster, faster, right at Partita’s heels, with Martin glancing back
to see how close he was, Henry had felt joy. As always, it wasn’t about winning
or losing; it was about doing things together, and for months now Martin had
been his favorite person to do anything with.

He slowed Marigold to a trot and hung back, waiting for
Victor. He didn’t want to be near Martin, didn’t want to look at his face, and
certainly didn’t want to see his smile, for fear he might cry in front of
everyone.

“I guess I need to ride him more,” Victor said
philosophically, leaning forward to pat his horse on the neck. “With him fat
like this, it’s more like riding a cow.”

“We’ll ride with you,” Henry heard himself saying. “Anytime.
Otherwise we just have to go by ourselves, and that’s no fun.” That wasn’t
really true though; up until recently, it had been the most fun. It wasn’t so
much that Henry was eager to spend more time with Victor—who he did like just
fine—but a group ride would mean a brief respite from the tension between
Martin and himself.

“Well, how about same time next Sunday?”

“Sounds good,” Henry said. He turned in his saddle. “Martin?
Will you remember that, please?”

“Next Sunday, Sir. Yes, Sir.”

The Spences kept their horses in a block of stables one
street north of the Blackwell stables. The boys said their goodbyes at the
corner and, as soon as Victor had gone, Henry goosed Marigold into a trot and
headed for the stables. Martin followed close behind. At the stables, Danny ran
and got the grooms, and the grooms took the horses off their hands.

“Same time next week,” Henry told Jerry. “I’ll have Martin
remind you.”

“Yes, Sir. Of course, Sir. We’ll be ready.”

On the walk back home, all the awkwardness that had been
alleviated by being in the company of friends returned. Henry wanted to ask
Martin if he’d had a good time, and if, in that moment when he’d turned around
to see Henry gaining on him as they’d galloped, he’d also felt the old, pure
pleasure of being in one another’s company. He wanted to ask him what, if
anything, he’d told Will, or Tom, or any of the others. Henry wanted to ask him
if he was sorry—he wanted to beg him to
be
sorry—for what he’d done, so
Henry could start thinking about forgiving him. But Henry could not bring
himself to speak, and the silence grew so uncomfortable that Henry’s skin was
crawling by the time they got home, and he took a long, scalding shower in a
futile effort to rid himself of the prickly anxiety.

The next few days passed mostly uneventfully, everything sad
and boring, except that Henry’s body was going out of its way to humiliate him.
He could not control his body’s hopeful, humid responses to Martin’s touch as
he was being dressed, his cock twitching and thickening as Martin, source of
all sexual pleasure, slipped cufflinks into his cuffs or tied his tie. He
closed his eyes and wished himself invisible as he was overtaken by a creeping
flush of absolute mortification. Martin said nothing, of course, and managed to
dress Henry without looking at either his crotch or his face, but it had to be
obvious. It had to be obvious that Henry’s body had already forgiven
Martin—that Henry’s body had never been mad at him in the first place.

On Wednesday afternoon after school, Martin upset Henry anew
by trying to start a conversation that he didn’t want to have.

“Sir,” he said tentatively, as he knelt with Henry’s suit
trousers ready. “Sir, do you think you might be ready to talk about—”

Overcome by a wave of humiliation, Henry panicked; he
couldn’t bear to hear the rest of what Martin might say. “No! How many times do
I have to tell you not to talk to me?”

“But, Sir, please!” Martin looked up at Henry, beseeching.
“I want to explain—”

“No! You betrayed me!” Henry snapped. “Why should I listen
to anything you say? It’ll just be more lies!” All it would take would be
Martin claiming to love him, and he’d melt. He’d give in, and he didn’t want to
be that pathetic, that easy.

Martin reached up to him, his hand so graceful. “
Please
,
Henry—”

“No.” Henry shook his head, adamant, trembling with fierce
sorrow. “
No
. You can’t use my name. Not anymore. Not ever. I’m your
master, and you should remember it.”

Martin went very pale and said nothing. Henry glared at him
until he looked away, head bowed, properly submissive.

It hurt. It hurt more than anything. He hated their
situation. He hated himself.

“Don’t talk to me,” Henry repeated, trying to sound
imperious.

“I’m sorry, Sir. I-I won’t do it again.” Martin got to his
feet, head still bowed.

“Good,” Henry said sullenly, buttoning his braces in front
while Martin buttoned them in back.

The rest of the afternoon and evening passed uneventfully,
and Martin was as good as his word, barely saying anything to Henry at all.

On Thursday, they came home from school and Martin changed
Henry out of his school uniform, did the same for himself, and picked up his
violin case.