A Most Personal Property (Ganymede Quartet Book 1) (19 page)

Louis was still talking. “…went over there yesterday afternoon. Albert’s is also from Ganymede, I think. He’s blond, just like Albert, which I think is a bit odd. Why would you want one that looked like you, do you think?”

Henry had no idea and said so. “How should I know why Albert does anything? You’re better friends with him than I am.”

“His sister got her slave, too, of course. Abigail. We saw her in the park, remember.”

“It was only yesterday,” Henry reminded him, rolling his eyes. “So, yes, I remember. Did you talk to her?”

Louis looked uncomfortable. “She may be a bit stuck-up after all,” he admitted. “She could have been friendlier, but she did compliment me on Peter. She said he was handsome.”

Henry tried to be encouraging. “Keep trying,” he said. “She’ll like you if she gets to know you.” Henry thought Louis very likeable, though in truth he wasn’t sure if a girl would find him so.

They got off the omnibus downtown and walked over to Union Square to their favorite arcade. There were loose groups of young people loitering on the sidewalk in front of the building, mostly boys, some with slaves but most without. Inside, Henry and Louis made a beeline for the manager’s booth, Martin and Peter trailing behind. Henry got change for his dollar and handed Martin a fistful of pennies.

“Here. This should be enough for now.”

Louis did the same with Peter. “Can you believe it? He’s never been to an arcade before,” Louis said, gesturing at Peter.

“Neither has Martin. We’ll have to show them everything.”

The arcade was a long room with machines packed tightly together along each wall: strength testers, fortune tellers, electric shockers, vending machines, gambling machines, and the Mutoscopes, the peep show machines. There was a shooting gallery downstairs, but since neither Henry nor Louis was a very good shot, they usually didn’t bother with it.

Louis led the way to an electric shocker. “Here, Peter,” he said. “Hold these handles.” Peter did as he was told, looking somewhat confused, and Louis put a penny into the slot.

“Sir, what—
AH!
” Peter shouted and jumped back from the machine, letting go the handles. Louis fell about laughing and even Henry found it funny, though he did think it was a mean trick to play on poor Peter.

Martin looked worried. “What did it do, Sir?”

“It gave him a shock,” Henry told him. “It doesn’t really hurt—it’s just kind of frightening if you’re not expecting it. You should try it.”

“Should I, Sir?” Martin seemed very reluctant.

“Yes, you should,” Louis told him. “Get over here.” When Martin hesitated, Louis glowered at him. “Now, slave.”

Martin looked hopefully to Henry, but Henry would not save him, not with Louis so determined that Martin should do it. It was, Henry thought, like an initiation.

Martin went very pale and took hold of the handles.

“Ready?” Louis waited until Martin nodded and dropped the coin into the slot.

Martin yelped and took a hasty step back from the machine. He rubbed his hands on his pants, the corners of his pretty mouth downturned.

“That’s the worst of it,” Louis said, clapping each of the slaves on the back. “Everything else is just fun.” The slaves looked doubtful, so Henry and Louis spent the next couple of hours proving it. Six different strength testers showed that Henry was strongest and Martin was a surprising second, when Henry and Louis both would have guessed it would be the more robust Peter. His cheeks pinking, Henry remembered again Martin at Ganymede saying that he was stronger than he looked and holding Henry’s hand against his silky belly.

The fortune telling machines told them all they would be rich (which just made the boys snort with laughter) as well as lucky in love (which made Louis want to expound upon the topic of Abigail). They used an engraving machine to inscribe their names on aluminum tags. They bought tutti-frutti gum and risqué postcards from vending machines. They plugged coins into the player piano. They lost a total of fifty-four cents in various gambling machines. Finally, they got to Henry’s favorites, the Mutoscopes.

He explained it to Martin. “It’s what’s called a peep show. You look in here, see, and turn the crank, and the pictures move.”

“They move, Sir?”

“Put in a penny and see.”

Martin did as he was told and bent over the machine, looking through the eyepiece. He put in a coin, the light came on inside the machine, and he began to turn the crank. “Oh! Sir! They do move!” He seemed completely delighted, which filled Henry with satisfied joy. “They’re on horseback, and it really looks as though they’re riding!”

“Do you like it?” Henry could tell that he did; he just wanted to hear it.

Martin gave him the radiant smile. “Oh, yes, Sir! Thank you for showing me!” He cranked to the end of the reel and then looked down the line of Mutoscope machines. “Are they all different?”

“Mostly,” Henry told him. “There’s usually a little slip of paper with the title, see?” He pointed it out and Martin nodded. “Go on, watch some more if you want.”

“Thank you, Sir, I will.” Martin sidestepped to the next machine and put in his coin.

The long room had become increasingly crowded since they’d arrived. Henry looked around for Louis and finally spotted him with Peter at one of the strength testers, a punching machine with a leather pad for hitting. Martin seemed inclined to view every single Mutoscope in the row, but Henry didn’t mind. He turned his back to the machines and leaned against them, propped on his elbows. He watched as Martin bent over the machine, his long tail sliding forward over his shoulder, loose strands softening the angular bones of his face. Henry thought of the pale freckles that were visible up close on those high cheekbones and wanted to see them again, imagined touching them with the pads of his fingers. It felt good to have made Martin happy, and he wanted to do it more, wanted to give him pleasure in all its forms, as much as his limited experience and understanding would allow. Martin was a good slave, Henry thought. He would say yes to anything Henry wanted to do. But would he like it? Would he want it, too?

Louis came and found them and declared himself bored and hungry. They went around the corner to the soda fountain where they all got chocolate milkshakes except for Peter, who wanted a cherry phosphate. The slaves stood behind their masters’ chairs and sipped through their straws while Henry listened to Louis talk about girls.

“I didn’t see any hanging around today at all,” Louis remarked. “I’m disappointed. Usually there are at least a few looking at the peep shows. I wanted to see how they’d treat us now that we have slaves. It makes us seem more grown up, don’t you think?”

“Of course.” This seemed obvious to Henry.

“I really do think girls will like Peter, and I’m sure they’ll like Martin, and of course they already like
you
.”

Henry made a face and then made a rude noise with his straw trying to get the last drops of his milkshake.

“I should be best friends with Freddie or David,” Louis remarked. “Someone less handsome. I’d have better odds with the ladies.”

Henry rolled his eyes. He often wished his looks were less striking—it made people expect certain things from him that would never come to pass. He would never cut a confident swathe through the fair maidens of the city, to be sure. He wasn’t going to be
James.
He knew his friends admired his fine appearance because they saw he could attract women, but
they
weren’t attracted to him, of course, and he didn’t know if his were the sort of looks that could attract men at all. He would have to ask someone like himself, some fairy or a queer fellow, and he didn’t know any people like that—he didn’t
want
to know people like that, for fear of being tarred with the same brush.

They headed back uptown on the omnibus, but Henry and Martin got off halfway home. “We can get your music stand,” Henry said. “The shop’s around here somewhere, isn’t it?”

They found the luthier’s shop two blocks farther north. The luthier remembered Martin and inquired as to what he’d been playing. Henry walked around the shop idly examining instruments while Martin had an animated discussion with the proprietor about the piece he’d been working on. Apparently, it was music really only suitable for skilled musicians but, even so, the part that Martin was having trouble with was problematic for everyone who attempted it. Martin seemed reassured upon hearing this, and Henry felt grateful to the luthier for his remarks.

The music stand was metal with a cast-iron base. It was a cumbersome thing to take on the omnibus; it stood in the aisle alongside Martin and was nearly knocked over several times by people trying to move past. Martin was clearly embarrassed by the inconvenience he was causing and Henry tried to give him a reassuring smile but was so shy about it he wasn’t sure his support had registered.

At home, they took the stand upstairs and then returned downstairs to go into the breakfast room for a late lunch. As before, Cook had provided sandwiches along with lemonade and the rest of the pink cake. They were alone again, so Henry invited Martin to eat with him and Martin happily accepted. As Martin sat down, Henry noted there was no tongue sandwich on his plate and was touched that Martin had taken his preferences into account, even though it truly was unnecessary.

After finishing his first sandwich, Martin turned to Henry and said, “Thank you again, Sir, for everything.” He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice cracked a little. “I never imagined, Sir, that someone would…would look out for my interests like you’ve done.” He seemed quite emotional, which embarrassed Henry but also made him happy.

“Your well-being is my responsibility,” Henry said airily, as if he did grand favors for people all the time. “So, naturally, I’ll take good care of you. What
did
you think your life would be like, then?”

Martin thought a moment. “I knew I would go to someone quite wealthy, Sir, so I knew I’d live in a nice house. I hoped I would go to someone kind, but I couldn’t count on that. I wouldn’t have dared to even dream my master would give me the things you’ve given me.”

“It’s just clothes and stuff,” Henry insisted. He didn’t really understand how else Martin might have been integrated into the household; this was how Pearl and Timothy were treated, after all. Everything for the Blackwell slaves was of the best quality.

“And the violin, Sir. That’s a dream come true for me. At Ganymede, they warned me I might have to give it up if my master didn’t care for music. Thank you for allowing me to keep something that means so much to me.”

Honestly, Henry had not known that he particularly cared about music until he’d heard Martin playing, and the generosity had really been Father’s and not his own, but he was willing to accept Martin’s gratitude. “You play so beautifully,” Henry told him. “It would be a shame if you weren’t able.”

“I am really grateful, Sir, I am.” Martin paused and seemed to consider a moment how he might best broach the topic with Henry. “Sir, anything you might want, I am happy to do—”

Henry cringed. He willed Martin to be silent.

“—anything at all, not just because it’s my duty but because I genuinely wish to be of use to you.
Please
, Sir.” To hear him begging like this was torture.

“Another sandwich, then,” Henry said, thrusting his empty plate into Martin’s hands, not meeting his eyes. “That’s what I want.”

“Yes, Sir,” Martin said, disheartened. He got up and got Henry his sandwich.

After lunch, Henry read his book and listened to Martin play his violin. Reading the book helped keep his mind off of Martin’s body, how he had looked yesterday while playing, the swaying and little hops punctuating his music, his hair sliding off his shoulder. It helped, it didn’t
prevent
.

Henry had never before realized how little he
did
. He had always been mostly content to read and wait for Louis to suggest things to do. Unlike Louis and his brothers, Henry had no urges to build things or whittle or tinker. He had no real interest in wholesome, outdoorsy activities like camping or hiking. He’d outgrown most games that he knew of. He was a lazy person, had always been lazy. He preferred lolling about fantasizing about Theo and George to any more involved pursuit. If Martin weren’t present just a few yards away, it would be easy to lay about fantasizing about him, too, but since there was a real danger of Martin walking in on Henry deep in reverie, glassy-eyed and with a hard prick, he could not risk it.

Martin stopped playing. Henry put his book down and waited. A minute later, Martin appeared in the doorway. “Sir?”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry to interrupt you, Sir. I was just wondering…” He hesitated and bit his lip. “This is very forward of me, Sir, and I apologize…but do you play cards?”

“Cards?” Henry thought about it. The only game that came to mind was Old Maid.

“Do you play poker, Sir? We played it all the time at Ganymede.”

Henry had played, though not for some time. James had taught him and Louis a few years ago, seemingly so he could take all of their money. Henry had always gotten confused as to the values of various hands and it did occur to him that James was capable of having given him false information in that regard which would only have compounded the confusion. He was a lousy player, to be sure, but he had some experience. “It’s been awhile,” he said cautiously, “but I
have
played.”

“If you’re not busy, Sir, would you want to play?” Martin seemed anxious, yet hopeful.

Henry was flattered. Martin seemingly wanted to spend time with him, even as Henry had left the way clear for him to pursue his own interests. “I’m not doing anything. Sure.”

“We always played for matchsticks, Sir,” Martin told him. “I can go ask Randolph for some—”

“Let’s just use money,” Henry said. He got up and crossed to the mantelpiece, where he took down his tea tin. “We can put it back when we’re done.”

Martin suddenly went pale and looked horrified. “Sir! I’m sorry, Sir! I forgot! You gave me money this morning, but I didn’t need it, and I’ll give it back!”