A Most Personal Property (Ganymede Quartet Book 1) (36 page)

But all he said was, “Did you dance, as well, or just play?”

“Oh, I danced, Sir. I love to dance.”

“So do I,” Henry offered shyly. “I was always good at it, too, but I haven’t had the opportunity in quite some time.”

“Doesn’t your family ever hold balls, Sir?”

Henry shook his head. “Not since before Cora was born. You see how my mother is. She doesn’t like parties.” He shrugged, as if to say that it couldn’t be helped. “My father
goes
to balls, of course.”

Martin frowned. “Your house isn’t very lively, if you don’t mind me saying so, Sir. You’re a young person. Your life should have more color, I think.”

Henry thought him very bold to make such criticisms, but he agreed, and he felt happy Martin would be so frank with him. “It’s not just my house; it’s your house, too. What would you see differently, then?”

“Oh, Sir, really, I can’t—” Martin shook his head, clearly thinking he’d already said too much.

“Tell me,” Henry insisted. “What would make it better?”

“Sir, it’s really not my place!” Martin protested. “I’ve been too outspoken as it is.”

“I want to hear what you think, Martin, please! My father might be willing to go along with some of your ideas if I tell him they’re mine.”

Martin seemed to think long and hard about what he would say. He put his violin down and pushed his glasses up his nose. “Well, Sir, with a house like this, there should be grand parties and balls throughout the year. And with all the empty bedrooms, there could be houseguests at all times.” He darted a glance at Henry, gauging the receptiveness of his audience. Encouraged, he continued. “You’re old enough to go to the theater, Sir, I don’t see why not. Opera, as well, and the Philharmonic.”

Henry liked the idea of Martin in formal dress at his side. “You’d benefit from all of this, too, of course, wouldn’t you?”

Martin ducked his head, embarrassed. “Yes, of course, Sir. As I said, it’s not really my place to make such suggestions. There is a certain amount of self-interest involved that’s quite inappropriate.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Henry said, brushing off his concerns. “But listen, Martin, Father will never take me to the theater or the opera because that’s where he takes Mrs. Murdock. And we never have parties or guests because Mother won’t tolerate anything the least bit celebratory. We have the gloomiest birthdays here; you won’t believe it until you see it.” He smiled sadly. “I agree with you, I do, but none of this will change until we grow up and I can leave this house.”

“I will try my best to make life more enjoyable for you in the meantime, then, Sir,” Martin said, sounding almost contrite. And then, in an impassioned voice, he added, “Say you’ll let me do it!”

Henry didn’t know how to respond to this. He blushed and looked away. “Er, well.” Then, after an uncomfortable silence, he said, “If you’re done with the violin for now, do you want to beat me at poker some more?”

Martin laughed. “Anything you want, Sir.”

Henry got down to three cents in his cigar box, at which point he didn’t have enough to actually bet on a hand, so Martin was declared the overall champion—again—and they started over, counting out ninety-seven cents from Martin’s box into Henry’s. By the time Martin needed to go down to his dinner, Henry was down to sixty-four cents again.

At dinner, Mother was more alert.

“How are you feeling, darling?”

“Better, thank you, Mother.” It pleased him that she’d asked, albeit belatedly.

“It’s a shame your slave took ill, as well,” she said. “It made extra work for the others.”

Henry pressed his lips together in a tight line. “It couldn’t be helped,” he pointed out. “He got sick while caring for me.”

“Then little Johnny and one of the maids—was it Lucy, Hiram?—came down with the same thing,” she continued. “It has been very disruptive.”

Father had looked up when he heard his name, but clearly hadn’t been following Mother’s train of thought. He stared at her a moment, an expression of distaste contorting his mustache, before returning to his papers.

“I will endeavor not to be sick again,” Henry told her, slightly disgusted. He let Paul take away his unfinished squab and replace it with a lettuce salad.

When they were all settled in the parlor, Henry, remembering how eager Martin seemed to ride, was emboldened to speak to his father without waiting for his father to speak to him first. “Father, may I ask you something?”

Father cocked an eyebrow at him. “Go ahead.”

“I went to see the horses with Martin today,” he began. “Strawberry won’t do for him, she’s too small, but Thunder might fit. Would it be all right for Martin to ride him, do you think?”

Father looked affronted. “Thunder is
my
horse, Henry.”

“Yes, sir. I know that, sir.”

“You’re starting out on the wrong foot with this slave of yours, Henry. He’s not a pet for you to spoil. If he needs a horse of his own, then he’ll have one, but you are not to go off all willy-nilly giving him things that belong to his betters. It sets a bad precedent, son. Unacceptable!”

“Yes, sir.” Henry cast his gaze down, humiliated. He was hurt especially because it had been Father’s own idea for Martin to ride
Mother’s
horse, but apparently that didn’t set a bad precedent? Fuming, Henry wished that Martin had not been witness to this exchange, especially the part about Henry treating him like a pet.

Father turned to Timothy. “See to it that Martin gets a horse, will you?”

Timothy said, “Yes, Sir,” and gave Henry a gentle, conciliatory smile over the top of Father’s head.

Henry sulked through Pearl’s reading and asked to be excused immediately afterward, citing fatigue.

In his bedroom, as Martin helped him undress, he complained about Father, saying, “It was his own idea to have you ride Strawberry, you remember, so how is it any different to have you ride Thunder?”

“You’re right, of course, Sir,” Martin said soothingly. He helped Henry off with his shirt and balled it up, placing it in the laundry basket.

“We’ll have to get you a horse this week, then,” Henry decided. “We won’t put it off.”

“That would be lovely, Sir,” Martin said mildly. Henry pulled his undershirt over his head and Martin took it from his hands, then stepped behind him to hold his pajama shirt so that he could slip his arms into the sleeves. Henry continued to undress, still fuming, but gradually his indignant mood was tempered by Martin’s calm, methodical attentions. Everything would be fine. Martin would have his own horse.

Henry got into bed while Martin went about his work. He came out of his room dressed for bed and picked up the laundry basket. As he did every night, he assured Henry he would be right back, and upon his return, he asked, as he did every night, if there was anything he might do for Henry. And as he did every night, Henry denied that this was the case.

Several other boys had gone out with the flu since Henry’s dramatic fainting spell. Albert was sick (as was his sister Abigail, according to Louis) but Stuart remained well and at home, looking after Albert. Charles’ parents had pulled him out just in case—his older brother had died of pneumonia when Charles was little, and they were perhaps overly cautious about illness. Adam was fine, but Sam was quite ill, and Adam was angry at his father for making him attend school without a slave to wait on him at lunch.

Henry had a lot of work to make up for all of his classes: an essay for English, several pages of algebra problems, a chapter about Charlemagne and the Carolingian Renaissance to read and summarize. He had hoped Dr. Foster would go easy on him and did his best to seem sickly still, but Dr. Foster was not fooled and kept him after class to impress upon him the importance of catching up with the schoolwork he’d missed. Henry stood before Dr. Foster’s desk doing a poor job of appearing attentive, fidgeting with the strap of his schoolbag. Martin would be waiting; perhaps Louis would tell him that Henry had been detained.

Dr. Foster said, “You have the ability to do better work, Mr. Blackwell, and your clever slave should be able to help you. I expect you to put forth consistent effort.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll do better,” Henry said, though both he and Dr. Foster knew this was unlikely.

With a tight-lipped frown, Dr. Foster said, “You may go.” He looked a little disgusted with Henry, but he invariably seemed disgusted with all the boys, so Henry did not take it too personally.

He had been kept back perhaps seven or eight minutes. Martin was not waiting for him in the empty cloakroom. When he stepped out the door of the school, he became instantly suspicious when none of the older boys were in sight. The lower school boys stood in nervous clumps, whispering and darting glances toward the west corner of the building. There were sounds of a commotion of some sort, murmurs and scuffling. Henry rounded the corner and saw all of his classmates and their slaves gathered in a tight circle. He did not see Martin anywhere.

Adam Pettibone’s braying voice rose above the rest. “Go on, then,” he said. “Stop stalling. Put it back in your mouth.”

“Go on,” encouraged another voice, as Henry pushed his way into the circle. “Do it.”

Martin was at the center, kneeling in the dirt at Adam’s feet. Adam held a handful of Martin’s hair, his other hand on his stubby cock, and he poked at Martin’s pale cheek with the slippery head. Martin’s lips were pressed tightly together, his eyes narrowed, his expression venomous and defiant.

“Oh,” Adam said. “Henry.” He took a step back from Martin and fumbled with the buttons of his trousers. Martin got awkwardly to his feet, swiping at his wet cheek with the back of his hand, fury in his eyes.

Henry saw the scene as if through a bloody film. With a cry of incoherent rage, he lunged at Adam and took him down to the ground, where they rolled around in the gravel throwing wild punches. Martin attempted to intervene but Peter and Tom held him off. Just as when they were boys, Henry had the advantages of reach and speed, and this time he wasn’t going to let himself be bitten. He held Adam by the neck and punched him in the nose with a satisfying crunch, then did it again. The other boys mostly stood and gleefully watched, though someone must have run to tell the teachers, who arrived in short order and broke up the fight. Henry could taste blood and feel his lip swelling where he’d been caught by Adam’s elbow, though he didn’t mind so much since Adam’s nose was bleeding and he was complaining that it felt broken.

“What is the meaning of this?” demanded Dr. Foster.

“It was nothing, sir.”

“Things got a bit out of hand, is all.”

Neither Henry nor Adam was willing to discuss the particulars of their disagreement. Adam wiped his nose on his sleeve with a loud sniff and Henry simply denied being hurt until the adults gave up questioning them and left them in the alley with warnings not to fight again. Martin hurried to Henry’s side, but Henry waved him off with a scowl. Martin looked as hurt as if Henry had slapped him.

As soon as Dr. Foster and Mr. Cobb and the other teachers were out of earshot, Henry turned to Adam and snarled, “Keep your hands off him!”

“He’s no good anyway,” Adam jeered. “He may as well be untrained.”

“Leave off,” said Louis. “Both of you just leave off.” He took Henry by the arm and attempted to lead him away as Adam’s friends gathered around him and did the same.

Martin and Peter hurried after them, Martin calling, “Sir, Sir,” in a worried voice.

Henry abruptly stopped walking and whirled around to face him. “What
is
it?”

“Sir…are you hurt, Sir?” Cowed by Henry’s anger, Martin’s voice was uncertain and hesitant.

“You have dirt on your knees,” Henry said tightly, furious.

“Sir, you also, from the fight…” Martin gestured at Henry’s uniform. “On your arm, there, Sir, and down your side.”

“Get it off, then!” Henry held out his arm for Martin to knock the dust out of his sleeve. Martin did it briskly, his face pale and pinched, and when Henry was clean, he brushed at his own knees with a guilty, shrinking air.

“You know it wasn’t Martin’s fault,” Louis said, putting his hand on Henry’s arm.

“Of course I know that!” Incensed, Henry shook off Louis’ hand. “It was all Adam’s doing!” He seethed; oh, how he hated Adam! “You didn’t help, I noticed!” That wasn’t really fair; Louis was too small to take on Adam. Sighing, and in a conciliatory tone, he said, “Here, Louis, say, how bad is my lip?”

Louis examined his face. “Hmm. Not too bad. A bit swollen.”

“You might put some ice on it, Sir,” Martin offered timidly. “When we’re home, I’ll get some from the kitchen, Sir. They might want to know why I need it, though.”

Henry considered this a moment. “I guess it’s all right to say I was hit. But don’t tell anyone why.”

“Yes, Sir.” Martin smiled, clearly relieved that Henry was speaking to him civilly again.

“I’m not angry at
you
,” Henry told him gruffly, a little ashamed of his treatment of Martin. “I’m angry at
Adam
.”

“I appreciate that, Sir.”

At home, Martin told Randolph a succinct version of Henry’s fight and the ice was obtained, wrapped in a rag, and applied to Henry’s lip. Martin made as if to hold the ice for him, but Henry was too restive to tolerate anything so intimate. He thought guiltily of his old wounded-comrade fantasies about Theo and George and snatched the ice from Martin’s hand.