A Proper Lover (Ganymede Quartet Book 2) (27 page)

“I believe you, Sir.” Timothy reached up and put a hand on Henry’s shoulder and gave him a little squeeze. “You’re a good boy and a good master.”

Henry was grateful for the praise.

“We’ll talk upstairs,” Timothy said to Martin. “I have some questions for you about this poor boy.”

“Thank you, Mr. Tim. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

They followed Timothy up the stairs and Martin gave Henry’s hand a quick squeeze, gratitude in his touch.

Later, in bed, Martin was touchingly submissive, whispering,
thank you
, over and over as Henry fucked him.

“Not that I don’t love how sweet you’re being,” Henry told him as he lay in his arms, “but understand that my asking doesn’t mean my father will do anything.”

“Oh, I understand, Henry. But you’re trying to help me. It means so much to me that you’d try!”

Nothing was said all the next day, nor was there any word at Friday breakfast. Henry did not receive an answer until dinnertime, when Father’s voice stopped Henry’s hand midway to his mouth with a forkful of stuffed capon.

“Henry.”

“Yes, sir.” Henry put down the fork.

“Regarding the issue you brought up to Timothy the other day…”

Henry could sense Martin standing up straighter, leaning forward.

“Yes, sir.”

“It’s a terrible shame, son, that all that is required of a slave owner is money. A master needn’t be fair, or kind, or decent, you understand. A man need only have the coin to buy a slave and he holds a life in his hands.” Father paused and took a sip of his wine. “I’ve raised you to be a moral, decent master, I think, and I commend you, son, for your concern for this poor boy. But you have to understand, there’s nothing I can do. Adam’s father will not be receptive to any warning from me. We’ve recently had very adversarial dealings, and I can guarantee he will not countenance my interference in his boy’s life. You can see this, can’t you, Henry?”

Henry could. He looked down at his plate, at the capon he no longer wished to eat. “Yes, sir.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, son.”

In a small voice, Henry said, “I understand, sir.” He could feel how unhappy Martin was, despair rolling off him in waves.

Henry ate little else, dreading having to face Martin’s disappointment. After dinner, Henry paused at the bottom of the staircase and let his parents go ahead. He took Martin’s hand, which was very cold, and looked at his pale, drawn face, his downturned mouth.

“I’m sorry,” Henry began.

“Please, Sir, not now,” Martin told him, his voice tremulous. “I don’t want to cry in front of your family.” They trudged upstairs and took their places.

The family hour dragged on and on. Pearl’s reading seemed especially tedious, and Henry felt sure that the chapter would never end. At last, Pearl closed the book and Father dismissed Henry, who left the room with Martin close on his heels.

In their rooms, Martin was businesslike. “Let me just take care of the laundry, please, Henry,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” Henry told him, reaching for him.

Martin gently shrugged him off. “Not yet. Let me do my job, please.”

Henry allowed himself to be undressed and then brushed his teeth while Martin undressed and gathered their laundry and left the room. He got into bed, worried that Martin was angry with him and at a loss as to what he might be able to do to address the problem.

Martin returned in short order, unsmiling, and disappeared into the bathroom where he ran the taps and spit. He emerged naked and came and climbed into bed with Henry.

“All right, Henry,” he said. “If you would hold me now, I’d be so grateful.”

Relieved, Henry pulled him into an embrace and Martin immediately started to cry very quietly, his shoulders shaking and his breath coming in shudders, his wet face pressed to Henry’s chest.

“I’m sorry,” Henry said, kissing his forehead. “I’m so sorry, Martin.”

“You tried. Thank you for that.” Martin sniffed wetly and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

“My father—” Henry began.

“I understand,” Martin said. “He really can’t help.”

“Sam has other friends, doesn’t he? Aren’t any of the others trying to help him? Maybe some of the other fathers have some influence with Mr. Pettibone.”

Martin shook his head. “Some of the others have tried, too, but I don’t think anyone will help. It’s intolerable, knowing about his situation and not being able to do anything. All I can do is be kind to him, but he needs more than that.”

“You’re a good friend, Martin.”

Martin shrugged. “It’s not enough, though. Something terrible is going to happen, I know it.”

Henry hated to see him so worried and upset. “Can I do anything to help you feel better?”

Martin kissed him. “You always can,” he said. “You always know what to do.”

Henry knew. He put Martin on his elbows and knees and licked his ass while he shook and sobbed for breath, then put him on his back and fucked him, hard and deliberate, and after they’d both come, he thought that he might have made Martin feel a little better, even if only temporarily. He could do nothing for Sam, but he might make up for it by taking the best care possible of his own beautiful boy.

As he had discussed with Martin at the beginning of the month, Henry had brought up the idea of a group outing to a vaudeville show with Louis and the others, and most of the boys were amenable to the idea. Some boys were avid theater-goers and had already been with their slaves several times since the beginning of the school year, but there were still some other slaves who, like Martin, had never seen a vaudeville show.

Saturday was cold, and Henry shivered a little inside his coat as they waited for the omnibus. He dared a glance over his shoulder at Martin, who was talking quietly with Peter. He was already fretful, fully aware he wouldn’t be able to sit with Martin at the theater. Masters would sit with masters, slaves with slaves.

They had talked about what Martin could expect while Henry dressed.

“Eight or nine acts, I expect,” Henry had told him. “There’s usually a singer or two, dancers, a little play, maybe a trained dog act or some other animal.” Henry thought about it a moment, then added, “You can count on someone telling jokes, or maybe a group doing something funny. There’s always a funny bit. Oh, and sometimes there’s a moving picture. You’ll like that. It’s like a peep show, but big, and up on a screen in front of everyone.”

Martin had cocked his head, contemplating this. “That sounds interesting, Sir. I’m excited, Sir, I really am!” Martin had held the waistcoat to Henry’s grey suit for him to put on and had given him a dazzling smile in the mirror. Martin was indeed in high spirits, and Henry wished he’d thought to take Martin to see vaudeville sooner, the very first week he’d had him.

Later, after a lazy morning and a leisurely lunch, they stood waiting on the sidewalk across the street from Henry’s house. Louis shuffled his feet on the sidewalk and breathed out a cloud of steam. He elbowed Henry and said, “Philip went Monday, and he says the girl who sings is a real doll.”

“Is that so?” Henry tried to sound interested.

“All curves,” Louis informed him, “and
blonde
. You know how I feel about blondes.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively and Henry laughed.

When they got on the omnibus, their friends who lived farther north were already aboard and they made their way to the rear of the car to join them. Charles and Robert sat together, as did Albert and David. Henry and Louis took the seat directly in front of Wendell and Freddie and immediately turned around to talk to their friends while their slaves joined the others in the aisle. Henry noted that Martin and Tom were effusively happy to see one another, as always, and they held hands a moment, the sort of simple, friendly gesture slaves made all the time, but Henry was deeply envious that Tom could do this with Martin and he could not. Tom, a couple of inches shorter, leaned his head on Martin’s shoulder, dislodging his own hat, and laughed, and Henry made himself turn away.

Henry realized that if David was part of the group, then his Alex would be also. Henry looked beyond Martin and Tom and saw that Peter was engaged with Alex on the far side of a group composed of Dick, Simon, Ralph and Stuart. Maybe Martin would be smart and keep as many of the other slaves as possible in between Alex and himself to serve as a buffer.

“I thought Gordon was coming,” Louis said. “Did anyone hear from him?”

There were shrugs all around, but then David said, “Gordon telephoned me this morning. He’s sore with Julian about something and said he didn’t want to do anything nice for him after all.”

Louis frowned. “So he’s going to sit around being mad at Julian all by himself instead of coming with us? That seems like it’s at least as much a punishment for him as it is for Julian.”

“They sure fight a lot,” Wendell noted. “I don’t think I’ve fought with Ralph even one time.”

“I never fight with Simon, either,” Charles said. “He’s so obedient, I don’t know how we’d even end up in a fight.”

They’d had their jealous moments on both sides, but Henry couldn’t imagine that he’d really ever fight with Martin, either. In order for there to be a fight, Martin would have to do something wrong, which was unlikely, or he’d have to get angry at some stupidity of Henry’s, which seemed more likely, but still improbable. Martin seemed to have a vast tolerance for Henry’s stupidity.

The rest of the boys denied that they fought with their slaves, either—everyone except for David, who was conspicuously silent. Remembering Alex’s behavior at the arcade, Henry thought it likely that David and Alex fought about all kinds of things, but exercised some discretion and did not question his friend on the matter.

They all got off the omnibus at 17th Street and walked over to Union Square, where most of the boys bought peanuts from a street vendor to share with their slaves. Henry was happy for the opportunity to stand close to Martin, their fingers brushing as they reached into the paper cone of roasted nuts.

“Sit behind me if you can,” Henry told him in a low voice. “I want to know you’re close by.”

Martin smiled. “I’ll do my best, Sir.”

They paid their dimes and went into the theater and Louis led the way to rows near the front. The boys filed into one row, and their slaves into the row behind. As he sat down between Charles and Louis, Henry noted that Martin was sitting one seat to his left, right behind Charles, and Tom would be sitting directly behind him. He felt jealous of Tom, of course, but he was also pleased that now he might have a chance to hear what sorts of things Tom said to Martin.

David held Alex in the aisle and spoke to him in a low voice, and they let all the other masters and slaves sit before taking the seats at the ends of the rows. David seemed to want to keep a close eye on his temperamental slave.

The hall was noisy, full of the sounds of people walking up and down the aisles, settling into their seats and talking. The orchestra played something cheerful and bright, lifting spirits and expectations. This would be fun, Henry thought.

Even though every one of them had picked up a program on the way in, Louis insisted on reading the bill aloud. There would be a dog act, a pair of tap-dancing brothers, a comedic routine, a husband-and-wife dance routine, a chanteuse-aerialist who would perform on a swing, a 10-minute intermission, a one-act comedic play, and the headliner, a magician-mesmerist who would perform illusions and hypnotize someone from the audience. The last act on the bill wasn’t a performer, but a technology: a moving picture. Henry was pleased Martin would have the chance to see this.

Charles was talking to Robert on his left, and Louis was talking to Wendell on his right, so Henry was quiet and listened for Martin’s voice through the hum of the crowd.

“…like a peep show, then?” Martin was asking, keeping his voice down. “Mr. Blackwell says it’s similar.”

“The way it’s done is completely different, but the effect is much the same,” Tom told him. “Except it’s so much bigger, of course. You’ll like it.”

“Mr. Blackwell thinks so, too.” Martin said, and the way he said Henry’s name seemed so affectionate, his voice caressing the syllables.