A Most Personal Property (Ganymede Quartet Book 1) (16 page)

Louis looked at Martin and frowned. “Isn’t that your suit, Henry?”

“His is still being made.”

“A bit showy for a slave,” Louis remarked. Peter was in plain black.

Henry glanced at Martin and smiled. “So I’m told. Are you ready?”

“We’re meeting some of the others by the fountain, if that’s all right by you.”

Henry shrugged his assent and they went to collect their bikes.

They rode north to the park, Peter and Martin trailing a respectful distance behind. Henry found that he wanted to turn around to see Martin there, and had to consciously resist doing so. As they crossed the street to the park, in avoiding the omnibus coming down Fifth, Martin pulled even with them, standing on his pedals. Looking over, Henry saw the sheer happiness on his handsome face, saw the strands of his hair that had come loose from his tail floating on the breeze, and felt something crack open in his chest, almost a physical pain.

Louis looked over and saw Martin rolling at Henry’s side. “Watch it,” Louis warned him. “Don’t let the clothes go to your head.”

Henry frowned, irritated. He did not appreciate Louis scolding Martin. “It’s fine, Louis.”

But Martin immediately slowed and let the masters go ahead.

Freddie Caldwell and Victor Spence were waiting by the fountain with their slaves. Freddie’s Tom was a real beauty, with pale skin and jet-black hair that fell in ripples to the middle of his back. Victor’s Will was a robust boy with chestnut hair hanging straight to his shoulders, and Henry found it interesting that Victor, who was colored, had chosen a white slave, and this made him curious about what the rest of their friends had done. The boys were in tweeds, like Henry and Louis, but the slaves were all in black, like Peter, and all of them looked confused by Martin’s costume.

“Why’s he wearing that?” Victor asked.

“We didn’t get him a ready-made outfit,” Henry explained, coloring. “It’s being made to measure.”

“Fancy,” Freddie remarked. Then, “He’d better not give the rest ideas about wearing regular clothes.” He seemed to be only half-joking.

“He didn’t want to,” Henry said. He felt that he needed to defend Martin somehow. “I made him wear them.”

“Who cares?” said Louis, who just minutes earlier had cared very much himself. “Let’s ride.”

They rode north through the park. Henry realized that if he kept a brisk pace, a bit ahead of the group, he could turn his head round frequently to converse with his friends and then look past them to where Martin rode with the other slaves. Martin and Will rode side-by-side, laughing and chatting. Martin looked like he was having a good time; Henry hoped that he was.

“My father’s making me get Will’s hair cut before school starts,” Victor lamented.

“My father wants me to do it, too,” Henry said, “but he’s not demanding it as of yet.”

“Peter says it makes his neck hot to have it long,” Louis said. “I might have it cut just for that reason.”

Henry thought then that he might ask Martin if his long hair bothered him, but he didn’t want to have it cut, and didn’t want to put himself in the position of denying Martin a haircut if he wanted one. Maybe it was better to just do as he wanted without asking for Martin’s opinion.

They rode to the reservoir and started around. It was warm and Henry unbuttoned his jacket. He looked back and saw that Martin was now talking to pretty Tom and their combined beauty was difficult to behold. Red-faced and hot, Henry turned around and pedaled a little faster.

Louis said, “Why are you in such a hurry today?” so Henry made himself slow down again and ride alongside his friend, who said, “James says he’ll try to make it home soon. He wants to see what I’ve got—and you, too, of course. You’re practically a brother to him, after all. He wants to know you’re properly taken care of.”

Henry, who had for so long imagined being something more, something
other
to James, was conflicted about this. It was nice that James would think of him at all, but Henry had never wanted to be his brother. All he said was, “Tell him hello for me next time you talk.”

Halfway around the reservoir, they stopped in the shade and Henry shared his scones with the other boys, while Martin shared his with the slaves. Victor had made Will carry a canteen and they all passed it around, masters first. Henry was only half-listening to his friends talk. His attention kept wandering to where Martin sat with the other slaves a few yards away. As Henry watched, Martin borrowed a handkerchief from Tom and polished the lenses of his glasses, peered through them with a critical squint, and placed them back on his nose. He said something Henry could not hear and then gave laughing Tom the beautiful smile that made Henry’s heart seize. Henry felt a sharp pang of jealousy followed immediately by irritation: he should not be feeling jealous of a slave.

He wanted to separate Martin from Tom, even if just for a moment. It was childish, but it was his right. He called out, “Martin?” and Martin immediately got to his feet and came to crouch next to where Henry sat in the grass.

“Yes, Sir?”

“How is the bicycle? Comfortable ride?”

Now Henry got the smile. That felt better. “It’s lovely, Sir! It runs very fast and smooth! Thank you for helping me choose.”

Victor got to his feet and said, “I want to get home in plenty of time for lunch. Are you fellows ready to go?” Boys and slaves alike got to their feet.

“Vic’s just in a hurry to bend Will over,” Louis said, laughing.

“Oh, like you’re not thinking the same,” Victor pointed out. “We all are.”

Henry felt guilty heat rise in his cheeks.

Louis laughed again and pointed. “Poor Henry! Everything makes him blush.”

“You have such delicate sensibilities,” said Freddie, snorting.

“Even for a girl,” Victor said. “Shy Henrietta.”

“Very funny,” said Henry. It wasn’t much of a comeback, but it was the best he could do. He was mortified.

They rode south, passing a northbound group of girls on bicycles trailed by their slaves. The girls giggled and waved as they passed. Louis turned to watch them go and steered his front wheel into Freddie’s rear which resulted in veering, wobbling, and a great deal of startled shouting but fortunately no serious accident.

“Bastard!” Freddie snapped, righting his own course. “Watch where you’re going!”

“Wasn’t that Albert’s sister? The pretty blonde, did you see her, Henry?” Louis had lost interest in the near-wreck almost immediately. “I think it was her!”

“Her name’s Abigail, right? I haven’t met her.” Henry hadn’t really spent much time around girls other than his and Louis’ sisters since becoming a young man. He’d had no cause to socialize with girls his own age since quitting dance lessons at age 12. Albert’s family were relative newcomers to the city and Henry had never crossed paths with Albert’s twin.

“She’s beautiful,” Louis said dreamily.

Freddie snorted. “She looks like Albert,” he said. “Albert with long hair.”

Louis turned on him sharply, annoyed. “She’s blonde like him, sure, but she’s
much
better looking.”

“She’s stuck-up, too,” Freddie added, seeming to want to deliberately provoke Louis, perhaps as payback for knocking into his bicycle. “She thinks she’s too good to talk to Albert’s friends.”

“She is
not
stuck-up. She just waved at all of us,” Louis pointed out.

“She waved at
Henry
,” Freddie insisted. “Didn’t you see her? Looking right at him?”

Henry certainly hadn’t noticed this. He’d been vaguely embarrassed by the attention the girls had paid to the whole group of them. “She could have been looking at anybody,” he offered, worried now that Freddie had been correct. He didn’t want Louis to be upset about some stupid girl flirting with him.

“Girls always like Henry,” Victor commented. “It’s that whole ‘tall, dark and handsome’ thing.”

Henry hated the turn this conversation was taking. “They don’t like me,” he insisted, though it was true that girls did tend to flirt with him. Working-class girls at the penny arcades giggling and batting their lashes. He found it embarrassing, and his unwillingness to take advantage of such situations had given him a reputation amongst his friends as having perhaps unreasonably discerning taste in women.

“Well, now we all have these good-looking slaves,” Louis said. “That’ll attract those downtown girls. Lots of them don’t even care if they’re flirting with a slave.”

“That’s why I picked Tom,” Freddie said. “He looks like a damn
prince
! He hooks them, and I reel them in—that’s the plan!”

“They see the slaves first, but, ultimately, girls will go for the man with the money, don’t you think?” Louis asked hopefully.

“You’d better hope so!” Victor said, laughing.

Henry’s friends discussed strategies for picking up working-class girls while Henry kept silent. As they neared the southern end of the park, Victor and Freddie split off, waving their goodbyes, their slaves pedaling respectfully behind them.

“What are you doing the rest of the week?” Louis asked. “Besides the
obvious
, I mean.” He chuckled, seeming to derive a great deal of amusement out of contemplating his own sex obsession. Henry wished he could be so casual. He wished he could feel that his own desires were so natural and justifiable.

“I hadn’t thought about it much,” Henry admitted. “I should’ve been studying Latin all summer. I might crack open the textbook.” Realistically, he would not do this.

Louis made a face. “That’s no fun at all. We could go downtown. We could see a show, or just go to the arcade.”

“Sure,” Henry said agreeably. “Let’s make a plan later, okay?” They were at the Briggs house and stood straddling their bicycles on the sidewalk out front.

“Sure thing. See you later.”

Henry and Martin were left alone on the sidewalk. Henry felt suddenly shy. Martin was looking to him for instruction, but he didn’t know what to do. They would get home and…then what? A vista of free time opened up before him, daunting and problematic. He turned to Martin, trying to hide his nerves but blushing all the same.

“Let’s go home, then, shall we?”

They pedaled the two blocks to the Blackwell house. Henry dropped his bicycle in the yard and indicated Martin should do the same. “Someone will get it,” Henry said blithely. Martin seemed hesitant to drop his shiny new bicycle in the grass and stood frozen a moment while Henry made impatient gestures, then at last laid it down carefully next to Henry’s.

Inside, Cook had sent up three kinds of sandwiches and these were laid out on the breakfast room sideboard along with a pitcher of tart lemonade and strawberry cake.

After Henry had Martin prepare him a plate and bring it to him at his usual seat at the table, he said, “You eat, too. You’re hungry, right?”

Martin looked startled but pleased. “Yes, thank you, Sir.” With a little hesitation, he got a plate and began choosing sandwiches.

“If my parents aren’t around, you can always eat with me at the table,” Henry told him. “My father always lets Timothy sit if it’s just the two of them, even in restaurants. It sometimes makes people mad, though.”

“Mr. Tim tells me Mr. Blackwell likes to do things his own way,” Martin said diplomatically. “Where shall I sit, Sir?”

“Wherever,” Henry said, waving his hand so as to take in the entire room. But when Martin pulled out a chair opposite Henry, Henry waved his hand again to stop him. “Not there. That’s Pearl’s chair when Mother’s sick. Move over one, or come around by me.” No need to unduly ruffle the feathers of any of the other slaves, should they happen to see Martin sitting with him.

Martin came around and pulled out the chair to Henry’s right. “This is all right, Sir?” Henry only nodded his assent, as he had a mouthful of ham-pickle-and-cheese sandwich. Martin sat and unfolded a napkin across his lap and began to eat. He was a very tidy eater, with good table manners, good posture. Watching him from the corner of his eye, Henry sat up straighter.

Henry pointed to Martin’s plate. “You like tongue?”

“I like everything, Sir.”

“I think it’s disgusting,” Henry told him.

“Would you prefer I not eat it, Sir?” Martin cocked his head and looked expectantly at Henry. He was, Henry realized, fully prepared to stop eating the tongue sandwich if Henry so commanded. It seemed that Martin would make every effort to accommodate Henry in all things, even if Henry’s wishes directly contradicted his own desires. The understanding of the power he had over Martin that came over him was so sexual in nature that he blushed a furious red and hurriedly turned away from Martin, his stiff cock straining against the placket of his knickers.

“No, of course not, you may eat whatever you like,” Henry said. He finished his lemonade, gulping and tilting back his head, and held the glass out to Martin. “More, please.”

They ate three sandwiches apiece, drank three glasses of lemonade, and ate thick wedges of strawberry layer cake with frosting so sweet it made Henry’s teeth hurt.

“Bertie is a good cook, isn’t she, Sir?”

“Who?”

“Alberta, Sir. Bertie. Cook.”

“Oh,” Henry said. If he had ever known Cook’s given name, he had forgotten it. “Yes, she is.”

“Your father has chosen very good people, Sir. It’s an honor to serve in this house. Thank you for bringing me here.”

“Oh, er, you’re welcome.” Henry didn’t know if he’d done Martin any favors, to tell the truth. He’d brought him into a situation where he was stuck with a terrible, hopeless master, that much was certain.

They got up from the table and left the breakfast room. As they left, Billy and Randolph went in to clear the table.

As they climbed the stairs toward Henry’s room, Henry began to sweat, worrying about what he might do with the afternoon. He thought about his friends, all bending their slaves over, getting the release they craved—him just as much as any of them. He thought about Martin stripping out of his clothes with no concern as to whether Henry might see him naked, the planes of his strong, lean body enhanced by the light of the lamp. Maybe he would have to tell Martin to undress behind a closed door from now on—though he didn’t want to do that, not really. He wanted to see—he just wanted seeing to feel differently, to feel controllable.