A Most Personal Property (Ganymede Quartet Book 1) (57 page)

The slaves were also sent for lemonade, then for peanut brittle. Martin was unfailingly polite to Miss Flannery, who continued to avoid looking at him. Henry took some pleasure in her seeming discomfort; if he wasn’t going to have a good time, he didn’t think she ought to have one, either.

The main attraction at the park was a steeplechase ride, a simulated horse race on rails nearly a quarter mile in length. There were six wooden horses, each seating two at a time, and the entire thing ran on simple gravity. Before arriving at the park and meeting the girls, Henry had anticipated going on this ride with Martin and looked forward to it. Now, realizing that he would have to ride with Miss Flannery and put his arms about her waist, he was dreading it. They got in line in their pairs, Louis and Henry with their respective Bridgets, Grace with Robert, Katie choosing Charles, and Anna choosing Gordon, leaving Freddie and Joshua to ride together in ill-disguised bad humor. The slaves were next in line and would ride after the boys finished their run with the girls.

The attendants who helped them onto the horses were dressed in jockey’s silks. They helped the girls climb awkwardly onto the horses’ backs, their voluminous skirts heaped before them. Miss Flannery was seated in front and Henry climbed on behind, gingerly placing his hands at her waist.

“You may hold me more tightly, if you wish, Mr. Blackwell.” Miss Flannery turned to look back over her shoulder and give him a saucy smile. “I think it would be all right under the circumstances.”

“Thank you,” Henry said, though he did not increase his grip. He thought he’d rather fall off the horse than hug her too closely.

A trumpeter blew a fanfare, the attendants pulled the release levers, and they were off, their horses rattling down the rails. They went downhill at first, building up momentum to then go uphill again. Miss Flannery shrieked, exhilarated, as they banked around a curve, and loose strands of her honey hair blew in Henry’s face. Henry looked to either side, seeing that only the horse carrying Freddie and Joshua was ahead of him and Miss Flannery; he fervently hoped they would maintain or even increase their lead, as he did not relish the idea of Miss Flannery being demonstrative in the face of a win. All six horses shot over the hurdles, and now Gordon and Miss Brody were running even with Henry and Miss Flannery, Freddie and Joshua still in the lead. Approaching the end of the ride, Freddie and Joshua were well ahead, Henry and Gordon running neck and neck, and that’s the way they ended, Freddie and Joshua breaking the tape and congratulating each other enthusiastically as they were herded from the ride platform.

Henry had hoped to stay and watch the slaves start their run, but the ride attendants were hurrying them along and it did not seem prudent to argue to stay. He could ask Martin later who he had ridden with.

Henry had forgotten about what came next: Blowhole Theater. He felt he might be forgiven for forgetting, as it had never troubled him much in the past, but that was because he’d never experienced it in company with a girl before. The only way out of the steeplechase ride was across a stage pocked with strategic holes where pressurized air would shoot up, lifting the skirts of whichever woman happened to be standing above them. There were a bunch of terrifying dwarf clowns commanding the stage, hauling women and girls by their wrists to hold them in place above the blowholes so that the watching crowd could see their underwear and hoot and applaud. Since men were not susceptible to the blowholes, they were instead harassed and beaten with sticks.

Ahead of them, Louis and Miss O’Malley were just escaping the clowns’ clutches, Miss O’Malley holding her skirt down with both hands as they hurried down the stairs from the stage into the auditorium. Henry did his best to hustle Miss Flannery across the stage, and did put his arm about her waist in an attempt to be protective, but she was frightened and uncooperative, and he was separated from her by a fiendish little clown who kicked him in the knee and harried him toward the stairs. Miss Flannery, tethered at the wrists by two clowns, shrieked as a jet of air blew her skirt and both of her petticoats up near her waist, exposing her drawers. The crowd hollered their approval and the clowns let her go. Henry was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs.

“I’m sorry I didn’t warn you,” Henry told her. “I forgot what would happen.”

She was red-faced but laughing. “Oh, that was horrible! Those awful clowns!”

They joined the others, taking seats in the audience. The girls were all giddy and embarrassed, and the boys were slightly shamefaced, having been bested by a bunch of dwarves. The next group of people across the stage were, of course, the boys’ own slaves, who were much less interesting to the crowd than women would have been. The little clowns seemed especially vicious in their attacks on the slaves, even tripping Julian and hitting him with their sticks as he lay on the ground. Gordon, fury in his eyes, got to his feet and pushed his way toward the aisle, but Julian managed to get up and hurry down the stairs before Gordon could reach the stage.

They sat watching for awhile. Henry didn’t care about seeing women’s underwear one bit, but the rest of the boys and most of the slaves were delighted by the show. Martin, Tom and Peter sat two rows ahead and Henry watched them talking, talking, always talking, and wondered jealously what they possibly had to talk so much about.

Miss Flannery laughed at several waves of hapless women dragged over the blowholes, and those women, in turn, then took seats in the audience to laugh at the women who would follow them, and so on. Henry was quite bored of the underwear parade, but little was required of him but to simply sit and watch, and at least this way he could keep an eye on Martin from his seat.

Miss Flannery leaned closer and put her hand on Henry’s arm where it lay on the armrest. “Tell me, Mr. Blackwell,” she began. “Tell me. What does your slave do for you, anyway?”

“My slave?” Henry was startled by her question and instinctively wished to tell her nothing at all.

“Yes, your slave,” she repeated. “You hear all sorts of things, what rich boys get up to with their fancy slaves. I’ve never talked to a boy like you before, so I’ve never had the opportunity to ask.”

“Well…” Henry felt he had to say something, but didn’t want to say too much. “He functions as a valet, really. Helps me dress and so forth.”

“And so forth.”

“Yes.” Henry was increasingly uncomfortable with her line of questioning. “And when I’m older, in business, he’ll serve me as a personal secretary.”

“Nothing more than that?” She raised an eyebrow, and Henry looked away, blushing. “I’ll tell you what I’ve heard, Mr. Blackwell. People say that rich boys use their slaves like a poor boy uses a cheap girl.”

Henry was horrified to hear this out loud, much less from the mouth of a young lady, and his expression must have reflected as much, because Miss Flannery laughed, delighted by his discomfort. “You look so dismayed!” she exclaimed. “But am I right, Mr. Blackwell? Is what they say true?”

“I-I can’t really speak for others, but—” Henry stammered. He had no idea what he should say to her. She was right, of course, and surely this was common knowledge, but to have it discussed between men and women, and between people of different classes—it was all so inappropriate, and yet he couldn’t parse out which aspect was most wrong! And while he supposed this girl might see what he had with Martin in this light, he certainly wouldn’t characterize it in such a way.

She laughed again and petted his arm reassuringly. “I’m only joking, Mr. Blackwell. I didn’t mean to accuse you of anything.” She leaned closer, so that her shoulder brushed his arm. “I’m only speaking to you as frankly as I’d speak to any boy in the dance hall, but perhaps you’re more used to girls who are less forthright than my friends and me.”

“I’m not used to girls at all,” Henry said quite truthfully. He didn’t tell her that he’d always heard that working-class girls had loose morals and that her unnerving remarks made him suspect this was quite true.

She tilted her head so that it rested on his shoulder, her plain little hat bumping his cheek. “Well, then. Have you ever kissed a girl, Mr. Blackwell?”

“No,” he said firmly, then hurriedly added, “which is quite all right with me, really.” The more physical inroads she made, the more still Henry became. With her hand on his arm and her head on his shoulder, he was made quite rigid.

“Mr. Blackwell,” she said in a teasing tone, “I think you might be a little afraid of girls.”

Before Henry could reply, Charles and Miss Sullivan stood and Charles said, “Why don’t we get out of here? I’ve seen enough petticoats to last me awhile.” Miss Sullivan giggled and leaned on Charles’ arm, and the rest of the group got to their feet and made their way toward the aisle. Outside of the building, it became clear that all members of the party but Henry (along with the rejected Freddie and Joshua) were interested in finding somewhere quite private to further their acquaintance with the girls.

They left the park without even sampling several of its attractions, and wandered the boardwalk in search of nooks and crannies where they might spend a few moments unobserved and unjudged. A narrow passage between a palm reader and a lemonade stand was just big enough for two couples at a time to slip inside. Martin brought lemonade for Henry and Miss Flannery while they waited their turn. He met Henry’s eye and smiled, seeming not in the least distressed that his master was about to be kissed by some gutter siren, and Henry felt a flash of irritation at Martin with his excellent service. He wanted Martin to protest, to kick up a fuss.

After perhaps five or six long minutes, Charles grew impatient. “Remember, your friends are waiting,” Charles urged. “Be considerate, won’t you, fellows?”

Louis and Miss O’Malley emerged from the gap, red-faced and giggling, and Robert and Miss Cavanaugh followed moments behind. Robert was plainly aroused, which shocked Henry, though he supposed it would have been just as telling for him to refuse to come out. Still, and even though he didn’t find Robert in the least appealing, the idea of a hard cock so close at hand was slightly exciting. He looked around for Martin, but Martin was thoroughly occupied horsing around with the other slaves and clearly giving no thought to Henry at all.

Charles and Miss Sullivan ducked inside the narrow alley, followed by Gordon and Miss Brody.

“How long did they let us have?” Louis asked. “They don’t get a minute more!”

Henry tuned out the chatter of his friends and their girls. He concentrated on his breathing, trying to calm himself. It wouldn’t be so bad. She was a pretty girl, he could see that, and it was only kissing. “Only kissing.” Ha! He had longed to be kissed for years, and finally receiving Martin’s kiss had been one of the most momentous events of his short life. Well, at least he’d had Martin; these kisses with Miss Flannery wouldn’t be his introduction to the act.

“Are you nervous, Mr. Blackwell?”

Henry started. He’d almost been able to forget that Miss Flannery was close beside him, holding his arm. He didn’t think it was wrong to admit it. “A little,” he said.

“I’m told I’m good at it,” she bragged.

“You kiss a lot of people, then?” Henry asked, eyebrow raised.

She frowned, blushing. “Not so very many,” she insisted, clearly wishing she’d been less forthcoming. Then, in a low voice, she admitted, “Most of them have been my girlfriends at the boardinghouse. We practice on each other, you see, so that we’ll know what to do when we meet a boy we like.”

“Oh, well, then.” That seemed more innocent to Henry. Anything women might do together seemed frivolous somehow. He did recall, however, that James was particularly fond of paying prostitutes to kiss and fondle one another, so obviously there was some appeal to this scenario for red-blooded boys.

“You’re very handsome,” she said, stating a fact. “You know this, I’m sure, Mr. Blackwell.”

Henry shrugged, not denying it. He’d been told often enough.

“I’ve known handsome boys before,” she continued, “but never one who was rich, too. Never one who had a slave.”

Henry did not know what she expected him to say. “Well, now you know one,” he offered lamely.

“Will our acquaintance last beyond today, do you think, Mr. Blackwell?” She seemed to genuinely want to know.

Henry thought that if he answered her truthfully, she might not be so keen on kissing him after all. “I don’t know, Miss Flannery, but it seems unlikely.”

“That’s what I expected you to say,” she admitted wistfully. “But that’s all right. All my friends are kissing rich boys today and I’m not going to be left out.”

Charles and Gordon emerged from the passageway with their girls. “Your turn, Henry,” Gordon called out cheerfully.

Henry’s vision narrowed to a darkened tunnel and he heard the blood pounding in his ears above all else. He didn’t dare look for Martin, afraid of what he would do if he caught Martin’s eye, whether it be agonized or indifferent. He turned to Miss Flannery and said, “After you,” ushering her into the corridor. He went to stand near her, unsure of how to position himself, how to
be.

“Bridget and I are joining you,” Louis said, loud at Henry’s back. He and the giggling Miss O’Malley went eagerly into one another’ s arms and Louis pushed her up against the wall and began tugging her skirts up toward her waist.

“Don’t worry about them,” Miss Flannery said, taking Henry by the chin and turning his face so that he looked at her. “Stand in front of me,” she said, “like that, yes. Now close your eyes and let me show you, all right?”

Henry obediently closed his eyes. He felt her hands on his jaw, drawing his head down, tilting it. Her lips were not as full as Martin’s, nor as warm, but they were merely unfamiliar, not disgusting.

“See? Not so scary,” she said. “Your lips are nice. Very soft.”

Pleased by the compliment, and stung by how little Martin seemed to care that Henry was spending his entire day with a girl, Henry deepened the kiss and felt her tongue slide alongside his own. This was a mistake; it felt wrong, so unlike Martin’s tongue and more like an inert piece of meat left in his mouth. Repulsed, Henry pulled away and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.