A Most Personal Property (Ganymede Quartet Book 1) (35 page)

After they had both finished their soup and toast, Martin got up and put their trays by the door. He turned to Henry and said, “Unless there’s anything I can do for you, Sir, I think I’ll go back to bed. I’m feeling a bit tired.”

“Please,” Henry told him. “Get some rest.” He watched Martin go, then picked up his book and read for a bit. The story was diverting enough, but it didn’t have a patch on Theo and George, especially when Martin did the voices.

Henry finished his book on Saturday while Martin slept and slept. Henry wanted to see him but felt shy. It would be better, maybe, to wait for Martin to come to him. Billy and Paul brought them trays at lunchtime and Henry expected Martin to come out to put his tray by the door when he was finished, but that didn’t happen. When the twins came back, Paul went into Martin’s room to retrieve the tray and dishes and Henry waved him over as he was leaving.

“How is he?” he asked in a low voice.

“He’s asleep, Sir,” Paul told him, in a similarly confidential tone. “He’s breathing easy. He’ll be up and around in no time.”

Henry felt lonely. He wanted to see Martin. He wanted to lose at poker as many times as possible. He wanted Martin to explain what he meant by offering himself up so passionately for any sort of use. He sighed and stared at the ceiling. He felt weak and emotional and restless. He didn’t feel up to doing anything, and didn’t know what he would do in any case. He thrashed around in the bed, tangling the sheets around his feet, and eventually fell asleep.

Sunday morning, he woke to Martin’s hand on his shoulder. “Rise and shine, Sir.” Martin was wearing his house uniform, his hair was brushed, and he looked nearly back to normal, albeit pale and subdued.

“Do you feel up to breakfast, Sir? Cook is making eggs Benedict. I know it’s one of your favorites.”

“I’ll get up,” Henry said agreeably. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and Martin had his slippers ready.

It felt good to shower, to wash his hair. He let himself think of Martin holding his hand and saying his name and jerked off furtively and efficiently under the spray. He shaved, but not before first admiring the rather significant and manly beard he’d grown over his sick week. He looked all right, but tired and in need of a haircut. He idly wondered what he’d look like with hair as long as Martin’s—he didn’t think it would suit him so well.

Martin dressed him in his blue suit, a waistcoat embroidered with cornflowers, and a saffron-and-blue-striped tie. “You look nearly as good as new, Sir,” he remarked. He knelt down to tie Henry’s boots and smiled at him in the mirror.

If either Father or Mother had noticed he’d been absent all week, they gave no indication this morning. Father didn’t even look up as Henry came into the room. Mother had clearly had a dose of her medicine, her eyes glassy and her pupils diminished to pinpricks, and she stirred her tea slowly while staring right through him. Henry found that his appetite had not yet recovered; he could not stomach second helpings of anything.

As he left the breakfast room, Martin murmured to him, “Sir, I’m told Louis has been calling for you all week, if perhaps you’d like to telephone…?”

Henry ducked into the telephone alcove and placed his call. Martin stood outside, patiently waiting. Louis wanted to know if he was all right, if he was coming back to school, if he was mad about anything that had happened at the party, which had, by the way, gotten completely out of hand after he’d left. Louis made it sound as if “completely out of hand” were a good thing.

“Don’t worry about the party,” Henry told him. “I’m fine. I’ll be at school tomorrow.” They said their goodbyes and Henry hung up.

Henry was tired of being in the house. He turned to Martin. “We’re going to the stables,” he announced.

“Sir?”

“We can see if you like my mother’s horse,” Henry told him. “Besides, I haven’t seen Marigold since we brought you home.” Henry was very fond of his horse when he remembered he had her—Louis did not like horses and did not ride, which meant Henry spent little time on horseback. She was a tall buckskin mare, chosen in part because Captain Theo Drake had ridden a buckskin horse. She was an even-tempered creature and, notwithstanding Henry’s neglect, was well-cared-for by the stable slaves. Her favorite person was clearly Jerry the groom and not Henry, but Henry couldn’t begrudge her the preference, considering he saw her every few weeks rather than every day.

“Are you sure you’re up to it, Sir?” Martin’s eyes narrowed with concern, scanning Henry’s face. “You’re only now up and around.”

“You were sick more recently than me,” Henry pointed out. “And you went to work this morning.”

“Sir, my position is diff—”

Impatiently, Henry waved off Martin’s explanation. “It’ll be fine, Martin. I’m going crazy cooped up in here! It’s only a short walk.”

Martin left off arguing abruptly. “Very good, Sir. Of course. We’ll just get our hats.”

The Blackwell stables were a few blocks away, to the north and east. Many other families stabled their animals in the same area, and there was a distinct smell of horseshit the closer they got to the stable blocks. Henry didn’t mind the smell—it was preferable to the stuffy air of his bedroom. It was a lovely day otherwise, the sun gentle and the air cool. He did feel tired, but pleasantly so. He stole glances at Martin, who seemed at least reconciled to their walk, and did not seem to be suffering any lingering effects of their shared illness.

At the stable, Old Bob was polishing the door of the Clarence, but seemed pleased enough to leave off and greet Henry. “Sir,” he said with a nod. “Martin.”

“We’ve come to see Marigold and Strawberry,” Henry told him.

Old Bob looked a bit taken aback. “Sir! If you’d called ahead, Sir, we’d have had them saddled and ready for you.” He called to Little Bob. “See here, Bob! Get young Mr. Blackwell’s horse ready!” Little Bob nodded and darted off.

“No, no!” Henry called after him, waving his hands in calming gestures. “No need. We’re not actually riding today. We’re just visiting. Martin hasn’t met the horses yet, and we want to see if Strawberry will suit.”

Old Bob looked doubtful. “If you don’t mind my saying so, Sir, I don’t think she’ll do, not at all. Mrs. Blackwell’s horse is a lady’s horse, a small horse, Sir, and Martin is very near as tall as you.”

“You’re probably right,” Henry said agreeably. “But we’ll go see her anyway.”

“Take her a carrot, Sir. Bob’ll get some for you.” Again he called to his young counterpart. “Bob, get Mr. Blackwell some carrots for the girls.”

There were ten horses in the Blackwell stables, including the four carriage horses. Father had a big grey gelding called Thunder, but he rarely rode any more. Mother’s red roan mare, little Strawberry, had never been ridden by her; in fact, Mother had never met the horse that had been purchased for her use. Timothy’s horse was Jojo, a bay gelding, and Pearl’s horse was Nancy, a bay mare. Henry had Marigold, and Cora had a fat bay pony, a little gelding she’d named Daisy.

Marigold seemed happy enough to see Henry, or at least to have the carrot he held out for her. Jerry the groom, just a few years older than Henry and Martin, came over to see what Henry was doing with a decidedly proprietary air. When she saw him, Marigold abandoned Henry in Jerry’s favor, her neck extended over the top rail of her stall for him to pet.

“You’ve been taking good care of her,” Henry remarked.

“Yes, Sir.” Jerry paused a respectful moment, then said, “She’s getting a bit fat, Sir. She could use more riding.”

“Martin likes to ride,” Henry said. “So now I’ll have someone to ride with, just as soon as we get him a horse. Do you think Strawberry might do for now? Old Bob says no.”

Jerry assessed Martin and frowned. “I don’t think so, either, Sir. Martin’s too tall. Maybe Thunder, if Mr. Blackwell would allow it.”

“I’ll ask him,” Henry said. He turned to Martin, “Well, we might as well visit Strawberry anyway.”

Strawberry did seem quite small now that Henry was looking at her. Jerry offered to put a saddle on her for Martin to try, but Henry didn’t think it necessary. He thought it made more sense to put a saddle on Thunder, but the stable slaves were so clearly uncomfortable saddling Mr. Blackwell’s horse for anyone else without his permission, much less a slave, that Henry didn’t press the issue. They gave carrots to Strawberry and Thunder, then Daisy and Jojo and Nancy, and then it seemed a pity to leave the carriage horses out. Two were out on the road pulling the brougham with Mr. Blackwell in it, but they gave treats to the pair who remained behind. They had names, though Henry didn’t know them, and they were all four bays and thus hard to tell apart.

By the time they were ready to leave, Henry had a noticeable amount of mixed horsehair worked into the weave of his jacket sleeve from petting the sleek necks. It would be up to Martin to get these hairs out, and Henry did not envy him the task. Martin had been more cautious in interacting with the horses, probably for this very reason.

As they walked home, Henry thought with growing excitement about going for a ride. “Did we buy you riding clothes, Martin?”

“Yes, Sir. But some of my things haven’t been delivered yet. The everyday clothes were a rush job, but the riding clothes and my formal suit weren’t needed right away.”

“Tell Timothy to check up on those,” Henry told him. “I want to be able to go riding as soon as possible and I don’t have any extras for you to wear.”

“Yes, Sir.” Martin smiled at him, and it was dazzling even though he still looked a bit wan. “I really do like to ride, Sir. I’m excited that we might go.”

“We’ll go,” Henry assured him. “We just need to get you a horse.” He liked the idea of having another thing that he could do with Martin that would allow them to be together while not requiring an embarrassing level of intimacy and interaction.

At home, Henry sent Billy down to tell Cook he wanted his lunch early. She sent up plates of sandwiches and a tureen of potato soup. Martin prepared Henry’s plate and then his own and sat down at Henry’s side. Henry liked that Martin hadn’t asked if he could do it, but just took his place as if it was his right, as Henry wanted him to do.

After lunch, they both needed new books to read and so went to the library. Martin took the next book in his series and Henry chose an old favorite, a shipwreck story. He wanted to ask Martin if he would read it aloud, but felt unaccountably embarrassed by the prospect and determined to simply read it to himself, like he always had.

“I know we just had a new
Drake’s Progress
, Sir,” Martin said on the stairs as they climbed. “But I
really
want to know what happens next. There’s just something about Theo and George. I can’t quite put my finger on it…”

Henry went hot, all the blood rushing to the surface of his skin. He thought he knew exactly what Martin was talking about. His voice constricted and stiff, Henry said, “I think I know what you mean,” and left it at that.

While Henry lay on his bed and read the familiar story, Martin used a clothes brush on his jacket, making fretful noises over the sleeve.

“Is it really bad?” Henry asked. He didn’t want it to be terribly bad, of course, but he liked the idea of Martin doing work for him.

“Oh, I don’t mean to complain, Sir.” Martin seemed embarrassed to be caught out. “But this horsehair is very tenacious, I must say.”

“When you’re done, why don’t you practice your piece? I’d like to hear it and you haven’t played all week.”

“Very good, Sir. As soon as I’ve finished with this.”

It was perhaps another fifteen minutes before Martin was through with the jacket and hung it on the valet stand in readiness. He went through to his own room and soon began to tune his instrument, which produced extravagant, birdlike squawks and screeches. After a minute of this, he began to play in earnest, starting at the beginning, everything mellifluous, the notes washing over Henry in a grand sweep. He put his book face-down in his lap and closed his eyes to listen. Martin was approaching the tricky part, and Henry thought he could almost hear tension in the notes, Martin’s apprehension. A few measures further on, the music stopped.

When it did not start up again right away, Henry got up from the bed and went to look from his end of the little hall. Martin stood in the center of his room with the heels of his hands pressed against his eyes. His violin and bow lay on the desk, his glasses beside them.

Henry made the few steps to Martin’s end of the hall. “Are you all right?”

Martin took his hands away from his face, blinking in surprise. He did not appear to have been crying, which Henry was glad of. “Oh, Sir. Yes, Sir, I’m fine.” He picked up his glasses and put them back on. “I’m just tired.” He forced a smile. “Why don’t I play some other music instead, Sir? Popular songs.”

“You’re awfully hard on yourself,” Henry said. “It’s okay to make mistakes.” He meant this to be comforting, but it only seemed to annoy Martin.

“I’ll play you some dance music, Sir,” Martin offered, picking up his violin. “I’m very good at playing those sorts of pieces. I should focus on that.”

This sounded suspiciously self-loathing to Henry, but there was nothing Martin had said that he could really counter. “Whatever you like,” he said mildly. “I’ll be happy to listen to anything you play.”

He lounged in the doorway while Martin played several lively pieces at breakneck speed, as if trying to prove to himself that he was skilled despite his difficulties.

When Martin paused at the end of a song, Henry quickly said, “You said before that you played at dances at Ganymede.”

“Yes, Sir, I did.”

“What sort of dances? Were there girls brought in from a different House, or was it all boys?”

“All boys, Sir. Just Ganymede. We never danced with girls.”

There would be a ball in the spring, the Metropolitan Ball, a milestone in the lives of the rich young people of the city, and Henry and his friends would participate. The girls would debut, the boys would escort, and there’d be a series of dance lessons leading up to it, most of which would be danced with slaves in place of girls. But Henry liked the idea of an all-boys dance, a real all-boys dance and not just masters rehearsing steps with slaves. Even a dance of all slaves was made up of equals, just as a dance of all free men would be of equals, if such a thing ever existed. All Henry wanted in the world was for a boy who had the freedom to choose anyone or anything to choose him. If he couldn’t have that, he wanted some definitive sign that Martin could want him, would choose him if he had the choice. Ambiguous talk about using wasn’t enough.