A Most Personal Property (Ganymede Quartet Book 1) (26 page)

Johnny was about 12, Little Bob perhaps 14, just young enough to get away with obnoxious behavior, pestering the footmen for matches and jostling the maids. To be rid of them, Jack gave Little Bob a match-safe and a handful of firecrackers and the boys disappeared into the dark. The maids were given sparklers and stood writing their names and the names of their sweethearts in the air. Cook and Dora had brought a blanket and spread it out on the grass and all the women settled this territory like explorers laying claim to an island. The pale blanket glowed white in the growing dark, the male slaves arrayed around its perimeter. Henry and Martin sat down near the margin of this island, leaning back on their elbows in the grass, close enough that Henry could smell the vetiver soap that Martin used to wash his hair. Jack and Paul lined up a row of cones and Johnny materialized out of the darkness to light them, shrieking with glee as they erupted in his wake, brilliant fountains of light, vivid colors playing over the faces of all who watched.

“Let Martin light something,” one of the older maids said; Henry could not see her face well enough in the dark to put a name to it. “It’s his first Labor Day, remember.” Other voices joined in, agreeing, encouraging.

Laughing, Martin got to his feet and picked his way around the sprawled bodies of his compatriots. He conferred with Old Bob and was given a large cone which he placed on the ground and gingerly lit. It spewed spinning white stars and whistled like an angry kettle and all the slaves clapped for it, and, presumably, for Martin.

The male slaves shook Martin’s hand or clapped him on the back as he made his way back to Henry again. “Well! I feel initiated now, Sir.”

“Didn’t you celebrate Labor Day at Ganymede?” Henry was confused. It was the slaves’ holiday, after all.

“It’s for working slaves, Sir,” Martin explained, “not training slaves.” He leaned closer to Henry and said, “I’m glad you’re here with me, Sir. It makes it more special. Thank you.”

Henry was embarrassed by this and he was grateful that Martin could not see him reddening in the dark.

They watched the boy slaves light the rest of the fireworks, and watched the fireworks being set off by the groups all around them. As it got later, Henry noticed flasks being passed in the shadows. People began to sing, songs being started by one household and picked up by another. Jack made his way around the uneven edge of the group and handed Martin a flask.

“Do you want some, Sir?” Martin whispered.

Henry hesitated, then put out his hand. “Yes,” he whispered back. He took a swig—was it rum?—and gave it back. It burned pleasantly all the way down his gullet. Martin took a drink and returned the flask to Jack.

Martin leaned close again. “I hate to say this, Sir, but I think we should go home.”

Henry was surprised. “Why? Aren’t you having fun?” Henry certainly was.

“We have school tomorrow, Sir. We should both be rested.”

Henry did not care much about being rested for school. He did poorly in every class except math (which he surprised everyone, including himself, by being good at), and he didn’t think extra sleep would make a difference. But Martin wasn’t like him, he realized. Martin was good at school. Henry wasn’t entirely clear on what the slaves did on their side of the building, but if Martin wanted to be rested in readiness, then he wasn’t going to keep him out all night.

“You’re right, I suppose.” Henry pushed himself up to sitting, then got to his feet, dusting off the seat of his trousers.

“I’ll just tell them we’re leaving, Sir. I don’t want anyone searching for us in the dark!” Martin leaned forward on hands and knees to speak to Dora and Cook, the maids listening in. As Martin got to his feet, the women called out to them:

“Goodnight, Sir! Goodnight, Martin!”

They made their way back toward the gaslights and the path at a leisurely pace, saying little, the quiet companionable. There was a trickle of others leaving, but there were still slaves flocking to the park. This was apparently an all-night party.

Randolph let them in at home and they went upstairs. Henry allowed himself to be put into his pajamas and got into bed. Martin went into his room and emerged in his own pajamas, gathered the laundry and carried it from the room, promising to be right back.

Henry lay on his bed, covers tight, his book on his lap. He waited with some apprehension for Martin’s return, for the inevitable question.

“If there is anything I might do for you, Sir. Anything at all.”

“No, really,” Henry assured him nervously. “I don’t need anything. Or want anything.” He was glad of the covers, the protective layers of blankets.

“If you need any help getting to sleep, Sir, I’d be happy to help. I promise we’ll find some method that you’ll like, Sir.”

Henry desperately wanted to know what exactly Martin was offering, but he was afraid asking would obligate him in some way, or prove too tempting. “No, that’s all right. Thank you, Martin. You can go to bed.”

“As you wish, Sir.” He seemed so disappointed; did he think that Henry didn’t like him? He wished he could reassure Martin without exposing himself as a deviant.

He tried to read but gave it up after attempting the same paragraph three times over. Martin had already turned out his lamp, so Henry put his book aside and shut off his light, as well. He thought more on Martin’s methods. He’d already put his hand on Henry. Was he offering the use of his mouth? His ass? These thoughts were too arousing; he should endeavor not to think of Martin at all at bedtime. He was restive until deep into the night, and slept only when he was completely exhausted, his energies depleted.

“Rise and shine, Sir.”

It was the first day of fall term. Martin helped Henry dress in his school uniform, a burgundy-and-brown-striped jacket with a crest, brown trousers, burgundy waistcoat, white shirt and brown tie. Henry thought the striped jacket looked ridiculous, clownish. He much preferred the slave version of the uniform, which had a plain burgundy jacket. Henry thought Martin looked very handsome in the uniform, though he was too shy to say so.

“You look very nice, Sir,” Martin said, brushing at the shoulders of Henry’s jacket, tugging at his lapels. He realized what he was doing and pulled his hands back, looking abashed. “Sorry.”

Henry colored. “That’s all right.” He wanted there to be some physical ease between them, and he couldn’t seem to figure out how to let that happen.

“We should get downstairs, Sir.” Henry’s father would expect him to already be in his chair in the breakfast room by the time he made his entrance.

Mother wasn’t in her seat; it must have been another of her bad mornings. Henry drank his coffee and ate three coddled eggs, several rashers of bacon, fried potatoes, and a few pieces of French toast with a generous quantity of syrup. Father swept in with Timothy at his heels. He took his seat without acknowledging Henry, which was no different than Henry expected. Father looked over paperwork and dictated notes to Timothy while he ate. When Henry put down his fork, Father looked up.

“Are you ready for your first day back?” Father asked, startling him.

“Y-yes, sir.”

“I expect you do to better this year. You
can
do better, Henry.”

“Yes, sir.” Henry doubted that he could, but there was no sense in arguing this point with Father. Henry would just have to disappoint him in due time. He wished Father would not criticize him in front of Martin, as he did not want Martin to form a more negative impression of him than was absolutely necessary, but he supposed it was only a matter of time before Martin understood definitively that Henry was neither smart nor talented, that his only good points were that he was fairly nice, an adequate outfielder, and attractive to girls.

During the carriage ride to school, sitting with Martin across from his father and Timothy, Henry began to feel a bit excited. All the boys he hadn’t seen over the summer would be there, of course, and everyone would have their new slaves. He felt confident that Martin was the best of them all, but it would still be interesting to see who had chosen what sort of slave.

Father gave him a few dollars pocket money as he got out of the carriage, Martin waiting patiently for him on the cobbles.

“There you are!” Louis came up behind him and clapped him on the back with unnecessary force, over-stimulated and excited. “Come on, everyone wants to see him.”

Cringing inside, Henry walked over to where his friends stood. Albert waved at him and Henry spotted Albert’s new slave right behind him, remembering that this blond boy was one of Martin’s compatriots from Ganymede. Seeing Albert with this boy was a little startling; the slave looked enough like Albert to be his better-looking brother.

Pulled in by Louis’ hand on his elbow, Henry was absorbed into the group, Martin sticking close. All around, boys had something to say about Martin’s purchase.

“Did you know you set a record?”

“Your father is absolutely mad, isn’t he? You’re so spoiled!”

“How is he possibly worth that much more than the rest?”

Henry didn’t know how to answer any of these questions. “He’s a good slave,” he offered quietly, his cheeks coloring.

“He’s a musician!” Louis informed the crowd. This was not information Henry would necessarily have chosen to share, and he gave Louis a sharp look, but Louis was impervious to rebuke. “He plays the violin and he’s brilliant at it!”

“My Tom plays piano,” offered Freddie.

“All Peter can play is
Chopsticks
,” Louis said. “But, really, I’m pretty happy with him overall.” There was general agreement that all of the slaves were pretty much all right.

Martin stayed obediently close until Henry realized that he was the only slave still tagging after his master; the rest of the slaves stood together a little ways apart, introducing themselves and socializing. “Go on with the others,” Henry said, gesturing toward the group with his chin.

“Very good, Sir.” Martin gave him a succinct nod and turned on his heel.

Henry watched as Martin immediately went to greet Albert’s blond slave. They clasped one another’s forearms and leaned close, both busily talking, their faces animated and bright. The rest of the slaves reacted to Martin’s presence with interest and both Peter and Albert’s slave began making introductions.

Adam Pettibone and his friends stood together a short distance away from Henry’s group. Curious, Henry looked for Adam’s Sam in the slave group and noted that the little fellow looked haunted, dark circles under his eyes.

It was interesting to see who had chosen what sort of slave, whether they had selected for beauty or build or some less-obvious quality. Most but not all of the boys had chosen slaves with whom they shared an ethnic background; however, both Wendell Franklin and Victor Spence had chosen white slaves, while Joshua Brand and Robert Townsend had chosen colored boys to serve them. This preference made sense to Henry on a superficial level; in choosing Martin, certainly the contrast in the color of their skins had held great appeal for him.

As they all milled about on the forecourt, the slaves stood out, not just because of their different uniforms, but because they were such impressive specimens of young manhood. They were all in peak condition, all especially handsome, most still wearing the long hair they’d been bought with. Their masters were a more varied lot, with Henry and Charles Ross perhaps their equals in beauty, the rest pleasantly average or even homely.

When it could be put off no longer, the boys filed into the school and were attended by their slaves in the cloakroom. With balmy fall weather and no coats, all there was to be done was to put up their hats.

Martin smiled at Henry and asked, “Is there anything else I might do for you, Sir?”

Henry shook his head. “No. No thank you.”

In the hallway outside the cloakroom, they stood at the intersection between the corridor leading to the slave school and that for the regular school, poised to go their separate ways. As uncomfortable as Henry had found the closeness he’d been forced into with Martin since the auction, he found he was now reluctant to part with him. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. Could he wish Martin luck? Was that done? He’d better not.

“Goodbye and good day to you, Sir,” Martin said. He reached to touch Henry’s arm, then pulled his hand back. “Sorry. I will see you at lunchtime, yes, Sir?”

“Yes, of course.” Henry cleared his throat and felt his cheeks flush. “Good day to you, also.”

Martin beamed. “Thank you, Sir!”

Louis grabbed Henry’s arm. “C’mon. We’re going to be late.”

Henry let himself be dragged along. When he allowed himself to look back, Martin had already disappeared.

The Algonquin School was a small and exclusive one, the students not particularly distinguished academically, but all very rich. Henry’s class had been approximately twenty boys in size since he’d first begun attending the school at age 6. The boys would spend most of the day in a single well-lit classroom, with the teachers coming to them. First class of the day was Mr. Cobb with English, then Mr. Granger with history, then Mr. McLachlan with math. After math, they’d break for lunch with slaves in attendance. After lunch came Mr. Brasenose with both ancient and modern geography and Mr. Greaves with sciences in the lab. Last class of the day was Dr. Foster teaching Henry’s most-loathed subject, Latin.