A Proper Lover (Ganymede Quartet Book 2) (14 page)

Louis proceeded to outline the plan. All of the boys would sneak out of their homes, leaving their slaves behind so as not to stand out, since it was almost guaranteed that no one in a downtown dance hall would have a slave of his own.

“Do you think maybe some slaves might go dancing on their own, though?” Henry asked, simply curious. He’d never asked any of his own household’s slaves what they did with their days and evenings off, but he supposed they might do more than just sit quietly in their rooms. Martin, of course, did not have days off because Henry had not given them to him. A few of his friends were allowing their slaves time off, but ownership still felt new and novel for the rest, Henry included, and for the time being they preferred to keep their slaves close.

“Maybe,” Louis said, frowning as he considered this. “I never thought about it before. I wonder if they go to the same places as free people? Maybe there are slave dance halls.” He turned to Peter. “Do you know? What does Patrick do with his time off?”

Peter cleared his throat. “Sir. I don’t know about Patrick, per se, but I believe there are dance halls that admit slaves, Sir.”

Martin also spoke up. “Sir, I’ve heard that also, that some entertainments admit unaccompanied slaves as well as free people.” He looked at Henry. “I understand that our Billy is quite fond of dancing.”

“Huh,” Louis said. “What do you know? Maybe we don’t have to leave the slaves behind after all.”

“Ask Miss O’Malley,” Henry urged. “Ask her if slaves go to her dance hall.” Henry wished he had not brought it up, wished that Louis would not consider it.

“Or we could just slap collars and ties on the short-haired ones and pretend they’re free,” Louis said, thinking aloud. “I think they’d all want to go, don’t you?”

Henry regretted the suggestion. To Henry, the idea of dropping a group of handsome, sleek, mannered slaves into the midst of a bunch of working-class ruffians sounded like a recipe for a fight. Henry’s friends with their fancy clothes and fat wallets would be bad enough on their own. Surely, the men who frequented the dance hall would resent a bunch of pretty boys showing up to monopolize their women, whether they be slaves with their marks showing or slaves in disguise. Henry didn’t doubt the slaves could hold their own in a fight; he just didn’t like the idea that they would have to do so.

“I think just masters should go,” Henry suggested. “At least the first time. Just to get the lay of the land. Stick with the original plan.”

Louis was clearly considering all the possibilities, though, and came to no definite conclusions while he was with Henry.

Later, after Louis and Peter had gone, Henry was at pains to disguise how he struggled with his Latin homework, hunched over a paper made grey and furry with frequent erasures.

“Are you making progress, Henry? Do you need any help?” Martin sat in the middle of the floor polishing Henry’s boots, having long since finished his own homework. He was humming to himself, something Henry thought he’d heard him play on the violin.

“No, no, I’m doing great,” Henry assured him. He shoved the abused sheet of paper under his books and determined to forget about it, just forget about it entirely. “I’m basically done, really.” He turned his chair around so he could look at Martin.

Martin smiled up at him, then returned his attention to the toe of Henry’s brown boot. “That’s wonderful, Sir. Is there anything I can do for you before it’s time for my dinner?”

“Well, you’re busy, right?” Henry gestured at the neat pairs of boots arrayed around Martin on the floor.

Martin shrugged, conceding the point. “But I could finish up for today if you need me now, Sir.”

Henry couldn’t tell from Martin’s tone whether he wanted to be interrupted or not. “I guess you should probably finish what you’re doing,” he said, watching Martin’s face for a reaction. “Get it out of the way, right?”

Martin seemed perfectly content with this plan. “That’s fine by me, Sir.”

“Can I talk to you while you’re working, though?” Henry asked hopefully.

Martin scoffed. “Of course, Sir! It doesn’t take any mental effort to do this, after all. I would welcome the conversation.” He dipped his rag in the open tin of dubbin and smeared it over the boot leather in circular motions.

“I was thinking about the dance hall.”

Martin cocked his head, interested. “Oh. Did you want to go after all, Sir?”

“No, no. I was thinking about the slaves going. You said Billy likes to dance.”

“Yes, that’s true. Billy’s a great one for dancing, Sir. So are some of the girls, the maids.”

“What else do the slaves do when they have a day off?”

“Well, Sir, they do all sorts of things. Slaves are people, after all. They do the same things that free people do.”

Henry leaned forward in his chair, elbows on knees. “Like what?”

“Oh, well…shopping, for one, Sir, and seeing vaudeville shows for another. There are ever so many drinking establishments that cater to slaves, and plenty of slaves are fond of drink. I understand that there are even brothels that accept slaves as patrons. Whatever you can think of, Sir, I’m sure some slave has done or wants to do.”

“You’ve never been any of these places, though, have you? Like, before you came to me.”

“No, Sir. We were taught about a great number of things at Ganymede so that we would recognize them when we came upon them, but it wasn’t practical to give us an actual experience. The penny arcade, for instance, Sir. I knew such a place existed, and that it was meant to be fun, but I had never been to one. Ganymede couldn’t put us all on a train to spend hours traveling to the city just to give us a demonstration.”

“Was it like you expected, when you finally saw it?”

Martin smiled and shook his head. “No, Sir. It was better. No one told us about the peep shows. Those are my favorites, you know.”

“I know,” Henry told him. “Mine, too.” He got down off his chair and sat cross-legged on the floor near Martin, then picked up a polished boot and admired the shine. “I think you’re better at this than Timothy, even,” he remarked.

“Oh, surely not, Sir,” Martin said, shaking his head, but he looked pleased. He picked up what seemed to be the last boot and began to buff it.

Henry thought about the rest of the slaves having days off and wondered if he should offer time off to Martin, too. He didn’t want to, though; he wanted to keep Martin with him all the time. But maybe there was a compromise.

“If you ever need to do anything,” Henry began. “If you need to do any shopping for…whatever you might need, I suppose, you should just tell me, and we could do that one day instead of the things we might normally do.”

Martin looked at him, seriously considering the offer. “Thank you, Sir. I don’t really need to shop for anything, though. I get everything I need through Mr. Tim or directly from you.”

“Do you ever need money for anything? You know you can take money from the tin anytime you want, right?”

“Oh, thank you, Henry, but it’s entirely unnecessary. All of us receive an allowance each week, you know, and it’s more than I need. I usually share my pocket money with the younger boys here. Johnny is very fond of candy, Sir, and always appreciates a few extra pennies for the confectioner.”

“That’s generous of you.”

Martin shrugged. “He’s a good boy and I like to see him happy, Sir. It’s no hardship for me.”

“Well, you’re very kind.”

Martin smiled to himself. “I like that you think so, Sir.”

“Do you want to go to see a vaudeville show sometime?”

“With you, Sir? Or by myself?”

“With me,” Henry said firmly.

“Certainly, Henry. I would be happy to go.” Martin did seem pleased by the idea. Henry had to wonder if he’d be even more pleased to go alone or with a group of his slave friends—or just with Tom, maybe—but wasn’t going to suggest it.

“I’ll talk to Louis, then,” Henry told him. “I’ll see if he and some of the others want to go to a show, and then you can see your friends, too.” Really, this seemed a good compromise.

“That would be lovely, Sir.”

Henry opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, then reconsidered again. “Martin?”

“Yes, Sir?”

“A-are you happy? Here with me?”

Martin looked surprised, eyebrows raised. “Henry? Why would you even need to ask? Of course I’m happy.”

“Not all slaves are happy, though. I see abolitionists downtown handing out pamphlets—”

Martin wrinkled his nose. “That has
nothing
to do with the slaves here, Sir!” he said haughtily.

“What do you mean? Isn’t it to do with all slaves?”

“Not really, Sir. It’s to do with field and factory slaves.
They’re
the ones with grievances. Here in your father’s house, we are all quite content.” He sounded very confident of this, and Henry wanted to believe him.

“You wouldn’t rather be free?”

Martin snorted and shook his head. “I’ve said before, Sir, I’d have nothing if I weren’t a slave. Because I belong to you, I live in a lovely house, I have nice clothes to wear, and I have good food to eat. And best of all, I have
you
, Henry. There’s no guarantee I’d have anything at all if I were free.”

Henry supposed he had a point. “My father
does
have slaves working his mines, doesn’t he? What about them? Are they happy?”

“Well, I don’t really know, Henry, but I would guess they’re happier than most. Your father is very kind to slaves.” Martin seemed quite unconcerned about the well-being of these unknown laborers. “You know, the abolitionists don’t care about
slaves
, really, anyway, Sir. They’re agitating on behalf of poor people, free people, who want slaves’ jobs.”

Henry had not heard this before. “Is that so?”

Martin nodded emphatically. “Being an employee of a big house like yours would be a very good job for a free person, Sir.”

Henry thought about it a moment. “Well, I can see that a regular person could do a parlor maid’s job, but I couldn’t replace
you
with just any man.”

Martin smiled, quite smug. “No, you certainly couldn’t, Sir.” He set the last boot down next to its mate and gave a satisfied sigh. “There! I feel I’ve accomplished something!”

Henry reached out and touched Martin’s cheek, and Martin turned his face into the contact, nuzzling his palm. “You do such a good job for me, Martin. I don’t think I thank you enough.”

Martin colored a little, clearly pleased, and shook his head. “No, you’re very good to me, Henry. I feel very appreciated.”

“Do you have more chores?”

“I don’t think so, Sir. Do you want me to do anything for you?”

“I haven’t heard you play in awhile,” Henry pointed out. “If you wanted to practice, I’d like to hear it.”

Martin beamed at him, his smile so dazzling, and got lightly to his feet. “I’ll just go get my violin, Sir.”

It seemed odd to Henry that someone like Martin, so smart and talented and full of potential, was content to be another man’s property and do a master’s bidding, but Martin seemed very convinced of the rightness of his role, and it wasn’t really in Henry’s interest to argue otherwise. This peculiar complacency had to be a result of Martin’s training, whatever that may have entailed, though it couldn’t have been
too
arduous, as he seemed to view his years at Ganymede with fond nostalgia. Henry had a lot of questions, but he feared that in asking them he might cause Martin to examine his convictions, and the last thing Henry wanted was for Martin to decide he no longer wished to serve, and that he deserved better than the life he had with Henry.

Martin returned with his violin and stood at the bedside. “Are you ready, Sir?” At Henry’s nod, he began to play.

Henry lay on his bed with his eyes closed and listened to the partita unspooling, listened to the violin’s sobs, almost sexual in character, a rasp in the throat and a greedy cry. The music made the hairs stand up on Henry’s skin. It reminded Henry of Martin’s breath in his ear, Martin’s throaty cries, and his cock began to swell. It was surely perverse, becoming so aroused by music or, really, by the singular voice of an instrument, but Henry didn’t mind feeling that way when it was Martin playing.

Henry shifted on his back, trying to make more room for his cock in his trousers. He got harder and harder and wondered if Martin had noticed, and thought that he must not have done so or he would have stopped playing to help Henry out. He put his hand over his cock, a light touch through his trousers, and wondered if he dared to take it out and make himself come.

He opened one eye and saw Martin swaying and dipping, his own eyes closed. Henry could do whatever he wanted and Martin wouldn’t even notice.

He held his breath in a bid to avoid detection as he unbuttoned his trousers and then his drawers. His cock sprung forth into his hand. It had been a long time since he’d touched himself with purpose—really, since the advent of his intimacy with Martin. He darted a glance at Martin, who was still playing unawares, and wrapped his fingers around his prick.

The sounds that came from the violin were so affecting, so resonant and tender and even anguished. Human cries with the timbre of wood, strained and erotic. At such close range, Henry felt the notes vibrating in his chest and lighting up his nerves, sobbing tones that stiffened his prick and brought tears to his eyes. He held his cock upright with one hand spread at the base, and used the other to stroke it lightly, his fingers in a loose ring that barely skimmed over the skin. He broke rhythm to fish his handkerchief out of his waistcoat pocket and shook it out in readiness. It wouldn’t do to get spunk on his suit.

Martin began a series of fast, lilting notes, a virtuosic section, and Henry watched Martin’s left hand moving over the strings with certainty and precision, his right working the bow with grace and economy, and understood that it was the same kind of passionate expertise that Martin brought to fucking that made him such a sensitive performer.

He began to stroke his prick with more purpose, blushing at the wet, slippery sounds that his hand made as it moved over the head and tugged at his foreskin. He didn’t think Martin could hear these wet snicks and slips, not over the sound of the instrument tucked against his jaw, but he thought that maybe he wanted Martin to hear, to notice what he was doing. He bit his lip against a moan and shifted his hips, spreading his legs just a little wider within the confines of his trousers.