A Most Personal Property (Ganymede Quartet Book 1) (21 page)

He thought back on their play. Relaxed on the carpet, Martin had been so charming, so engaging; his manner was so unlike other boys Henry knew. He had so many qualities that Henry had previously thought of as feminine—so fair, glowing and vivacious—yet there was nothing womanly about him, to be sure, with his lanky frame, his long hands and feet. On the face of it, he was smart, eager to do right, appropriately submissive—everything one could want in a slave. But he was also so much more than that, an enchanting beauty whose personal mannerisms seemed to Henry entirely unique; no other smile had ever affected Henry quite as Martin’s did.

He had believed his infatuation with James to be all-consuming, but he felt he could quite easily put James aside now. He wanted Martin instead, wanted to try things with him, all the things he’d been dreaming of for years. Thinking about it now, he felt exhilarated, then just as quickly despairing. Chances were good Martin wouldn’t welcome such attentions. There was no getting around it: any boy who wanted to have a cock in his mouth was not a gentleman at all, and decent people—including slaves from old, venerable Houses—wanted nothing to do with anyone like that.

In this way, Henry deflated his briefly-buoyant mood. He was sitting brooding when Martin returned to dress him for dinner.

Taking in his solemn face, Martin asked, “Is everything all right, Sir?”

Henry gave him a false smile. “Yes, quite all right.” He would just have to act around Martin the way he had acted around James for all those years, guarded and false and
normal
, above all.

Mother made an appearance at the dinner table. Pearl hovered, laudanum bottle in hand.

“Are you feeling better this evening, Mother?” Henry might not have thought to ask except for the conversation he’d had with Martin earlier.

Mother seemed particularly touched that Henry would ask and gave him a lovely smile, genuine warmth in her eyes. “Yes, thank you, Henry.” She returned the favor. “How have you been, darling? Are you enjoying your new slave?”

Henry blushed and fixed his gaze on his plate, glad that Martin could only see the back of his head. “I’ve been well, Mother. Martin and I are getting on very nicely, I think.”

“That’s wonderful to hear, darling. You know how I depend upon my Pearl.” She turned in her chair to look at Pearl, who gave her a fond smile. Turning back to Henry, she said, “Your slave makes the greatest difference in your life, Henry. Not friends, not family.”

“Louisa…” Father said in a warning tone.

Mother ignored him. “Your slave is the one person who will never abandon you. Treasure that, Henry.”

Henry did not think these were at all universal truths, yet he did see how his parents each depended utterly upon their companions. All he said was, “I will, Mother.”

After dinner, Pearl read from
The Wicked Master
. They had reached a point in the story where the master’s true wickedness was in some doubt, which was disappointing. Henry wanted the master to be depraved, irredeemable. He wanted to hear about a master doing whatever he chose, consequences be damned! And, really, the story would be so much better if Pearl did it with voices.

He felt so aware of Martin behind him, outside the circle of lamplight, in the gloaming. He had naively hoped that with familiarity Martin would lose his allure, and that it might happen rapidly. Instead, the more time Henry spent with him, the more attractive he became. With each encounter, each bit of awkward conversation, Martin was further differentiated, made special. The way he cocked his head, his graceful posture, the gesture he made when pushing his glasses up his nose—all of these made him seem nearly unbearably unique and thus precious. The more he looked upon Martin’s face, the more it pleased him. Perhaps it would take a little longer than he hoped for Martin to take on a bit of tarnish, but surely he would, wouldn’t he? Henry didn’t see how he would be able to survive an ever-increasing encumbrance of desire.

Martin had said he thought Henry handsome, but it meant nothing, as all his friends and schoolmates said the same thing. It was just a fact about Henry, like his blushing. Henry did not think it terribly significant that Martin had said
very
handsome. Martin had also said he was kind and generous, which were certainly nice things for a slave to think of a master, but they weren’t a lover’s compliments. They didn’t indicate any untoward desire on Martin’s part.

Pearl finished the chapter and Henry said goodnight to his mother, standing to kiss her cheek. He started to say goodnight to his father, but then remembered what he’d said the day before to Martin.

“Father?”

“Hmm?”

“I’d like to ask for something, sir.”

“What is it, then?” Father looked up from his papers. He looked slightly annoyed, which made Henry nervous.

“As you know, sir, Martin plays violin—”

“Is he any good?”

“Yes, sir. Very good, in fact. But that’s what I’m asking, sir, is if we might engage an instructor—”

“No. Absolutely not.” Father shook his head and returned his gaze to his paperwork. “He’s not going to be playing professionally, is he? Not joining the orchestra?”

Father waited for a response, which Henry gave grudgingly. “No, sir.”

“He is meant to improve
your
life, son. It is not necessary for you to improve
his
.”

Again, Father waited. “Yes, sir,” Henry acknowledged.

“If you enjoy his playing as it is now, that should be sufficient,” Father decided. He seemed to have returned to his work but then added, “You should have him play for us all some time. I think your mother might enjoy that.”

“Yes, sir,” Henry said sullenly. He had wanted to secure this privilege for Martin’s sake, and he had also wanted to be taken seriously by his father, but neither of these things had come to pass, and now he had to face Martin as a cowed boy instead of as a young man who got things done. If Henry had only thought things through, he would have waited until Father was in his study and asked him there, with Martin nowhere around, which might at least have limited the scope of his humiliation.

“All right.” Father stood, his knees popping. “You should go to bed now, son.” He turned to Timothy. “In the mood for a Havana, old man?” Timothy smiled and nodded his acquiescence.

Henry was silent until they got to his room. He did not look at Martin even then, but said, “Sorry. I didn’t think he would see it that way.”

Martin helped Henry remove his jacket and stood ready to take his waistcoat. “It’s quite all right, Sir. Thank you for asking on my behalf. But, really, I’ve been able to go very far with my playing, further than most, and I’m grateful for that.”

Henry still thought that Martin should have lessons until such time he felt that he could improve no more, but he could see that Martin wasn’t willing to hear it.

“Sir, I was wondering…well, no one has said anything, and tomorrow is Sunday…”

“What is it?”

“Which church do you attend, Sir? And what time is the service? I don’t want you to be late.”

Henry colored, embarrassed. “Oh. We don’t go to church.”

“No, Sir?” Martin paused, head cocked, Henry’s shirt balled up in his hands. “Well. Is that so?”

“Father thinks it’s a bunch of superstition,” Henry told him. “I guess I think so, too.” And then, as it occurred to him, he asked, “Do you
want
to go to church?”

Martin looked flustered by the question. “Oh, Sir, I…I don’t think I’ll miss it, to tell the truth.”

“People at school tease me about being a godless heathen, so you’ll probably be teased, too,” Henry warned him.

“That’s all right, Sir.” Martin knelt down and helped Henry step out of his trousers. He stayed down while Henry dropped his drawers and then held his pajama pants ready, eyes averted.

While Martin put Henry’s clothes away, Henry brushed his teeth, thinking back on the conversation earlier, telling Martin about Mrs. Murdock. It had felt good to finally talk to someone about her. He’d comprehended the whole truth about her when, at age 11, he and Louis had been permitted to travel downtown and back on the omnibus with their pockets full of coins to squander in the penny arcades, provided they were accompanied by a slave from either the Briggs or Blackwell households.

It was on one such afternoon, in the company of the Briggs footman Patrick that Henry saw Mrs. Murdock for the first time. She was a stranger getting down from his family’s carriage in front of a milliner’s shop. He was confused at first, and had thought perhaps he was mistaken about the carriage, but, no, there was his familiar Jack in the driver’s seat. She was a young woman with a prodigious bosom and a mass of auburn hair wearing a be-frilled aquamarine dress and a large, over-decorated hat. She was accompanied by a slave in an inappropriate purple dress. Both women looked expensive but not tasteful. Henry knew at once that she could not be a friend of Mother’s, as Mother had no friends beyond Pearl, which meant that she had to be someone of Father’s. No matter how Henry had looked at it, it wasn’t really respectable for his father to be friends with a woman so young and so nearly beautiful.

“Isn’t that Jack?” Louis had asked, elbowing Henry and pointing. “But who is
that
? Is she your
mother’s
friend?” Louis had known as well as Henry did that Mrs. Blackwell had no friends.

“I don’t know.” He hadn’t wanted to go any nearer, but they’d needed to pass the milliner’s shop to reach the arcade.

“Well, let’s say hello to Jack,” Louis had said cheerfully, taking Henry by the arm.

Jack, to his credit, had seemed somewhat embarrassed. “Sirs,” he’d said, removing his hat. “Hello, Patrick.”

“Who is that person?” Henry had demanded. “Why is she in our carriage?”

“That is Mrs. Murdock, Sir. Mr. Blackwell has lent her the carriage for the afternoon.”

“Why would he do that?”

“You’ll have to ask Mr. Blackwell, Sir,” Jack had said firmly. “I wouldn’t care to speculate.”

The boys had then continued along to the arcade, Henry silent and preoccupied with this new information, and embarrassed that Patrick would now see his father in a bad light and might possibly spread stories among the neighborhood’s slaves. He’d desperately wanted answers, but suspected his father would not be pleased to respond to any questions about Mrs. Murdock. Louis, though no doubt also wildly curious about Mrs. Murdock’s startling and problematic existence in the midst of the Blackwells, kindly had not pestered Henry with questions of his own.

Henry had spent all of his pennies on the peep shows, a thoughtless and joyless waste, cranking the handles but scarcely watching the images flip past. He’d thought back to his fight with Adam Pettibone two years prior. What if Adam had been telling the truth about Henry’s father? What if Henry had punched and kicked and been bitten and scarred in defense of a lie? It would mean Father was an immoral man, and Henry had not felt at all comfortable sitting in judgment of his father. Yet, he hadn’t be able to keep from thinking how unkind this all was to Mother! He’d also worried about what other people must think, seeing this flashily-dressed young woman climbing out of the Blackwell carriage in broad daylight.

He wondered if Jack would tell his father that he’d seen Henry, and if Father would then offer Henry an explanation. But at dinner that night, Father had ignored both Henry and his mother, so that was that. Embarrassed and angry, Henry had resolved to think of Mrs. Murdock as being simply none of his business. If Patrick had ever spoken out of turn about the Blackwells’ business, Henry had never heard about it. It was quite possible that all of the slaves had already known anyway. Slaves seemed to always know things first.

Henry didn’t like the fact of Mrs. Murdock, and he liked the existence of her young son even less, but he’d had a few years to get used to the idea now and understood that there was nothing he could do about her. Frowning in the mirror, Henry spit in the sink and rinsed his mouth.

When Henry emerged from the bathroom, he glanced down the hall and saw that Martin was in his room undressing in full view, his back to Henry, his white skin gilded by lamplight. Henry froze, staring open-mouthed. Martin’s ass was so perfect, rounded and high, that Henry’s hands itched to cup it, to know its curve. With a hand on the back of his desk chair, Martin bent over to remove his socks, treating Henry to a rear-view of his balls and the tip of his cock, everything a fevered pink. Wide-eyed and open-mouthed with shock, all of his circuits overloading at once, Henry whirled abruptly away, fleeing for the safety of his own bedroom, and the concealing comfort of his own bed.

Martin emerged from the short hall wearing his pajamas and dressing gown and carrying his dirty laundry. He added it to Henry’s laundry basket and smiled at Henry. “I’ll just take this down to Mary, Sir.”

Henry leaned back against the headboard, struggling to get his breathing under control. Under the heaped blankets, his cock was hard and felt like it would be hard forever. He’d seen other boys and men naked, of course, but perhaps never from that angle. The testicles dangling, the glimpse of cock. It would haunt his dreams, he had no doubt.