A Most Personal Property (Ganymede Quartet Book 1) (13 page)

“It will go easier tomorrow, Sir, I’m sure of it,” Martin said from his place on the floor.

Henry could hear the strain in his voice and felt bad about his cross behavior. “This is new to us both,” he told Martin. “I’m sorry I was impatient.”

“Oh, you needn’t apologize to
me
, Sir!” Martin said, flustered.

Henry made an effort then to be a good master, a caring master. “Did your morning go well?” Henry asked. “Before you woke me, I mean. Was your breakfast satisfactory? Are you getting along with the other slaves?”

“Oh, yes, Sir, everything is lovely, and the rest of the slaves are very welcoming. I’m going to be very happy here with you, I’m sure.”

“Well, you’ll have to tell me if there are any problems, all right?”

“Of course, Sir. Though I certainly don’t anticipate any problems.”

They went down to breakfast. Father and Mother were already in the breakfast room, along with Timothy, Pearl, Randolph and Paul in attendance. These were the last few days when Henry could relax at breakfast; in the summer months, Henry was not required to be at table at any particular time, but during the school year, he was expected to be in the breakfast room before Father.

Martin pulled out the chair and Henry sat. Martin unfolded Henry’s napkin and placed it in his lap with a little flourish.

“Will you have coffee or tea, Sir?”

Henry darted a glance at his father. He had only been offered coffee on rare occasions in the past, but now that he was a quasi-adult with a slave of his own, might he be allowed to choose for himself? He didn’t want to ask for coffee and have Father deny him, but neither did he wish to pass up any chance at an adult privilege.

“You’re old enough to have coffee if you want,” Father said, not looking up from his paper. “A cup in the morning won’t hurt.” Mother made a sound that implied she disagreed, but she made no articulate protest.

“Coffee, then, please,” Henry said happily. Martin smiled at him, and Henry could tell that Martin was pleased for him.

“How do you take it, Sir?”

“Cream and lots of sugar.”

Martin brought the coffee on a tray with a tiny pitcher of cream and a bowl of sugar cubes. “If you show me how you like it, Sir, next time I can make it for you.”

Henry lightened the coffee to a pale tan and dropped in four sugar cubes. Tasting it, he pronounced it, “Perfect. Just like this.”

“Very good, Sir,” Martin said. “Tomorrow I’ll do it for you.” He smiled, showing real pleasure, and Henry was struck anew by how lovely he was, such a very beautiful boy, and his heart lurched in his chest. Embarrassed, he ducked his head in hopes of hiding the pink in his cheeks.

Martin surveyed the breakfast buffet and reported back to Henry on what was available, then Henry told him what to put on his plate. Martin brought him a plate heaped with scrambled eggs, potato hash, sausage, bacon and pancakes with maple syrup and Henry began to eat, acutely conscious that Martin was there, behind his chair, awaiting orders. He felt alternately immensely powerful and unbearably scrutinized.

As Henry was scraping up the last of the food from his plate, Father said, “Timothy will be with you today, Henry. He’ll help you finish up the shopping for your Martin.”

“Shopping, sir?” Hadn’t they done the shopping yesterday at Hamilton’s?

Father’s face wore the exasperated look he had all-too-frequently when discussing almost anything with Henry. “He has needs beyond clothing, Henry. He’ll need a bicycle if he’s to keep up with you. I believe he also requires a violin.”

Henry had forgotten that Martin could play.

“We can wait to buy a horse,” Father continued, thinking aloud. “The boy might ride Mrs. Blackwell’s horse in the meantime.”

“Very good, Sir,” said Timothy. “When you’re ready, Young Sir. Martin.”

They rode downtown on the omnibus, Henry seated and the slaves standing swaying in the aisle. Martin’s bowler hat sat at a slightly rakish angle and fine tendrils of his milky-coffee hair had escaped from his tidy tail. Henry thought him very handsome indeed. When he saw Henry looking at him he smiled and Henry blushed and dared to smile back, the merest lifting of the corners of his mouth.

They went to the same shop where Henry’s own bicycle had been purchased. The salesman brought out several models which Martin awkwardly mounted in the narrow aisle, testing the spring of the seat and gauging the proper frame height for his long legs.

“Which do you like, Sir?” Martin asked. He stood close, no closer than Louis might, but it seemed so intimate.

“If it were me,” Henry said, “I’d pick the green.” It looked fast and had white rubber tires and a bright chrome bell.

“I like that one, too, Sir,” Martin gave him another of those dazzling smiles, so warm and inviting. He turned to Timothy. “Mr. Tim, I think I’ve decided.”

After arranging for the bicycle to be delivered, they next went to the luthier’s shop. Henry knew nothing of instruments, and he didn’t think his father or Timothy did, either. It was entirely dependent upon Martin to choose something suitable. Henry and Timothy sat on a bench along the shop wall while Martin stood in a pool of sunlight and tried one violin after another, playing some piece of time-stopping music he knew by heart, his elegant bony fingers dancing over the strings, eyes closed. The air filled with honeyed ripples. Henry was slightly in awe, and it thrilled him to know he could command this performance at any time.

“This one is my first choice, Mr. Tim,” Martin explained, lightly touching the leftmost of the two violins that lay on the counter before him. “But if it’s too expensive, this other is also good.”

The luthier smiled and let his hand rest on the more expensive violin. “You play so beautifully, it would be a shame not to have the best instrument.”

Timothy raised his eyebrow at this obvious ploy, but clearly he also saw the truth in what the violin maker said. “You should have your first choice,” he told Martin. “Mr. Blackwell believes quality is worth paying for, and you do seem quite skilled.”

Martin’s face lit up and he grabbed at Henry’s arm in his excitement. “Oh, thank you, Sir, Mr. Tim! Thank you, both!” When Martin took hold of his arm, Henry instantly stiffened and held his breath, but then Martin realized what he had done and hurriedly let go. “Oh, Sir, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to impose upon you!” Martin seemed almost frantic, and certainly there were masters who would consider such contact a grievous presumption, but Henry did not like to think he was one of them.

“It’s all right,” Henry muttered, turning away to hide his blush. Was he going to blush every time Martin spoke to him? It was going to become very tiresome.

They came away with the violin in its case and a sheaf of music. Timothy took them to lunch at a rather somber restaurant, mahogany and heavy drapes, and dark as a cave in the middle of the day, a place that Father liked but that struck Henry as rather depressing. Martin pulled out Henry’s chair, then both Timothy and Martin stood until Henry, embarrassed, told them to sit at the table with him, as Father always did.

“Your house is so generous, Sir, Mr. Tim.” Despite the dual address, Martin seemed to be directing his remarks to Timothy, and in any case Henry had a mouthful of chicken and could not reply. “I’m quite overwhelmed, being given such fine things.”

Timothy wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Mr. Blackwell
is
very generous. He expects excellent service, of course, and loyalty without exception. Repay him by taking good care of Young Sir,” Timothy said, with a nod to Henry.

“I will do my best, Mr. Tim,” Martin said with appealing fervency.

Timothy smiled. “I get the impression that your best is very good indeed.”

Martin blushed, the first Henry had seen of it, and looked well-pleased.

After lunch, they took a cab back home, as Timothy was tired and didn’t want to stand on the omnibus. Timothy let Henry and Martin sit on the forward-facing seat, which was a novel perspective for Henry, and one he quite enjoyed. He was still dreadfully aware of Martin’s shoulder rubbing against his at every bump and pothole, but at least he wasn’t blushing every few seconds.

“I could play for you, Sir, if you’d like,” Martin said. “I know all sorts of music.”

Henry cleared his throat. “Yes, I’d like that.”

“Not just yet, if you don’t mind, Sir,” Timothy said. “There are matters I need to discuss with Martin if you can spare him for an hour.”

Henry had no idea what he was going to do with Martin for the rest of the day, how he would fill the time and not look a right fool, so Timothy’s request came as a relief. “That’s fine with me.”

As they pulled up at the Blackwell residence, Henry could see from Martin’s expression of awe that he was still getting used to the fact of the house. He turned to Henry and smiled. “I can’t quite believe I live here, Sir. Thank you for choosing me.” He touched Henry’s sleeve affectionately, then pulled away quickly. “Sorry.”

“It’s all right,” Henry said, because he wanted it to be all right. “I don’t mind.”

Inside, Martin followed Henry up to their rooms, deposited his violin case on his desk, and went back downstairs to find Timothy. Henry sought some activity to occupy himself. That new issue of
Pals
would have something of interest beyond the Theo and George story; he flopped down on his neatly-made bed and began to read. He’d been reading for about ten minutes when he heard the doorbell off in the distance. A few minutes later, Paul was knocking at his door.

“Sir? Mr. Briggs is here to see you.”

Louis! Louis, who also had a new slave! “Send him up,” Henry said eagerly. He set the magazine aside.

Louis had a boy with him, a slave from Endymion if Henry had his moon-and-stars mark correct. The slave was taller than Louis and had sandy blond hair and very blue eyes. Henry could see plainly he was quite good-looking, but he simply couldn’t compare to Martin.

“Who’s this, then?”

Grinning with pride, Louis made a sweeping gesture with his arm. “
This
,” he said, “is Peter.”

Peter bowed and smiled at Henry. “At your service, Sir.”

“Where’s yours?” Louis demanded, looking around the room, then craning his neck to peer down the short hall into the slave room. “I want to get another look at the most expensive slave in the
whole city
.”

“That’s probably not true,” Henry protested.

“Probably not,” Louis agreed cheerfully, “but the most expensive one owned by anyone in our school, at any rate. Everyone was talking about it.”

Henry blushed. He didn’t want to have the reputation of making ostentatious purchases, even for things he badly wanted.

Louis saw that he’d made him uncomfortable. “Oh, don’t be embarrassed, Henry…lots of people wanted him. I’m sure he’s worth every penny.” Then he paused for a moment and asked, “So…
is
he worth it? You know? Is it any good?” He elbowed Henry and this time laughed when his friend blushed a deeper red. “I’ll take that for a yes.” Then he grinned and said, “
So
much better than your own hand, don’t you think?”

Louis flopped across the end of Henry’s bed without being asked. “You can sit, too,” he said to Peter. “Bed or floor.” Peter crossed around the foot of the bed and perched near Louis’ head.

Louis was content to wait around for Martin to finish whatever Timothy had him doing and used the time to list Peter’s many skills and abilities. Peter was a good student, of course, and he liked baseball. He was a crackerjack player of both bagatelle and billiards. He could dance, of course, and ride a bicycle. He could burp on command, though this was of course not something taught by Endymion! Louis had an easy rapport with Peter that Henry envied. The only person Henry had ever been very comfortable with was Louis, and even with Louis he wasn’t terribly relaxed. Surely, Louis would see the distance between Henry and Martin right away, and Henry prayed that Louis would not say anything or make a joke.

There was a knock at the door. “Sir?” Martin called. “May I come in?”

“Please,” Henry said. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

“I’m sorry it took so long, Sir.” Martin gave a quick, apologetic bow.

Introductions were made. Louis was impressed with Martin. “Girls will really like the look of him,” he said, calculating. Louis had a great many unrealized fantasies about meeting working class girls who would prove pliable in the face of the evidence of his family fortune. “Doesn’t matter that he’s a slave.”

Henry did not like the idea of using his beautiful, talented, special boy to lure factory girls into tawdry encounters, especially when he himself had no interest in girls.

“Did you stay until the auction was over?” Henry asked, changing the subject. “We left early enough that I didn’t see who anyone else took home.”

“I think everyone we know came away with a slave except for Adam Pettibone,” Louis told him. “Adam threw a tantrum when he lost
your
slave and it made his father so mad he decided that Adam has to stick with Sam. Now Adam is going around bragging that his father was only bidding to make your father overpay, but everyone knows it’s just sour grapes, and he’s mad as hell at his father for getting outbid.”

Henry had to admit that he liked the idea of Adam being so jealous he’d lose control and embarrass his father in public. He really didn’t understand why Adam had such contempt for little Sam, but then again, obviously Sam was nothing in comparison to Martin.

He felt eyes on his face and looked up to see Martin watching him with a serious expression. Had he been gloating? Would Martin think less of him for doing so?

“You and this Mr. Pettibone don’t get along, Sir?” Martin asked.

Henry shook his head. “I hate him,” he said simply. “We’ve been enemies forever.”

“Why is that, Sir?”

Louis laughed. “Henry’s inherited all his dad’s enemies.”

Henry gave Louis a dirty look. “His father has some beef with mine. I don’t really know what it’s about, and I don’t really care, either. Besides, he’s exactly the sort of person I don’t like. Loud and rough and messy.”