A Collar and Tie (Ganymede Quartet Book 4) (57 page)

He got up again and went into the bathroom and locked the
door before taking his cock out of his trousers, and he came in an instant just
on the hope that he could reconcile with Martin, that he could be forgiven for
his selfish, lousy behavior. He’d caught his mess in his handkerchief and took
this guiltily into Martin’s room on tiptoe and deposited it in the laundry
basket, tucking it beneath last night’s pajamas. He returned to his armchair
and his unreadable book and waited with his heart in his mouth for Martin to
return.

There were footsteps in the hall and then a knock at the
door, but the rhythms were wrong, and it wasn’t Martin at all. Henry opened the
door to Paul with an envelope in his hands.

“Sir? There’s a letter for you.”

The envelope was addressed simply to
Henry Blackwell
in a familiar slanted hand.

“Mr. Briggs dropped this by, Sir.”

“Just now?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“He didn’t want to come in?”

“No, Sir. He just said to give this to you.” Paul hesitated,
then said, “It was nice to see him again, Sir.”

Henry frowned, lips pressed tightly together. He was not
enthusiastic about the slaves chipping in their opinions on the state of his
relationships. “Thank you, Paul.” He shut the door and took the envelope back over
to his armchair. He was a little afraid to open it. He took a deep breath, slid
his finger under the flap, and tore it open.

Henry,

Your mother invited me to your party, but I’m not sure if
you
really want me to come. It’s been a long time since we talked, and you weren’t
exactly friendly when we last did, not that I blame you.

Before school let out, it was pretty obvious to me that you
weren’t getting along with Martin, and I don’t know what that means, but I’m
sorry I got in the middle of it and tried to make it my business. You were
really happy, and I guess it was because of him. I should have left well enough
alone. I feel like whatever has happened is all my fault.

You know I got all my ideas about queers and fairies from
James, but in recent months I’ve come to question nearly everything James ever
told me, those things included. You’ve always been a good friend to me, Henry.
You’re like a brother to me. You’ve been a better brother than James, that’s
for sure! If you’re really in love with Martin, I can’t say that I’ll ever
understand it, but I sincerely hope you’ll be able to patch things up with him.
It doesn’t hurt anyone for you to be happy with him, is what I think now.

Peter and I miss you two. If you want me at your party, I’ll
gladly come, but I need to hear from you that it’s what you want. I don’t want
to show up and spoil the party with a scene. Telephone or just come over and we
can talk.

Your friend,

Louis

Why couldn’t Louis have come to this conclusion a month and
a half ago, right after the ball? None of this misery would have come to pass!
Henry would have to think about whether he wanted to see Louis at his party or
not; he was inclined to think Louis should be there, though he certainly agreed
that Louis bore some of the blame for what had happened. He would think on it a
little longer, perhaps, and then he’d call, or maybe he’d call tomorrow. Too
much was happening today. Henry felt better, though, knowing that Louis wanted
to make amends.

Henry slumped in his armchair and tried to think of what he
might say to Martin when he returned, how he might fix everything he’d broken.
He’d misunderstood so much, he could see that now. If Martin had been doing
what he felt was absolutely best for Henry, then maybe he hadn’t been lying,
maybe he
had
done it out of love.

In running away, Henry had wanted to escape with Martin to a
place where they’d be beyond reach of his father, his friends, and anyone else
who might judge them harshly for loving one another. He’d been eager to
circumvent expectations and leave behind traditional concerns, and he’d been
excited by the possibilities of an outlaw world, a queer society with limitless
freedoms. Just the taste of it they’d shared had been a revelation. Henry could
concede it might have just been luck, that the fun might not have lasted, but
he couldn’t help thinking it might have been worth the risk to have what seemed
like real freedom.

But why had he thought Martin would want it? Martin had told
him over and over that he was happy as a slave, that his life in Henry’s
service was better than any freedom he could have possibly been born into. Just
as Henry had grown up with the unwelcome idea that he must somehow distinguish
himself in the world, Martin had been raised and groomed solely for the purpose
of serving in a prestigious house, and he embraced his status with pride and no
small sense of superiority. Unlike Henry, who balked at the future set out
before him, Martin welcomed his fate and he exceled. He really was a Superior
boy. Because of the unorthodox nature of their intimate relationship, it had
been easy for Henry to discount how very conventional Martin was in other ways,
what a dutiful slave, cleaving to tradition and obeying rules. Henry had done
Martin no favors, forcibly removing him from the life he’d loved and attempting
to replace it with a “freedom” he’d wanted no part of. Martin didn’t want to be
an ordinary man in a collar and tie; Martin wanted to be the elite companion of
a deserving master–and it was well within Henry’s power to give him that life.

Henry had thought Martin had rejected
him
for
Father’s favor, but perhaps it wasn’t Henry himself that Martin had rejected.
Martin respected Father, maybe feared Father, but he had loved Henry. Martin
had rejected Henry’s romantic notions about freedom, but he had never stopped
behaving as if he loved Henry himself. Despite Henry’s nastiness and shoddy
treatment of Martin these last few weeks, it seemed possible, just possible, he
might forgive Henry and love him again.

Henry wasn’t willing to entirely abandon his dreams of
freedom, but he could see his way to tempering them. The most important thing
was being with Martin, and Martin wanted to be
here
, in Father’s house,
and he’d be miserable if Henry made him go elsewhere. Maybe it would be
different if
Henry
were different, if he were more responsible and
dependable, but he was who he was. Being honest with himself, he probably
wouldn’t be able to manage out in the world on his own just yet, even with
Martin’s help. If he loved Martin as much as he professed, then he should do
what would make Martin happy, which meant staying put and enjoying the bounties
of an upper class existence, which wasn’t exactly a hardship, after all. He
could live the life Martin—and Father—wanted for him, at least for now. He
didn’t think he could agree to marry, but he would make compromises and
concessions, and he would be generous and realistic.

He thought of the men’s ball, the Friday night dances, and
imagined returning to 14
th
Street to revel in
the particular freedoms of the place, and wondered if occasional evening jaunts
might be enough to satisfy his desire for acceptance and acknowledgement. Might
Martin be willing to go, if he were assured Henry would return safely home? It
would not be the first thing he’d ask Martin, of course, but if all else went
well, he would certainly ask!

At last Martin’s knock came at the door. Henry sat up
straight, eager and alert.

“Come in,” Henry called, his voice louder than he’d
intended, and he was blushing when Martin entered.

“Good evening, Sir,” Martin offered with a shy smile. “If
it’s all right with you, Sir, I’ll just take my violin to the parlor so it’s in
readiness for family hour.”

“Oh.” Henry had not anticipated this need, and it was
entirely reasonable, yet it still threw him off. Flustered, he said, “Okay,
sure. You do that.”

“Thank you, Sir. I’ll be right back to dress you.” Martin
disappeared into his own room, reappeared with the violin case, and exited into
the hall with a polite nod.

Henry tried to regulate his breathing, to calm himself. He
had so much he wanted to convey, and had so little idea of how he might do
that. Martin knew he wasn’t good with words, though, and surely he’d make
allowances for Henry’s shortcomings—or at least he would if he still cared for
Henry at all, and Henry thought he might.

Martin knocked again, and slipped inside. He stood with his
hands behind his back, head cocked. “Might I dress you now, Sir?”

Henry flushed a miserable red at the thought of Martin’s
hands on his body. “Oh, of course.” He got to his feet and went to stand before
the mirror and let Martin do his work.

“I wanted to thank you, Sir, for letting me play for Mr.
Wilton and Russ.” Martin helped Henry off with his waistcoat.

“Oh, well, I’m glad you enjoyed it.” Henry was flustered. “I
know we all appreciated it.” He thought a moment. “I hope it’s not too much to
play twice in one day. I didn’t think of that before.” He shrugged off his
braces and unbuttoned his fly.

“Oh, no, Sir. If I didn’t have other duties, I’d be happy to
play all day long.” He unbuttoned Henry’s cuffs, one and then the other, and
then reached for his collar.

Henry lifted his chin so that Martin could see what he was
doing. “If my parents enjoy it, I’ll let you play for them regularly, all right?
But if they’re a lousy audience, I won’t make you put up with that.”

Martin laughed, and Henry was delighted to hear it. “I’m
sure they’ll be polite, at least, Sir.” He quickly unbuttoned Henry’s shirt and
held his hands ready to accept the wadded garment as Henry pulled it off over
his head.

Henry felt he was taking a risk when he said, “You deserve
an appreciative audience, Martin.” His face was on fire and his hands shook, a
fine tremor that Martin couldn’t fail to notice.

But Martin behaved as though nothing was amiss. “It’s kind
of you to say so, Sir.” He smiled, his cheeks pink with pleasure, and collected
Henry’s suit pants from the floor. As he stood, he brought a cloud of vetiver
scent with him, and Henry whimpered, instantly mortified.

Still Martin seemed to notice nothing untoward. He helped
Henry on with his dinner shirt, his trousers, his braces, his cufflinks and
collar and tie. He stepped around to hold Henry’s waistcoat ready and said,
“It’s nice to talk with you like this, Sir.”

“Is it?” Oh, how Henry loved to hear this!

Martin nodded in the affirmative. “It’s lovely, Sir,
really.”

I miss you, too
, Henry wanted to tell him.
I love
you still and forever
. He wanted to say so many things.
I’m an idiot and
I don’t deserve you, but I want you to love me anyway
. But there had to be
a way to put it that would sound better, that would leave him a little dignity.

Did he really care about dignity? Did that really matter at
this point?

Martin got Henry’s dinner jacket and held it up for him, and
Henry put his arms in the sleeves. Martin came around to face him and smoothed
the shoulders of the jacket into place with firm sweeps of his hands; he had
not touched Henry like this in weeks, it seemed, and the contact left Henry
breathless and gasping.

“Sir?” Martin looked concerned, his face so close to
Henry’s.

“I’m fine,” Henry insisted, overcome by another raging
blush.

“Very well, Sir. Are you ready to go down?”

They descended to the dining room, Henry desperately aware
of Martin at his back.

Mother was wearing her bronze dress printed with fuchsia
roses, which seemed to be her special occasion costume. “Hello, darlings,” she
said. “I’m excited for our concert this evening.”

“Hello, Mother.” Henry paused while Martin pulled out his
chair.

Martin murmured a discreet, “Ma’am.”

Father nodded at Henry and cleared his throat, which served
as greeting, and Henry said, “Good evening, Father,” in reply.

They were served a clear soup, fish and vegetables,
filet
de boeuf Montebello.
Henry was hungry but did not care for the complicated
Montebello
and so ate slowly, wondering what Martin might be thinking of, and then
supposed he might be thinking about his upcoming performance and certainly not
thinking about Henry at all.

If Henry said
Are you sorry for anything? This is what
I’m
sorry for,
and listed his many mistakes, would Martin want to listen?
Martin had tried to explain himself to Henry so many times, but would he want
to try again? Henry would hear him this time, he really would.

Billy brought him a chicken dish and more vegetables and
Henry ate absent-mindedly, putting his energies into hoping and wishing that
Martin might prove receptive to his overtures. He wanted to turn around and
look upon Martin’s face, but knew this breach of etiquette would irritate his
parents and draw unwanted attention. It took a great deal of willpower to stay
facing forward, and he had a hard time giving his chocolate
Bavarois
proper attention when it arrived.

After dinner, Mother left the dining room on Pearl’s arm,
and Father got up from his chair with a cranky grunt. Henry stood up, heart
pounding, and turned around, and was still a stupid moment just looking at
Martin’s face. Martin smiled at him, the dazzling smile he’d missed so much.

As he passed through the dining room door, Father said,
“Henry, don’t dawdle. Your mother is quite eager to hear Martin play his
violin.”

Henry snapped to attention. “Yes, sir. We’re coming.”

Upstairs, Mother and Pearl sat expectantly on the settee,
watching with interest as Martin tuned his instrument. Father seemed inclined
to behave as he usually did, reading correspondence and dictating notes to
Timothy, though Timothy looked up frequently at Martin, obviously interested in
what he might do.

Martin cleared his throat, the spots of high color back in
his cheeks. “Excuse me, Ma’am, Sirs…might I begin?”