A Proper Lover (Ganymede Quartet Book 2) (16 page)

Henry was struck by a thought. “Does my father ever come down here?”

Timothy chuckled, amused by the idea. “No, Sir, not without good reason. If you’re wondering if he’s ever eaten lunch with his slaves, the answer is no.”

“But he takes meals with you all the time,” Henry said. “In restaurants, even.”

Timothy shrugged. “Companions have particular status, Sir,” he said again. “Your father isn’t going to be eating with his stable slaves or his scullery maids anytime soon.”

“I’ve been very curious about what goes on down here,” Henry admitted. “Especially since Martin.”

“Of course you are, Sir.” Timothy smiled fondly at him. “Oh, look, here comes Martin with your food.”

“Here you go!” Martin set a plate of sandwiches before him. “No tongue, Sir, I promise.”

“You’ve never have liked it, have you, Sir?” Timothy remarked.

Henry shuddered a little; he couldn’t help it. “No, I never have,” he agreed.

Martin set down a plate of sandwiches for himself. “Would you like some soup, Sir? It’s bean and ham.”

“Yes, thank you.”

Martin fetched soup, then glasses of water, and then inquired if Timothy needed anything, and at last sat down in Pearl’s chair.

“Well, Sir, Martin tells me you’re interested in knowing how I came to belong to your father. Is that so?”

“Yes,” Henry said. “I want to know about your first master, too.”

“Why don’t we all eat, Sir, and I’ll talk? I will have to get back to your father after lunch, you understand.”

“Of course.” Henry blushed again. He really was imposing on everyone, wasn’t he?

“All right, Sir. Well, I originally left Ganymede at age 16, just as Martin did. I was bought by a young man named Edgar Mathison. He went by Eddie with his friends, and that’s what I called him in private, though of course I called him Mr. Mathison in public.”

Henry leaned closer to Timothy and confessed, “I like Martin to call me by name, too—in private, anyway.” At this, Martin gave him a small, pleased smile.

Timothy smiled. “I rather imagined you did, Sir.” He ate a bite of an egg salad sandwich and continued. “Mr. Mathison was a lively young man, great fun and very kind. We shared many interests, and we quickly developed the typical closeness.” Timothy paused and ate a spoonful of his soup and Henry blushed at the implications of “typical closeness.”

Henry thought the food was very good, just as good as what he was served. He realized that for weekend lunches, when he ate without his parents, he was probably simply served the same meal as the slaves.

“Mr. Mathison was a well-liked boy with a lot of friends. He was fond of parties and carousing, Sir, and I did little to discourage him. He was rather too fond of drink, especially for one so young, but no one saw the danger of it at the time, and yet I often wonder if I ought to have anticipated trouble.”

“What trouble?”

“I’ll be getting to that, Sir. So, I was with Mr. Mathison through his college years, and then we spent a year traveling around Europe and northern Africa before returning home.” Timothy paused again to eat.

It had never occurred to Henry that Timothy would have ever been anywhere exotic, and he pondered this while he finished off a deviled ham sandwich.

“Mr. Mathison Senior—my Mr. Mathison’s father, Sir—wanted Mr. Mathison to become serious about his career. The Mathisons were involved in manufacture, mostly tools and medical instruments, and Mr. Mathison’s father wanted him to take over the business eventually. Well, Sir, Mr. Mathison was definitely not interested in manufacture, and he clashed often with his father. Mr. Mathison spent as much time as he could traveling and staying with friends, and when he was in the city he was always in search of distraction.” Again, Timothy paused to eat a few bites.

“When we were 23, Sir, we went to a party at Mr. Mathison’s best friend’s summer house. It was on a lake, and the young men liked to go swimming and boating, as you might imagine. All the young men had been drinking quite a lot, Mr. Mathison especially, and I had tried to get him to take a little respite, perhaps lie down and nap, but Mr. Mathison would have none of it. He sent me to get him a fresh drink, and of course I did as he asked.” Timothy stopped talking, but this time didn’t eat and only stared at his plate, and Henry realized that he was asking Timothy to dredge up bad memories and felt guilty anew.

“I didn’t see what happened, Sir, but I heard the shouting. At first, everyone was laughing because Mr. Mathison had fallen off the dock into the lake and was thrashing around, but he managed to hit his head on something—a pier, perhaps, Sir—and hurt himself quite seriously. He also inhaled a great deal of water, and one thing or the other killed him. I went in after him, of course, Sir, as did some of his friends, but it was too late, and his head was too badly hurt, and he died on the dock.” Timothy went quiet and closed his eyes for a long moment. When he opened them again, he said, “Naturally, I was devastated. Mr. Mathison was so dear to me, you see.” Timothy sighed and sipped his water.

“I’m so sorry,” Henry said. “I shouldn’t have asked you to talk about this Timothy. I wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s perfectly fine, Sir.” Timothy squeezed Henry’s arm. “I want you to understand how important it is to make provisions for Martin should some mishap befall you. Mr. Mathison made no provisions for me, you see.”

“What happened?”

“His parents blamed me for letting Mr. Mathison drink to excess, although of course there’s no stopping a willful master, as I’m sure
you
understand, Sir, and Mr. Mathison was a very willful young man. Mrs. Mathison was particularly bitter and wanted me out of her sight.”

“That’s horrible,” Henry said, offended on Timothy’s behalf. “What a nasty woman.”

Timothy shrugged. “She’d lost her son, Sir. It was understandable.”

“So you went back to Ganymede then…?”

“That’s right, Sir. At 23, I was quite old to be resold, you see. It’s standard practice to repurpose companions over 20 years of age, and if Mr. Mathison had drawn up a will, I’m sure that’s what would have happened. I would have stayed with the Mathisons, perhaps as a footman. It wouldn’t have been ideal, of course, Sir; I would not have been a particularly brilliant footman, but neither would I have let down my House in that role.

“Then there was the matter of my appearance, you see, Sir. I had been quite a beautiful boy, but my looks didn’t last. Mr. Mathison didn’t mind that I had become ordinary, of course, but a new master would expect his companion to be handsome. I was old and plain, and as such I had few prospects. I spent two years in custodial care at Ganymede, trying to help train new companions and getting in the way, and growing ever more disheartened.

“In any case, even if I’d kept my beauty, Sir, chances are I wouldn’t have been sold to a boy, but to an older man in need of a catamite, which wouldn’t have been at all to my liking.”

“A what?”

Timothy colored slightly. “A catamite, Sir. A boy kept solely for release.”

Henry blushed a sudden, vivid, horrified red and stared down at the tabletop. “Oh. I didn’t know that was something the Houses would…would accommodate.”

“It’s not the sort of thing that’s advertised, of course, Sir, but the Houses are in the business of selling slaves, after all. They will sell them for almost any use.”

Henry thought on that a moment, feeling guilty that he was so intrigued by the idea of a slave whose only job was sex. When he was finally an adult, might he have another slave? But instead of making the new boy a catamite, he could give the new one all the daily work and keep Martin just for pleasure. He dared a glance at Martin’s face, and Martin was looking back at him, his cheeks slightly pink.

Timothy continued. “Meeting your father, Sir, was well-nigh miraculous. He didn’t care about my looks, and he was a year older than me. He wanted someone who could be a valet and secretary and who could show him how a grand house ought to be outfitted and run. As I think you know, Sir, your father was a very rough young man, and not ashamed of it, though he did want to round off some of his sharper edges. He’s the most admirable man I’ve ever known, coming up from nothing as he’s done, and he understands the value of a slave’s hard work.

“The Mathisons were happy to have me finally sold at any price, Sir, and I know for a fact that your father got an excellent bargain.” Timothy chuckled at this.

Timothy was so respected and was a figure of such authority to all the members of the Blackwell household, both free and slave, that it was bizarre to imagine him unwanted and sold at a discount, but Henry couldn’t imagine any reason for Timothy to make up lies.

“Are you happy with Father, then?” Henry asked tentatively. “I mean, has it all worked out for you, do you think?”

“Oh, definitely, Sir. I can’t know for certain, of course, but I do think my life has turned out more to my liking in your father’s house than it would have done with Mr. Mathison, as much as I loved him.” Timothy wore a wistful smile as he said this. “I can’t know for certain, Sir,” he repeated, “but I do know that I’m very fulfilled here. Your father has given me great responsibilities, and equally great rewards. I am very devoted to Mr. Blackwell.”

“But…it was better, then, that Mr. Mathison didn’t indicate his wishes,” Henry pointed out. “If he’d done what you and Father want me to do for Martin, then you’d have ended up a footman in the Mathison house instead of ending up with Father.”

“Well, yes, Sir,” Timothy said slowly. “But your father finding me was a fluke. The best I should have expected was to end up a slave of the House, which is a great come-down from companion status, I must say.”

“It’s a huge difference, Sir,” Martin put in. “To end up there through no fault of one’s own would be so terribly unfair.”

Henry rather thought that Martin would have no worries either way. Someone would want him for
some
purpose—and, unlike Timothy, Henry suspected that Martin might not mind being a catamite if his master was kind and interested in his pleasure. But Martin seemed to want what Father and Timothy wanted, and Henry had already said he’d go along with it.

“I did agree to the plan,” he pointed out. “I don’t need you to convince me, Timothy. I just wanted to know what happened because I’ve known you all my life and it’s an important thing that happened to you.”

“I appreciate your interest, Sir. It’s very sweet of you.” Timothy looked at the crumbs on Henry’s plate and the empty soup bowl and turned to Martin. “Martin, does Young Sir need any more lunch?”

“Oh! Yes, Sir, do you want anything more to eat?” Martin was flustered and embarrassed to be caught out being inattentive to Henry’s needs.

Henry wouldn’t have minded another sandwich, but he didn’t want to make Martin look bad in front of Timothy. “No, thank you, Martin. I’m full.”

Timothy looked as though he very much doubted this, but Henry was determined to admit nothing.

“Do you have room for cake, Sir?” Martin asked. “It’s lemon.”

Lemon was Henry’s favorite. “Well, perhaps I have room for a little cake,” Henry allowed.

“And you, Mr. Tim? Might I bring you some cake?”

“None for me, Martin, thank you.”

Martin got up from the table and took Henry’s plate and headed back to the buffet table.

In a low voice, Timothy said, “Sir, I’ve been meaning to ask you…”

“Yes, Timothy?”

“Are you satisfied in your choice of slave?” Before Henry could answer, Timothy hurried to say, “You seem quite happy, Sir, but it’s important to your father that you be completely satisfied.”

Henry felt his cheeks burn. “I-I’m happy,” he admitted. “I can’t imagine any way I might improve upon my happiness, really, Timothy.”

“Well, that’s good to hear, Sir. We’re all very fond of Martin downstairs, but of course your opinion is the one that matters.”

Martin returned to the table with a large square of lemon cake for Henry and another for himself. The cake was perfectly tart and sweet at once, covered in a thick layer of icing that contained little flecks of zest. Henry wouldn’t have minded a second piece but couldn’t ask for one in front of Timothy since he’d already said he was full.

As Henry was picking up the last crumbs with his fork, Timothy pushed back from the table, and Martin hurried to help him with his chair. “Well, Sir, Martin, I must get back to work, boys. I’ve enjoyed taking this meal with you, Sir, and I hope you found our talk informative.”

Henry hurriedly stood and offered Timothy his hand. “Yes, thank you, Timothy.”

Timothy smiled and took Henry’s hand in both of his own. “You’re a sweet boy, Sir. Enjoy the rest of your day.”

After Timothy had left the mess, Martin turned and asked, “Sir? Did you want more cake?”

“
Yes
,” Henry said, and he blushed with pleasure.

Martin’s feet and ankles bumped Henry’s beneath the table as they ate their second pieces of cake and he grinned bashfully at Henry around his fork.

Billy came in late and brought his plate of sandwiches over to sit beside Martin. “Good afternoon, Sir. Martin.”

“Hello, Billy,” Martin said, and Henry echoed him with his own “Hello.”

“Does the food taste just as good in our dining room, Sir?” Billy asked playfully, taking a big bite of a ham-and-cheese sandwich.

Henry laughed. “Yes, of course it does. Be sure to have some cake, too.”

Billy looked at the remains of the yellow cake on Martin’s plate with a screwed-up face. “Is it lemon, Sir? Because I don’t like lemon.”

Henry was a little shocked. How could someone not like lemon?

“It
is
lemon,” Martin told him. “All the more for me, then.”

“Paul will eat my share,” Billy said with a shrug.

Arthur came to sit on Henry’s side of the table, an empty chair as buffer between them. “Sir,” he said. “Martin. Billy.”

“Hello, Arthur,” Martin said. “Oh, I forgot to mention before, Arthur, that I showed Mr. Blackwell the poppet you made. It was his favorite of the talismans I showed him.”

Arthur froze and stopped eating mid-chew for a long moment. He then hurriedly chewed and swallowed and said, “Oh. I-I’m glad you liked it, Sir.” He shot Martin a stern glare. “You showed him your talismans? Really, Martin?”