A Most Personal Property (Ganymede Quartet Book 1) (14 page)

“Your master is kind of a priss,” Louis remarked to Martin, reaching out and giving Henry a friendly shove. “Not that I like Adam, either.”

Henry did not like being characterized as a priss one bit, and struggled not to descend into sulkiness. He glowered at Louis, who did not notice and likely would have laughed it off if he had.

“The only fight Henry’s ever been in was with Adam,” Louis volunteered.

Henry glared at Louis, wanting him to shut up. He didn’t want Martin to think he was some brute, of course, but neither did he want Martin to think that he was afraid of fighting when it was called for.

“I’ve been in loads of fights,” Louis offered blithely. “But
I
have lots of brothers.” Obviously, brothers would fight.

“What did you fight with Mr. Pettibone about, Sir?” Martin asked.

Henry said, “It was just a stupid fight. We were only 9. I don’t even remember what it was about.”

This was not true. Adam had said that Father was trash, and that twenty years ago he’d been little better than a slave, and it was true that Father had come up from nothing and made his own way in the world, but Henry had been under the impression that this was something that most people admired rather than scorned.

Adam had also claimed that Father was seen all over town with some woman by the name of Murdock—actually, Adam had called her ‘that Murdock whore’—and Henry wasn’t quite sure what to make of this, but because Adam was saying it, he’d guessed it was slanderous. When Henry asked where Adam had heard this untruth, Adam had proudly named his mother, and Henry had called Mrs. Pettibone a dirty gossip. Adam could not countenance this insult to his mother, and so they had fought.

Henry did not share any of this. It had just been a stupid fight.

“Adam didn’t fight fair,” Louis recalled. He was full of reminiscences, it seemed.

Even as a boy, Adam had been fat and dense, but Henry was quick and had greater reach. Adam had launched himself at Henry and hit him in the stomach with a meaty shoulder and they’d gone down in the dust, limbs flailing, and were immediately surrounded by all the boys from the yard, shouting and egging them on. Henry had gotten on top of Adam, straddling his well-padded ribs, and was leaning his full weight on Adam’s face with his left hand and punching his ear with the right when Adam cheated. He left off hollering and bit the hand that distorted his piggy features. He’d ended up with a mouthful of blood, and Henry was so shocked by the blood and pain that he’d tilted woozily into the dirt at Adam’s side. Adam had scuttled away, spitting red, and Louis had hurried to Henry’s side, both worried and excited by the bloodshed.

“He bit me,” Henry explained. “I was winning, so he bit me. I’ve still got a scar.”

“Where’s your scar, Sir?” Martin asked, seeming so interested.

“It’s just here,” Henry said, holding out his hand. It was on his left index finger, a curved white line on his golden olive skin that was perhaps three-quarters of an inch long.

Their teacher, Mr. Brill, had come to see what the ruckus was about and found Henry sitting in the dirt, lightheaded at the sight of his own blood, and wrapped his finger in a handkerchief while the doctor was fetched from the surgery down the street. In the end, Henry had received four stitches and an admonition against fighting.

At home, Pearl had given him some of Mother’s medicine for the pain and he’d slept through the dinner hour.

If Father had ever learned of the fight, he’d evidently not considered it worthy of his attention. In any case, Henry had not asked Father about this mystery woman he’d been squiring about town. Henry knew that Mother did not like to leave the house—truthfully, Mother did not like to leave her room—and perhaps this woman Father had been seen with was a friend with a similar predicament, a reclusive or invalid husband, and it was this scenario he had settled on in the aftermath of the fight.

“Adam
always
bites,” Louis remarked. “He bit our friend Gordon in a fight when we were 12. He’s like a rabid dog.” Louis reflected a moment and then said, “Henry gets dizzy at the sight of blood, by the way, his own and other people’s. When Gordon got bit, he fainted.”

This was entirely true, but Henry thought it very unnecessary to share with the slaves at this juncture, and glared daggers at Louis.

“I don’t like blood, either, Sir,” Martin said in a confessional tone. “My own doesn’t bother me so much, but I hate to see anyone else’s.”

“It makes me queasy, too, Sir,” Peter admitted.

“
I
don’t mind blood,” Louis claimed. “The gorier, the better, I say.” They all contemplated bloodshed a moment, then Louis elbowed Peter and said, “Hey, did you ever get in fights back in your Houses?”

“No, Sir,” Peter assured him. “It wasn’t allowed. We all had to get along.”

“It was the same at Ganymede, Sir,” Martin offered. “We had boxing, though.”

“We did, too, Sir,” Peter said. “We trained to fight, but we weren’t allowed to actually fight just because we were mad.”

“I always imagined there’d be lots of fighting,” Louis mused. “Like brothers do.”

Both Peter and Martin seemed to find this unfathomable. “Well, I
never
imagined that masters would be thinking about how we slaves lived before, Sir,” Peter said. “It’s not that interesting, I don’t think.” Martin nodded his agreement.

“But it’s very interesting,” Henry blurted. “You grow up learning all about us, how to take care of us, but we learn nothing about you. How you live, what you do for fun.”

“I think we’re just normal boys, Sir,” Martin said, clearly uncomfortable with the questions. “But you
do
know I like music.”

“That’s right!” Henry said enthusiastically. “Play something for them, will you, Martin?”

“As you wish, Sir.” Martin went into his room and fetched the violin. He looked very serious and exuded competence as he tucked the instrument under his chin and laid the bow across the strings. As he played, he dipped and swayed, shifting from foot to foot, almost a dance. The music that came forth was like syrup, pooling and streaming, golden and sweet. Martin finished a long piece, swooping and emotional, and then played a short, sprightly tune, something Henry could picture people dancing to. When he was done, he smiled at Henry and gave him a short bow. Henry and the others clapped enthusiastically.

“How long do you have to practice to be able to play like that?” Louis asked, clearly impressed.

“I’ve been playing since I was 6, Sir,” Martin told him. “I showed aptitude, and I really do enjoy it.”

Louis turned to Peter, frowning. “Do
you
play any instruments?”

Peter blushed, unhappy to be called out. “Well, no, Sir. I can pick out
Chopsticks
on the piano, though.”

Louis laughed, not unkindly, and said, “Well, Henry, there’s one reason yours cost so much more than the others.”

Martin retreated to his bedroom to put his violin away and when he came back to Henry’s room, he was apologetic. “Excuse me, Sir, but it’s nearing the dinner hour. Shall I ask Randolph to accommodate Mr. Briggs, or…”

“We’ll go,” Louis said. He turned to Peter and lazily said, “Help me up.” Peter stood, took Louis’ hand, and pulled him to his feet.

Henry and Martin followed them down to the front door. “It was nice to meet you, Sir, and you, Peter,” Martin said, giving them little bows. Henry was pleased by his manners, though he would have to tell Martin that politeness was essentially unnecessary when it came to Louis.

“Maybe tomorrow we’ll take our bicycles to the park,” Louis suggested. “Has Martin got a bicycle yet? I’m giving Peter one of James’ old ones for now.”

“We bought him one today. It should have been delivered while we were talking.”

“Well, if it wasn’t, we have lots of extras at my house, you know.” Louis started down the front steps, waving as he left. “G’bye, Henry. See you later.”

Henry said goodbye and Billy shut the door.

“Should I check with Mr. Tim, Sir, about the bicycle? I might also have my dinner, Sir, if it’s convenient.”

“That would be good,” Henry agreed. “I’ll see you upstairs, then.”

He climbed to the second floor slowly. He didn’t know what to do with Martin with all this leisure time. Starting Tuesday, they’d be at school, and he never would have believed he’d be looking forward to the beginning of school, but at least with classes in session there were eight hours of the day where he wouldn’t have to cope with Martin’s polite scrutiny.

He knew what all of the other boys were going to do with the leisure: they would be fucking their slaves at every possible opportunity. He knew that even Louis, girl-crazy Louis, was bending Peter over every chance he got simply because he could, because it was allowed. There was a fine line between acceptable free-form lust and unacceptable lust for another man, and Henry did not trust himself not to cross it, especially not when Martin was so good-looking, so admirable in character, so talented, so worthy.

Henry flipped through
Pals
and then the Latin text until Martin returned with news of the bicycle, which had indeed been delivered during Louis’ visit.

“Would you mind, Sir,” Martin began hesitantly, “if I were to practice my violin for a few minutes before you dress for dinner?”

“Go ahead,” Henry encouraged him. Anything that would keep Martin busy and separate from him.

“If it’s too loud, Sir, you must tell me and I’ll stop right away.”

“I’ll tell you.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

It was loud, yes: clear, bell-like tones and raspy sighs. Martin played beautifully, so far as Henry could tell. They had never had music in the house before; Henry could easily become accustomed to this. Martin played in his room for perhaps ten minutes, then came in to suggest that Henry might want to dress.

Dressing went better than the previous two rounds. Henry tried to pretend he was elsewhere and did his best not to make eye contact, which kept him from blushing quite as often as he had been doing.

Dinner was a somewhat glum affair, as usual. Henry remained aware of Martin’s presence behind his chair in a way he’d never been aware of any other slave.

Father looked up from his plate and stared over Henry’s head, scowling. “Are you planning to cut his hair, son?”

Henry swallowed. “No, sir, at least not yet. I want to see what everyone else at school is doing.”

“It shouldn’t matter what they’re doing,” Father said testily. “What do you want to do?”

Henry gathered his courage. “I-I like it long, sir. I’ll keep it long for now.”

Father harrumphed but did not make any demands.

After dinner, Henry spent an hour learning nothing from his Latin grammar and fidgeting with the fringe on a pillow. Pearl read from
The Wicked Master
and Henry idly wondered how Martin would read it, how he would do the wicked master’s voice. He could suggest that Martin do the reading one night, he supposed. He could ask Martin to play his violin for the family, for that matter. Would Martin like that? Henry rather wanted to keep the violin to himself, but he did suspect Martin would enjoy having an audience and more opportunities to play. Maybe he would keep the violin private just for now.

Henry said his goodnights and went down the hall towards his room, Martin trailing close behind. Henry was determined to be less tense during his undressing tonight, but it proved difficult in practice. He was jumpy and ticklish and got in Martin’s way. Martin did not try to unbutton Henry’s trousers this time, but stood holding Henry’s pajama pants, eyes averted, while Henry let his trousers and drawers fall to the ground and snatched the pants from Martin’s hands. Once Henry was in bed, Martin changed out of his uniform, gathered their laundry, put on his dressing gown and left the room with the basket of soiled clothes.

“I’ll just take these things to Mary, Sir.”

Henry lay staring at the ceiling, his arms tense at his sides on top of the blankets, holding the bedding tight over his body. He couldn’t let Martin touch him again, he resolved. He had spent the day longing to put his hands on Martin’s skin, to touch his hair, and he didn’t trust himself to behave properly; in fact, he was quite certain he could
not
be trusted in this regard. He thought maybe he could pretend to be asleep when Martin returned, but doubted his ability to successfully feign repose. When Martin came in, Henry blushed.

Martin smiled at him and went to his room. He came back a few seconds later in his pajamas but minus his dressing gown, his glasses, and his hair tie. His strawberry hair hung in waves that showed his bone structure to good advantage. His eyes were so very green. The top button of his pajama shirt was undone, revealing a narrow triangle of very white skin beneath the blue of his tattoo.

“Would you like me to help you get to sleep, Sir?” Martin asked, head cocked, giving Henry a very intimate smile. “I’d be very happy to do it.”

Henry wanted nothing more, and so he seemed almost angry when he said, “No, no thank you.”

“Sir?” Martin looked confused and a little wounded.

Henry gritted his teeth and said, “I won’t need your help, thank you.”

“I-if you didn’t like what I did last night, Sir, I do know other methods. I’ll be glad to try anything you can think of.”

Oh, the possibilities! Henry shuddered with lust and hated Martin just a little for putting him through this torture. Why was he making it harder? “It’s not necessary,” he insisted. “You can go to bed.”

Martin seemed crestfallen. “If that’s what you wish, Sir…”

“It is,” Henry said firmly, if unconvincingly. “Go to bed.”

“Shall I put out the lamp for you, Sir?”

Henry nodded and Martin came to stand at the bedside where he stood looking down at Henry a moment, the corners of his mouth downturned and dejection in his gaze. He switched off Henry’s lamp and went to his own room where Henry could hear him moving about for a minute before his light went out, as well. As on their first night, Henry lay restlessly awake, keenly aware of the little sounds coming from Martin’s room, the shiftings and sighs. As before, just as Henry was stumbling toward sleep, Martin rose to use the toilet. Henry lay stiffly staring at the ceiling, listening to the tinkle and flush. He could call out and Martin would come. He was allowed to do that. No one would question his character or morals.