A Most Personal Property (Ganymede Quartet Book 1) (7 page)

So, while Henry was eager to have a companion of his own, he also felt great trepidation. There was no question that he had to have a slave or he’d be a laughingstock, but he didn’t feel at all prepared to be responsible for another person or to provide discipline should the need arise. And what would he do with the slave—with
Martin
—when they were finally alone behind a locked door? Could he allow himself any contact? Could he do what all his friends would most assuredly be doing? Or would it be better to keep his hands off his slave entirely so as to remove all temptation, all chance of sliding into a pit of moral degradation? If he never did the things he wanted to do, was he effectively not queer at all despite wanting so badly to do them?

Henry hoped so.

He made his way back uptown at a brisk pace. He found his eyes were drawn over and over again to pale strangers, to people with amber locks, to men and women alike with full lips as juicy as fruit, and as he walked, he was bombarded with reminders of what made Martin so appealing. He blushed at a woman with reddish curls in an elaborate updo, and then a gentleman with pink cheeks and a full lower lip visible beneath the brush of his coppery mustache. So many people were viscerally reminiscent of Martin, yet none was his equal in beauty.

By the time Henry reached Father’s club, he was slightly frantic, sweating and out of breath. There was still another half an hour before the auction and Henry was reluctant to bother Father until absolutely necessary. He wandered the halls of the club hoping for some distraction, but found nothing more interesting than men playing cards whose expressions were tensely tolerant of his presence, certainly only because they knew who his father was. He felt embarrassed and made murmured apologies as he backed out of the card room. Back in the main dining room, Timothy looked up as Henry entered the room and smiled. Father glanced up and gave Henry the barest possible nod of acknowledgment.

“May I see the catalog, Father?”

“Hmm? Oh, certainly. Find it for him, Timothy.”

Henry flipped to Martin’s page. The photographs were dark and did not do him justice, not capturing any of his lithe charm, his considerable beauty. Henry skimmed the utilitarian text alongside the sub-par photograph. Martin was, if the catalog could be believed, a better student than Henry, a better sportsman, and probably a better person. He had a plethora of skills and hobbies, many more than Henry could boast. His reserve price was dauntingly high. Perhaps he was too good for Henry. A quality slave would never seem to look down on a master, but what if it couldn’t be helped? What if the master was just so obviously inferior that he couldn’t earn the slave’s respect? Henry began to worry that he’d made a terrible mistake in fixing so definitively on just the one very superior slave.

“I think I should go back,” he announced. Timothy looked interested; Father raised an eyebrow. “To see,” he added, “to see if there are others that might suit.”

“Nonsense,” said Father. “The one you’ve chosen will suit perfectly well.” He rattled his paper and that was that. Henry slumped in his chair and stared unseeing at the tablecloth, his stomach knotted with dread and excitement mingled.

At last the hour arrived for the auction. The offerings of House Nereus were up first; none of them, in Henry’s opinion, were nearly so fine as Martin. House Apollo had nineteen lots in the category, one of which had coloring similar to Martin’s, and Henry again wondered if he’d made a mistake by fixing so resolutely on a single candidate. Surely, there would be others bidding on Martin, undoubtedly the families of some of his own classmates. Henry disliked the unpredictability of an auction; he wanted the outcome to be guaranteed and there were too many variables in play.

Finally, the Ganymede lots came up for bid. Henry grew increasingly impatient as the Standard and Choice boys were brought to the stage, one by one. The three Superior dark-haired boys were brought forth and each in turn sold for amounts that worried Henry, as he was sure Martin would go much higher. The Superior blond went to one of Henry’s classmates, Albert DeWitt, who was just across the aisle from Henry. When Martin—Lot #63—was led out onto the stage, Henry felt that he might be sick. Martin looked much smaller standing alone in the middle of the big stage, his coloring washed out by the harsh lights. Still, he had an inherent grace and proud carriage, and the crowd reacted to his appearance with murmurs of interest.

As Henry had suspected would be the case, there were indeed other parties interested in Martin. Perhaps a dozen fathers were bidding, Mr. Pettibone among them; Martin, it seemed, was the slave Adam had settled on, as well. Father frowned each time the bid went higher, but gave the nod to Timothy to raise his paddle. As the bidding continued, potential buyers fell away until, after several minutes of heated bidding, it came down to Mr. Pettibone and Father. The bidding had gone high enough that the crowd was muttering in uneasy awe each time the number increased; the amount had Henry feeling queasy. Three rows back and across the aisle, Mr. Pettibone had gone red in the face and looked increasingly annoyed but continued to place bids. It occurred to Henry again that if the Pettibones took Martin, he’d be going home without a slave, and all that would be left for him to choose from were the few who hadn’t sold at auction. He was so occupied with these thoughts that he did not notice when Mr. Pettibone stopped bidding.

“Sold!” The auctioneer’s gavel came down on the podium and there was scattered applause throughout the crowd. Faces all around turned toward Henry and his father, offering congratulations.

“Good,” Father said. “That’s done, then.” He clapped Henry on the back.

It was done. Henry stood by nervously as Father signed the paperwork. It seemed to take ages for everything to be put in order; Henry did not think he could stand it one moment longer and yet he was still kept waiting. At last, Martin was brought forth, still in his tight breeches and now also wearing a simple white slave’s shirt that left his mark exposed and a pair of plain leather shoes. His hair was tied back with a narrow blue ribbon. In addition, he wore oblong glasses framed in silvery wire which served to accentuate the unusual color and shape of his eyes. He was bound by a blue silken cord looped around his wrists, the ends of which the House attendant placed in Henry’s hand with a ceremonial flourish, saying, “Your new companion, Sir.”

Father frowned. “None of that, Henry. Untie him.”

Henry ducked his head, hiding his pink cheeks, and quickly picked apart the loose knot.

“Thank you, Sir,” Martin said, rubbing at his wrists absently. He smiled at Henry and Henry looked away.

Outside the auction hall, waiting for Jack to bring the Clarence, Henry could feel Martin’s eyes on his face, but was afraid to look at him, and certainly was not capable of meeting his gaze. He felt pressurized, combustible. Timothy stood back and let Martin help first Father and then Henry into the carriage. Waiting his turn, Henry felt his face grow hot. To get into the carriage, he would have to put his hand in Martin’s, bare skin to skin, and it felt wildly reckless to do such a thing. The entire scenario was volatile and unstable. No one else seemed to sense the danger. Timothy looked on benignly. Father puffed his cigar unconcerned and let Martin hand him up into the Clarence. Martin’s hands were long and bony and graceful, like the rest of him, and they were very white against Father’s sleeve.

Then it was Henry’s turn. He took a deep breath and kept his eyes on the carriage door as he stepped forward.

Martin’s voice was low and friendly, saying, “Up you go, Sir.” Martin’s left hand touched his right elbow lightly and Martin’s right hand supported his own, the flesh warm and firm against his palm and fingertips. From these few square inches of skin, Henry could not help but extrapolate what the rest of Martin might be like to touch; he took in a sharp breath with the contact and once again felt Martin’s eyes searching his face while he blushed miserably. He snatched his hand away and scrambled up.

Inside the carriage, Henry sat beside Martin on the rear-facing seat, which suddenly seemed too narrow for two people. He did not know where to put his hands and so trapped them between his knees. Martin sat quietly with his hands relaxed in his lap and every now and then his shoulder brushed against Henry’s jacket. Timothy smiled reassuringly at both of them, though Father seemed completely oblivious to their presence. He did, however, direct Jack to take them to Hamilton & Sons, the haberdasher.

There were other families with new slaves in the shop, but the Blackwells did not have to wait. They were ushered into a large fitting room and Martin was made to strip at the impersonal command of the tailor. He stood entirely naked with his arms held away from his sides as he was measured in every dimension. Henry and his Father stood by idly, Father watching the proceedings with utter detachment while Henry gawked and tried with marginal success to hide his interest. Martin had but little hair on his sleekly muscled body, a fine line down his belly and a soft nest of reddish curls around his cock which was, as Paulsen had said, nicely formed. He was painfully lovely, hard to look upon. Slim and strong like a dancer. That he now belonged to Henry was overwhelming. He caught Henry looking in the mirror and smiled. It was not a superior smile, nor with any hint of disdain, yet Henry felt a flood of heat in his cheeks and found he could not meet it with a smile of his own.

Timothy was in charge of choosing and ordering all that Martin would need. He’d come prepared with a list and stood at the center of a flurry of shop assistants, crossing items off one by one with a mechanical pencil. Henry was not consulted, and Martin’s opinion was not sought beyond adjusting the fit of the garments he was made to try on.

“You might want to cut that hair,” Father remarked, puffing away on his cigar. “Strange fashion, don’t see the point of it.” A shop boy knelt at Father’s feet polishing his boots, ash sifting down on his back.

“Yes, sir.” Henry had no intention of having Martin’s hair cut, but the fact of Father’s address required a response. He watched as Martin, clad in unhemmed pants and a shirt showing the marks of folding, obediently tried on a jacket that was too big overall, then one that fit in the shoulders but not the sleeves.

“He belongs to you now.” Father reminded him. “He’ll attend you at school, of course, and Timothy will want to teach him a few things. Beyond that, you may do with him as you see fit.” Here, Father cleared his throat. “Within reason.” Henry blushed and turned away as Father added in a low voice, “You’ll remember what we’ve talked about. He’s a handsome boy, and you’re both of an age…” It was too mortifying for words and Henry hoped that Martin hadn’t overheard.

They came away with all the basics, including a bowler hat and overcoat that Martin wore out of the shop despite the warm weather, as well as serviceable ready-made uniforms, with a more complete and custom-fit wardrobe on order. Martin required formal wear, a riding costume, a cycling costume, a bathing costume, jackets and trousers and waistcoats and shirts for every day. He needed the slave uniform for Henry’s school. He needed hats and gloves and scarves. He needed socks and underclothes, bedclothes and braces, boots and slippers. Shop assistants brought packages out to the carriage and arrangements were made for the rest to be delivered later.

Henry was dimly aware of Timothy speaking to Martin in a low voice as they stood on the sidewalk before the shop, no doubt instructing him in the Blackwell ways and preferences. Father was helped into the carriage first, then Henry, followed by the slaves.

“You’ll find that you’ve been brought into a most humane situation,” Timothy assured Martin. “You’ll have the best of everything in keeping with your station.”

“I’m most grateful, Sir,” Martin said.

“You needn’t call me ‘Sir,’” Timothy told him. “Mr. Tim will suffice.”

“Then I’m most grateful, Mr. Tim.”

Father seemed not to notice that the slaves were talking at all, taking no interest in the conversation whatsoever, so Henry pretended likewise. He was acutely aware of Martin swaying in the seat next to him, how the air was made warmer, even thicker, somehow, by his presence. His hair had come out of its ribbon during the fittings and curled upon his shoulders, smelling faintly of vetiver. Henry felt overwhelmed by the physical fact of his new slave, and Father’s indifference, Timothy’s nonchalance, even Martin’s polite reserve made him feel crazy. How could they all just
sit
when something so momentous had happened, was happening
even now
? Henry could hear the blood rushing in his ears to the exclusion of almost all else, barely heard it when Timothy told Martin, “Well, we’re here.”

Here was the Blackwell house, a limestone behemoth with turrets and a loggia in grand Romanesque style taking up half a city block. It was not the biggest house on 5th Avenue, but it was huge by any standards, and as grand as any European castle. In fact, several rooms were paneled with walls taken directly from French chateaux. It was a completely modern structure, however; fully electrified, with an elevator, central heating, and a refrigeration room off of the kitchen. Henry saw Martin’s eyes go wide behind the lenses of his glasses.

“Oh, Sir!” he murmured. “It’s quite something.”

“Yes, well.” Henry felt he couldn’t really take credit for the house, of course, but neither did he wish to seem to take it for granted. “You’ll get used to it after awhile,” he assured Martin, which sounded just like something a spoiled rich boy would say now that he heard it aloud.

Timothy took Martin by the elbow and ushered him out of the carriage, then went out himself, then the two of them helped Henry and his father down. Father turned to Henry and said, “Be prepared, son. They’ll all want to meet him.”

Inside, Cora and the household’s slaves were noisy and interested, crowding the hall, their voices and the hard soles of their shoes echoing loudly against the marble floor. Even Pat the gardener had come in to meet Henry’s new slave. One of the upstairs maids and Johnny the errand boy headed for the back stairs with the packages from the haberdasher. Henry didn’t know if he’d ever seen all the household’s slaves together like this before, and they made for a colorful picture despite their sober dress. Some of the families of Henry’s friends chose slaves to fit a unified scheme, matching skin tones and hair colors throughout the ranks, but the Blackwell slaves were a varied lot, chosen by Father strictly based on skill rather than some ideal of aesthetic harmony, and every gradation of skin tone was represented. However, despite the variety, one thing was consistent: all the female slaves had come from House Demeter and all the males from Ganymede.