Ganymede Quartet 3 - A Willful Romantic(2)
Autor: Neni Burelli | Publicado: 2016-11-06T05:11:00-08:00

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Henry Blackwell &amp; Martin

Hiram Blackwell &amp; Timothy

Louisa Wilton Blackwell &amp; Pearl

Cora Blackwell





Henry’s classmates at the Algonquin School:

Walter Addison &amp; Harvey

Jeremy Blankenship &amp; Ray*

Joshua Brand &amp; Miles*

Louis Briggs &amp; Peter*

Freddie Caldwell &amp; Tom*

Albert DeWitt &amp; Stuart*

Randall Fox &amp; Howard

Wendell Franklin &amp; Ralph*

Maurice Gaines &amp; Ollie

Daniel Hollingsworth &amp; Allen*

Gordon Lovejoy &amp; Julian*

David Maxwell &amp; Alex*

Adam Pettibone &amp; Sam

Charles Ross &amp; Simon*

Victor Spence &amp; Will*

Robert Townsend &amp; Dick*

Philip van Houten &amp; Davey*

*Henry’s friends





Blackwell Family Slaves:

Nurse: Esther

Butler: Randolph

Footmen: Billy, Paul

Housekeeper: Dora

Cook: Bertie

Scullery Maids: Vida, Ruby

Chambermaids: Peggy, Delia, Katie

Parlor Maids: Lucy, Ruth, Ellen

Laundress: Mary

Laundry Maid: Sally

Gardener: Pat

Coachmen: Jack, Old Bob

Grooms: Jerry, Arthur

Stable Boys: Little Bob, Danny

Errand Boy: Johnny












 
 
 



&nbsp;“We
were used to a certain standard of living, you understand. We needed
money to maintain something like the life we were accustomed to. It
was clear to me that I should marry the richest man I could find.
Wiltons are society people from way back. Our name was still worth
something. Your father had so
much money, darling, but he was common as mud. He didn’t understand
how anything was done, you see. He negotiated for me as if Gilbert
were my pimp, offering to buy me outright.”

Standing
behind Mother’s chair, Pearl made a tiny, startled, “Oh!”

Henry
was taken aback, shocked that his mother would even know what a pimp
was.

Mother
turned to Pearl. “Oh, hush, Pearl. I’m quite sure Henry’s heard
the word before.”

“My
apologies, Ma’am.” Pearl met Henry’s eyes and gave him a little
nod, and it was clear she felt she should apologize for Mother’s
crude statement since Mother would not.

“I
insisted on negotiating with him myself,” Mother continued. “I
wanted my brothers taken care of. Reggie has never been good at any
sort of work, and Gilbert is little better. Really, if anyone was
suited to work, it was me. I think that charmed your father a little,
me negotiating terms. He was quite taken with me in those early
days.”

She
paused again and sipped. “I don’t think Reggie knows this, and
you mustn’t tell him, but Benjamin was purchased for him as part of
the price of my marrying your father. We Wiltons had absolutely no
money left for a companion, but it wouldn’t have done for him to go
without, or to have gone with some slave of lesser quality.”

“Is
that why Benjamin’s from Ganymede? Because that’s the house
Father likes?”

“Well,
Ganymede is
the best, darling,” Mother said, as if this should be obvious.
“Your father has made quite a study of the finer things, and he
wants to be sure to have the best of everything. I don’t know that
he truly appreciates
such things, though. I’m not sure he understands why
Ganymede is best.” She gazed pensively into the distance, then
shook off the reverie. “I want you to be a real gentleman, darling.
I want you to properly appreciate things. I’ve let your education
fall by the wayside, but Reggie will help with that when he comes
home. He’ll be delighted to have you as a project, you know. He
always loved you so!”

Henry
didn’t like the implication that he was an incomplete or unfinished
or otherwise faulty gentleman, but grudgingly accepted that this
might be an accurate assessment.

“Since
you won’t be seeing Reggie after all, what are you doing with your
day, darling?” Mother asked. She set her cup down in its saucer and
pushed it a little distance away from her.

“I’ve
got a new suit to pick up from Hamilton’s today.”

“I’ll
be interested to see it.” She turned and looked over her shoulder.
“Pearl? I’m afraid I’m quite tired out.” Pearl came forward
to help Mother out of her chair. “I’ve very much enjoyed talking
with you, Henry.”

“Me,
too,” Henry assured her. He’d never imagined he might have such a
conversation—frank, interesting, confessional—with either of his
parents. Might his mother actually be a person worth knowing? She was
a lousy mother, to be sure, but she might have other merits after
all.

He
said nothing to Martin until they were outside, headed for the
omnibus stop.

“Did
you expect to ever hear anything like that from my mother?” he
asked.

Martin
laughed, a short bark. “Goodness no, Sir. I think she said more
this morning than she’s said the entire time I’ve lived with
you.”

“It
wasn’t entirely new information,” Henry said, “but it filled in
the details a bit.”

“If
you don’t mind my saying so, Sir, I don’t think she likes your
father particularly well, but she does seem to respect him.”

“I
don’t think anyone can help but respect him,” Henry said.
“Everything he’s done, everything he’s accomplished…” Henry
knew that he’d never match his father’s achievements. He couldn’t
even feel bad about it; no one could match his father’s
accomplishments. “But he’s not really a gentleman, I guess. He’s
only disguised as a gentleman.”

Martin
laughed, liking this idea. “Your father really is like someone from
a story, isn’t he, Sir? He’s a self-made success like Captain
Drake.”

Father
was like Theo in that way, Henry supposed. However, he did not quite
wish to equate his intimidating father with the main actor from his
erotic fantasies. But all he said was, “He’s had adventures, I
guess.”

The
omnibus pulled up and they boarded. Philip van Houten was already
aboard, with Davey standing in the aisle at his side. Even though
Philip was not Henry’s favorite person, and he knew Martin felt
likewise about Davey, he smiled nonetheless and went to sit beside
Philip and chatted until they reached their stop; Philip was
continuing downtown to go to the arcade. They disembarked in front of
Hamilton’s and waved at Philip and Davey as the omnibus pulled
away.

“Our
least-favorites,” Henry remarked.

“Not
quite, Sir,” Martin corrected. “I’d rather be stuck with Davey
than Alex.”

“What
is it with you and him, anyway?”

Martin
grimaced. “He’s horrid, Sir, that’s what. His personality, his
ideas, the way he talks…it all just rubs me the wrong way. There’s
something off about him.”

“And
he thinks you’re stuck-up.” Henry stopped in front of Hamilton &amp;
Sons’ door and Martin hurried to open it for him.

“I
think I’m better than him,
Sir,” Martin admitted. “If that means I’m stuck-up, then I’m
stuck-up.”

Prescott
came to greet them. “Mr. Blackwell, Martin. Good morning. Would you
care for some coffee, Mr. Blackwell?”

“Yes,
please, for both of us.”

Prescott
gave a nod to someone behind Henry’s back and gestured for them to
follow him. “We’ve got your fitting room prepared, if you’ll
just come this way, Mr. Blackwell.”

The
new suit was hanging on a valet stand and the tailor stood ready with
chalk and pins, though this was really just for show. Nothing Henry
had ever had made at Hamilton’s had needed alteration after the
first fitting.

Martin
hung their coats while Prescott showed Henry shirting samples,
stripes that might go well with the plaid.

“I
understand that Timothy wants me to order any new shirts with
attached cuffs and collar,” Henry told him.

“I
hadn’t yet heard that from Timothy, Mr. Blackwell, but it seems a
fine option for you. Laundry is done so frequently in a house like
yours that there’s no need to change out cuffs and collar. You
could have a shirt made with the usual white cuffs and collar, of
course, or you could have them made from the same fabric as the body
of the shirt.”

Henry
blinked. What an interesting idea! Had he ever seen that done? It
seemed extremely modern.

A
shop assistant knocked and came inside with a coffee cart and Martin
prepared Henry’s coffee. Henry had a couple of quick gulps and then
Martin took the coffee away again so he could be undressed. He was
quickly stripped of his jacket, waistcoat and trousers and stood in
his drawers and shirt sipping coffee and eating a spice cookie while
he flipped through the shirting sample book that yet another shop
assistant held open before him.

“Shall
we try the trousers, Sir?” Martin asked, a hint of scolding in his
tone. Clearly, he thought Henry was squandering time.

Henry
shoved the rest of the cookie into his mouth and put down his coffee
cup. He stepped into the trousers that the tailor held ready, tucked
in his shirttails, and buttoned the fly. They fit beautifully. He
turned and looked over his shoulder at his ass in the mirror; his ass
wasn’t as perfect as Martin’s, perhaps, but it was still a pretty
nice ass.

“They
hang beautifully, don’t you think, Mr. Blackwell?” Prescott
asked.

“Very
nice,” Henry agreed. “What do you think, Martin?”

Martin
looked as if he didn’t like being put on the spot, but he said, “An
excellent fit, Sir.”

The
waistcoat was likewise a perfect fit. The tailor held up the jacket
and Henry slipped his arms inside. Martin settled the jacket over his
shoulders and smoothed the lapels over his chest. Their faces were
very close and Henry grinned at Martin, who rewarded him with a
small, enigmatic smile.

Henry
looked in the mirror again. He looked very stylish, deceptively
mature. As long as he stayed perfectly still and said nothing, he
could pull off the illusion of being an adult man.

As
for shirts, Henry wanted to order a muted blue stripe to go with the
new suit and he was tempted to get it with cuffs and collar of the
same stripe.

“What
do you think, Martin?”

Martin
looked as if he smelled something unpleasant. “I’m more of a
traditionalist, Sir, you know this.”

Henry
laughed at him, but said, “Very well, then. White collar and cuffs,
please, Prescott.”

“Of
course, Mr. Blackwell. Is there anything else we can help you with
today?”

Henry
had an idea. “Martin, what would you think of that ochre plaid as a
waistcoat?”

“To
go with this suit, Sir?”

“Yes,
why not? Everything’s the same except the background color.”

Martin
thought on this. “Perhaps if I could see the sample again, Mr.
Prescott…?”

The
shop assistant put down the shirting samples and went to get the
suiting samples.

“You
have such modern ideas, Mr. Blackwell,” Prescott said, and Henry
thought he approved.

Martin
stretched, leaning back and side-to-side, his hands on the small of
his back, and the way the light struck the front of his waistcoat let
Henry see that it was the fancy one, the chrysanthemum-and-stripe
brocade, and he was hit with a wave of such affection for him. He
imagined asking Prescott and the tailor and the shop assistant to
leave the fitting room so he could suck Martin’s cock; he imagined
Martin trying to keep quiet, Martin pulling at his hair. He came out
of this momentary reverie with a hot face and hurriedly concentrated
on the idea of the elderly tailor stabbing his prick with a straight
pin to keep from getting hard.

The
ochre suiting sample was held up against Henry’s torso beneath the
suit jacket and Martin agreed that it might look very nice and
wouldn’t make him look too sallow. He then suggested that Henry
ought to choose a tie, as well. It was another hour before they could
leave the store, with an ochre plaid waistcoat on order, as well as
the striped shirt with attached cuffs and collar. They took away with
them the new suit and two new neckties, one which was meant to go
with the ochre waistcoat and one that Henry just liked the look of, a
red foulard.

Henry
had Martin hail them a cab so that he wouldn’t have to stand on the
omnibus holding the suit. They sat together facing forward, the suit
in its dust sheet laid across the rear-facing seat. Henry took
Martin’s hand and Martin let him hold it a few minutes, though it
clearly made him nervous.

“I
can wear the new suit to Reggie’s party,” he remarked. He thought
it rather too splendid to waste on Louis.

“It
looks so nice on you, Sir,” Martin said. “I-I was a little shy to
say how handsome I found you in front of those gentlemen. I was
afraid I’d give something away, that it would be there in my tone
or expression.”

“You
were fine, I’m sure,” Henry said reassuringly. He squeezed
Martin’s hand, which was Martin’s cue to gently but firmly
withdraw it from Henry’s grip.

Henry
sighed. He wished Martin would be a little more romantic, a little
less worried about being observed. He let Martin have his hand back,
but leaned against him for a moment in substitute for an embrace.

At
home, Henry tried on the new suit with the previously-purchased
paisley waistcoat and foulard tie and they were in agreement that he
looked both stylish and mature. While Henry stood before the mirror,
Martin went down to his knees and unbuttoned the new trousers. He
grinned up at Henry as Henry’s stiffening prick slid along his
cheek.

“Go
on, Sir,” he said. “Make me do it.”
















 On
the night of the Wiltons’ farewell party for Reggie, Father claimed
he’d had some sort of important business come up and was not going
to be able to attend. Henry did not believe this for an instant, but
was glad his father was absenting himself; the gathering should be
only people who loved Reggie.

Some
of Mother’s jewelry was brought out from the vault for the
occasion. She hadn’t been dress shopping in years, but she did have
a severe black velvet that didn’t look too unfashionable and made
an elegant backdrop for her ruby-and-diamond parure. She was
alternately excited for the party and tearful for its cause, and
Pearl made her lie down on the chaise in the blue parlor to rest
while they waited for Old Bob to bring the carriage around.

Henry
wore his new suit, the paisley waistcoat, and the coordinating
foulard tie. Martin straightened and patted and picked invisible
threads off his lapels. “You’re so handsome in this outfit, Sir.”

Riding
downtown, Mother said, “You can’t know how much it means to me
that you’re close with Reggie, darling. I love both my brothers,
but Reggie has always been special to me.”

“He’s
always been special to me, too,” Henry assured her. “I’m glad
he gets to come home after his business is completed.”

“He’ll
be home this summer,” Mother said determinedly. “He’s promised
me as much. And then maybe…maybe we’ll open the summer house.
It’s been years since we’ve been, hasn’t it, darling?”

“I
don’t know that I’ve been at all, actually.” Henry knew they
had a house at the shore, just as he knew they had a country house
and a rustic mountain “camp,” but he didn’t have clear memories
of visiting any of them. Father would rather work than have any
vacation, and Mother hadn’t wanted to leave her room in town for
almost a decade.

“You
were so little when we last went, I suppose…I’ve been too ill to
go anywhere, you know.” She frowned, but then drew herself upright.
“But! Everything will be different, darling, once Reggie’s home
for good. He won’t let me indulge myself as I’ve been doing all
these years. Reggie will get me back to my real self.” She smiled
to herself and then at Henry. “I’ve been a terrible mother to you
and your sister, I know, darling.”

“No…”
Henry said, though without conviction. She had
been a terrible mother. Luckily, most of the mothers he knew of were
pretty terrible, so he didn’t feel that he’d missed too much.
Everyone he knew had actually been raised by a nurse in any case.

In
a low, soothing tone, Pearl said, “Ma’am, please don’t be hard
on yourself,” and Mother patted Pearl’s arm in response.

They
arrived at the Wilton house and the family came out to greet them,
Reggie taking Mother’s arm and Jesse eager to welcome Henry. “I’ve
got so much to tell you,” he said. “And I’ve finished my
drawing. I’m really quite proud of it.”

“I
want to hear it all,” Henry assured him. “I want to see it.”

“That’s
some outfit you’ve got on,” Jesse remarked. “First the green
suit at Christmas, and now this. You’re quite a clothes-horse,
aren’t you?”

“I
like clothes,” Henry admitted.

“You’re
like Reggie in that way,” Jesse said. “I’ve never developed the
interest.”

They
went into the front parlor, where the adults drank aperitifs and
Reggie made a fuss over how handsome Jesse and Henry were, slouched
together on the sofa. “I’m going to miss you boys,” Reggie told
them. “You’ll write me, won’t you?”

“Of
course,” Jesse said.

“Of
course,” Henry echoed, already worrying about the quality of his
letters. Jesse was a prolific correspondent, he knew, at least with
his Elizabeth, and Henry loathed the idea of Jesse supplanting him in
Reggie’s affections just because he was a better letter-writer. He
could, he thought, get Martin to help him; he suspected Martin could
write a beautiful missive.

They
were called into dinner where Henry was seated next to Jesse, across
from Mother and Reggie. They were served an endless array of courses,
just as they would have been at the Blackwell table, but the Wiltons
served simpler food that, quite frankly, was far more agreeable to
Henry’s palate. Mother, he noted, actually ate some of her dinner,
and at no point did she ask Pearl for her medicine. He and Jesse were
permitted wine, as it was a special occasion, and Jesse repeatedly
handed his glass up to Russ without comment from any of the adults,
so Henry did the same with Martin, also without remark.

For
dessert, they had lemon tarts, as these were Reggie’s favorites,
and a glass of sweet wine as a digestif. While they ate their tarts,
the slaves had their meal. Henry sipped his digestif with numbed
lips. He felt slightly tipsy, having already been served
not-insignificant amounts of five different wines during dinner. When
the companions returned to their masters’ sides, he drained his
glass and let Jesse lead him out of the dining room and up the
stairs.

“Reggie
wants to spend some time alone with Aunt Louisa,” Jesse explained.
“And then a bunch of the other relatives are coming around for
drinks and I’d just as soon stay out of the way for awhile, if
that’s all right with you.”

“Certainly,”
Henry said woozily. He could taste the wine lingering in his mouth,
and wondered if it also lingered for Martin, if he’d taste it there
if he kissed him. He turned to look at Martin on the stair and he was
radiantly handsome, smiling up at Henry.

He
put his hand on Henry’s elbow. “Are you all right, Sir?”

Henry
blushed. “I’m lovely,” he assured him.

Jesse
locked his bedroom door behind them. “I want to show you my
drawing. I think it’s done now. I’m quite pleased with it, as I
said.”

The
half-naked woman, formerly a skillful sketch, was now rounded,
burnished, dimensional. She had a look in her eyes that Henry had
seen in Martin’s, hungry and promising, and it made him blush.

“It’s
beautiful,” Henry said, truly impressed.

“Thank
you. I think it’s a good likeness, as well, don’t you?”

“I
only know her from the one photo,” Henry reminded him, “but I
think it very like.”

Jesse
put the drawing down. “I’d like to do a painting,” he said,
“but I’m simply not a good enough painter to do the subject
justice.”

“You’ll
only get better by trying, though, won’t you?” said Henry, whose
only experience of artistic improvement was indirect, observing
Martin with his violin.

“Of
course you’re right,” Jesse agreed. “I should just resign
myself to making a very ugly painting and learning from it.” He
opened his desk drawer and dug around inside, coming up with some of
the same incense he’d lit at Christmas.

“Doesn’t
the smell of this make you feel like you’re in a tent in the
desert, surrounded by sloe-eyed beauties all eager to do your
bidding?” Jesse didn’t want for him to answer, but immediately
asked, “Do you want a cigarette? I’ve got a whole pack.”

Henry
had not had good luck with cigarettes in the past, but he didn’t
want to say no. “Maybe we could share one,” he suggested. “I
don’t think I can smoke a whole cigarette on my own.”

“Good
idea.” Jesse went to the bookshelf and pulled out a fat dictionary,
reaching behind to retrieve a cigarette packet and a demitasse cup
with a broken handle that they could use as an ashtray. He cracked
open the window by the shelf and lit a cigarette, inhaled, and walked
over to Henry with smoke streaming from his nostrils. Handing the
cigarette to Henry, he sat down on the floor, leaning back against
the foot of his bed. “Make yourself comfortable, Henry.”

Henry
sat down facing him and made a tentative inhale, feeling the smoke
swirl into his lungs. He was not normally aware of his lungs in this
way and it was peculiar, verging on actively unpleasant. He was
immediately lightheaded, though, which felt sort of wonderful. He
coughed, but not hard, the smoke coming out in puffs.

“Don’t
inhale too much,” Jesse advised. “Go easy on yourself.” He
reached over and plucked the cigarette from Henry’s hand. “I’m
trying to learn how to blow smoke rings.” He drew on the cigarette
and made guppyish motions with his mouth, the shape of his lips
reminiscent of a mouth wrapped around a cock, and Henry drew in a
sharp breath, a wash of heat burning through his skin.

Jesse
beckoned Russ to sit beside him. “Here. You, too.” He handed Russ
the cigarette and he obediently inhaled. He clearly had smoked
before, and was much more practiced than Henry. Jesse asked, “Do
you want Martin to have some?”

“If
he wants. Here, Martin, come sit.”

Martin
sat beside him, leaning heavily on his right hand, his legs out to
the side. He took the cigarette from Russ and said, “I can blow
rings, Sir, if you want to see.”

“Really?”
Jesse laughed. “Yes, show me!”

Henry
was surprised. He didn’t know Martin had ever smoked, much less
learned tricks!

Martin
inhaled, formed an ‘O’ with his mouth, and pushed out a series of
dense, opaque rings that wavered and grew wispy the farther they
traveled from his lips. Jesse cackled with glee and all three members
of the audience clapped.

“Do
it again,” Jesse urged. “I want to see how you do it.” He
walked on his knees over to where Martin lounged and stared intently
at his mouth. Martin began explaining the salient points of blowing
rings, Jesse listening avidly.

Russ
smiled at Henry. “You didn’t know he could do that, did you,
Sir?”

“No,”
Henry admitted. “I didn’t know he’d ever even smoked. Were
there cigarettes around at Ganymede?”

“The
adults had them, Sir, and sometimes they’d share.”

“So
everyone smoked from time to time, then?”

“No,
Sir, just the favorites. Martin was very well-liked by everyone.”

Now
Jesse was touching Martin’s neck and jaw as he blew rings. Henry
bristled a little at this—Jesse had not asked his permission, after
all—but told himself it was innocent enough, and even if it wasn’t,
he needn’t let it go any further.

The
first cigarette was entirely smoked, so Jesse lit a second to make
another attempt at blowing rings. He was more successful this time,
creating amorphous doughnuts of wispy smoke that seemed to give him
great satisfaction, and the other three exclaimed over his
achievement. They passed the cigarette around the circle and when it
came back to Jesse, he tried again, his results at least matching his
previous effort if not really improving upon it.

When
the second cigarette burned down, they all agreed a third wasn’t
necessary. “I’ll get sick,” Jesse said simply. He put the
cigarette packet and the makeshift ashtray behind the dictionary and
came back to sit down close by Henry’s side. He nudged Henry with
his shoulder and said, “I remember what you said at Christmas, that
you don’t share Martin, and I won’t ask you to do that, but
there’s another thing I thought you might be willing to do with
me?”

Wary,
Henry leaned fractionally away from him, and said, “What?”

Jesse
leaned after him, his lips brushing Henry’s ear, though he didn’t
whisper. “I like to watch,” he said, “and be watched.”
Startled, Henry turned to look at him. Jesse smiled, sly and
seductive. “No touching,” he said, “unless, of course, you
change your mind.”

“I
don’t understand—”

Jesse’s
lips at his ear again. “I want to watch Martin suck your cock,”
he said, his hot breath sending shivers down Henry’s spine. “And
I want you to watch Russ suck mine.”

Henry
froze, horrified and powerfully aroused. His cock was hard, straining
at his buttons. He turned to look at Martin, and Martin was looking
back with excitement in his eyes; he would, Henry realized, gladly do
it. Henry didn’t know how to feel about that.

“Eli
and I do it all the time,” Jesse blithely assured him. “You
haven’t done it before, so I’ll go first.” Without waiting for
Henry to respond, Jesse beckoned to Russ, who came and knelt between
Jesse’s spread legs. “It’s really so much more exciting with
someone watching, or at least I
think so.” Jesse ran his hand through Russ’ hair and Russ grinned
up at Jesse and rubbed his cock through his trousers.

Henry
wasn’t sure he wanted
to watch, but that’s what he was doing. He didn’t tell Jesse to
stop, nor did he get up to leave, though he did hurriedly scoot away,
putting a little distance between Jesse and himself. As he watched,
Russ unbuttoned Jesse’s trousers and bent over his lap. Henry
wasn’t sure what he was seeing, but then suddenly Russ reared up
and there was Jesse’s cock standing up stiff out of the vee of his
open drawers, and Henry hadn’t seen enough hard cocks to become
jaded and so stared at this one with a sharp intake of breath, the
heat of a flush spreading beneath his skin. Not as big as his own,
and not as pretty as Martin’s, perhaps, but very nice all the same.

Jesse
leaned back onto both hands and let his head fall back with a sigh,
the line of his throat in profile very graceful. Russ bent over his
cock again and licked it, and Henry could see how it jerked against
Russ’ tongue. Henry’s face grew hotter and hotter, and he was
dimly aware of Martin sitting at his other side, shifting closer.
Henry reached for him without looking back, and Martin squeezed his
hand. He could tell how badly Martin wanted to do it, too, to put on
a show, and he didn’t want to disappoint him, but he just didn’t
know if he could let something like this happen.

As
Henry continued to watch, transfixed, Russ moved with purpose, his
head bobbing up and down. He would let Jesse’s cock slide out of
his mouth every now and then, giving Henry a good look at it, dark
with blood and gleaming with spit. Russ’ breathing seemed very loud
and he made little groans, soft but urgent, as he sucked. Jesse gave
hitching gasps, incremental, pressure building up. He put his hand on
the back of Russ’ head and huffed out raspy breaths. “Oh, baby,”
he said, “Just like that, just keep doing that.” He turned then
to look at Henry, his gaze intense—too intense for Henry, frankly.
“I’m gonna come, Henry.”

Henry
could say nothing in return, but sucked in a mortified breath, his
face on fire. Martin pressed close behind him, his hand snaking
around Henry’s waist to rub his cock through his trousers.

Jesse
did come then, head thrown back, a pained expression on his handsome
face, his rough cries abrading Henry’s nerves. Jesse reached out
blindly, clutching at Henry’s knee, and Henry started violently at
the contact.

Jesse
caught his breath as Russ sat up, wiping his mouth with the back of
his hand. “Russ,” Jesse said, petting Russ’ hair. “That was
so good, baby, thank you.” He drew Russ up so that they were
face-to-face and then kissed his forehead. He whispered in Russ’
ear, but loud enough for Henry to hear, “I’ll take care of you
later.”

Martin’s
hand petted and squeezed, making Henry’s cock harder and
straighter, and he wanted
to be okay with taking it further, but he hesitated. He didn’t want
to share Martin at
all,
was what it came down to, and even letting Jesse watch Martin seemed
wrong. As much as it pained him to do it, he gently took Martin’s
hand by the wrist, moved it off his crotch, and gave it a pat.

“Sir?”
Martin’s voice, low and concerned in his ear.

Henry
turned and whispered to him. “I’m sorry, Martin. I just really
don’t want to share you, not even a little bit.”

“Is
everything okay, Henry?” Jesse touched his hand, and when Henry
turned around to look at him, he seemed concerned. “Did I upset
you? I’m sorry if that was too strange.”

“No,”
Henry said bashfully, though it had been plenty strange. “It’s
not that, really. I just…I don’t think I can return the favor,
Jesse. Not today, anyway.”

Jesse
looked disappointed, but seemed to take it in stride. “All right,
then. Say, you don’t mind if I write Elizabeth about this, do you?
I’ve told her about you and I know she’d be interested.”

Henry
blushed anew. What could Jesse possibly have written about him,
anyway? “I-I guess it’s all right.” Someday he wanted to meet
this Elizabeth!

Jesse
buttoned his trousers and pulled Russ close to sprawl over his lap.
“I can see you want to keep everything all prim and proper in front
of other people,” he said to Henry, “but I have the feeling you
must be very affectionate with him in private.”

Henry
felt his cheeks burn hotter. “I really care about Martin,” he
said stiffly, not exactly an answer.

“Of
course you do,” Jesse said kindly. “Anyone can see he’s
special.”

There
were footsteps in the hall and a knock at the door. Russ got up and
went to answer it. After a brief conference with whoever was in the
hall, Russ shut the door and announced, “You’re wanted
downstairs, Sirs.”

There
were lots of people in the parlors: Wiltons, Carmichaels, Bensons and
Hatches. Lyle was there, and Darwin. Eli was there with Owen, and
Henry blushed remembering how casually Jesse had shared that Eli
participated in these voyeuristic sessions with him.

The
three older boys were offered champagne and shared it with their
slaves. Jesse and Eli had a murmured conversation that Henry only
heard part of—Jesse saying “No, he
watched me,”
in a furtive whisper. Russ and Owen stood apart, having a whispered
conversation of their own, but Martin stuck close by Henry’s side.

“The
Wiltons are an interesting family, Sir,” Martin murmured, and Henry
snorted, amused.

Uncle
Reggie sought him out. He was a little drunk, which made him even
more effusive than usual, more prone to expansive gestures.
“Darling!” he cried. “Little prince! I think I might just miss
you most of all!” He held a glass of champagne in one hand and
hugged Henry with the other. Leaning in, speaking confidentially, he
said, “I haven’t forgotten what we’ve talked about, darling,
but I simply haven’t got any good information for you yet. But when
I’m back in the city, I’ll find out absolutely everything
there is to know, all right?”

“Thank
you, Uncle.” Henry returned Reggie’s one-armed hug. “It means a
lot to me.”

Reggie
turned to Martin. “And you, you exquisite thing, you must promise
to take the best care of my darling boy!”

Martin
gave Reggie a dazzling smile. “I promise, Sir.”

Reggie
reached up and laid his hand against Martin’s cheek. “Really, you
beautiful boys need
to have a portrait done. I’ll look into that when I return, as
well.”

“That’d
be great, Uncle.”

“Remember,
Henry, darling, you’re not to do anything until I return, all
right? No going off on your own!”

“Going
off where?” Jesse was suddenly there, popping up from behind Reggie
with a full champagne flute. “Can I come?”

“Henry’s
letting me redecorate his room,” Reggie lied smoothly. “I don’t
want him going shopping without me.”

“Oh,”
Jesse said, quite uninterested. “Say, Henry, I forgot to tell you,
Elizabeth wrote me a poem. I’ve committed it to memory, and I think
you should hear it.” He pulled Henry over to huddle with Eli and
Lyle and recited the entire thing, giving a very dramatic reading. It
was full of references to nudity both innocent and carnal, vaguely
dirty talk about “love’s nectar,” and a flower bursting into
bloom that seemed to represent the loss of virginity. Elizabeth was,
it seemed, a good match for Jesse.

By
midnight, Mother was clearly exhausted, haggard and drawn, but she
seemed loath to say goodbye to Reggie. Pearl whispered in her ear and
she nodded her head reluctantly in response. Martin went across the
room and conferred with Pearl, then returned to Henry’s side.

“We’re
leaving, Sir. You should say your goodbyes.”

Jesse,
who had been drinking champagne like it was water, put his arms
around Henry and hung off him bonelessly. “We’re going to be
great friends, aren’t we, Henry?”

Henry
attempted to set Jesse back on his feet. “I thought we already
were.”

Jesse
gazed at him, unfocused and fond. “Aw, Henry!” He patted Henry’s
cheek.

Eli
came up behind Jesse and put an arm around his shoulders.

“He
gets like this,” Eli said apologetically, pulling Jesse away. “I’ll
hold him off while you make your getaway.”

Henry
said a final farewell to a tearful Reggie, who insisted on walking
them out to their carriage, kissing Mother on both cheeks over and
over again and whispering in her ear. As they pulled away, Old Bob
turning the carriage in a tight circle and heading back uptown,
Mother began to cry.

“I
know he’s coming back,” she said, voice quavering. “I just wish
he didn’t have to go.”

Henry
leaned forward and reached out and to pat Mother’s hand in her lap.
“Maybe we can see Uncle Gilbert and Aunt Virginia while he’s
away, Mother. I always like to see Jesse.”

“You’re
right, darling,” she said with a sigh. “I should see them, I
should, and I’ll let Virginia take me shopping. I need new dresses
and new hats. Everything I own is so terribly out-of-date.”

“That’s
a good idea, Mother. You should do that. Let Pearl arrange it for
you, will you?”

“All
right, darling. Pearl, will you do it, please?”

Pearl
looked thrilled at the idea of Mother leaving the house to do some
ordinary thing. “Of course, Ma’am. I’ll call Mrs. Wilton’s
Dolly first thing tomorrow.”

“It
needn’t be done in a hurry,” Mother said, but Pearl caught
Henry’s eye and they were in silent agreement: the sooner the
better, to take advantage of this momentum.

At
home, Martin sucked Henry like he’d obviously wanted to do in
Jesse’s room, making a spectacular job of it, and Henry felt bad
all over again for not letting him have an audience.

Martin
was clearly in the mood to be watched. He lifted his head from
Henry’s lap and sat back on his heels, cock jutting up. “Would
you like to see how I touch myself, Henry? Let me show you, please.”

Martin
showed him, brazen and needy and so exactly what Henry loved, what he
treasured. Henry didn’t like the idea that he was closing off doors
Martin would rather have open, but the thought that someone else
would see Martin like this was almost intolerable. He hadn’t
necessarily wanted
to see Russ with Jesse, but now that he had, he believed watching was
a lot more involved than it seemed on the surface, a lot more
intimate. He liked Jesse so much, and he believed that Jesse would
obey any rules he set forth, any conditions, but even so, afterward
Jesse would have a degree of intimacy with Martin that Henry wasn’t
at all comfortable with. It almost seemed like it would be easier to
do with a stranger, someone they’d never see again, the intimacy
being somehow transient. He wanted to be someone who would give
Martin anything, but he wasn’t sure he could give him this.











After
Reggie left, Henry began thinking about Valentine’s Day. Was it too
sappy to tell Martin he loved him on Valentine’s Day? He suspected
that it was, but then when?
He wanted to be part of it with Martin, the whole silly holiday, the
hearts and flowers. He wanted to be like any other boy in love.

He
thought up a plan, possibly a first for him, as before he had always
left planning to Louis or one of the others. On Monday afternoon,
when Louis conveniently happened to be getting a parentally-mandated
haircut and couldn’t go with them, Henry suggested to Martin that
they go to the arcade downtown and of course Martin was amenable.
While Martin was happily watching peep shows—new reels in every
machine since last they’d been—Henry told him he was just going
to pop down to the newsstand to pick up the latest issue of American
Adventure,
claiming that Charles had recommended a story to him.

“Do
you want me to come, too, Sir?”

“No,
you keep looking at the reels. I’ll be back in a few minutes. If
anyone bothers you, go to the manager.”

“Yes,
Sir. Thank you.”

Henry
hurried to the newsstand and bought American
Adventure.
Thinking that Martin might ask him which story Charles had
recommended, he checked the table of contents as he walked. Village
of the Betrayed
or Wolf-Man?
Either would do. He crossed the street and ducked into the
five-and-dime, quickly making his way to the card racks.

It
had to be a love card, not a friendship card, not ambiguous at all.
There were dozens of choices, but many of them pictured women or
girls and so were automatically out. Cupids were acceptable, but
Henry didn’t really want pictures of male children, either, and
there were no cards showing adult men at all for some reason. He had
to decide quickly!

He
settled on a brightly-colored card, not too fancy, with fat hearts, a
profusion of violets, and a pair of cupids, with the simple
statement, “To My Valentine.” It was pretty and, although Henry
had rather hoped to find a card with some flowery language to make up
for his own inarticulateness, it was fitting, coming from him. Also,
one of the cupids had dark hair, the other tawny, which seemed
meaningful. He stood impatiently in line, paid, and tucked the card
inside his magazine. He hurried back across the street and into the
arcade.

Martin
seemed scarcely to have noticed he was gone. “Oh, hello,” he
said, looking up from the Mutoscope machine. “You should watch this
one, Sir, it’s really funny.”

On
Tuesday, Louis made Henry go with him to the same five-and-dime so he
could buy a card for their friend Albert’s comely blonde sister,
Abigail DeWitt. Louis wanted to find the perfect paper sentiment, the
card that would make her return his feelings. Henry doubted such a
card existed. Peter and Martin idly browsed cards nearby and a group
of working-class kids pointed at them, whispering behind their hands,
which Henry thought ridiculous. Except for the Martin’s long hair
and their tattoos, the slaves were perfectly normal boys.

“Don’t
you need to get a card for anybody? Anyone at all?”

Henry’s
mouth twisted wryly. “Don’t you think you’d know if I had
somebody, Louis?”

“I
don’t think you even want
a sweetheart,” Louis said, shaking his head in disbelief. “You’re
the latest late bloomer ever.”

Henry
shrugged, perfectly willing for Louis to think of him as a late
bloomer. It was far preferable to Louis knowing the truth. He
wondered what Louis would think, though. Would he be more upset that
Henry was in love with a boy, or that he was in love with a slave?
The boy would be the larger problem, of course, but would it seem as
bad if Henry had fallen in love with a free boy instead? Henry
thought not: falling in love with a boy was breaking one big rule,
falling in love with a slave was breaking another, and combining the
two was to practically spit in the face of decent society, and Louis
was, after all, actually pretty conventional.

Tuesday
evening, upon returning from his dinner, Martin had a request.

“Do
you remember, Henry, at Thanksgiving you had suggested that someday I
might play at a party for the slaves?” He held Henry’s trousers
ready for him to step in.

“Oh,
yes, sure,” Henry said, putting a hand on Martin’s shoulder for
balance. “Do you want to do that sometime soon?”

“Would
it be possible for me to have the evening on Saturday?” Martin
sounded a little anxious. “I know it’s short notice, but the
other slaves don’t always know their schedules far in advance.”

“I
don’t see a problem,” Henry told him. “Is it just a regular
party for fun, or is it some special occasion?”

“It’s
special,” Martin said, smiling. “Billy and Jane are getting
married!”

Henry’s
jaw dropped. “My
Billy?”

“Yes,
and Jane from the Slatterys.”

“But
how...?” Henry didn’t quite understand. “They live in different
houses.”

“It’s
not ideal,” Martin admitted. “But even though they won’t live
in the same house, they’ll be accommodated a little by the others.
Given days off together whenever possible, and things like that.”

“Can
I come to the wedding?” Henry shrugged into his dinner shirt and
did the buttons at the bottom while Martin put the studs into the
bib. “After all, Billy is a little bit mine; Billy took care of me
for years before you came.”

“The
party will be held here, and it’s your house; you can do whatever
you like.”

“You
know what I mean, Martin. Will I spoil the party if I’m there?”

“I
don’t think so, Henry. Billy is very fond of you. And I would like
you there to see me play for an audience.”

“I
didn’t realize slaves had actual weddings,” Henry admitted,
buttoning his waistcoat. “Is it a ceremony like free people have?”
He thought a second, then asked, “Or is it a Hetaeria thing?”
hoping that this would be the case.

“It’s
called a handfasting,” Martin said. “It used to be a free
people’s wedding ceremony a long time ago, but only slaves use it
now.” He held Henry’s jacket up and Henry slipped his arms into
the sleeves.

“I’m
excited!” Henry bounced a little on the balls of his feet. “I’ve
actually never been to a wedding before.”

“Me,
neither. I’m so pleased for Billy and Jane.”

They
headed down to the dining room, Henry still full of questions.

“Will
there be lots of guests?”

“Everyone
from our house and the Slattery house who can come will be there, of
course, Sir, as well as any friends of theirs from the neighborhood
who can get the evening off. Both of them have a lot of friends, Sir;
after all, Billy’s been in service seventeen years and Jane for
fifteen. You meet a lot of people in seventeen years.”

“Wait—does
my father know about this? Won’t he wonder about the huge crowds of
slaves going in and out of his house?”

“It’s
been cleared with both Mr. Blackwell and Mr. Slattery, Sir.
Everything is being done very properly.”

“Billy’s
been in service seventeen years? How old was he when he came here?”

“Billy
and Paul were 17, so they’re 34 now, Sir.”

“They
look younger,” Henry remarked, “though I guess they really
couldn’t
be. Say, aren’t most footmen older than that when they go to a
master?”

“Everyone
wants twins, Sir; it’s the most elegant arrangement. I imagine your
father preferred to secure them when they were a little green rather
than miss out on a matched pair.”

They
reached the dining room doorway and Henry gave Martin’s hand a
quick squeeze. “I’m really excited!” he said again in a loud
whisper before going inside.

During
dinner, Henry itched to bring up the slave wedding to his parents,
but did not think this topic would be well-received. He also feared
that he if he brought it up, he would be forbidden from attending and
potentially scolded for his untoward interest in the doings of
slaves. If he said nothing now, he would be able to do as he pleased
on Saturday.

At
bedtime, Henry fucked Martin with hard, steady strokes and Martin
clung to him and gave broken moans with each thrust, his legs wrapped
around Henry’s back. He pulled Henry down into a deep, wet kiss,
his hands knotted in Henry’s hair, and whispered sweet things in
Henry’s ear.

“I
want to come in you like this,” Henry whispered back, “and then
I’ll make you come with my mouth.”

“Do
it, Henry. Whatever you want.”

As
they kissed again, Henry gathered Martin close, no space between
their skins, and groaned into his mouth as he came. Martin stroked
Henry’s head and shoulders as Henry shuddered to a halt, and he
tilted his hips against Martin’s ass, staying as deep as he could.
With his skin still numb and tingling, his cock still throbbing, he
slid down Martin’s body until his face was between Martin’s
thighs.

Henry
intended to suck Martin’s cock, to finger him while he sucked.
“Hitch up your knees,” Henry told him. He pushed on the backs of
Martin’s thighs with both hands, exposing his hole, stretched wide
open by Henry’s cock, the skin glistening with traces of oil and
Henry’s semen. Henry put his hands to either side of Martin’s
hole and spread it wider still. Impulsively, Henry bent his head to
lick, tasting himself on Martin’s skin and inside his open hole. He
thrust his tongue deep into Martin’s freshly-fucked ass, deeper
than he’d ever been able to do in the past, and wondered why he’d
never thought to do this before.

Martin
began babbling immediately. “Please, oh, god, please
Henry let me touch my cock! Oh, that’s so dirty,
Henry! Please,
let me do it. Please,
Henry, let me come!” His asshole clenched around Henry’s probing
tongue and he was wracked with shivers as Henry licked him inside and
out.

“Just
this once,” Henry murmured. “You can touch yourself this time.”

“Oh!
Henry!” Martin took hold of his cock and began to work it with
fast, efficient tugs.

Henry
nipped at Martin’s hole and spiked it with his tongue and licked it
up and down until every trace of his own orgasm was gone while Martin
gave broken, strangled cries and jerked under his hands. Henry thrust
his tongue into Martin’s hole, licked him deep, and then Martin
stilled and called out to him and came. Henry gave Martin’s hole a
few more affectionate swipes with his tongue then shifted to lie at
his side, their heads together on the pillow, and curled around him,
feeling extremely close and contented.

“You
surprise me with how dirty you are,” Martin murmured, nuzzling
Henry for a kiss.

Henry
smiled against the side of Martin’s neck. It had
been dirty, and he’d loved doing it. “I don’t know why you’re
surprised. I’m just as dirty as any slave,” Henry asserted,
though he didn’t know if this was even possibly true. “I’m
filthy.
You bring it out in me, you know.”

Martin
chuckled. “I’ve corrupted you.” They lay quiet a minute more,
Martin stroking Henry’s arm, until Martin sighed and got up and
went for his basin and cloth.

Martin
sat on the side of the bed and reached to wash Henry’s cock.
“Henry? I need to make something clear…”

“What
is it?”

“For
the party on Saturday I’ll need to practice with the other
musicians. The practices will be at the Slatterys’. I’ll need to
meet with the others after school and perhaps even after dinner all
the rest of the week.”

“Oh.”
Henry didn’t like this at all and he thought immediately that he
could change his mind and disallow Martin’s participation. However,
that idea made him seem so monstrously selfish that it was
embarrassing he was even considering it. Besides, if he were to go
back on his word, Martin’s opinion of his character would be
damaged, perhaps beyond repair, and it would be extremely unlikely
that Martin would be impressed by any declarations of love Henry
might make in the near future.

“Oh,”
Henry said again. “Well, I guess you have to practice if you’re
going to perform.”

His
sullen acceptance did not go unrewarded. “I’m so grateful to you
for allowing it,” Martin said gently, pushing Henry’s hair back
from his forehead. “It’s so nice what you’re doing for all of
us slaves.”

“I’m
doing it for you,”
Henry said grumpily. “You’re the one I care about.”

“Regardless,
everyone will enjoy it, so thank you.”

Martin
put away his basin and climbed back into bed. Henry gathered him
close and kissed his face.

“Could
I come to the practices?” he asked, kissing Martin’s ear. “If I
promise to stay out of the way?”

Martin
hesitated a long time. “Well, Henry, you can do as you wish, of
course—”

“But,”
Henry said. “There’s a but, isn’t there?”

“No
other masters will be there. None of the other musicians know you
like I do, of course, and they would all be distracted by trying to
please you and being deferential, and it simply wouldn’t be
conducive to a good practice. I can’t stop you, of course, but I’m
recommending that you let it happen without you.”

Henry
sighed. Martin was not going to allow him to behave like a spoiled
brat. Martin was not going to allow him to cling. Four days without a
monopoly on Martin’s time—he didn’t know how he would survive
it.




On
Wednesday, after they came home from school, Martin dressed Henry in
his regular clothes, did the same for himself, picked up his violin
case, and kissed Henry goodbye.

“If
there’s an emergency, I’m in the slaves’ mess at the Slattery
house, and most everyone here knows the telephone number, or Billy
could run and get me, but, really, you’ll be fine by yourself for a
little bit. I’ll be back to dress you for dinner.” He patted
Henry’s arm and gave his shoulder a squeeze.

“What
about your dinner?”

“I’m
eating at the Slatterys’. It’ll be interesting to see how Cook’s
food compares.”

Henry
clutched after his sleeve, I’ll
miss you
on the tip of his tongue, but he just blushed and said, “Goodbye.
Have fun.”

Alone,
he did his homework, even a little of the Latin. He paced the room,
then flopped on the bed, letting his feet hang off the side because
he couldn’t be bothered to take off his boots, and opened a book of
Greek myths, rereading the stories that had always spoken to him in
the most ringing tones, those being the tales of Ganymede and
Hyacinthus. Perhaps he should suggest that Pearl read myths after
dinner instead of insipid novels; the myths had at least stood the
test of time.

Used
to having sex at some point between school and dinner, Henry put down
his book and took out his cock and boldly masturbated out in the
open, sprawled on his bed. He caught his mess in his handkerchief and
went into Martin’s room to put it in the laundry basket. While
there, he looked around at Martin’s things, not exactly snooping
but noticing.

Martin’s
school bag sat at the center of the desk. On the corner nearest the
bed was a book from near the end of the adventure series Martin had
been reading since coming to live with Henry, as well as a few back
issues of Pals
from the early days of Theo and George’s relationship. Henry knew
that Martin’s box of talismans was in a desk drawer but hesitated
to pry; certainly, it was
his right, but he thought Martin would not appreciate his nosiness
and so restrained himself.

He
opened the wardrobe and stuck his head inside and smelled a
particularly woolen version of Martin’s smell. He wished he could
have the smell of Martin’s skin with him all the time, the smell of
Martin’s cock, even his less erotic smells. He just liked Martin so
much! Did other people have these sorts of feelings, these obsessive
longings? Was he really the only one of his friends who was crazy
about his slave?

Henry
napped until Martin’s return and was ridiculously happy to see him,
smothering him with kisses and making a fool of himself, knowing he
was pathetic but unable to stop himself from expressing his great and
desperate joy at Martin’s return.

“Henry,
you need to dress for dinner.” Martin pushed him gently away. “Let
me get your suit ready.”

“How
was the food?” Henry asked, attempting to help out by crouching
down to untie his own boots.

“Not
as good as our Cook makes,” Martin told him. “But that’s not to
say it wasn’t good at all.” He looked down at Henry. “Maybe I
should do that.”

“I
don’t know how this knot got here…” Henry threw up his hands
helplessly. “Do you tie them some special way? Am I untying them
wrong?”

“Let
me help.”

Henry
stood and Martin knelt, quickly untying and loosening Henry’s laces
and helping him to step out of his boots.

“See
how much I need you?” Henry asked. “You can’t leave me alone
for too long, Martin.”

Martin
laughed. “It’s just a few hours at a time, Henry. You’ll be
fine.” He hesitated a moment, then added, “I think you’ll be
relieved to know evening practice has been canceled. It’s far too
complicated service-wise, you see.” While down on the floor, he
unbuttoned Henry’s trousers.

Henry
was
pleased, but thought better of saying so. “Who are the other
musicians?” Henry kicked off his trousers and reached down a hand
to help pull Martin up to standing.

“Well,
Homer—that’s the Slatterys’ coachman—plays accordion, and Mr.
John—that’s Mr. Slattery’s companion—plays cello, and our
Jerry plays piano. Some of the girls might sing, though they’re not
rehearsing with us.” He unbuttoned Henry’s cuffs and the placket
of his shirtfront. “Take it off, please.”

Henry
pulled the shirt off over his head and balled it up into Martin’s
hands. “Are you having fun?” Henry wanted the answer to be yes
for Martin’s sake, but he wanted it to be more
fun to spend time with him, though he could not think of an artful
way to ask if this might be the case.

“It’s
nice to play with other people,” Martin admitted. “I always
played as part of a group before, you know.”

“At
Ganymede,” Henry said. He held out his arms and let Martin help him
on with his dinner shirt.

“Yes,
Henry. At Ganymede.”

“Do
you think I could visit Ganymede one day?”

Martin
looked confused. “Henry, why would you want—?”

“Because
that’s where you’re from. It’s where you grew up. It’s where
you learned everything. It’s where your beliefs come from.”

Slightly
flustered, Martin said, “Well, I-I’m sure they’d be happy to
accommodate you if you were to visit. Your family are valued
customers.”

“You
seem surprised that I’m interested.” Henry stepped into his
trousers, pulled them up, and tucked in his shirt with Martin’s
help. “But why wouldn’t I be? You’re so special to me, Martin.
You know that, right?”

Martin
laid Henry’s braces over his shoulders and buttoned them on in back
while Henry buttoned them in front. “I-I guess I do know that.”
He came to stand in front of Henry again, tie in hand. “And you
know that our relationship is not what my upbringing led me to
expect.” He looped Henry’s tie around his neck and held his lip
between his teeth as he tied the knot.

“Is
that so bad?”

“No,
not at all, Henry. Of course not. Don’t you know how I feel about
you?” He smiled and tugged at Henry’s tie, making it more
perfect. “I’m just surprised at the things that interest you.”
He got Henry’s waistcoat out of the wardrobe and held it out for
Henry to put his arms through.

Henry
went down to dinner already impatient to be back in his room with the
door locked. When, hours later, he was finally alone with Martin at
last, he lavished him with sex, wanting to remind him that what he
had with Henry was rewarding and was worth the time it took. He
wanted Martin to feel like this music rehearsal was taking away from
his time with Henry, and to wish that he was with Henry instead.
Henry knew this desire was selfish and crazy, but it was what he
wanted nonetheless. Martin came twice, once in Henry’s mouth and
again with Henry’s cock in his ass, but if he felt that he’d be
better off not going to rehearsal because of this, he didn’t share
this with Henry.

Thursday
and Friday went much the same. Henry read and jerked off into
handkerchiefs and counted the minutes until Martin would return.
Henry began to wonder if his intense concentration on giving Martin
the best sex ever was having opposite of the desired effect, that
Martin would now want to find reasons to spend time apart so as to
get extra-passionate fucking when they were reunited.

Saturday
morning, Henry went down to the breakfast room and found his mother
there eating a scone and drinking tea like a normal person would. As
Henry walked through the door, she was turned around talking over her
shoulder to Pearl.

“Oh,
darling,” she said. “Good morning. Pearl and I were just talking
about Virginia and Dolly.”

“Aunt
Virginia and who?”

“Dolly.
Her slave,
darling. You know Dolly, Henry. She’s a bit stout and has very
elegant silver hair. Prematurely gray. I must say I think it looks
terribly smart.”

Henry
could vaguely recall Dolly’s face, her general presence. “What
about Dolly?”

“Well,
you know, darling, our Billy is getting married tonight, and his
bride belongs to the Slatterys, so of course they’ll be living most
of their lives apart. Virginia’s Dolly has been married for several
years now to a gentleman who belongs to their neighbors and Pearl has
been explaining to me how they manage.”

“Oh.
So you know about the wedding.” He turned to Martin and said,
“Coffee, please, Martin,” and Martin went to get it.

“Well,
of course, Henry. Billy belongs to me, too. The slaves aren’t just
your father’s business.” She took a little bite of scone and
followed it with a sip of tea. “I understand your Martin will be
playing his violin for the party.”

“Yes,
ma’am.” It seemed that Pearl had told Mother a great many things.

“You’ll
have to have him play for the family sometime, darling.”

“I’ll
do that, Mother.”

Martin
brought Henry his coffee and told him what was available on the
buffet and Henry made his choices. Martin brought him back dishes
with scrambled eggs with cheese and herbs, fried potatoes, bacon,
sausage patties, oatmeal with brown sugar and raisins, and a scone
packed with currants and lemon zest.

“You
have such a healthy appetite, don’t you, darling?”

“I’m
still growing, Mother,” Henry reminded her, somewhat defensively.

“A
tall man can be quite elegant,” Mother remarked, “and tall men
wear clothes so well, but do
try not to become too broad or heavy, Henry, not like your father.”

“Mother!”

“You’re
such a handsome young man, darling. Don’t let it go to ruin if you
can help it.”

“I’ll
keep that in mind,” Henry said dryly. He made a point of having
seconds of everything except the oatmeal.

After
breakfast, they went upstairs. Martin asked permission to go to the
Slatterys’ to practice again and Henry could not think of a
defensible reason to say no.

Martin
stood in the middle of the room with his violin case in his hand.
“I’ll return for lunch in, say, three hours?” He cocked his
head, looking at Henry expectantly.

“Whenever
you return will be fine, I’m sure,” Henry said, though he did not
feel this way at all. He was pretending to be a generous person, a
good person, but he wasn’t; he was horrible. He wanted to have
Martin all to himself, all the time, and if he could think of a way
to make that seem reasonable to other people—chief among them
Martin—then that’s exactly what he’d do.

“I
don’t want to make you wait,” Martin told him. He kissed Henry
very tenderly, and Henry’s body responded, half-melting and
half-hard. “I’ll be back soon.” He turned and left Henry alone
in his room.

Henry
spent the hours in painful longing, in pathetic yearning. How could
he feel this separation so intensely while Martin seemed unaffected?
The obvious answer was that he cared for Martin more than Martin
cared for him, and maybe this was the case. He couldn’t force
Martin to love him, he supposed, but he couldn’t help wanting to
have love returned. Maybe he should burn the valentine. Maybe it
would be a mistake to say the words to Martin.

Martin
returned in high spirits, and he seemed not to notice how overwrought
Henry had become in his absence.

“I
think the dance is going to be great fun! I’m excited for you to
see us play. I think you’ll be proud of me.”

Henry
got up off the bed and crossed to where Martin stood and embraced him
tightly. “I’m excited, too,” Henry told him. He buried his face
in Martin’s neck and pulled the tie from his hair, taking the
strands in silky handfuls. “I know I’ll be proud of you.”

“Henry,
we have to go downstairs,” Martin said, taking a step back. He took
the tie from Henry’s hand and gathered his hair into a tail again.
“Aren’t you hungry?”

Henry
felt embarrassed and his cheeks grew hot. “Of course,” he said
gruffly. “Let’s go down.”

They
sat side-by-side at the breakfast room table and ate soup and
sandwiches and large wedges of caramel cake, and Martin told Henry
about the rehearsal.

“We’re
so fortunate, Sir, that the Slatterys enjoy dance music and gave
Homer an accordion. All the Houses allow boys to learn instruments,
of course, but too often masters don’t provide the means for slaves
to play after they’re sold.”

“I
remember you telling me that they warned you at Ganymede that your
master might not give you a violin.”

“Yes,
Sir, and I was so grateful that you allowed me to keep playing, and
on such a fine instrument! I think you know how much pleasure it
gives me.”

Henry
blushed to think of how much pleasure it gave him.
“I want you to have the things that make you happy.”

Martin
glanced toward the empty doorway before placing his hand on Henry’s
thigh for a fraction of a second. “I know, Sir, and I appreciate it
so much.”

They
were almost done eating; Henry had had two pieces of cake already and
could not face eating a third, but he didn’t want Martin to leave.
“Do you have to go back to practice?”

“Just
for a short time, Sir. I’ll be back home for dinner, and to dress
you for your meal, and afterward we’ll go to the party.”

Henry
could see the Slattery house from his southern-facing windows but he
wasn’t able to see Martin again after he went through the
Slatterys’ front gate and around the side of their house. He went
down the back stairs, passing one of the maids (Peggy?) and
acknowledging her with a nod. He went down to the basement, to the
broad hall outside the kitchen, and looked into the slaves’ mess
through the hall windows. The room had been cleared of tables and the
piano had been moved out of its corner to a more central position.
The walls were festooned with garlands of greenery and Johnny and
Little Bob were occupied with ornamenting these swags with red and
white roses.

Henry
wished there were a way he could be of help; he hated waiting with
nothing to do. He put his hand on the doorknob but hesitated. Johnny
and Little Bob were always shy of him and would probably find his
presence taxing, at best. The slaves expected to be of use to Henry,
not the other way around, and would not welcome his intrusion.

“Mr.
Blackwell? Is there something you need, Sir?”

Henry
turned to find little Katie standing there with a whisk broom in
hand, peering at him anxiously.

“Is
there something amiss in your rooms, Sir? I can come up directly and
see to it, if you’d like.”

“No,
no. I was just…I’m curious about the wedding arrangements, is
all.”

“Oh!
Sir! Are…are you coming to the wedding?”

“Yes.
Billy is very important to me.”

“That’ll
be such an honor for Billy and Jane, Sir, it really will.”

“I
just hope I don’t ruin everyone’s fun by being there.”

“I’m
sure you won’t, Sir.” She paused and looked at him a moment. “Are
you sure everything is to your liking up in your rooms?”

“Yes,
yes. I’ll just be getting back up there,” Henry said,
embarrassed, hurrying off toward the stairs.

As
he reached the second floor landing, Henry was inspired to climb
further up, all the way to the nursery.

“Sir!”
Nurse cried, opening the nursery door. “What a nice surprise! Your
sister will be thrilled!” She peered behind him. “Where’s
Martin, Sir?”

“He’s
next door at the Slatterys’ house rehearsing for the dance
tonight.”

Nurse
didn’t say anything, but Henry knew she was thinking what he was
thinking: Cora would be disappointed to have Henry without Martin.
Still, he was better than nothing, or at least he hoped he was.

As
he entered, Henry noted that the miniature circus was set up in place
of honor on the low table. Cora sat on the floor in front of the
window near her cabinet house, a group of dolls arrayed around her on
the linoleum, Baby Ann recognizable even at a distance thanks to her
careworn appearance. Cora looked around as Henry walked in and lit
up, bright as a candle. “Henry!” She got to her feet and ran to
him, throwing her arms about his waist. After giving Henry a long and
healthy squeeze, she let go and peered around his side. “Where’s
Martin?”

“He’s
busy getting ready for a slave party,” Henry told her. “Remember
how he played for you at Thanksgiving? He’s going to do it for the
slaves tonight and he has to rehearse.”

“That’s
so nice of Martin, isn’t it?” Cora sighed dreamily. “Oh, Henry,
don’t you just love
Martin?”

Henry
blushed and laughed, and saw Nurse trying not to laugh out of the
corner of his eye. “Er, well…”

“Come
play with me,” she urged, taking him by the hand and pulling him
over to where Baby Ann awaited. She plopped down on the floor, her
legs folded beneath her. “You can be Brindle again, all right?”

Henry
got down on the floor, out of scale with his surroundings with his
long legs and broad shoulders. Cora held Brindle out to him and he
took the doll gingerly. After a month and a half in the nursery,
Brindle looked a little haggard. Her black ringlets were tangled, her
hat was missing, and her pink silk dress was wrinkled. However, she
still looked better than Baby Ann, whose wig was actually partially
detached from her skull now, revealing the cork pate beneath.
Although there was a seemingly serviceable doll bed nearby, Baby Ann
lay on the floor on a pallet of folded blankets, a miniature tea cup
and saucer near at hand.

Using
the same creepy little voice she had used for Baby Ann at Christmas,
Cora said, “Brindle, fetch your violin. I want you to play for me!”

“Oh!”
Henry was startled by this unexpected development. “Does she have a
violin?” he asked. It seemed possible that there was a tiny violin
somewhere in this cluttered room.

Cora
looked at Henry as if he disappointed her—actually reminding him
very much of their father—and said, “You have to pretend,
Henry.”

“Okay.
All right then.” Henry held Brindle upright at Baby Ann’s bedside
and, in a high-pitched voice, asked, “What would you like me to
play, Ma’am?”

Cora
seemed to wince a little at his tone but said nothing discouraging.
She said, “Play something beautiful,
Brindle,” in Baby Ann’s creaky voice, and then, “Sing something
Martin plays, Henry,” in her own.

Henry
didn’t know if it was the sort of thing a little girl would like,
but he began to half-hum, half-sing the partita, starting from the
beginning of the first movement, the allemande.
Baby Ann stayed flat on her back, but another doll, this one a
bedraggled blonde in a red floral dress, was put on her feet and
twirled around Baby Ann’s sickbed while Henry hummed. By the time
he got to the end of the allemande,
Henry was less sure of the accuracy of the notes he was sounding, but
of course Cora didn’t know any better and seemed to find his
performance delightful.

Cora
clapped enthusiastically. “Oh, Henry, I didn’t know you could do
that!” She switched back to Baby Ann’s sepulchral tone and said,
“Brindle, you provide such good service.”

In
his terrible falsetto, Henry said, “You’re welcome, Ma’am.”
Even though he’d been observed only by Cora and Nurse, Henry had
not enjoyed being the center of attention and was relieved to have
completed his task.

“Do
another one!” Cora begged, much to Henry’s chagrin.

“That’s
the only one I know,” Henry told her, not exactly lying. “You’ll
have to wait for Martin to hear more.”

“When
will he be done?”
Cora moaned dramatically. “When
will I see him, Henry?” She flopped over sideways onto the floor,
her dark ringlets spreading across the black-and-white linoleum.

“Miss,
sit up,” Nurse called out. “Ladies don’t sprawl on the floor,
Miss.”

Henry,
who felt much the same as Cora did about Martin’s absence, found
himself in the uncomfortable role of patient adult. “He’ll be
back later this afternoon for his dinner. If he gets back early
enough, maybe we can come upstairs to say hello.”

Cora
sat up and flicked impatiently at her mussed hair. “He’ll get
back early enough, I know he will!” Cora was very excited, possibly
overly excited, and now Henry knew he’d have to make sure Martin
came upstairs or both Cora and Nurse would be terribly disappointed
in him.

“We’ll
try,” Henry told her. “I’ll do my best.” There, he’d
committed himself. He would be a good brother.

Nurse
came to crouch down beside Cora and smoothed her hair, rearranging
the curls. “Miss, why don’t you show your brother your dollhouse?
I don’t think he’s seen it before.”

Henry
much preferred this option to more hum-singing or pretending to be a
girl doll. “Yes, show me, Cora. I’d like to see it.”

The
house had ten rooms on three floors plus an attic. The tiny bisque
inhabitants leaned stiffly against upholstered chairs in the family
parlor, and Henry noted that the young daughter of the family was
included in the gathering. The dollhouse family were superficially
like the Blackwells, a father with sandy hair and a mother with
black, the children resembling the mother, but the son and daughter
appeared to be roughly the same age and there was a third child, an
infant, that Cora dismissed as unimportant and kept permanently in
the nursery. The dancing bear from the circus, Honey, was a hulking
presence in the miniature kitchen.

In
addition to the little bisque family, there were slave dolls dressed
in plain black or grey. Henry found it unnerving that the slaves had
smooth faces with rudimentary, unpainted features. “Why do they
look like this?” Henry asked Nurse, holding up the dollhouse nurse,
faceless in her dark-grey dress.

“Like
what, Sir?”

“The
blank faces. It’s creepy, don’t you think?”

“It’s
how they’re sold, Sir,” Nurse said, unconcerned. “They’re
meant to be slaves, after all.”

“I
don’t think of you all as faceless!” Henry insisted. “I don’t
think anyone does!”

“Well,
Little Miss doesn’t like them, either,” Nurse said. “You’ll
notice, Sir, that none of her big dolls are like that. All of Baby
Ann’s slaves have faces, which you might consider a point in Baby
Ann’s favor.”

Henry
put an arm around his sister and gave her a squeeze, expressing a
sort of loving solidarity, and she leaned against him happily while
struggling to fit a miniature pillow into its pillowcase. It bothered
Henry that children would be encouraged to think of slaves as
interchangeable or unimportant, as having no individuality. Henry
might not know much about all of the Blackwell slaves, but he did
acknowledge they were people with hopes and desires, likes and
dislikes. He had a terrible image of Martin’s beautiful face
replaced with a blank oval, white and inscrutable.

“I
love our slaves,” Cora said in a loud whisper. “Don’t you love
our slaves, Henry?”

“I
do,” he whispered back, though really he only loved some of them.
He thought guiltily of the downstairs maids, whom he rarely saw, and
whose names and faces he couldn’t keep straight—but he knew they
had faces, at least; he didn’t think their faces were blank.

“My
best friend Rose says her big brother is friends with you,” Cora
said, giving Henry a friendly nudge with her shoulder. The tiny
pillow had been successfully wedged into its case, albeit somewhat
twisted from true. “Put this on the bed in the blue bedroom,
please.”

Henry
did his best to straighten the pillow in its case before putting it
on the tiny bed. “Her brother is Wendell, right? Yes, we’re
friends.”

“Does
Wendell have a slave like Martin?”

Henry
considered Ralph, who was a muscular brown-eyed blond, not really
appealing to Henry but certainly an attractive enough boy. He was
good at sports and seemed smart. “Wendell’s Ralph has some things
in common with Martin,” Henry allowed, “but they’re not too
much alike.”

“Rose
thinks Ralph must be more handsome than Martin, but she’s never
seen Martin, has she?”

“I
can’t imagine how she would have,” Henry agreed. “But, listen,
Cora, Rose might see Martin and still think Ralph is more attractive.
Different people like different things.”

“But
you think Martin is more handsome, don’t you?” It wasn’t really
a question.

Henry
felt his cheeks grow hot, but he told her, “Yes, I do. I thought
Martin was the best one of all as soon as I saw him.” It was only
Nurse and Cora hearing him say this, and neither one would use it
against him.

Breathing
heavily through parted lips, Cora spent several laborious minutes in
setting miniature goblets at each place on the dining table, knocking
over most of the chairs in the process. When at last she had the
goblets in place, she turned to Henry and loudly released a held
breath. “That was harder than I thought! Can you help me with the
chairs, Henry?”

Henry’s
hands were so much larger, but his fine motor control was better, and
he set all the chairs to right.

Cora
put her hand into the parlor and knocked over the father doll in her
hurry to get to the black-haired boy. “This is you, Henry, even
though he’s so short.” She held out the doll for Henry to look at
more closely.

Henry
examined the doll, whose resemblance to Henry went no further than
black hair. The doll’s bisque skin was snow white and his painted
eyes were blue.

“He
doesn’t really look like you, I know,” Cora said, with the
implication that she was doing the best she could with what she was
given. “I want to get him a slave like Martin. One with a face.
And glasses.
And a violin.”

“If
it doesn’t rain, we’ll go to the shop tomorrow,” Nurse said.
“Remember what I said, though, Miss, that you might have to pretend
some of the details.”

“I
know,”
Cora said, her tone verging on bratty. “The dolls in the shop might
not be exactly
what I’m picturing, you told me already.” She snorted and rolled
her eyes.

“Don’t
sass Nurse,” Henry said, lightly scolding. “She just doesn’t
want you to be disappointed and upset if there isn’t a little doll
looking exactly like Martin when you get to the shop.” Clearly,
Cora was going to be more exacting about appearance when it came to
Dollhouse Martin than she had been for Dollhouse Henry.

Cora
sulked a moment while Henry examined the dollhouse bathroom fixtures,
the tiny towels and the father doll’s minuscule razor and strop. It
would never have been considered for a little boy, of course, but
Henry thought he would have rather enjoyed a dollhouse when he was
small. The delicacy and small size of everything were enchanting, of
course, and then there was the benign feeling of perfect control one
had while gently presiding over a little world.

As
if it took great effort, Cora turned to Nurse and said, “I’m
sorry I sassed you, Nurse.”

“You’re
a good girl, Miss,” Nurse said. “It’ll be time for your dinner,
soon. Is there anything else you want to show your brother before he
has to go?”

Was
Nurse kicking him out? Henry was about to feel hurt until he
remembered that the nursery dinner hour was the same as that for the
slaves, and Martin would be coming home imminently—Nurse was doing
him a favor.

“We’re
learning to do a schottische in dancing school,” Cora said. “Do
you want to see me do it?” Before Henry could answer, she got to
her feet and began to do the steps, singing an appropriate tune in a
wavering voice.

She
couldn’t sing, but she seemed to have good rhythm. “When you get
a bit taller, we can dance together,” Henry told her. He got to his
feet and dusted off the seat of his trousers.

“Does
Martin like to dance?” she asked breathlessly, hopping and skipping
through the steps.

“He
says so,” Henry told her. “I’ve never had occasion to see him
dance, though.”

“When
I’m taller, I can dance with him, too, can’t I?”

Henry
struggled with the desire to tell her adamantly that she could not.
“Uh…”

“Now,
Miss, you know you can’t dance with a boy slave,” Nurse said, her
tone gentle, wheedling. “We’ve talked about this before, Miss.”
Oh, of course; there were social restrictions on her doing it, not
just Henry’s selfish, possessive ones.

“I
don’t want to talk about it again,
then!” Cora said, shooting Nurse a haughty glare.

“Be
nicer to Nurse,” Henry said sternly. “Promise me you will, or I
won’t bring Martin to visit.”

“I
promise! I promise!” Cora became frantic in her efforts to seem
sincere. “Nurse, I’m sorry! I’ll be nicer!” She threw herself
at Nurse and clung, dramatic and near tears.

“Of
course you will, Miss.” Nurse looked down into Cora’s pretty
little face and smoothed her hair back from her forehead, just as she
had done for Henry when he was young. “You try to be a good girl,
don’t you?”

“I
do
try,” Cora asserted. “Please bring Martin to visit me, Henry.”

“It
might be for just a minute,” Henry cautioned her. “He’s busy
today. I don’t know if we’ll come up before or after your dinner,
all right? Be good for Nurse and you’ll see him, though.”

Henry
left the nursery after kissing them both and was back in his room
with perhaps fifteen minutes to spare before the slaves’ dinner was
served. He watched out the window to see if he could spot Martin
coming home from the Slattery house, but he must have just missed
seeing him leave, as he was startled a few minutes later by a knock
on the door.

“Sir?”
Martin opened the door a crack.

“Martin!”
Henry strode to the door, pulled Martin inside, and hugged him
tightly. He kissed his neck and said, “I promised my sister we’d
come up to see her for a minute. Can we do it before you eat?”

Martin
looked as though he might like to eat first, actually, but he said,
“Of course, Henry. Whatever you want. Let’s go see Little Miss.”

They
climbed the stairs side-by-side, Henry giving Martin’s hand a quick
squeeze. “Did your practice go well?”

“It
did, Sir. I think we’ll do a good job for Billy and Jane.”

As
soon as Martin knocked on the door, they could hear Cora’s excited
cries.

“Is
it Martin, Nurse? Is it him?”

Nurse
opened the door and ushered them inside, smiling. “She’s happy to
see you,” she told Martin. To Henry, she said, “Welcome back,
Sir.”

Henry
had been gone just a few minutes, and he had obviously received all
the attention he was going to get from Cora today anyway. Martin
crouched down to greet Cora and she threw herself into his arms with
abandon.

“Come
see my dollhouse, Martin.” She pulled him over, her hand in his.
“There’s a doll for Henry
already, and tomorrow I’m getting one for you
to be his slave, though Nurse says I might have to pretend that it
looks like you.” She paused to take a breath. “My Henry doll
doesn’t really look like Henry, either.”

“You
have a very good imagination, though, don’t you, Miss? It doesn’t
matter so much if the doll is exactly right if you have a good
imagination.”

“I
do
have a very
good imagination,” Cora agreed, pleased. She directed his attention
back to the dollhouse. “Look, see, I put goblets at all the places
at the table. That’s so the family can drink champagne, even the
children. Remember, I had some at Thanksgiving?”

“I
do remember, Miss. As I recall, you weren’t sure whether you liked
it or not.”

“I’ve
thought about it some more, and now I’m sure I liked it after all.”

“It’s
nice for special occasions, isn’t it, Miss?”

While
Cora chattered at Martin, Henry turned to Nurse. “I wasn’t
anything like her when I was little, was I?”

“Oh,
well, you were a much quieter child, Sir, and very shy. Little Miss
certainly isn’t shy.” Nurse chuckled at the notion of a shy Cora.
“Even with your uncle, who you loved so dearly, you were a little
standoffish.”

“It’s
good for her, I suppose, that she’s outgoing.” Henry was a little
jealous of Cora and her boldness, her confidence. With a little of
that for himself, he might have taken Martin to bed within minutes of
bringing him home from auction. With a little of that, he might not
be so worried about Valentine’s Day.

“Not
all gentlemen appreciate a saucy girl, though, Sir,” Nurse pointed
out. “It can be a struggle for Little Miss to remember to behave
like a lady.”

“She
needs to remember that ladies don’t court gentlemen, much less male
slaves,” Henry said, an unbecoming acidity to his tone, and he
blushed to hear himself sound so petty.

“Certainly,
she’ll need to remember that, Sir,” Nurse said, patting his arm.
“But she’s scarcely more than a baby, and he’s a lovely boy.
Surely she’s doing no harm with her fancies.”

Henry
was ashamed of himself. Cora was no threat to what he had with
Martin—she was a child and a girl, neither of which were of any
interest to Martin.

“I
must say, Sir, when Little Miss is of age, I hope she finds a girl
she likes as well as you like your Martin.”

Henry
felt his face grow hot as a furnace at the idea of his little sister
feeling for anyone—male or female—what he felt for Martin.

“Since
he’s come, Sir, you do seem much happier, if you don’t mind my
saying so.”

“You
can say so,” Henry said, his face so hot it tingled.

“It’s
not talked about, of course, Sir, but there are plenty of gentlemen
whose closest bond is with a companion and not a spouse.” Here she
lowered her voice further. “Your own father, for one.”

“Well,
Father has that other—” Here Henry stopped himself. Surely, Nurse
knew about Mrs. Murdock and her son, but it wasn’t the sort of
thing he should talk to her about. “Yes,” he said. “Father is
very close to Timothy.”

“It’s
important that you have someone to love, Sir,” Nurse said. “You
have such a capacity for love.”

Henry
found all of this very embarrassing, yet he liked feeling understood,
known. He imagined that Nurse knew exactly how close he was to Martin
and that she thought it was just fine.

“Did
you ever wish you had someone to love besides me and Cora? A
gentleman friend?”

“Who’s
to say I don’t have one, Sir?” Nurse waggled an eyebrow at him,
and he laughed. “But, no, I’ve never needed anyone else. Besides,
someday you’ll have children and I’ll take care of them, too.
There will always be someone for me, Sir.”

“Will
you be coming to Billy’s wedding?”

“Oh,
no, Sir. I can’t leave Little Miss alone.”

“Couldn’t
someone else…?”

“Miss
Pearl has to stay with your mother, Sir, and none of the other ladies
know your sister well enough to sit up with her. In any case, I’ve
given Billy and Jane my good wishes already.”

“Do
you think I should take them a present? I’m not sure what I’d get
for them, but I could take something,
couldn’t I?”

“Slaves
don’t need presents like free people, Sir. Billy and Jane won’t
be setting up a household of their own, after all. People will bring
them goodwill and liquor and they’ll consider themselves fortunate.
Just go and have a good time.” Nurse reached for his hand and
squeezed it.

There
was a knock at the door and Nurse opened it to Paul with a cart with
Cora’s dinner and her own. While Nurse set out the food on the
little table, Henry went to stand behind Martin, looking at the
dollhouse. Martin was helping Cora move furniture around in the rooms
assigned to Dollhouse Henry and the future Dollhouse Martin.

“Is
it more like your room now, Martin?” Cora asked.

As
far as Henry could see, it was nothing like, but Martin said, “Oh,
yes, Miss, it’s exactly how I have things.”

“Cora,
Martin needs to go down for his dinner now,” Henry said in a low,
firm voice, one which he intended to brook no dissent. “You’ll
have to say goodbye for now.”

“Oh,
Henry, no!” Cora begged, clutching at Martin’s sleeve.

“Do
you want Martin to go hungry?” Henry asked. “I
don’t, so it’s time for him to go.”

“Couldn’t
he eat here with me?”

“There’s
not enough food,” Henry pointed out. “There’s only food for you
and Nurse.”

“Can
we all eat together again someday? Like we did at Thanksgiving?”

“We
can talk about it,” Henry said. “Say goodbye to Martin now,
please.”

“Henry…”

“Miss,”
Nurse said in her sternest voice, which had always frightened Henry
into doing whatever he was told; Cora seemed more resistant, however.
“Miss, the boys have been very generous with their time today. Be
gracious.”

Scowling,
Cora said, “Yes, Nurse.” She hugged Martin again and her hunger
for him and his attention embarrassed Henry, as it seemed not so
different from his own neediness. She allowed Henry to kiss her
cheek, but clearly resented him for taking Martin away from her.
Henry and Martin both kissed Nurse goodbye and went downstairs.

“You’re
a good brother, Sir,” Martin told him at the top of the stair. At
the second-floor landing, Martin said, “I’ll see you soon, Sir,”
and darted a quick glance around the empty stair before squeezing
Henry’s hand. He hurried down the stairs and Henry watched him go,
then made his way down the hall to his own room.

Henry
wanted to go to the wedding party, and he wanted to hear Martin play
for an audience, but he didn’t want to forego his usual activities
with Martin, all the sex and closeness, and he was realizing that he
would likely have to do without much of what he wanted on this day
when he felt he needed it so badly.

He
opened the wardrobe and looked at his suits. He was wearing his
least-favorite, the brown, and wanted to wear something different to
the party, maybe the new blue plaid with the paisley waistcoat. The
black-and-grey check was always good, too. He would ask Martin which
would be most appropriate.

He
had a new book he’d started two weeks ago, a story about an amateur
detective—an exceptionally clever man—and his devoted companion
who assisted him in solving mysteries. It had been recommended to him
by Charles, who shared his fondness for reading. It seemed as good a
time as any to pick it back up. He read perhaps twenty minutes,
trying to concentrate on the book rather than listening for Martin’s
step in the hall.

At
last, he heard Martin hurrying down the corridor and only had time to
put a bookmark between his pages before Martin was in the room,
locking the door and leaping on top of him. Henry wrapped him up in
his arms and rolled him over and over again. The solid weight of him
filled Henry with joy. He wanted to drown in Martin’s warmth,
Martin’s smell.

“Do
we have time…?” he asked hopefully.

“Not
to do it properly,” Martin said, shaking his head regretfully. “I
don’t want to rush, and you’ll be expected downstairs soon.” He
pushed Henry’s hair off his forehead and looked into his eyes.
“Later, we’ll do whatever we want, all right?”

It
wasn’t unreasonable; Henry tried not to pout.

Martin
took off his glasses and stretched to place them on the nightstand.
“We could neck a bit, though,” he offered. “As a stopgap
measure.”

It
wasn’t everything Henry wanted, but it was certainly a great deal
better than nothing. He pulled the tie from Martin’s hair and took
it in silky handfuls. It smelled deliciously of vetiver and Martin’s
skin. He kissed Martin’s mouth and caught a hint of chocolate.

“You
had cake?”

Martin
laughed. “We did. You taste it?”

“Mm-hmm.”
Henry kissed him again, reveling in the heat of his mouth, the
slickness of his tongue. Martin made a little grunt and threw a leg
over Henry’s. Henry took this as a cue and maneuvered himself
beneath Martin’s body, matching at thighs and hips and chest. Henry
ran his hands up and down Martin’s back and ass and rubbed his
cheek against Martin’s hair as he arched beneath Martin’s weight,
wanting intense, seamless contact.

Martin
sighed into Henry’s mouth as they kissed, and Henry could feel that
he was hard—they both were—but kissing wasn’t just about sex,
didn’t inevitably lead there. It felt so good to be close to
Martin, to have his touch accepted and welcomed. He craved closeness
with Martin almost more than sex. Almost. He wrapped himself around
Martin and held on tight. With Martin in his arms, everything was
right in the world. Henry felt soothed and content, generous and
expansive.

Martin’s
skin was warm through the folds of his clothing. Henry stroked
Martin’s back with one hand, the other deliberately tangled in his
hair. He made a little contented growl and tilted his head to offer
more of his neck for Martin’s mouth, a leisurely string of hot
kisses from collar to ear.

“Martin,”
Henry murmured. “Martin.”

“Hmm?”
Martin lifted his head to look at Henry’s face.

Henry
blushed. He hadn’t meant to speak aloud. “Nothing,” he said.
“It feels good.”

Martin
laughed, low and intimate. “You’re sweet, Henry.” But he began
to disentangle himself. “We should get you dressed now.”

Henry
was disappointed. “Is it time already?” He didn’t wait for
Martin to answer but sat up and swung his legs over the side of the
bed.

Martin
stood at the bedside smoothing his hair back into a tail. He looked
upon Henry with an expression that was indulgent and fond and even a
little admiring. “I feel better now,” Martin said. “I’ve
missed you these past few days.”

“You
have?” Henry was surprised and delighted but at pains to hide his
eager pleasure.

Martin
scoffed at this. “Of course. How could I not?”

Henry
suspected that Martin might easily tire of him, but he would not
suggest it for fear of giving Martin cause to consider that
possibility. He had no doubt it was obvious, but he said, “I’ve
missed you, too.”

Martin
smiled as he held out his hand and pulled Henry to his feet. “Let’s
get you dressed now, Henry.”

During
dinner, which was served by Paul and Randolph alone, it occurred to
Henry that he hadn’t asked his parents for permission to go to the
slave party, and he worried that it wouldn’t be granted if he did
ask. He ate in dread of being asked about Martin’s participation,
worried that one or the other of his parents would be astute enough
to realize that he would definitely want to see Martin perform and
would forbid it. To his relief, he got through the meal with there
being no mention of the slave party or even the missing Billy.

After
dinner, Henry was prepared to spend an antsy hour listening to Pearl
read the final chapters of The
Ghost of Hedgecombe Manor,
but Father offered a surprising respite.

“Seeing
as how Timothy and Martin have a party to get ready for, why don’t
we skip the reading this evening, ladies?”

“Oh,”
said Mother. “Well, I suppose that’s all right.” She turned to
Henry. “Will you be able to entertain yourself this evening,
Henry?”

Henry
blushed and tried to hide it by dabbing at his mouth with his napkin.
“Er, yes, Mother, I think I’ll manage.”

“All
right then, darling. Come kiss me goodnight.”

Henry
got up and went around the table to kiss his mother’s cheek, then
left the dining room with Martin following close behind.

“That
was so kind of your father, don’t you think, Sir?” Martin said on
the stairs.

“Do
you think he suspects I’m going to the party?”

“Oh,
I’m sure he knows, Sir,” Martin said, seeming surprised Henry
would believe otherwise. “It’s a party in your very own home,
after all; why wouldn’t you go?”

Henry
felt vaguely annoyed that he wasn’t actually getting away with
anything after all. Still, there was a party, and he was going, and
it didn’t matter if his father knew so long as he wasn’t going to
stop him.

Martin
thought the black-and-grey check was a better choice than the blue
plaid. “All the other men will be in plain clothes, remember,
Henry, mostly black, and you will stand out enough as it is in your
collar and tie. You’ll be more comfortable if you blend in a
little, don’t you think?”

It
was a convincing argument, and Henry allowed himself to be dressed
accordingly. Martin recommended a red necktie, as red was the slave
wedding color and any guests who had red garments would be wearing
them.

“Slave
weddings are about carnal love in tandem with fidelity, you see, and
red is the color for sex, after all.” Martin tied the red foulard
tie and fussed with the ends. “Which tie pin do you want?”

“Gold
and onyx,” Henry decided.

When
he was dressed, he followed Martin into his room and watched from the
door as he changed his undergarments and shirt. When Martin bent to
pull on his clean drawers, Henry leaned forward off the door jamb and
put his hand on Martin’s back, the soft corrugation of his ribs,
just needing to touch him. Martin turned his head to smile up at him,
and Henry felt such tenderness for him that it hurt. The words he
wanted to say were thick in his throat. He loved Martin so much, but
it wasn’t the right time to tell him so; he could wait a few more
days.

“It’s
interesting,” Henry began, “that free people’s marriages are
all about babies, having children, but children aren’t even a
possibility for slaves, so slave marriages are just about love.”

“And
sex,” Martin pointed out. “Sex and fidelity. There’s no reason
to marry just to have sex, after all, but if you want to be exclusive
partners, then you can commit to that in front of everyone.” He put
his pants back on and tucked in his shirt.

Henry
thought about this in terms of Timothy and Dora. “Do you know when
Timothy and Dora got married? And did they do this same ceremony that
Billy’s having?”

“I
think Timothy was about 30 and Dora must have been 32 or 33.”

“She’s
older?”

“Just
a little.” He buttoned his waistcoat and smoothed it over his
stomach. “And as far as I know, they would have used the same
ceremony. It’s quite standard, I understand.”

Henry
wondered if there was a slave ceremony that two men might do to
proclaim their fidelity, and wondered if Martin would do it with him,
but was afraid to ask for fear Martin would react unfavorably to the
idea.

Martin
slid his arms into the sleeves of his jacket. “Do I look nice
enough, Henry? Neat and clean?”

“You’re
very handsome,” Henry told him. He smoothed Martin’s lapels
against his chest as Martin did so often for him.

“Well,
I’m ready to go down, then. Shall we?”

On
the stairs, Martin said, “I’ll be playing for most of the
evening, Sir, so if you become bored, don’t feel you have to stay
for my sake.”

“I’ll
stay,” Henry assured him. “I’ll be there the whole time.”

Down
in the basement, the hall was full of people—all slaves—he’d
never seen before. A few of these strange slaves looked askance at
his checked suit, his collar and tie, but of course no one challenged
his right to be there.

There
were tables of food set up in the hall, along with a giant bowl of
punch that smelled like pure alcohol. Additionally, there were
perhaps a dozen bottles of various liquors sitting open, all with red
ribbons around their necks.

“Those
will have been presents, you see,” Martin murmured. “Do you want
something to eat, Sir, or a drink?”

“I’ll
get whatever I need for myself later,” Henry told him. “You’re
busy now.”

Two
of the Blackwell maids—Henry thought they were Ruth and Lucy—stood
by the door of the slaves’ mess handing out ribbons (Ruth) and pins
(Lucy). The women were shy with Henry, but seemed happy enough to see
him there. The ribbons were double bows, one ribbon red and the other
white, and Henry stood still while Martin pinned one to his lapel. He
made to do the same for Martin, but Martin stayed his hand and
blushed a bright pink.

“Sir,
you can’t,”
Martin said in an urgent whisper. He pinned on his own ribbon and
hurried into the hall.

The
youngest boys had done a nice job decorating. Garlands of leaves and
vines swooped in arcs over the walls, punctuated with heavy knots of
red and white flowers. The room smelled of greenery and roses.

“Your
father and Mr. Slattery gave them money for the flowers, Sir. Wasn’t
that kind of them?”

“Sure,”
said an unimpressed Henry, who imagined his father spent more on
lunch every day than he’d spent on these flowers for his slave of
seventeen years.

Jerry
was already in place, sitting on the piano bench; he saw Martin first
and smiled, but jumped to his feet with a look of alarm when he saw
Henry.

“Sir!
What a surprise to see you, Sir,” he said uneasily.

“Hello,
Jerry. I’m eager to hear you play,” Henry offered. “And I’m
excited to hear Martin play with other musicians.”

“I
hope you like what you hear, Sir,” Jerry said, sounding worried.
Here he had none of the confidence and authority that he demonstrated
in the stables with the horses.

“I’m
sure I will.” Henry tried to sound reassuring. He hoped that not
all of the slaves would be made so uncomfortable by his presence.

“Where
are Homer and Mr. John?” Martin asked. He put down his violin case
on the piano bench and undid the latches.

“They’re
around here somewhere. I think they might have gone out for a
cigarette.”

“Where’s
Arthur?” Martin tucked his violin under his chin and drew the bow
across the strings. “Doesn’t he want to see you play?”

Jerry
blushed. “He’s coming a little later with Tom.”

“Ah,”
Martin said, chuckling.

“Tom?”
Henry asked. “Your
Tom?” He hadn’t known Tom was coming, and he wasn’t sure he
liked the idea.

“Yes,
Sir. He’s coming to see his friends play,” Martin said blandly.

Henry
would have to be fine with this. Tom was indeed Martin’s friend,
and he was apparently Jerry’s friend, too. He was probably fucking
Arthur at this very moment. Or Arthur was fucking him. Henry had no
real sense of which way it might go. All he could think of was Tom
telling Martin that Jerry had a “very nice cock,” and then of Tom
on his back on the Rosses’ gaming table.

Martin
made some ugly noises come out of his violin as he tuned it, and then
he turned to Henry and smiled and played the first few notes of the
partita just for him, and that made up a little for the prospect of
Tom.

There
were chairs lining the walls of the hall and Henry sat down, out of
the way, and listened to Martin and Jerry play little snatches of
song. They were eventually joined by two older men about Timothy’s
age. He thought he recognized Homer from the Labor Day picnic—he’d
been the friend that Old Bob had sought in the twilight crowd. Mr.
John was a very dignified fellow with old-fashioned sideburns. Both
Homer and Mr. John would sit down to play their instruments, as would
Jerry; only Martin would be standing up in front of everyone.

Timothy
appeared, and at first he didn’t see Henry. It was interesting to
see how the other slaves treated Timothy—deferentially, and with
respect, even Mr. John from the Slattery household. Martin was always
eager to be a good boy for Timothy; they’d never discussed it, but
Henry suspected Martin was a bit of a teacher’s pet based on
observing his interactions with Timothy. Martin said something to
Timothy and nodded toward Henry, and Timothy turned around and saw
him sitting and gave him a stern look. Blushing, Henry sat up
straight as Timothy came over to speak with him.

“Sir,”
Timothy said, “I’ll be blunt with you. I’m going to recommend
that you not drink too terribly much tonight. Martin will be very
busy and unable to look after you, should you need any caretaking.”

Henry
was a little offended. “I have no intention of getting drunk,” he
said haughtily. “I have no desire to cause a scene at Billy’s
wedding.”

“Very
well, Sir. So long as we’re in agreement,” Timothy said coolly,
and Henry was hurt, but then Timothy patted his shoulder and added,
“You’re a good boy, Sir. I just want all to go well for our
Billy.”

“That’s
what I want, too,” Henry assured him. “Where is Billy? I’d like
to congratulate him.”

Timothy
looked around the room, which was filling up with people. “I don’t
see him, Sir. I’ll be sure to let him know you’re here when I see
him, though.”

“Do
you think it’ll be all right for me to sit here, Timothy? I don’t
want to be too conspicuous.”

“Don’t
worry about it, Sir. People will get used to you being here in short
order.” He continued to look around the room as he spoke to Henry.
“Sir, would you like something to drink? Martin can’t get it for
you, of course, but I’d be happy to do so now, while I have an idle
minute.”

“Yes,
thank you,” Henry told him. Despite what he’d said to Martin
earlier, the idea of wading through this sea of strange slaves to get
his own punch and cookies was somewhat daunting.

Timothy
disappeared into the crush. Henry looked around at the people in
their sober dress, almost everything black, grey or white. Some of
the women had red ribbons woven into their hair or wore red glass
drops in their ears, and both men and women wore ribbon arm bands,
everything from a simple ribbon tied in a bow to fancy flat braids
with long, trailing ties. Everyone had at least the ribbon bows
handed out by the maids for a bit of color. The black-and-grey check
had been the right choice.

Some
of these strange slaves seemed quite shocked to see Henry sitting by
himself. Some even flinched when they realized they were looking upon
a master. He heard young
Mr. Blackwell,
and Martin’s
his boy,
and he’s
close to Billy
come out of the crowd and felt self-conscious almost beyond bearing.
He contemplated taking off his tie and collar just to blend in a
little, but knew neither Timothy nor Martin would approve.

“Sir?
I’ve brought someone to see you.”

Henry
looked up and saw Timothy with Billy behind him. “Billy!” Henry
stood and held out his hand. “Congratulations, Billy!”

Billy
grinned and shook Henry’s hand. “Thank you, Sir. Thank you for
coming.” He wore his usual uniform, all black and white, except for
a brilliant scarlet waistcoat of plush velvet.

“That’s
something,” Henry said nodding toward the waistcoat. “It’s
beautiful fabric.”

“It’s
good luck for the bride and groom to have something red to wear, Sir.
Mr. Tim gave this to me.”

“It’s
lovely, Timothy. That was very kind of you. You look quite dashing,
Billy.”

“Will
you stay for the party, Sir? I’d like to introduce you to my bride
after the ceremony.”

“I
intend to stay,” Henry told him. “I want to see the dance. I want
to hear Martin play.”

“Thank
you so much, Sir, for letting us have him,” Billy said earnestly.
“It’s so generous of you.”

“It’s
nothing,” Henry said, suddenly feeling that it was, in fact,
nothing, not compared to the years of service Billy had given him. “I
want you to have a real celebration.”

Timothy
held out the glass of pale yellow punch he’d brought. “Keep in
mind this is very strong. Now, if you’ll take this, Sir, Billy and
I have things we need to do to prepare.” With the other hand, he
held out a heart-shaped cookie covered in red icing.

Henry
took both. “Thank you for taking care of me, Timothy.”

“I’ll
do my best to see if you need anything later, Sir, but you will
likely have to fend for yourself this evening.” Timothy looked as
if he doubted Henry could do this.

“I’ll
be fine,” Henry insisted. “Go do what needs to be done. I’ll
just sit here and eat my cookie.”

The
cookie was good, but it didn’t taste like Cook’s work somehow,
and Henry supposed it had been brought over from the Slatterys’
kitchen.

The
musicians had been milling about and talking to other slaves, but now
got into their playing positions. Jerry was perched on the piano
bench. Homer and Mr. John were both seated with their instruments
ready. There was a chair for Martin, and he put his violin case
underneath it, but he stayed standing and Henry suspected he would
stand as long as he played; he couldn’t recall ever seeing Martin
sit to play. As he watched Martin gather his energies, efficient yet
relaxed, Henry felt so proud of him.

Henry
finished his cookie in short order, but sipped his drink slowly,
partly because he was reluctant to go back for a refill on his own,
and partly because it was very strong, strong enough to strip paint,
and he was afraid of what might happen if he drank it quickly. The
room had filled enough that people had stopped really noticing Henry
and making the effort to keep their distance from him, and now slaves
stood close enough that their skirts rustled against his knees. Henry
stood so that he could see the musicians over the heads of the crowd.
Martin lifted his chin, tucked the violin underneath, and smiled at
Henry across a sea of towheads and dark curls and every shade of
brown.

Timothy
came through the center of the crowd gently pushing people aside and
clearing the way. “Make way for Billy and Jane!” he called out.
“Make way for the wedding couple!” Timothy went to stand near
Martin, at the culmination of the aisle he had just created.

Martin
raised his bow, gave the count, and the musicians began to play the
wedding march.

Paul
led Billy in, a red kerchief tied over his eyes, and spun him nearly
off his feet as he harried him along the aisle, laughing as he did
so. Hands reached out of the crowd to yank at Billy’s clothes and
to spin him one direction and then the other. Everyone was talking
and laughing and shouting encouragement and Billy staggered
off-balance into the crowd, laughing and holding onto his blindfold
to keep it in place.

Henry
had only seen Jane for a few minutes in the gloaming on New Year’s
Eve, but he remembered her as a dark-haired woman with a heart-shaped
face; he knew her now because she was wearing a red blindfold and
being chased up the aisle by a cackling blonde who spun and bothered
her as Paul had done for Billy. Jane had red ribbons woven into her
hair and had a pair of red crystal drops hanging from her ears. Henry
wasn’t sure with the blindfold in place, but he thought she might
be pretty enough for his handsome Billy.

When
Jane reached the top of the aisle her blonde minder pushed her
forward, and Paul did the same with Billy, and they staggered toward
each other dizzily, weaving like drunks and groping blindly through
empty air.

Jane
found Billy first, her hand brushing his sleeve, and she lunged after
him and they clung to each other happily, giddily. They removed one
another’s blindfolds, and when their eyes met, it was as if they
were truly seeing one another for the first time, so full of
tenderness that Henry was quite moved.

Paul
and the blonde woman set wreaths upon their heads, ivy and roses, and
they stood together before Timothy, holding hands and swaying a
little on their feet. With a gesture from Timothy, the music came to
a halt, and Martin stepped back and sat in his chair, making room for
the wedding couple.

“Friends,
family and honored guests,” Timothy said. “We are gathered here
to celebrate the union of our beloved friends, Billy and Jane; to
honor their commitment and their bond.” He turned and picked up a
coil of red and white ribbons from the top of the piano. “In
binding their hands, their lives are likewise bound.”

Timothy
arranged the pair facing one another. “Now hold her left wrist—yes,
like that. And you hold his. Not too tight!” Timothy patted Billy
on the back and all three laughed. “Ready?”

“Yes,
Mr. Tim,” Billy told him. “I’m so ready.”

Timothy
cleared his throat and excited people in the audience murmured and
shushed one another in anticipation.

“Billy
and Jane, will you always seek what is good in the other and value it
above any worldly treasure?”

“We
will,” they said in chorus.

Timothy
looped the ribbons around their joined left hands, making a
figure-of-eight around their wrists. “And so you are bound.”

There
was scattered applause throughout the rowdy crowd.

“Billy
and Jane, will you share in one another’s laughter and all the
pleasures of life?”

“We
will.”

A
second loop. Voices from the audience joining Timothy’s as he said,
“And so you are bound.” There were a few excited whoops and
shrieks around the room.

“Billy
and Jane, will you share the burdens of your lives and support one
another through times of trouble?”

“We
will.”

A
third loop. The whole crowd saying it together: “And so you are
bound.”

“Billy
and Jane, will you promise one another fidelity?”

“We
will.” Henry saw Jane murmur I
love you
to Billy with tears in her eyes and felt that he might tear up
himself.

A
fourth loop. A roar of voices. “And so you are bound.

“Billy
and Jane, will you respect one another’s commitment to masters and
service?”

“We
will.”

A
fifth loop, this one apparently final, as the room erupted in
cheering and applause.

Timothy
raised his voice to be heard above the din. “Billy and Jane, as
your hands are bound together, so your lives are joined. Be dedicated
to one another as you are to your masters.”

This
surprised Henry, the inclusion of masters in a ceremony meant for
slaves, but perhaps there were masters who would be suspicious of a
marriage that put slaves’ happiness before duty.

“With
the blessings of your masters, your community recognizes your bond.
You are now quite
welcome to kiss!” Timothy began to clap, and now everyone did so,
Henry included, while the bride and groom shared a very passionate
kiss. The blonde stepped forward with champagne flutes for the
married couple and they drank while their guests cheered.

Henry
drank the last of his punch and looked around the room. People were
pushing to get out of the room, heading toward the food, and people
rushed forward, wanting to congratulate the newlyweds. The blonde
helped Billy and Jane to extricate their hands from the looped
ribbons, and then tied the entire thing together neatly so that the
ribbon retained the looped shape. She put it on top of the piano and
Martin got up from his chair and spoke a few words to her. She nodded
and spoke to Billy and Jane and they inched out toward the middle of
the room.

Martin
lifted his violin to his shoulder and the band began to play a lively
waltz, People hurried to clear the floor for Billy and Jane, who
began to dance. It was obvious that they were both good dancers, and
that they had danced together many times before. He recalled Billy
whirling Jane around the side yard on New Year’s Eve and wondered
how long they had known one another. Martin had said she’d been
with the Slatterys for fifteen years, so she and Billy had likely
known each other half their lives; they might have even been
sweethearts all that time.

Other
couples joined in the dance. Henry wished he could dance, too, but
knew it would make the other guests uncomfortable, at the very least,
and thought it better not to bother any of the female slaves with
selfish requests they’d feel unable to refuse.

“Mr.
Blackwell, Sir?” A familiar voice rose above the hubbub.

Henry
turned and came face-to-face with Tom, Arthur right behind him. Was
Henry imagining things, or did they smell faintly of sex?

“Hello,
Tom, Arthur.” Henry nodded at each of them.

Arthur
blushed when Henry looked at him. No, they definitely
smelled of sex. Henry got a flash of what they might have looked like
together, Arthur’s brown skin against Tom’s white, and he
blushed, too.

“You’re
out of punch, Sir. Would you like me to get you some?” Tom was so
friendly, so solicitous.

Flustered,
Henry said, “Oh, no, you needn’t wait on me, Tom.”

“I’m
happy to do it, Sir. You should have someone taking care of you while
Martin’s busy.” He reached and took the glass from Henry’s
hand. “I’ll just be a moment, Sir.”

He
left Henry standing with Arthur, both blushing furiously, neither
knowing what to say. Henry reminded himself he had no obligation to
speak to a slave under any circumstances, but it felt horribly rude
to just ignore poor Arthur.

“How
are the horses, then?” Henry asked, cringing a little. It would be
better if he knew something more about Arthur, so he might ask about
his life. Well, actually, he did
know about Arthur’s relationship with Jerry and his dalliance with
Tom, but he couldn’t exactly discuss those things with him, after
all.

“Oh,
they’re quite well, Sir,” Arthur assured him. “By this time
next month, I imagine it will have warmed up enough you’ll be
riding again on a regular basis, Sir.”

“I’m
looking forward to warmer weather,” Henry said. He could just see
Martin over the heads of the dancing crowd. Here, Martin played with
his eyes open, watching the dancers, seeing how they reacted to the
tune he played; they had finished the first waltz and were now
playing a polka. Henry willed him to look up, to see Henry looking at
him, but he kept his gaze focused on the whirling couples.

“Here
you go, Sir.” Tom was at his elbow with a fresh glass of punch.
He’d brought one for himself and one for Arthur, as well.

“Thank
you, Tom. But, really, you don’t have to take care of me. You
should enjoy the party.”

“Martin
would want me to look out for you, Sir,” Tom insisted. “Mr.
Caldwell would, too.”

Actually,
since Henry didn’t share Martin, Freddie probably wouldn’t
want Tom to help Henry out, but Henry did not wish to argue the point
with Tom.

“Well,
I won’t expect you to stick with me,” Henry told him. “I
imagine you’re going to want to dance at some point.”

“Oh,
certainly, Sir,” Tom said brightly, sipping his drink and looking
around the room. He waved at someone across the room and said to
Arthur, “Oh god, I hope she doesn’t come over here,” in a low
voice.

The
girl in question was a redhead, petite and pixieish, and she did
indeed come over, skirts swaying.

“Well,
hello, Tom. What trouble are you in tonight?”

“I’m
looking after Mr. Blackwell for Martin,” Tom told her, gesturing
toward Henry.

Henry
blushed and gave her a short nod.

The
girl dipped a little bow at Henry. “Good evening, Sir. Thank you
for the party. So, Tom, you’ll dance with me later, I hope?”

“We’ll
see,” Tom told her. “My duties take precedence.”

“Mr.
Blackwell looks capable of taking care of himself for the length of a
dance.”

“But
Mr. Blackwell might become hungry at a moment’s notice,” Tom told
her cheerfully. “His throat might become parched. I intend to be at
the ready.”

The
girl frowned, annoyed and perhaps a little disgusted. “I’m
beginning to think I made a mistake in taking you seriously.”

“If
you took me seriously,” Tom told her, “then I agree you made a
mistake. I’m no better than a clown, not to be taken seriously at
all.” He laughed and reached playfully for the girl’s hand, which
she pulled back with a petulant sound.

Arthur
laughed but clapped his hand over his mouth to shut himself up.

“I’ll
dance with you later,” Tom decided, “if you still want to dance
with me, that is, but that’s all we can do. I’ve got other plans
for after the party.”

The
girl cocked an eyebrow at Arthur, who blushed anew as Tom slipped an
arm around his shoulders.

“You’re
so presumptuous,” she said with a haughty sniff. “How do you know
I don’t have plans of my own?”

“Am
I to believe you came over here out of friendship alone?” Tom
asked. “I think we know each other better than that!”

With
a frustrated toss of her head, the girl said, “Find me later for a
dance, you cad. If we don’t dance tonight, we’re through for
good.” She stalked away, back stiff, while Tom laughed and squeezed
Arthur’s shoulders.

Henry
did his best to pretend he hadn’t heard a word of their
conversation, but he did not think he was convincing.

“Mr.
Blackwell, Sir, would you like more punch? Or perhaps something to
eat?”

“Er,
no, I’m fine, thank you, Tom.”

“Martin
plays beautifully, doesn’t he, Sir? I expected he would, of
course.”

“Yes,
he does. Am I remembering correctly that you play piano?”

“Yes,
Sir. How kind of you to remember.”

“Do
you play for Freddie?”

“The
Caldwells have a piano that I’m allowed to play, Sir, but I don’t
think anyone particularly cares to listen.”

“That’s
too bad,” Henry said. “I love to hear Martin play.”

“You
and Martin are well-suited, Sir,” Tom said.

Henry
felt his face grow hot and turned away to hide the color in his
cheeks. He did not know what sort of response would be proper;
agreement felt like it would be admitting too much.

There
was a slightly longer break between tunes while Martin stripped off
his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He was sweating a little, his
face slightly pink, and as he looked out over the crowd he sought
Henry out and gave him the dazzling smile that he so loved.

It
was during the next waltz that Henry began to notice all the kissing
and fondling that was taking place in the crowded room. Men kissed
women, men kissed men, women kissed women. Tom was nuzzling Arthur’s
neck. Billy and Jane stood near the musicians with their arms around
each other’s necks and their flower crowns askew and kissed like
they were in private. If Henry were also a slave, he could kiss
Martin here, in this room with dozens of people looking on, and no
one would think anything of it. Surely somewhere in this city there
had to be a place where a free boy could kiss another boy without
worries.

“I’m
going for more punch, Sir. I’ll be happy to bring you something
back,” Tom said.

“All
right,” Henry agreed. “Is there any punch without alcohol in it?”

“I
believe so, Sir.”

“Some
of that, then, and maybe a little to eat after all.”

“Very
well, Sir.” Tom turned to Arthur. “Come with me, Artie. I’ll
need help carrying it back.”

Left
alone, Henry watched Martin sway and dip and bounce on his toes, just
as he would do in private. Even in these lively songs, Henry could
still hear the plangent, erotic qualities of the violin’s voice as
if it were speaking only to him. A cluster of young women stood near
the musicians, gazing rapt at Martin as he played; was it only
because he was a handsome young man, or did they hear what Henry
heard?

Most
of the dancing couples were made up of men and women, but Henry saw
the occasional pair of men go whirling past, as well as a few female
couples. Henry was surprised at first, but remembered that slaves
would all have grown up taking turns leading and following, so it
would be natural for them to dance however they might be inclined. He
wished he might have such freedom to dance with Martin.

The
waltz ended and a polka began. High-spirited people whooped and
hopped around the floor. Tom and Arthur returned with full glasses
and plates.

Tom
said, “Make way for Mr. Blackwell to sit, please,” in an
imperious tone and five girls stood up from their chairs and hurried
away. “Oh, nice,” Tom said to Arthur. “We can all sit, then.”

Henry
sat with his plate and glass of pink punch, and Tom sat beside him,
but with an empty chair between as buffer.

“I
got you a nice selection of food, Sir,” Tom said, “let me know if
you’d like more of any particular thing.”

Henry
ate a bite of sausage roll and followed it with a sip of his plain
punch. “You’ve been very helpful, Tom. Thank you.”

“Martin
is my dearest friend, Sir. I know he would do the same for my
master.”

Martin
would, Henry supposed, if Henry were to allow him to go gallivanting
all over the neighborhood socializing on his own, which Henry did not
think likely to ever happen.

“You’re
a good friend to him,” Henry said a bit grudgingly. Henry felt sure
he knew what Tom really wanted, but, so far as he knew, Tom was never
inappropriate, never untoward, and so it wouldn’t be fair to fault
him for a desire he never acted upon.

Tom
colored a little, pleased at the faint praise. “Thank you, Sir.”

Henry
ate a moist little cake that tasted of honey and some spice he wasn’t
familiar with. “Tom, do you know what this is?”

“It’s
marriage cake, Sir. It’s got cardamom and honey which are…love
foods.”

“Oh,”
Henry said, blushing. “Thank you.” Hetaeria food! He’d hoped
there’d be some evidence of the slave beliefs at this party.

He
thought a moment, then asked, “What about the flowers and greenery?
Do they mean anything? I know red roses are for affection—”

“Well,
no, Sir, they’re for love,” Tom pointed out.

Henry
blinked at this. Affection and love—weren’t they the same thing?

Tom
saw his confusion. “It’s a subtle difference, Sir, but it
matters. No one offers red roses casually.”

“Oh.”
Henry thought about Martin’s protection stone, the permanence of a
painted rose, and felt a warm surge of hope in his breast.

Tom
continued. “So, red roses are for love and sex, and red and white
roses together are for joining, for unity. Ivy is for a happy
marriage. The other greens all mean something, too, Sir, but I don’t
remember what. Artie, do you remember what else the leaves mean?”

Arthur
turned around in his chair to squint up at the swags hanging on the
wall and then leaned to look around Tom at Henry. “Besides the ivy,
I only recognize cedar and juniper, Sir. It’s said that cedar is
protective, and juniper draws positive energy.”

“Martin
has told me you’re interested in our beliefs, Sir,” Tom said.
“You really don’t think they’re foolish?”

“I
think they’re very interesting,” Henry said. “They make just as
much sense to me as any church beliefs, or maybe a little more sense,
actually. I like how everything is based in the world—real
friendships, real materials—and isn’t just a lot of talk.”

“Oh!”
Tom said, startled. “You surprise me, Sir!” He seemed as though
he liked being surprised, however.

The
waltz came to a close and the music stopped.

“Oh,
they’re taking a break,” Tom said, setting his plate aside and
getting to his feet. “Artie, get up and wave to Jerry.”

Henry
stood, too, so Martin could see him. Martin smiled at him, chin
lifted, peering over all the heads, and began to make his way through
the crowd, being stopped frequently along the way to be praised and
congratulated. Jerry came through the crowd from a different angle. A
woman went to sit down at the piano in Jerry’s place, and a male
slave with a battered-looking violin stood where Martin had been
standing. These two began to play a slow waltz and a few couples took
to the floor, circling at a languid pace.

“Sir!”
Martin reached for Henry’s arm as he pushed through the crowd. “How
did we do, Sir?”

Oh,
how Henry wanted to kiss him! He settled for rubbing his hand up and
down Martin’s upper arm, squeezing the muscle. “You’re
wonderful, Martin. I’m so proud of you.”

Martin
beamed at the praise and then glanced around. “Oh, Tom is here! Is
he taking care of you, Sir?”

“He
is,” Henry admitted. “He volunteered.” He looked over at Tom,
who was all wrapped up in Jerry and Arthur, and blushed to see the
evidence of their intimacy. He leaned close to Martin and whispered,
“I wish I could be like that with you.”

Martin
met his eyes with a gaze filled with erotic promise. “I would like
nothing better, Sir.”

They
stared into one another’s eyes, the air growing ever-more charged
between them, until Tom interrupted.

“Martin,
Mr. Blackwell, Sir, do you want something to drink? Some food?”

“Oh,
thank you, Tom, but I can get my own food,” Martin said.

“No,
you stay with Mr. Blackwell. Do you want liquor or plain punch?”

“Hmm,
plain, I think. Thanks so much, Tom.”

Jerry,
Arthur and Tom all went for refreshments, leaving Henry and Martin
alone.

“I’m
having so much fun, Sir. I really enjoy playing for a party,”
Martin admitted. “There’s such good energy from a crowd like
this.”

That
made sense, Henry supposed: all these friendships feeding into one
another, all the energies combining.

Martin
leaned close, holding onto Henry’s arm. “I’m all keyed-up,
Sir,” Martin said in a hoarse whisper. “All this attention is
making me so amorous.”

Henry
went immediately hot, imagining Martin playing for this crowd as he’d
played for Henry in the past, naked and hard with his hair loose. His
breath caught as he asked, “Will you want my help with that?”

“After
the party, Sir, I’ll need you so much,” Martin promised him. He
slipped his fingers inside Henry’s for just a second, a brief
squeeze. “Here come Tom and the boys, Sir. Let’s behave ourselves
for now.”

Tom
brought Henry more pink punch, more sausage rolls, and more of the
honey cakes, and he brought the same for Martin. Henry and Martin sat
and ate with their plates on their laps; the other three stood and
ate from a shared plate stacked high. Tom and Arthur were continuing
to drink the yellow punch and they encouraged Jerry to drink and fed
him bits of honey cake while petting and teasing him.

“You
play magnificently,”
Tom said to Martin, breaking away to let Arthur monopolize Jerry for
a brief interlude. “I expected as much, as I told Mr. Blackwell,
but it’s still a wonder to hear it.”

Martin
laughed. “You’re exaggerating, Tom. I think you must be a little
drunk.”

“Oh,
that’s certainly true,” Tom agreed. “This punch is going to
burn a hole right through me.”

“You
don’t have to drink it, silly,” Martin pointed out. “This
other—” he held aloft his glass of pink punch “—is very
refreshing.”

“I
don’t want to be refreshed,” Tom countered. “I want to be
delirious!
I want to be transported!”
He flung his arms wide, smacking the back of his hand into the ribs
of a little brunette, who squeaked her dismay and scuttled out of
reach.

“You’re
such a voluptuary,” Martin said affectionately. “You were born in
the wrong era.”

“All
the exact girls I didn’t want to see are here tonight,” Tom
complained, peering around the room. “I’m sticking to Arthur like
glue, but not all of them are taking the hint.”

“Dance
with some of your lady-friends,” Martin suggested. “You’ll want
to renew your acquaintance with most of them at some point, don’t
you think? I think you’d better stay on good terms.” He nodded at
Jerry and Arthur. “They’re not going to take some other boy home
if you dance with a few girls.”

“Maybe
not,” Tom said, though he didn’t seem convinced.

“I’m
playing all this dance music,” Martin pointed out. “The least you
can do as my dear friend is dance.”

“Well,
if it’s what you
want…”

“I
do,” Martin told him. “I do want it. Be a good boy, Tommy, and do
as I say.”

They
both burst out laughing at this, and Henry supposed it was some
private joke and resisted the urge to make them include him. He
wondered if it was something Freddie had said, and wondered under
what conditions Freddie might have said it.

“We
might be boring Mr. Blackwell,” Martin suggested, though surely he
knew Henry was not bored at all. “All this personal talk.”

“Oh,
of course,” Tom said. “My apologies, Sir. Would you like
something more to eat?”

“No,
thank you,” Henry assured him. He turned to Martin. “How long is
your break?”

“I
have a bit longer, Sir.” He leaned against Henry, just a little,
and their knees touched.

Henry
looked up at Jerry kissing Tom and wished he had that same freedom.

“Sir?
Do you have a moment, Sir?”

Henry
looked up to see Billy standing before him holding hands with his
bride, the lovely Jane, both of them in their flower crowns.

“Billy!”
Henry handed his plate to Martin and stood. “This must be your
Jane.”

She
smiled and curtseyed. “At your service, Sir.”

“Welcome
to our family,” Henry told her. “Billy is such a valued friend.
He’s actually been here longer than I have, you know.”

Jane
laughed and Billy looked pleased that Henry would say such a thing.

Martin
stood and put the plates on the seat of his chair. “Congratulations,
Billy. Congratulations, Jane.”

“Thank
you, Martin,” Billy said. “Jane, this is Martin, Mr. Blackwell’s
companion.”

“It’s
so kind of you to play for our party,” Jane said, taking Martin’s
hand. “I feel we ought to have met before now.”

“Duty
takes precedence,” Martin said with a shrug. “As for your party,
I’m more than happy to do it. Billy and the others here have been
so welcoming to me. It’s the least I can do.”

“Billy!”
Arthur came from behind Martin, hand extended. “Congratulations,
Billy-boy!” Jerry was equally effusive, and they were both putting
Tom forward to be introduced.

“It
was lovely to meet you, Sir, Martin,” Jane said, dipping in a
little bow. “Perhaps we’ll talk again later.” She straightened
her crown and accepted congratulations, Billy at her side, as they
moved deeper into the crowd.

“Do
you want more punch, Sir?”

“I’ll
come with you,” Henry decided. He didn’t want to waste any of
Martin’s break time being apart.

They
made their way through the crowd toward the hall and the food tables.
As they neared the buffet, they saw Ruby, the talkative scullery
maid, making her way through the crush from the opposite direction
with a tray of steaming sausage rolls.

“Make
way! Make way, please!” She saw Henry and stopped short. “Sir!
Hello, Mr. Blackwell. Hello, Martin. Sausage roll for you? They’re
very hot, Sir. See that you don’t burn your tongue!”

“Thank
you, Ruby.” The sausage rolls were like coals in Henry’s hand; he
would wait a minute before attempting to eat them. Martin got him a
glass of punch and one for himself.

“Do
you want to go out to the bonfire, Sir?”

“Bonfire?”

“There’s
always a bonfire, Sir,” Martin assured him. “Let’s go outside.”

There
was a neat ring of bricks set up in the center of the side yard, well
away from the house, with a roaring fire enclosed within. Slaves
stood close by, some shivering without their coats despite the fire.
A group huddled in the corner, out of the wind, passing a cigarette
around their circle. As Henry watched and munched his roll, a steady
stream of people threw leaves and twigs and bits of paper on the
fire, occasionally murmuring a few words as they did so.

“What
are they doing?” Henry stuffed his second sausage roll into his
mouth. He was cold in just his jacket, and Martin had only
shirtsleeves.

“Wishes
and releases, Sir. You write what you want on a leaf or scrap of
paper, and you let it disperse into the universe in hopes it will be
granted. Or you let go of things, Sir. Hard things, or bad things, or
simply things that just need to be in the past.”

“Do
you want to do it?” Henry wanted to do it.

“Right
now, Sir, I’ve got everything I want. I don’t want to be greedy.”
He paused a moment and then said, “Oh! Sir! Did you want to try?”

Bashfully,
Henry said, “Yes. I’d like to, I think.”

“Let’s
find you something to write with, then, Sir.” He turned to a nearby
trio. “Excuse me, do you have a pencil for Mr. Blackwell?”

After
asking a few more people, Martin came up with a pencil and a slip of
paper and then bent over before Henry, making his back into a desk,
their punch glasses at his feet.

Henry
didn’t know exactly how to put it. He wrote I
want a place where I can be free with Martin,
and meant that to take into account his desire for their relationship
to be considered acceptable as well as his longing to be with Martin
free of his family’s expectations.

Martin
must have felt that Henry had stopped writing. “Do you have it,
Sir?”

“Yes,
sorry.” He rubbed Martin’s back and gave him a pat. “So now
I…just throw it in?”

“Concentrate
on what you asked for, Sir, and then, yes, you just throw it in and
hope it’s answered.” Martin was shivering and Henry wanted badly
to put his arms around him. He would have to hurry so that Martin
could get back inside.

He
didn’t exactly pray, but he imagined that both Zeus with his
Ganymede and Apollo with Hyacinthus might be sympathetic to his
desire, so he thought of them, and of Reggie and the promise of his
knowledge, and tossed the scrap of paper into the flames. It was
eaten up immediately, floating ash whirling in the eddies of the air.

“Do
you feel good about it, Sir?” Martin asked, and he was really
shivering now.

“I
do,” Henry said. “Let’s get you inside.”

Mr.
John caught up with them near the kitchen door. “There you are,
Martin. We wanted to get started again.” He saw Henry behind him
and said, “Oh! Hello, Sir. John at your service.”

Henry
gave him a nod. “Hello.”

Martin
turned and said, “I have to go, Sir. Will you be all right on your
own?”

“Of
course. I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll
need you after, Sir, remember.”

Henry
blushed, pleased and a little excited. “I remember.”

Martin
smiled and gave him a little wave and disappeared into the throng.

Henry
had carried his glass in from the yard and filled it now with the
strong yellow punch. He made his way back into the crowded mess hall,
where couples stood with their arms around one another, ready for the
music to start. Martin stood, violin in position, and shifted his
weight from one foot to the other. The light flashed off the lenses
of his glasses; he was searching the crowd, and when he found Henry,
he smiled. He counted off and the music began.

Arthur
and Tom were both dancing, each with a pretty girl, and when the tune
ended, each found a new partner for the next dance. Henry watched
Martin play and drank his searingly alcoholic punch and tapped his
toe. He would love to dance, he really would, but it wasn’t really
done for a master to dance socially with a slave. A master could get
away with more than a mistress, of course, but it wouldn’t look
good, and he supposed it could have a negative impact on the slave’s
reputation amongst her own, as well.

People
were drunker, and it was later, and there were even more public
displays of affection in this second half of the dance than there had
been in the first. A man and woman next to Henry broke off kissing
and headed for the hall holding hands, no doubt seeking a private
corner. Their place was taken by a pair of young men who began to pet
one another. One of the men, a delicate-looking boy with tawny hair
and a smattering of freckles—Henry’s type—made insistent,
hungry whimpers as he kissed his dark-haired partner, and Henry found
it incredibly arousing. He watched them out of the corner of his eye,
trying to be discreet, his cheeks hot and his breath coming short. He
reminded himself that he would have Martin afterward, and he would do
whatever Martin wanted to do.

Tom
was dancing with the petite redhead who’d had misgivings about him,
but now she looked quite wholeheartedly taken with him, laughing as
they spun around the floor.

Henry
tossed back the last of his punch and considered going for more, but
he didn’t want to leave the kissing men, not while they were being
so interesting. He alternated between watching Martin dip and sway
and eyeing the kissing pair. The tawny-haired boy straddled the
dark-haired man’s thigh and rubbed against him, moaning and
clutching at his back.

“Let’s
go find a place,” the dark-haired man said, keeping his voice low,
but not so low Henry couldn’t hear. “Someplace where I can suck
you.”

“You
can fuck me,” the tawny boy said breathlessly. “You can do
anything you want.”

They
shared one last kiss, a string of spit between their lips as they
drew apart, and then the dark-haired man took his friend’s hand and
led him through the crowd towards the hall.

Henry
watched them go and wanted to follow, wanted to see what they did
together. He had the right to do that. He was permitted everything.
These people were in his house and they were subject to his wishes.
He hesitated a moment and then headed for the hall. He could get more
punch, at the very least.

Henry
thought he had lost the men in the crowd, but they had stopped to
kiss again and instead he almost walked into them. He skirted them
and made his way to the punch bowl, looking frequently back over his
shoulder to see what they were doing. They began making their way
through the crowd again, the tawny boy in the lead now.

Henry
followed them, punch sloshing in his glass as he hurried to keep up.

“Let’s
try down this way,” the tawny boy said, heading down the crowded
east corridor. There were storage rooms here, Henry knew, and three
slave bedrooms which were unused but not unfurnished.

The
bedroom doors were standing open and people were moving freely in and
out of the rooms, so Henry was taken aback when he peered in the
first doorway and saw not just one but several couples fucking. There
were a man and a woman crosswise on the bed, two men at the foot of
the bed, a woman with two men tending to her needs on the rug, and
three couples leaning up against the walls in various stages of
undress. None of them took any notice of Henry, nor of any of the
other people who wandered in and out again.

The
second room was also full of fornicators, including a gasping girl
who had another girl kneeling beneath her skirts, but not Henry’s
couple. Henry moved on quickly to the third room, where his young men
had found a place against the wall, next to a man who was fucking a
woman from behind, her skirts thrown up above her waist and her arms
braced against the wall.

The
tawny boy was ready to come; Henry could see it in his face, in the
way he trembled. His dark-haired friend was on his knees before him,
holding his narrow hips. The relief on his face as his friend took
him into his mouth was beautiful to behold. His eyelids fluttered and
he groaned, pawing his friend’s head as he quickly came, his cries
quite distinct to Henry’s ears out of all the carnal noise in the
room. The boy opened his eyes quite suddenly and looked at Henry
watching him and smiled. The dark-haired man turned to see who he
smiled at and also looked at Henry, noting his collar and tie, and
grinned.

Henry
bolted, hurrying back to the mess hall and the dancers, back to
Martin. His face was on fire, throbbing with embarrassment. What had
he been thinking, following those boys? He’d let a bunch of
strangers, a bunch of strange slaves,
see him ogling a queer pair. Of course, he could claim he was looking
at any of the men and women in the room and no one could prove
otherwise. Still, his hands shook, and he tossed back the last of his
punch quickly in hopes of quelling the tremors.

Martin
looked out over the crowd, seeking him, and smiled when he found him,
and Henry smiled back guiltily. He would have to let Martin know what
he’d done. Would Martin be mad that Henry had wanted to watch these
strangers fuck? He worried that it had been especially stupid for him
to watch them here in his own home, at a party where he was the only
free person in attendance, where surely everyone knew who he was.
Would those boys be gossiping up and down 5th that Henry Blackwell
was some sort of dirty queer who liked to watch?

Arthur
had returned to his position on the sidelines and he watched as Tom
danced past with the red-haired girl. He looked up and saw Henry and
stood up a little straighter.

“Sir.
Can I do anything for you, Sir?”

“No,
just enjoy your party,” Henry told him.

After
the tune, a waltz, came to an end, Henry got more punch—the pink
this time—and returned to his spot. There was an empty chair so he
sat, his back tender from standing so long, and he wondered how
Martin fared, how tired he might be.

Tom
appeared, sidling up to Arthur and whispering in his ear. Arthur
laughed and put his arm around Tom’s neck. The red-haired girl
approached and tugged on Tom’s sleeve. He seemed happy enough to
see her and bent to kiss her quite passionately, but she went away
again and Tom pressed himself against Arthur and held him tight,
seeming exceedingly fond.

Henry
stood up again, bending back a little bit to stretch, and Tom noticed
him there.

“Mr.
Blackwell,” he said. “Do you need anything, Sir? I’m afraid
I’ve been neglecting my duties in regards to you.”

“No,
you’re fine,” Henry insisted, blushing. “Enjoy the party. I can
look after myself for a bit.”

“You’re
very easygoing, Sir,” Tom noted. “No wonder Martin is so fond of
you.”

Henry
felt his face grow even hotter at this compliment, at the idea that
Tom thought Martin especially attached to him.

Henry
was wondering how much longer Martin would have to play when Martin
made an announcement. A polka ended and Martin called out, “This
next tune will be the last of the evening. Thank you for being such
an appreciative audience.” There was scattered applause as the band
began playing the final waltz.

Billy
and Jane appeared, their crowns dropping petals with every step, and
took a last turn around the floor. Arthur and Tom kissed and kissed.
The tawny-haired boy and his dark-haired friend reappeared, both
eyeing Henry curiously, and Henry pretended adamantly that he did not
see them. Martin looked over at him, seeming happy but exhausted, and
Henry was glad he was literally minutes away from being done with his
work.

The
music reached a crescendo, and Martin lifted his bow from the strings
with a dramatic flourish, and he bowed as Billy and Jane clapped and
then the rest of the audience joined in. Henry clapped as loudly as
he could and joined in the calls of Bravo!
Arthur and Tom pushed through the crowd, making a beeline for Jerry,
and Henry realized he could do the same for Martin, although
obviously he wouldn’t be able to kiss him in front of all these
people.

When
he reached the front of the room, Martin was flipping the latches on
his violin case. His hair was coming loose from its tail and he
looked overall disheveled and tired, but his smile when he saw Henry
was dazzling.

He
leaned close, his hand on Henry’s shoulder. “Sir, I’m so ready
to be alone with you.”

“We
can go now,” Henry said. “Pack up your violin and let’s leave.”

“I
have to chat a minute with the others, Sir,” Martin said
regretfully. “I have to be polite.”

Jerry
was sitting on the piano bench between Tom and Arthur, kissing one
and then the other, his arms around both. Mr. John was receiving
attentions from a much-younger man, and Homer was drinking a glass of
punch brought by a lady-friend. It was unusual, obviously, that
Martin’s chief admirer was his master.

Henry
stood by while Martin chatted with Billy and Jane, then with the
other musicians, then with Tom, who threw his arms around Martin and
gave him a hug that was more than friendly while he whispered
intently in his ear. Martin laughed at whatever he said and pushed
him gently away.

“Oh,
that’s not true,” he said, shaking his head.

Henry
suspected that whatever Tom had said would infuriate him, and he
didn’t want to be angry, so he didn’t ask.

As
the crowd dispersed, people filing out the door, the tawny boy and
his friend hung around watching Henry and whispering to one another.

“Who
are those boys, Sir? They keep staring at you. Should I tell them to
go?”

“Let’s
just ignore them,” Henry said, reddening. “I’ll tell you
later.”

Martin
frowned, clearly bothered, but said nothing more. “Let’s go by
the food on our way out, please, Sir. I want more cakes if there are
any left.”

There
were indeed cakes, and Martin took two, careful not to crumble them
as they climbed the back stairs to the second floor. Inside Henry’s
room, Martin immediately went to put his jacket and violin in his
bedroom and then returned with the cakes.

“Eat
some of this, Henry. Eat it from my hand.” He held out a piece of
cake and Henry took it from his fingers with his lips.

“Now
you do the same for me, Feed it to me.”

Henry
did as Martin asked. “What are we doing?”

“It’s
for lovers. You feed it to the one you want to stake a claim to.”
He offered Henry a second morsel of cake, and Henry remembered seeing
Tom and Arthur plying Jerry with cake and punch.

“So
I’m the one you want, then?” He held a piece of cake for Martin
to take and rubbed Martin’s lower lip with his thumb as he chewed
and swallowed.

Martin
snorted. “You know very well that I’m devoted to you. But you,
Henry…you
apparently met some boys at the party.”

“What
boys?” Henry asked unconvincingly, turning a furious red.

“Those
two pretty boys who were snickering and whispering and making eyes at
you. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

“Oh.
Them.” Henry didn’t know quite how to explain what had happened.
“They were kissing next to me, and I couldn’t help but watch.”

“But
with the sly way they were looking at you, that can’t be all,
Henry,” Martin said. “What else happened?”

“I
went to get punch,” Henry told him, “and I saw them go down the
side corridor and…and I was curious, so I followed them.”

“Oh,
Henry!”
Martin looked terribly disappointed.

“I
just looked, Martin. Nothing happened. There were people having sex
in all the bedrooms down there in all sorts of combinations and…I
looked. They just happened to look back.”

Martin’s
lips pressed together in a tight line and his eyes narrowed. “Oh,
Henry.
You promise that nothing else happened? They didn’t touch you?”

“No!
Of course not! I was just curious, Martin. I only wanted to see.”
He tentatively offered Martin another piece of cake and Martin leaned
forward to snatch it out of his hand angrily, his teeth grazing
Henry’s fingertips. “Wh-why are you so upset?”

Martin
chewed furiously and swallowed. “Because you did it without me,
Henry! You can’t tell me that you wouldn’t be upset if I did the
same.”

No,
Henry could not. “It was just an impulsive thing,” Henry told
him. “It was stupid, really.”

Martin
seemed to be struggling with his emotions. “I know
I have no right, but I feel very possessive of you. You want me to
say that you’re mine,
but if you were really mine, you wouldn’t have done that without
me.”

“You
can’t just decide that,” Henry insisted. “I am
yours, Martin. I may have made a mistake, but I’m still yours.”

“The
whole time I was playing, I was thinking of you, and how you’d be
waiting for me, but really you were off watching some strange boys
fuck and weren’t thinking of me at all.”

“That’s
not true, Martin! And anyway, they didn’t fuck, at least not while
I was watching. The dark-haired one just sucked the other boy’s
cock.”

“Did
he have a pretty cock, at least?” Martin crossed his arms over his
chest, sulking and keeping his distance. “I hope for your sake that
he had a pretty cock.”

“I
didn’t even see it. The dark-haired fellow’s head was in the
way.”

Martin
looked somewhat mollified, but still unhappy.

“Didn’t
you notice how they had our coloring, how they looked a little like
us?” Henry asked. “That’s
why I was interested. When I was standing next to them in the mess,
the pale one, the one with the tawny hair, he was making these little
noises while they kissed that reminded me of you,
and they were doing all the things I wish I could do with you,
but we can’t. When I was watching them in the back room, I had this
fantasy that I could do the same with you,
but that’s all it will ever be, isn’t it? A fantasy.”

Henry
had had no conscious awareness of these things while he’d been
watching, but now, defending himself to Martin, he knew them to be
true.

“They
saw me looking and I was so embarrassed,” Henry continued. “I was
afraid they’d think I wanted something more from them, and I guess
they did think that, but I just want you, Martin. I do
belong to you.”

Martin
gave a haughty sniff and considered what Henry said. After a stretch
of hard thought, he said, “They might have had our coloring, Henry,
but we’re much better-looking, don’t you think?”

“You
are, certainly,” Henry agreed readily. He put his hands on Martin’s
shoulders, which relaxed under his touch. “You’re still the most
beautiful boy I’ve ever seen.” He leaned in and kissed Martin
tentatively, tasting cardamom on his breath.

Martin
kissed him back. “Tom’s much more handsome than me,” Martin
whispered. “Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer Tom?” He looped
his arms around Henry’s neck, rubbed his cheek against Henry’s.

Henry
blushed at the idea of Tom, remembering Tom kissing Arthur and Jerry.
Tom was very beautiful, but, “I’d much rather have you,” he
said truthfully. “I just want to be yours.”

“I
hate feeling jealous, Henry. I wasn’t raised to be jealous; it
makes me feel like a failure.”

“A
failure?” Henry kissed the skin in front of Martin’s ear. “How
is that a failing?”

“It’s
not for me to be possessive. It’s not my place to restrict your
behaviors. If you want to see boys fuck, I should be finding boys for
you to watch and making the arrangements.”

Henry
couldn’t say he hated the idea of that, but he’d rather have
Martin happy than watch strange boys have sex. If he really
wanted to watch boys fuck, he could bite the bullet and go to swap
parties, for that matter, though perhaps they were both too
possessive for that to be a reasonable option.

“I
love that you’re possessive,” Henry admitted. “I don’t even
hate that you’re jealous.” He kissed Martin’s parted lips and
pulled the tie from his hair. “I never expected anyone would want
me all to himself the way you seem to.”

Martin
kissed him again and loosened the knot of his necktie. “That’s
what I want, Henry. You all to myself.” Another lingering kiss
while his fingers worked the buttons of Henry’s shirt. “But if
you want to watch other boys have sex, please say you’ll do it with
me, that we’ll watch them together.”

“I
promise.”

Martin
pushed Henry’s jacket off his shoulders and Henry let it slide to
the floor. “The whole time I was playing, I wanted to bring you
upstairs and ravish
you. Didn’t you think of me even a little?”

“Of
course I did.” Henry unbuttoned his waistcoat and shrugged it off
as Martin knelt and untied his boots. “I was watching you and
thinking about how you look when you play in the nude, how your cock
gets hard just because you know I’m watching.”

“Did
you really think of that?” Martin knelt up and unbuttoned Henry’s
trousers and drawers and stripped them off his hips. “Did you
really think about me getting hard for you?” He held up his hands
and let Henry pull him to his feet.

“I
really did. You’re not too mad to get hard for me now, are you?”
Henry held out his hands for his cuffs to be unbuttoned.

Martin
laughed. “I don’t think I could ever be mad enough for that to
happen. I like having sex with you too much.” While Henry pulled
his shirt off overhead, Martin kicked off his own boots, trousers and
drawers. Henry watched as Martin took off his own shirt and they
stood there a moment looking at each other naked, pleased and a
little shy. “See,” Martin said, making a little gesture toward
his hard prick. “I’m not too mad.”

Henry
stepped forward, drew Martin close, and ran his hands all over
Martin’s back and perfect ass. Neither of those boys at the party
could compare to his Martin. “What did you want to have happen?
Tell me what to do.”

“Get
on the bed, on your back.” Martin gave him a little push. Henry sat
down on the edge of the bed, leaned back and swung his legs up. He
shifted towards the center of the bed, where he lay propped up on his
elbows, watching as Martin climbed up after him and straddled his
hips. “This is how I pictured it. I’d get you upstairs and put
you on your back and have my way with you.”

“You’d
put me on my back? You’d just climb on and use me?”

Martin
laughed and shoved his shoulders. “Yes! Lie back, Henry!”

Henry
lay all the way down and took hold of Martin’s hips, lifting his
own against Martin’s weight. “All you need is for me to be hard
for you?”

Martin
reached for the drawer of the nightstand and retrieved the oil
bottle. “That’s all I need.” He grinned and stroked Henry’s
cock affectionately. “I can do the rest.”

Henry
laughed, too. “I’m capable of a lot more than…than dildo
service, you know.”

Martin
wet his fingers and reached back to oil his hole. “I know what
you’re capable of,” Martin assured him. “But I need you to let
me do this.”

“Whatever
you want, Martin. Whatever you need me to do.”

Martin
leaned forward and kissed Henry thoroughly, his mouth very wet, and
he kept a hand braced on Henry’s shoulder as he used his other hand
to oil Henry’s cock and hold it in position. He sat back on it, a
moment’s hard squeeze on the head before it slid inside, where
everything was molten and pressured, slippery and tight, the grip of
Martin’s hole just slick enough with oil that the heavy drag
against Henry’s skin was intensely pleasurable. Henry concentrated
on his breath, on the feeling of Martin’s body molded around his
cock, and watched as Martin moved, lifting and lowering, tilting his
hips. Martin sighed and let his head fall forward, hair hanging like
a curtain before his handsome face, then lifted his chin to look at
Henry, wide-eyed and serious and seeming so vulnerable. With a little
moan, he let his head roll back, exposing the length of his throat,
and ran his hands over his chest and belly as he rode Henry harder.

Henry
put his hand on Martin’s cock and Martin shuddered as a thick surge
of clear fluid slicked the head beneath Henry’s thumb.

“I’ll
come so quick if you touch me,” Martin said in breathy warning.

“I
want to feel it,” Henry assured him, rolling the fat head between
his fingers. “On my skin.”

Martin
whimpered and came down harder against Henry’s hips. “Tell me
again, Henry.”

“I
want you to come on my chest. I want to see your face when you come.”

Martin
moaned, the long muscles in his thighs trembling. “Oh, god, Henry,
Henry, are you close?”

“I’m
right there with you,” Henry promised. All it would take for him
would be to see Martin caught up in it and he’d come, too.

Martin
bent forward and kissed him, hungry and insistent, and Henry thought
of the strange boys kissing at the party and felt a hard surge of
blood to his cock. He felt guilty but also somewhat pleasantly
naughty for thinking of them at such a time. It felt right that he
could bring the arousal he’d felt in the basement into bed here,
now, with Martin; that it wouldn’t go to waste.

“Oh,
god, Henry,
Henry!” Martin reared up, tossing his hair back with an impatient
jerk of his chin, and juddered to a halt, teeth bared in an
almost-sneer as his cock jerked in Henry’s hand and he came in hot
spurts across Henry’s chest. At the first stinging splat of semen
on his skin, Henry’s vision went white and he arched up into
Martin’s weight and came deep in his ass, trembling to his very
marrow.

Martin
bent and kissed him again and Henry buried his hands in Martin’s
hair and ran them over his shoulders and back and pulled him close as
they kissed. Martin seemed content to let his spendings grow cool on
Henry’s skin. He rolled off Henry to lay at his side, his hand on
Henry’s hip.

“Did
you see the little red-haired fellow, Henry? The one who was up front
watching me?”

“Hmm?
No, I didn’t. Watching you, eh?”

“You
would have liked him. Maybe a little small for your taste, but so
very pretty. Bright copper hair, blue eyes, pale skin with just a
scattering of freckles. Really, he was more your type than mine, but
there was no question he wanted me. If I’d asked, I’m sure he’d
have come upstairs with us.”

Henry
had only had eyes for Martin and the worrisome boys after the dance;
he’d not seen this little red-haired seducer.

“You
could have made him fuck me, or you could have watched me fuck him.
Would you want to see that, Henry? Me fucking some pretty ginger?”

“Uh…”
Henry didn’t know. The answer was yes,
except that it meant Martin fucking someone else, and doing something
he hadn’t done with Henry.

“Or
you could have fucked him, of course, if you wanted to do a thing
like that.” Martin looked as though he found this option
distasteful, however. “I think he’s one of the Spanglers’
footmen,” Martin continued. “If you wanted him, I could arrange
it for you. Or I could find those boys you liked—”

“I
didn’t like
them; I only watched
them,” Henry insisted. “And only because they reminded me of us.”

“I
could find out who they were and get them for you. You could watch
them, or you could touch them if you wanted; it’s not so uncommon,
really, for masters to touch even if it is forbidden. You think
you’re the only one who wants to do forbidden things, Henry, but
you’re not.”

The
idea of allowing Martin to procure supplemental bed partners was too
overwhelming. Did his friends’ slaves do this for them, find them
additional partners? Were they all gleefully and carelessly touching
slaves’ bodies? If Henry had grown up in a family where they’d
owned slaves for generations, would he be more relaxed about doing
forbidden things?

“I’ll
get you anything you want,” Martin said. “I’m sure I’ll be
less jealous if only you’ll let me help you and don’t go off on
your own.”

“No,
no, that’s okay.” It sounded risky and terrifying. What if he let
Martin bring him some attractive stranger, some fiery-haired little
minx, and the fellow told other people that Henry had watched him,
touched him? “But thank you, Martin. Thank you for offering.”

“I’ll
do anything for you, Henry, you know this.” Martin seemed
especially concerned that Henry understand this, giving him a
searching look before getting up to fetch his basin.











Sunday
morning, Martin let Henry sleep late.

“I
thought you might be hung over, Henry.”

“I
think I’m all right.” Henry swung his feet over the side of the
bed and stretched. He felt a little creaky, perhaps, but not too bad.
“How do you
feel today?”

“Well,
I didn’t really drink, but I’m a little tired. I’m sure they’re
even more tired downstairs, though, having to clean everything up
last night.”

Henry
had not considered this, of course. Selfishly, he hoped that the
quality of his breakfast wouldn’t suffer secondary to the kitchen
slaves being up all night washing punch glasses. Quick on the heels
of these selfish thoughts, he decided that he would be willing to
overlook substandard offerings from the kitchen knowing how hard the
slaves had worked for the party.

Henry
washed, shaved and dressed and went downstairs to the breakfast room,
which he had entirely to himself.

“Do
you want to eat with me?” he asked.

“I’ll
drink some coffee, Sir, if that’s all right.” Martin went to the
sideboard to prepare himself a cup. “And maybe I’ll have a scone,
as well.”

“Whatever
you want,” Henry told him. He was relieved that his breakfast was
as varied and tasty as ever, with no negative impact from the slaves’
late night, and so he was not put in the position of having to be
magnanimous.

Martin
sat beside him with his coffee and scone, and Henry smiled at him
between bites of pancake.

“Was
that what a slave party is normally like?”

“Well,
it was my first party outside of my House, Sir, so I don’t have
anything to compare it to, really, but it was quite like parties back
at Ganymede.”

“Really?
At Ganymede there was all the—” and here Henry lowered his voice
“—sex
going on, too?”

“Oh,
certainly, Sir.” Martin nodded in the affirmative. “But you know
our lives are different than yours, Sir. In some particular ways, we
have more freedoms.”

Henry
wanted his life and Martin’s to be the same, for them to have the
same freedoms, the same amount of leeway, and felt jealous again
thinking of how wantonly Arthur had kissed Tom, how delighted Jerry
had been to kiss them both.

“I
know this party was a little different, though, Sir, in that your
father allowed it to be held here, at your house. Usually, slave
parties are held downtown at dance halls or other rented rooms. Most
masters don’t want all the commotion on their premises, you see.”

This
was another thing that the head of an old family would know, Henry
thought: not to have slave parties in the family home. Having the
party here had probably been nicer for the slaves, but he supposed it
might make his family seem tawdry, low-class. It might make it seem
like the Blackwells sanctioned all the indiscriminate fucking that
slaves engaged in.

“How
often did you have parties like that at Ganymede?”

“Not
often, Sir.” Martin broke off a bit of scone and ate it. “We’d
have smaller parties at Thanksgiving and Christmas, and another for
spring equinox, but the biggest party of the year was always in
August when we’d say goodbye to the sixteens, the companions going
up for auction.”

“So
there was a big party for you when you left?”

“Yes,
Sir.” Martin sipped his coffee and broke off another piece of
scone.

“Well,
tell me about it!”

Martin
leaned close and in a confidential tone said, “It’s not really
breakfast room talk, Sir.”

Henry
decided to forego seconds and thirds and put down his fork. “Will
you make me a cup of coffee to take upstairs?”

“Of
course, Sir. I’d be happy to.”

In
Henry’s room, Henry hurried to sit on the bed and patted the
mattress at his hip. “Come sit down and tell me about your wild sex
parties!” he urged.

Martin
laughed nervously. “Are you sure you want to hear this, Henry?”

“I
promise I won’t get mad at you,” Henry told him. “I know it was
all in the past. I know it was part of your training.” These were
the things he told himself, over and over, though he couldn’t help
remembering the fact that Martin had enjoyed
his training.

Martin
sat and sipped his coffee. “Well, I went to a few more parties than
some of the other boys in my cohort—”

“Your
what?”

“My
cohort. My age group. Everyone born between September 1, 1883 and
August 31, 1884.”

“Oh.
I sort of wondered how that worked.”

“The
slave calendar centers around the companion sale, since companions
bring in the most money. September 1st is like New Year’s
Day—everything starts over. The name of your cohort changes—you
go from being fifteens to being sixteens, see? But it doesn’t
happen for just companions-in-training; it happens for everyone in
the cohort. All the footmen and butlers and coachmen—everyone.”

“And
when was it you were sorted? At 12?”

“Yes.
You’re given your number when you’re just little,” he said,
pointing to his tattoo, “but you don’t get the disc until you’ve
proven yourself worthy, which either happens or does not when you’re
a thirteen, after you get your assignment. You get your training
assignment when you’re a twelve, you see, but once you get that
assignment you’re a thirteen.”

“You
told me a long time ago that you were one of the first to earn your
mark.”

“I
was the second companion-in-training in our cohort to receive it. My
friend Richard was the first.”

Henry
felt a niggling unease at the mention of Richard. Something about the
way Martin had talked about the dead boy in the past made him
slightly jealous, even though it was ridiculous to be jealous of a
boy who was dead,
after all.

“But
about the parties: I went to more of them than most others in our
cohort because I played in the band. Richard and I were both in the
band, as was my friend Georgie. He was another of the Superior boys,
one of the dark-haired ones.” Martin paused to sip his coffee
again. “Being in the band, we didn’t participate in the
goings-on, of course, but we saw
a lot. The summer party is the last chance for all the sixteens to be
together before the companions are sent away and…a lot of feelings
get expressed.”

“So,
wait. Are you sixteens or seventeens when you’re sold?”

“Oh,
we’re actually seventeens, I suppose, but we never get called that
because we leave right away, you see. We still think of ourselves as
sixteens.”

“Well,
how many sixteens were there, anyway? I know there were twenty-three
companions in your group.”

“When
I left, there had been one-hundred-twenty-seven in my cohort,
including companions. That’s everybody: all the butlers, footmen,
coachmen, grooms, and men-of-all-work, and a lot of them
are sold as eighteens or older. Of course, boys can
die, so there might be fewer now. Actually, some boys are sold off
sooner than companions, though there’s no fuss made over them,
unfortunately.”

“Which
boys?”

“Stable
boys like our Little Bob and Danny. Johnny, as well. Little Bob and
Danny were actually sold right after they were sorted, but Johnny was
only 10 when Mr. Tim chose him. It was a bit irregular, I must say.
It was only done because Mr. Blackwell has been such a valued patron
of the House.”

Henry
had been taken along when Father and Timothy chose Johnny two years
prior, but he hadn’t realized there had been anything unusual about
the sale. They’d gone to the Ganymede showroom and there had been
five small boys there for them to choose from. Henry hadn’t taken
an interest in any of the boys; he had been sulking about being
dragged along to the slave House instead of going to the arcade with
Louis. Johnny had stood out in some way and was selected, and then he
was taken into a back room and tattooed. He’d come out with
tear-streaked cheeks and a fresh mark weeping beads of blood, and
they’d taken him home.

“Stable
boys don’t bring in a lot of money,” Martin said with a shrug,
“so they don’t get a big party. But the Houses give companions a
chance for some resolution so they can go to auction prepared to show
their best faces.”

“What
do you mean by resolution?”

“It’s
the last opportunity to tell people how you feel about them, or to
have sex, or to pass on your treasures—since companions don’t
take anything away from the House, you have to do something with your
mementos and talismans, whether it’s burning them or giving them
away.”

“Burning?
Like the bonfire last night, that kind of thing?”

“Yes,
exactly, Henry. You take your old love letters and things like that
and you…let them go. Or you can give them away to another boy to
keep a little longer. I had a few notes like that, things that had
been passed down four or five times before they got to me. But when
it was my turn, I burned everything, even the things I’d carried
for other people. I needed to come away clean.”

“What
did you have that you needed to burn?”

Martin
hesitated a moment and looked down into his coffee cup. “I had a
letter from Richard, one that he wrote knowing I’d burn it
someday.” He bit his lip, still staring into his coffee. “We were
very special to one another.”

Henry’s
jealousy flared, roiling in his gut, and it took every bit of his
strength not to say something horrible, something he’d regret. He’d
worried, of course, that Martin had had someone he’d loved at
Ganymede, and he’d imagined it was Charlie, but it was worse
somehow that it was Richard.

He
had all kinds of questions, but he wouldn’t let himself ask any of
them. What had the letter said? Would Martin rather be with Richard
now? Did Henry and Richard look alike? What kind of sex had Martin
and Richard shared? They’d been so young when Richard died—was it
possible that they hadn’t had sex? Henry wondered this for only a
hopeful moment before dismissing it as ridiculous. He knew Martin,
and Martin would have wanted to be intimate with any boy that he’d
cared for like he’d obviously cared for this Richard.

Martin
was looking at him, his eyes sad and serious. “Please don’t be
jealous, Henry. I care for you so much that you have nothing to be
jealous about.”

Henry
let out his breath in a long, quavery exhale. “I’ll try, Martin.
All I can do is try.”

Rather
than waiting to see how Henry might react, Martin decided to forge
ahead with his story. “The summer parties are very emotional, much
more so than the party last night. Even though boys would be ashamed
to admit it, there’s a lot of crying.”

“Why
so many tears?”

“We’re
all separated into our training groups, and we naturally grow closer
with the boys we share training with, but you don’t forget those
earlier friendships. I had a friend, Harry, that I shared a bed with
from 6 to 12, and we had little in common anymore when we were
sixteens, but for those six years he was my home. I told him how
grateful I had been for his friendship my last night at Ganymede.”

Henry
desperately wanted to know if Martin had fucked this Harry, but he
knew better than to ask when he was feeling so emotional. It
shouldn’t matter, he told himself.

“What
happened to Harry? What’s he being trained for?”

“He’s
training to be a footman. He’ll be at Ganymede until he’s an
eighteen at least.”

“You
had a lot of friends,” Henry said. He knew this to be true, wasn’t
asking a question.

“Yes,
I did.” Martin agreed. “We all tried to get along, you know.”

“Because
of Hetaeria.”

“Yes,
because of that, Henry, but also because it’s good practice for
getting along with masters. Not all masters are as sweet as you.”
He put his hand atop Henry’s, interlacing their fingers. “I’ve
told you that I thought right away that you would be kind, and it
turned out to be true, but some of my friends’ masters gave first
impressions that were deceiving.”

“Like
who?”

“Do
you know Howard? Mr. Fox’s companion?”

Randall
Fox was one of Adam Pettibone’s few remaining friends, not someone
Henry had ever liked, so it was not surprising to Henry that Randy
would be deceptive or unkind. Howard was a pale, ethereal boy, a sort
of bedraggled angel with dirty-blond hair and big grey eyes, and
Henry did find him more attractive than not, albeit somewhat
grudgingly. But all he said was, “I know which one Howard is.”

“Mr.
Fox was very…seductive at the auction. He said things to Howard
that made him want Mr. Fox to take him, that made him think Mr. Fox
would care for him and be very tender. He was fully prepared to be
devoted to his master, but Mr. Fox hasn’t made it easy for him.
Howard’s feelings are easily hurt, and Mr. Fox treats him very
carelessly.”

“What
about my friends? Which of them don’t get along with their slaves?”

“Well,
we’ve talked about it before, but I don’t think Mr. Lovejoy and
Julian will ever have a good relationship, though I believe that’s
more Julian’s fault than his master’s. Mr. Townsend and Dick
aren’t the best match, either.” Martin shrugged, as he said,
“They disagree on most things and poor Dick feels very stifled.”

Henry
remembered what Martin had told him about Charles being a real lover
to Simon. “What about Charles and Simon? Do they still get along
all right?”

Martin
laughed. “Simon remains very devoted to Mr. Ross, and I assume with
good reason!” He nudged Henry with his shoulder.

“But
out of all of you, it’s just you and Simon whose masters are…are
extra-kind?”

“I’m
not certain, but I think Mr. Hollingsworth and Allen might be
particularly close.”

Daniel
and Allen made an odd couple to Henry’s eye. Daniel was short and
slight, blond and cute, and Allen was tall and lanky with long auburn
hair and piercing dark eyes. It was difficult for Henry to imagine
diminutive Daniel on top of Allen—but, then again, it was difficult
for him to picture little Louis bending Peter over. Actually, it was
probably better to not imagine any of his friends having sex; there
wasn’t one of them he wanted to see naked, not even handsome
Charles.

“Daniel
seems all right,” was all Henry said.

“Did
you want to know more about the party? I don’t want to bore you, of
course.”

“Yes,
tell me more. What kind of party is it? There’s a band, so I guess
there’s dancing, right?”

“Well,
it’s summertime, so there’s a barbecue picnic, and someone always
spikes the lemonade—it’s a teacher, to be certain, but they
pretend otherwise so we think we’re getting away with something,
you see.” Martin shifted in his seat. “Can I get more
comfortable, Henry? I want to lean back, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure,
of course.”

Henry
bent and yanked at his bootlaces while Martin removed his own boots,
then got down on his knees to finish what Henry had started. They
moved to sit at the head of the bed, side-by-side, with their backs
to the headboard. Martin wedged a pillow behind his hip and angled
himself toward Henry.

“Are
you comfortable, Henry?”

“I’m
fine. Keep talking.”

Martin
picked up Henry’s hand and played with his fingers. “As you said,
we had dancing, and it was a lot like last night’s dancing, in that
people would be very affectionate. From our vantage point, playing at
the head of the room we saw everything that went on, all the kissing
and groping and fondling, and most of us found it very titillating.
You have to understand that the majority of slaves really are very
comfortable having their needs met by friends of their same sex, even
if their preference is for an opposite-sex partner.”

“You
must have been happy growing up,” Henry said, chuckling.

Martin
gave him a short, assessing glance to ascertain whether he was joking
or about to become blameful. “Yes,” he agreed a little
hesitantly. “Boys like me make happier slaves.”

“You’re
telling me a lot of general things about these parties,” Henry
pointed out, “but I’m interested in your
party, the party this last August. Who did you have to say goodbye
to? Who do you miss the most?”

“Oh.
Well, I said goodbye to my Harry, who I was so close to when I was
little—”

“How
did you say goodbye to him?”

“I’m
sorry?”

“Did
you hug him? Did you have sex? What did you do?”

“We
hugged and kissed a little, and I talked to him a long time about how
much it had meant to me to have his affectionate heart to come home
to when we were boys. We didn’t have sex because we didn’t have
that sort of relationship. We were friends.”

“But
you would have had sex with him if he’d wanted.”

Martin
sighed. “Henry, why do you ask me these things? They make us both
so unhappy.”

“I’m
not angry, Martin, see?” Henry paused so Martin could look at him,
could see how even-keeled he was. “I just want to understand, all
right? So tell me, who else did you say goodbye to?”

“Well,
David was a childhood friend who’d thought he would be a companion,
but he’d been chosen to be a butler instead and he was still
disappointed over that. We said goodbye and I encouraged him to work
hard. Noah was probably the closest to Richard besides me, and we
never got along because there were jealousies, but we came together
to remember Richard—”

“Which
means what?”

“We
talked,” Martin said. “We only talked.”

“You
didn’t have sex with him?”

Martin
wrinkled his nose in distaste. “We really didn’t get along. We
just talked.”

“About
Richard.”

“Yes.
We both cared so much for Richard.”

Henry
didn’t much like the reminder that another had had a claim on
Martin’s heart, but he let it pass without remark. “All right.
Who else?”

“I
said goodbye to my friends Leo and Sandy, as well. Leo was a Superior
boy, like me, but Sandy was only Choice, like Noah. Leo and Sandy had
managed to share a bed all their lives, which perhaps shouldn’t
have been allowed, because they were so attached to one another that
it’s hard for me to imagine that they’ve fared well in
separation.”

“I’m
guessing that you shared a bed with Richard from when you were sorted
until he died, but who did you share with after that?”

“Yes,
I did share with Richard until he was gone. After that, I slept alone
sometimes, but mostly I shared with the other boys in our room,
Charlie and Stuart, or Leo and Sandy. My friend Georgie would
sometimes stay with me, but his regular bed partner didn’t
appreciate it when he did.”

“Who
was his regular bed partner?”

Martin
colored a little. “Noah.”

Henry
laughed. “So you were always stealing Noah’s sweethearts.”

“Well,
that’s how he
saw it.”

“Do
you and this Noah look alike or something?”

Martin
made a sour face. “Well, we’re both pale. He’s got red hair and
blue eyes. I suppose there’s a lot of crossover appeal. I’m sure
you’d have found him attractive if he’d been shown to you.”

“What
about the boys you were fond of? Did they all look alike?”

Here
Martin looked very uncomfortable, and Henry laughed.

“Do
I look like Richard? Go on, tell me.”

“There
are similarities,” Martin allowed, somewhat unwillingly. “Your
coloring is very similar. But I could say that of so many of my
friends.”

“I
know Richard and Charlie, then, but who else?”

“Georgie,
Leo, Mitch…lots of boys, really, Henry. These are just companions
I’m naming for you. There are so many dark boys in the world, and
that’s reflected in the stock at Ganymede, as well.”

In
the past, Martin had pointed out that there were plenty of dark free
boys he wasn’t
attracted to, as well, such as Louis. But Henry realized he’d never
asked who amongst his friends Martin did
find attractive.

“If
you were going to be with any of my
friends, who would it be?”

“I’m
sorry?” Martin seemed to be made quite nervous by the question.

“Just
answer me, Martin. You must have thought about it.”

Martin
squirmed, clearly uncomfortable. “Well…perhaps Mr. Ross, since I
know that he’s a more attentive lover than most. Mr. Ross isn’t
really my type, but he is a very handsome boy nonetheless.” Charles
was pale, with chestnut hair and hazel eyes, just overall several
shades lighter than what Martin preferred.

This
made perfect sense to Henry, and he found he did not feel terribly
jealous. “Anyone else?”

Martin
frowned and seemed to be seriously considering the question. “Well,
I’d do whatever you asked of me with any of your friends, of
course, but I don’t want any of them for myself.”

Although
he already knew the answer, Henry asked, “What about Louis?”

Martin
screwed his face up in instantaneous distaste, then immediately
rearranged it in a more neutral expression. “Mr. Briggs and I would
not be compatible at all. He’s very kind to Peter, but I want more
from a master than Peter does. Both Peter and Mr. Briggs are
good-natured about their sexual relations, but neither one wants
another man. They’re making do, for the time being. Mr. Briggs
would not be sensitive to my needs in the least. He would think me a
very silly and demanding fairy.”

Henry
supposed it was possible Martin was
a silly and demanding fairy, but he didn’t mind; it was, in fact,
exactly what he wanted. He shifted up on his hip, facing Martin, and
touched his cheek, and Martin closed his eyes and leaned into Henry’s
touch. Henry kissed him and his mouth was wet and melting, his tongue
slippery and tender as it twined with Henry’s own.

They
kissed a few minutes, separating only to struggle out of their
jackets and then falling back into one another’s arms. Henry felt
so full up with emotion that he grew shy, hiding his face against
Martin’s neck while Martin touched his cock through his trousers
and made him tremble, feeling so vulnerable and exposed.

“Martin?”
he whispered.

“Yes,
Henry?” Martin pulled back to look Henry in the eyes, his
expression a little concerned. “What is it?”

“I
only know you, Martin, you know this, and when I think of sex, I
think of you,
and what we’ve done together, but you’ve had a broader
experience—”

“Henry,
please—”

“No,
it’s okay, Martin. I’m not mad, I promise. I just wonder…do you
think of the others when you’re with me? Do you ever think of
Richard when we’re having sex?”

Martin
was quiet a long moment. “Honestly? Sometimes I am
reminded of Richard. He was like you: he was so tender with me, and
he wanted me to feel good above all. He would have been happy for me,
ending up with you.”

“He
wouldn’t have been jealous?”

“Not
exactly. He wouldn’t have begrudged you my body, but he would have
missed having my heart all to himself. Even so, I think he would have
been happy for us. If he’d been able to pick out a master for me, I
think he would have picked you: someone I’d be irresistibly drawn
to, someone who’d be kind, someone who’d be loving beyond my
wildest dreams. Sometimes I even think that it was Richard who
brought you to me.”

Henry
didn’t know how he felt about this, the idea that the dead boy had
generously selected Henry to be his replacement.

They
were quiet a few moments, Martin stroking Henry’s hair. “I know
you’re wondering,” Martin began, “so I’ll tell you.” He
hesitated a moment longer, then said, “I have better sex with you.
Everything I did with Richard was special because we were doing it
for the first time, but it’s better with you, Henry. The way your
cock fits my body is just so perfect; it feels like you were made for
me. You’re so handsome, exactly what I like in a man, and the taste
and smell of you gets me so excited. You know just how to touch me,
Henry. I truly love having sex with you.”

“You’re
not just saying that?”

Martin
snorted. “No, I’m not just saying it. You’ve had sex with me so
many times, after all. Can’t you tell how much I like it?”

Really,
when he thought about it, Henry had no idea how Martin might possibly
seem more
enthusiastic about their sex. Martin blatantly loved being fucked by
Henry, groveling on hands and knees or spread wide on his back. He
indisputably loved having Henry suck his cock; he was helplessly in
thrall to Henry’s mouth on his ass. He was endlessly eager,
endlessly arousable. He got hard when Henry kissed him, got hard when
Henry licked his ear, got hard when Henry told him he was beautiful,
got hard when Henry told him to take off his clothes. He was always
willing, always giving and generous. At this stage of their
relationship, it was unreasonable of Henry to doubt him.

“I-I
think so,” Henry said. “It’s just…it’s just that I’ve
been very lucky, I guess, and I don’t think I should depend on
luck.”

“But
you’ve always been lucky,” Martin said gently. “You were born
into fantastic wealth, after all. You’re physically gifted,
too—you’re tall and beautiful, and you’re good at anything you
choose to do with your body, whether that be sports or sex.” Now
Martin touched Henry’s face. “You’re blessed with a kind heart,
too, and you’re loving and giving. You had all these advantages
before we met.” He smoothed Henry’s hair off his forehead and
pressed a kiss between his eyebrows.

“Really,
I was the lucky one. Chances were I’d end up with a master who
wasn’t all that handsome, not terribly concerned with my feelings,
and not particularly sexually adept. That’s what most of my friends
have to contend with, you know, Henry; their masters are just regular
boys.”

Henry
could see that this was true, that Martin wouldn’t have been happy
with a less-passionate master, a more traditional master, someone who
was a stickler for the rules and steered clear of the forbidden.

“Do
you wish I was smarter?” Henry felt so ashamed asking, but he often
wondered. Martin was smart, and he’d grown up surrounded by smart,
handsome, talented boys, and surely he couldn’t help but want an
intellectual equal, too, and Henry knew he wasn’t that.

“Some
people don’t do well in a classroom setting—”

“I’m
not smart, Martin. It’s okay; I know it.”

“You
might not be terribly good at some subjects, Henry, but you’re not
stupid by any means. You’re very good at math, after all, and you
have a vivid imagination.”

Henry
didn’t point out that most of his imaginings had to do with Theo
and George, as he liked the idea that he was imaginative.

“I
think that you could do something creative if you wanted. You could
write your own stories, or we could do it together.”

“We
could?”

“If
you wanted to. I’m good at grammar and spelling and you could think
up the actual story.”

Henry
wondered what his father would think of that, of Henry writing
fiction. Would he scoff at it? Forbid it? Think it entirely beneath
his notice? It would probably be the latter. “That might be fun,”
he allowed.

“We
could enter a magazine story contest, if you wanted,” Martin
suggested. “Pals
or one of the other magazines.”

The
only stories that Henry really wanted to tell were the sex scenes
missing from Drake’s
Progress,
however, and he didn’t imagine Pals
would be eager to publish anything like that. “I’ll think about
it,” Henry decided. It would be fun to do it with Martin, even if
no one ever read it but the two of them.

Martin
pulled his watch out of his waistcoat pocket. “We’ve talked a
long time. It’s nearly time for lunch. Kiss me just a little longer
and then we’ll go down.”

Martin
pushed Henry down on his back and climbed on top of him, his knees
pressing into Henry’s sides. He held Henry’s face between his
hands and kissed him tenderly, lavishly, just the way a boy would
kiss his beloved. Henry felt a pain in his chest, a sweet ache that
was his longing for Martin, and it seemed he could never get Martin
close enough to make the pain go away.

Martin
sat up, taking Henry’s hand with him, and he pressed Henry’s palm
to his chest over his heart. Henry felt the rapid thudding of
Martin’s heartbeat under his fingertips and Martin’s voice
resonating in his chest as he said, “I feel so much for you, Henry.
Can’t you tell?”

Henry
swallowed hard. “I can tell,” he said. “I think we’re the
same.”

Martin
pressed his own hand over Henry’s heart and smiled. “I think
you’re right.” He climbed off of Henry and then down from the bed
and held his hand out for Henry to take. “Come on, Henry. Let’s
eat.”

Henry
obediently followed Martin downstairs and sat together with him in
the breakfast room, eating pea soup and cheese sandwiches and wedges
of vanilla cake with chocolate icing. All the while, he felt as
though they were somehow separate from the world, enclosed in a
golden bubble of warmth and tenderness, and every time he caught
Martin’s eye, it seemed evident that Martin felt as he did. Martin
slid his foot across the carpet so that their boots touched, though
he did so without looking at Henry at all, as if this would keep
Randolph or the footmen from noticing if they came into the room.

In
between bites of cake, Martin leaned close and in a low voice said,
“Sir? I’m happy I was able to talk to you about Richard a little.
Thank you for being a good listener.”

What
he meant, Henry suspected, was Thank
you for not having a jealous, childish fit and making me feel bad
about my dead friend,
but Henry would accept ‘good listener.’

“I
want us to be able to talk about anything,” Henry told him, which
was very true. “He meant a lot to you. You should be able to talk
about him.”

Martin
beamed at him. “He would have liked you, Sir.”

Henry
didn’t know how he felt about this, but he knew it was meant to be
complimentary. And, really, there was no reason to be jealous of
Richard. First and foremost, Richard was dead.
Besides, Martin was never Richard’s to begin with. Martin was
always destined for life with some rich young man, a free man; in
Henry’s most fanciful imaginings, Martin might have been destined
for Henry and Henry alone from the moment of his birth.

Paul
came to the dining room doorway and Martin quickly withdrew his foot.

“Sir?
Mr. Briggs is on the telephone. Shall I tell him you’ll return his
call?”

“I’ll
talk to him now,” Henry decided. “We’re done, aren’t we,
Martin?”

“I’m
finished, Sir,” Martin said agreeably.

Martin
followed Henry down the hall to the telephone alcove and lounged in
the doorway while Henry talked.

“How
was the slave party?” Louis asked.

“Wild,”
Henry told him. “I saw a lot of things…”

“Really?
What kinds of things?”

“Lots
of people having sex,” Henry said in a loud whisper.

“Tell
me more!”

“Not
over the phone,” Henry said, blushing at the idea of an operator
listening in.

“All
right then. Did you see Peter? I let him go for a little bit and he
met up with his girl.”

“No,
I didn’t see him. I was mostly just watching the band play.”

“That’s
right. Martin was playing. Did he do a good job?”

“He
did great. Everyone did.”

“After
this, all the slaves are going to want to have parties at their homes
from now on, you know. No more downtown dance halls.”

“My
family keeps messing things up,” Henry said cheerfully.

“It’s
understandable that you and your father don’t know how to do
anything properly,” Louis said affectionately, “But your mother
should know better.”

“I
think she might enjoy seeing the havoc my father causes,” Henry
admitted. “Or maybe she just doesn’t care at all.”

“What
are you doing right now?”

“We
just finished eating lunch.”

“Can
I come over? I want to get away from all these people.”

Henry
had been hoping to take Martin upstairs and lock the door and expand
on his golden, tender feelings, but he felt sorry for Louis cooped up
with all his annoying siblings, especially terrible James.

“Sure.
See you in a few minutes, then?”

“Thanks,
Henry. You’re a good friend.”

Henry
hung up the telephone. “Louis is coming over.”

Martin
looked a little disappointed, but all he said was, “Very well,
Sir.”

They
walked up the staircase side by side, shoulders touching. “I wanted
to be alone with you,” Henry admitted in a confidential tone, “but
Louis is having a hard time.”

“You’re
a good friend to Mr. Briggs, Sir.”

Inside
the bedroom door, Martin put his hand around the back of Henry’s
neck and pulled him into an ardent, impassioned kiss. When they broke
apart, breathless, Martin said, “Remember that for later.”

Louis
and Peter were sent up a few minutes later. Henry had spent the
intervening time wishing fervently that he had not let Louis invite
himself over, but once Louis was in his room, sprawled across the
foot of his bed, he was glad to see his friend.

“What
did you think of the party, Peter?” Henry asked.

Perched
at the end of the bed near Louis’ head, Peter seemed very pleased
to be asked. “I enjoyed myself very much, Sir. Good food, good
music, strong punch…I don’t think there was any way it could have
been improved upon, Sir.”

“Plus
you had your girl,” Louis pointed out. “Whatsername…Frances.”

“Yes,
Sir. Frances,” Peter agreed. “Or…or I call her Franny,
actually, Sir.” He turned to Henry and said, “She had a good
time, as well.”

“She
belongs to the Spanglers, doesn’t she?” Martin asked.

“That’s
right. She’s been with them two years.”

“Do
they have a red-haired footman there, a little fellow, quite
handsome?”

“Oh,
yes, that’s Jimmy. He’s a good egg.”

Martin
gave Henry a sly smile and Henry blushed. If he wanted it, Martin
would get it for him.

“Did
you meet Jimmy, then?” Peter asked. “Was he at the party?”

“We
didn’t meet, but he seemed very appreciative of the music, so I
wondered who he might be.”

Henry
had a moment’s fantasy, fucking Martin from behind while some
little ginger pixie fed Martin his cock, and he shuddered
pleasurably.

“What’s
with you?” Louis nudged him with his foot. “You look like you’re
going to be sick.”

“What?
No, I’m fine,” Henry hurried to assure him, flushing a brilliant
crimson.

“So
you said on the phone you saw all sorts of people having sex.”
Louis propped himself up on his elbows, prepared to be a good
listener. “What did you see, anyway?”

“Every
combination you can think of,” Henry told him. “Men and women,
men and men, women and women—”

“Tell
me about the women!” Louis urged. “Everything you can remember.”

“There
really wasn’t that much to see,” Henry pointed out. “Everything’s
so hidden on a girl.”

“Well
what were they doing?
Licking? Fingering?”

“Yes,”
Henry said. “Both those things.”

Louis
gave a frustrated growl and rolled his eyes. “Oh, Henry, you’re
the worst
at this!”

Henry
blushed again, and worried that his lack of descriptive powers was
showing him up as queer, or at least questionable. “Well, they were
doing things I’ve never done, obviously, so I don’t know how to
describe it, Louis.” He thought a moment. “There was a girl
leaning against the wall with another girl kneeling between her legs,
licking her, I guess, and she was gasping, and she’d pulled her
skirt up so her friend could get at her cunt, but she’d sort of
forgotten to hold it up, so it covered the girl’s head and
shoulders. She seemed very caught up in what was being done to her.”
He looked at Louis, who seemed pleased. “Was that better?”

“Yes,
much so,” Louis said happily. “What else did you see?”

“A
woman lying on the floor being fucked with another man stretched out
beside her kissing her, with his cock in his hand.”

“Okay,
what else?”

“There
were a lot of men together. Really, mostly men together.” This
wasn’t strictly true, but it was
what Henry remembered. “Do you want to hear about that, or just
things with women.”

Louis
wrinkled his nose. “I get enough of men together at the swaps,”
he said. “Just stick to ladies, please.”

Even
though he hadn’t actually seen it, Henry transposed his fantasy
about Martin and little redheaded Jimmy into something Louis would
like. “There was a woman on her hands and knees, her skirt bunched
up around her waist, who was taking on two men at once: one fucking
her cunt and the other fucking her mouth. She made these great little
greedy noises around the man’s cock, and they were both just
slamming into her, and she seemed to love it.”

“Did
you see her come?”

Henry
blushed. “I-I don’t know. She was
making a lot of noise.”

“That
was probably what was happening,” Louis said from a position of
moderate knowledge, post-Bridget O’Malley. “So this was all
happening out in the open?”

“Well,
in the back bedrooms—there are these unused bedrooms down there,
just in case we get more kitchen slaves—”

“Your
family has way too many slaves as it is!” Louis protested.

“Anyway,
there are unused bedrooms down past the kitchen, and people were
using them with no concern for privacy at all. People were wandering
in and out of the rooms the whole time. No one seemed to care that
they were being watched.”

“Is
that true?” Louis asked Peter. “Do you slaves not care if anyone
sees you fucking? I don’t mean at swaps, of course, but when it’s
personal sex.”

Peter
blushed. “I
care, Sir. Franny cares. But some people, if they’re drunk…maybe
they don’t care so much.”

“You
know, Henry, you probably could have gotten some pretty slave girl to
suck you off,” Louis pointed out.

Henry
frowned, finding the idea very distasteful. But he said, “I
wouldn’t want it to get around that I’d done that. There would
have been so many witnesses. And the girl could have been in so much
trouble.”

“They
were all drunk,” Louis countered. “You could have gotten away
with it, I’m sure.”

“Well,
I didn’t even try,” Henry said with a shrug. “Do you want to
play cards or something?”

“Sure,
but would you get Martin to play some of the music from the party?
Peter was really impressed and I’d like to hear.”

Henry
turned to Martin. “Would you mind?”

Martin
beamed at him, clearly delighted to have the opportunity to play.
“I’d be happy to, Sir.”

Martin
ducked into his room to get his violin. Henry got the cards and his
tea tin off the mantel and dumped out the money on the bed so that
they could each count out fifty pennies. Louis laughed at Henry’s
wads of bills and called him a barbarian, but he shut up and listened
when Martin began to play.

They
sat on the floor with the cards, Martin standing over them, light on
his toes. Henry glanced up at him as often as he dared. Martin was
playing with his eyes closed here, as he always did. Martin played
waltz after waltz, lush and rhythmic and Henry noted that Louis took
frequent opportunities to look up and watch and seemed very
appreciative.

Henry
fared better than usual, but he was still the first one out.

“This
is kind of stupid,” Louis said. “Just me playing Peter. We didn’t
need to come over here to do this, after all.”

Henry
lay down on his back on the carpet. “If you’re having fun, keep
playing. I’ll just listen to the music.”

“I
am
going to beat him,” Louis pointed out. “It’ll only take a few
more hands.”

“Sir?”
Martin said. “Sir, do you think I might play the partita? Not the
chaconne,
of course, but the other movements?”

Henry
opened his eyes and saw how much Martin wanted to do this. “I don’t
see why not. Go ahead.”

“Thank
you, Sir.” Martin began to play the first movement, the allemande.

“This
is different,” Louis remarked. “Pretty, though.”

“I
like it,” Henry said mildly. In fact, he loved it, and he loved
that Martin played it now, in front of other people, and that the
playing of it was like a secret message just for Henry. Every note
harkened back to the dozens of times Henry had heard its like played
for his ears alone, and the particular times that were especially
significant—like the times Martin had played in the nude, and the
time Henry had jerked off. In Martin’s playing here and now, Henry
heard the echoes of these memorable occasions, and it was amazing to
him that neither Louis nor Peter could hear that Martin was seducing
him with the violin.

“It
must be nice,” Louis remarked, peering at his cards, “to have him
play any time you want.”

“It
is,” Henry agreed. He looked up at Martin, and Martin was looking
back at him, perhaps a little amused. Henry sat up, knees bent and
feet on the floor to hide that his cock was threatening to get hard.
He pretended interest in Louis and Peter’s card game, his eyes
unseeing, all of his effort put into listening for Martin’s musical
messages. He could hear that Martin was impatient to be alone with
him, could hear a reiteration of all Martin had said before lunch.
With visceral clarity, he remembered Martin kneeling over him,
Martin’s heartbeat against his palm, and wanted to be alone with
him so that he could show him all that he felt.

“The
dance hall wasn’t nearly as wild as a slave party, I guess,”
Louis said, frowning at his cards, “but it was still a lot of fun.
I’m thinking I could go again, but maybe to a different venue.”

“You
don’t think you could go back to the same one?” Henry asked, just
to be asking; he didn’t believe Louis could go back to the hall
where he’d treated Miss O’Malley so shabbily, either.

“I’d
hate to see Bridget with another guy, and her friends would probably
kill me on sight, anyway,” Louis said glumly. “But I’d like to
try again with a different girl. Those working girls really know how
to cut loose and have fun.”

“Don’t
be stingy next time,” Henry suggested. “Buy the girl a drink,
take her some flowers.”

“Did
you think I was being stingy?” Louis sounded a little hurt, but
also genuinely curious.

“A
little,” Henry admitted. “You can afford whatever a girl might
ask for, especially if she’s being so generous with herself.”

Louis
laid his cards down: two pair to Peter’s flush. “Why won’t you
come, Henry? It’d be so much more fun if you’d come!”

Henry
flushed, his cheeks hot. “You don’t need me. All the other guys
will go with you.”

“But
I want you
there,” Louis insisted. “You’re my best friend. When we’re
old men, I want to be able to remember these times together.” He
gestured toward Martin. “You say you’re perfectly happy to stay
home with him, but that’s not normal, Henry, even if he does have
some sort of special skills—”

Here,
Peter snickered and Martin hit an off note, though neither Louis nor
Peter noticed.

“—and
you should be getting out there and trying things on with girls. I
know you like to dance, Henry, and I’ll bet girls would line up to
dance with the likes of you.”

Henry
shook his head, rejecting the entire idea. “I don’t know, Louis—”

“There’s
nothing to worry about, Henry. These are just practice girls; it
doesn’t matter if they’re not exactly what you want.”

Henry
didn’t want to talk about his chances with downtown girls any more.
He tried to divert the conversation a little. “Are the rest of the
fellows still going to the dance hall where Miss O’Malley goes?”

“Wendell
definitely is. He’s got that Betsy he likes. I don’t know about
everyone else. Hey, maybe Betsy would have a friend for you! Some
churchy girl who wouldn’t scare you too awfully much.”

“Ha.”
Henry flopped back down on the floor and shielded his eyes with his
forearm, attempting to head off further discussion of female
companionship by feigning fatigue.

“I
was wrong to push you toward someone like Bridget,” Louis
continued. “You’re too bashful to want a girl like that, I see
that now.” He dealt out cards to Peter, then added, “I won’t
push you anymore, all right? I just don’t like seeing you get left
behind, Henry. You won’t do swaps and you won’t try to meet
girls, and all the rest of us are just passing you by. I get that
Martin’s a great slave and you two get along really well, but it
seems like you’ve gotten even shyer now that you have him as an
excuse to stay home.”

Henry
lay on his back, arm blocking out the light, and felt how hot his
face was, imagined how red he must be.

“You’re
not saying anything. Are you mad, Henry?”

“No.
You’re right, I guess. But really, Louis, I don’t mind for now.”

“Don’t
mind what?”

“Getting
left behind. I-I’m not ready to get mixed up with girls, even
churchy girls.”

“What
are you afraid of, Henry? Why are you so scared of girls?”

Henry
was annoyed that Louis would ask this at all, and especially in front
of the slaves. “What makes you think I’m scared?” he said
defensively.

“Because
I don’t know what else your problem could be,” Louis told him.
“You’re rich and handsome, you don’t say too many stupid
things, and you’re nicer than most. You’re the sort of boy girls
want to meet. All you’ll need to do is make yourself available and
the girls will come to you.”

“I
don’t know what to tell you, Louis,” Henry said. “But I’m not
scared, so stop thinking that I am.” He sat up abruptly. “Can we
talk about something else now? I’m sick of talking about girls.”

“Fine.”
Louis sighed and laid his cards down. “Three of a kind.”

Peter
said, “Sorry, I’ve got a straight, Sir.”

Louis
swore under his breath. “It’s more fun with more people playing.
We need to deal you back in, Henry. And maybe Martin, too, when he
finishes this piece.”

“Should
I stop playing, Sir?” Martin asked, his voice a little constricted
by the angle of his neck.

“I
want to hear the rest of it,” Louis said, “but then you can take
a break.” He turned to Peter. “Count out some pennies for Martin,
will you?”

“Of
course, Sir.” Peter got up and went to the bed to draw coins from
the pile of money Henry had dumped there while Louis and Henry
redivided the pennies that were already in play into three equal
piles.

Martin
was halfway through the fourth movement, the gigue,
the last one he’d be playing. “Deal him in, too,” Henry said.
“He’s almost finished.” They left their cards face down and sat
and listened to the last measures of the lilting gigue.
Martin lifted his bow from the strings and gave a deep bow as they
clapped.

“Bravo!”
said Louis. “That was beautiful, Martin. Peter, is it too late for
you to learn an instrument?”

“I
had no aptitude when I was a boy, Sir; there’s no hope of me
learning now.”

“I’ll
just put my violin away, Sirs, and I’ll be right back,” Martin
said, seeming pleased by Louis’ praise.

When
they were all seated on the floor, having made their first bets,
Louis said, “I was thinking about it the other day…whatever
happened with that master who was kissing his slave?”

“Sir?”
Peter asked.

“Remember
when you were telling me slave gossip to cheer me up? You said one of
our friends was kissing his slave, and the slave wanted it to stop.
What happened with that?”

Peter
and Martin looked at one another, and clearly neither wanted to talk.

“Well,
Sir…” Peter began reluctantly.

“He
hasn’t really talked about it again, Sir,” Martin said.

“I
think he’s probably just going along with it, Sir,” Peter said
with a shrug. “He doesn’t have much choice, after all, does he?”

“He
should probably try to enjoy it, I guess,” Louis said, laying down
his cards. “Full house. What have the rest of you got?”

Louis’
full house beat Martin’s straight, Peter’s pair, and Henry’s
garbage hand. Louis scooped up the pennies from the pot and Martin
dealt out the next round of cards.

“Well,
what about that Alex?” Louis asked. “David’s slave. Is he still
acting crazy?”

Martin
frowned at the mere thought of Alex. “Well, he does
continue to be very disrespectful of Mr. Maxwell, Sir.” He tossed
two pennies onto the carpet.

“Why
doesn’t David do anything?” Louis asked, though he clearly did
not expect the slaves to have an answer. “Neither of you would get
away with acting like that.” He put in two cents.

Henry
suspected Martin might.
He didn’t know if he had it in him to discipline Martin should the
need ever arise. However, he would not be doing himself any favors if
he let Louis know of this lack of fortitude.

“Maybe
he thinks he’ll get somewhere with kindness,” Henry suggested,
matching Louis’ bet despite having nothing in his hand. “Some
masters might not have it in them to punish a slave.”

Louis
snorted at this, as if to make it clear he would have no such
compunction.

“Alex
does
brag that Mr. Maxwell is very forgiving, Sir, though I must say he
doesn’t respect him for it.” Peter made his bet and frowned at
his cards.

They
all took their turns discarding and drawing cards.

Louis
asked, “Henry? Has David ever said anything to you about Alex?”

“Me?”

“I’ve
never heard him say anything about Alex misbehaving, have you?”

“No...but
we’re not close, after all. If he’s talking to anyone, it’s
Philip.” David and Philip had always been good friends.

“Well,
I’m curious,” Louis said. “Aren’t you?”

Henry
shrugged. He could certainly understand a master wanting to keep
details about his relationship with a slave secret. “Not really, I
guess. He’s just a bad slave.”

Martin
and Louis placed their bets. Henry had nothing in his hand, but he
placed a bet anyway.

Peter
placed his bet and they all showed their cards. Martin had a flush,
Louis had three of a kind, Peter had a pair, and Henry had useless
cards.

“Why
did you bet?” Louis asked him. “Why didn’t you just fold,
Henry?”

Henry
blushed, feeling foolish. It didn’t seem sporting to fold when it
was just him and Martin, and with a larger group he never even
thought about it until it was too late. “I don’t know,” he
said. “I don’t care about winning anyway.”

They
played awhile longer, until Henry ran out of pennies, and then Martin
and Peter went downstairs to see if there was any cake left from
lunch. They returned with generous slices for all along with glasses
of milk.

“Your
cook makes better cake than ours,” Louis remarked, picking up the
last crumbs of his slice with the back of his fork. “Don’t you
think so, Peter?”

Peter,
who still had a little wedge of cake left, said, “I wouldn’t say
it anywhere our cook might hear, Sir, but I do agree with you.”

Henry
was pleased at this praise. “Martin, tell Cook how appreciative we
all were when you see her again.”

“I’ll
be happy to, Sir.”

Henry
leaned back against the foot of the bed to watch while the other
three continued to play poker. Clearly, he wasn’t going to have any
time alone with Martin until after his dinner. Martin didn’t seem
too obviously unhappy, laughing with Peter and Louis as they played,
but Henry felt confident that he, too, would have loved to spend the
afternoon in bed. He remembered what Martin had told him, that he
might have done everything with Richard first,
but that Henry had done it better,
and he felt compelled to prove it over and over again, just so Martin
would never forget.

Henry
must have dozed off, struggling to sit groggily upright out of a
glittering dream where he was blindfolded and Martin fed him bits of
chocolate-iced cake from his hand in order to claim him.

“Welcome
back, Sleeping Beauty,” Louis said. “We’re going home after
this hand. Peter needs his dinner.”

Henry
yawned and rubbed at his eyes. “I’m glad you came over.” He
was, too, mostly. “Who’s winning?”

“Peter.”

Peter
won the final hand with a flush, all hearts.

Henry
and Martin went downstairs with Louis and Peter and said their
goodbyes in the front hall. Paul brought Louis and Peter their coats
and let them out as Henry went back upstairs, Martin close behind.

Henry
wasn’t even aware that he had reached for Martin; they were inside
the room, the door was locked, they were in each other’s arms.
Martin’s mouth was hot and sweet and liquid, his hands were tight
in Henry’s hair, his body was molded to Henry’s own.

“I’ll
have to go down soon,” Martin whispered, clearly regretful. “Later,
Henry, after your dinner, promise you’ll take your time with me,
please.” He nuzzled Henry’s neck and rubbed his prick through his
trousers. “Promise you’ll fuck me nice and slow.”

Henry
felt lightheaded. “Whatever you want,” he promised. He ran his
hands up and down Martin’s back, from the nape of his neck to his
ass and back again, tangling in his hair. Martin sighed in his ear
and clung to him, trembling.

“Or
maybe I should skip my dinner. I could stay here with you, and we
could—”

“No,”
Henry said firmly. “No, you’ve got to eat.” He rubbed his cheek
against Martin’s hair and pulled him closer still, feeling Martin’s
hard cock pressed against his own. “I’ll wait for you,” he
promised, resolving not to jerk off while Martin was gone. “I won’t
do anything on my own. I’ll just be waiting and wanting you so
much…”

They
separated after a few more kisses and Martin went downstairs, leaving
Henry alone with his achingly stiff prick and nothing to be done
about it. He took off his boots and sprawled on the bed staring at
the ceiling for a few minutes and then, sighing, sat up and forced
himself to act. He read some more of his detective story; he
understood that one of the pleasures of such a story was trying to
figure out the mystery for oneself, but he knew he wasn’t clever
enough to do so and was content to let the solution be revealed in
due time. So far, all of the brilliant detective’s deductions had
been decidedly non-intuitive, and Henry was simply not believing
Charles’ claims that he’d figured out the identity of the
murderer on his own before the end of the book.

He
heard Martin’s rapid footsteps in the corridor and sat up
straighter, eyes on the door.

“Henry,
we’ll need to dress you in a hurry.” He seemed very apologetic.
“I hoped to get back to you sooner so we might have time for, well,
a little
something, but all the others wanted to talk to me about my
performance at the party and I couldn’t be rude.”

“No,
of course you couldn’t,” Henry agreed. He stood and unbuttoned
his waistcoat. “They were all proud of you, I hope.”

Martin
beamed and ducked his head shyly. “They were, and of Jerry, as
well. The girls in the kitchen did such fine work, too. The whole
neighborhood seems in agreement that it was an especially good party,
so we’re all rather proud of our showing.”

Henry
let his trousers fall to his ankles and stepped out of them, then
picked them up with his toe, knee raised, for Martin to take them and
hang with the rest of the suit. “Are there slave parties often?
You’ve never mentioned any, but have there been parties that you
might have gone to that you never told me about.”

“Oh,
well, yes,” Martin admitted. “But I haven’t wanted to go and
leave you alone. It wouldn’t be right to take you to another
family’s party, and I’d rather be with you anyway.”

Henry
wondered if this was really true. Really, really
true. Even though it pained him to say so, he claimed that, “If you
wanted to go to a party, Martin, you’d just need to let me know so
I could be prepared.”

Martin
shook his head and took Henry’s worn shirt from his hands. “I’d
rather be with you.” He helped Henry on with his dinner shirt and
said, “You saw what the party was like. That’s what they’re all
like. People go to parties looking for sex, but I don’t need to do
that.”

“You
could just dance,” Henry pointed out, although of course he didn’t
want Martin to go at all.

“I
don’t want to dance with anyone,” Martin said firmly. “I’d
just be standing around getting drunk with my friends and they’d
all be putting pressure on me—” Here he stopped abruptly and
knelt with Henry’s dinner trousers. “Step in, please.”

“They’d
be putting pressure on you for what?” Henry thought he knew,
though. He remembered Tom’s embrace after the dance, Tom whispering
in Martin’s ear.

“My
friends don’t have with their masters what I have with you. They
don’t understand that my needs are amply met by you, and I can’t
really tell them so without telling too much.” He buttoned Henry’s
braces on in the back while Henry buttoned them in front. “I often
wish I could tell them, though. I want to tell them how happy you
make me.” He gave Henry a shy smile and took his waistcoat out of
the wardrobe.

This
gladdened Henry’s heart. “I wish that, too. I wish I could tell
Louis, especially, but he wouldn’t understand at all.”

“No,
he wouldn’t,” Martin agreed. He held up the waistcoat and Henry
slipped his arms through.

“If
I were a slave, too, we wouldn’t have this problem,” Henry noted.
“We could be together and no one would think anything of it.”
They had talked of this previously, though, and Martin had found the
suggestion very impractical.

“Yes,”
Martin said, “but we’d have other problems. We’d likely belong
to different households and we’d never see one another. Our masters
might not allow us time on our own. If you want to be with me, this
is the best way. And besides, I’ve said it before: I don’t think
you’d be happy as a slave.”

“You
don’t think I’d be any good at it, you mean.” Actually, Henry
didn’t believe he’d be any good at it, either, but he disliked
the idea that Martin would think him lazy or shiftless.

Martin
held up Henry’s dinner jacket and shrugged. “If a slave is
unhappy, he doesn’t do a good job. I don’t think you’d get
satisfaction from the work, not the way that I do, or that Peter
does, or any of my friends do.” He came around to face Henry and
smoothed the jacket over Henry’s shoulders, picking a speck of dust
off the silk lapel. “You’re suited to being my master, Henry;
take pleasure in that.” He kissed Henry lingeringly, a flick of his
tongue against Henry’s lip.

Dinner
was uneventful, Father busy with his paperwork and Mother off in her
own world. Afterward, upstairs in the family parlor, Henry slumped in
his chair waiting for Pearl to read, but Pearl did not pick up her
book.

“Darling,”
Mother said, “I understand you went to the slaves’ party last
night.”

Henry
froze. How did his mother know this? Who had told? “Uh, yes, ma’am,
I did.” He flushed crimson and shifted in his chair to move out of
the lamplight.

“I’ve
always wanted to go to a slave party,” Mother continued blithely.
“I understand that they’re quite licentious!”
Mother giggled at the naughtiness of the idea, which embarrassed
Henry further. He had had no idea Mother was hiding this sort of
frisky nature under all her layers of black depression.

“Er,
maybe a bit more so than a society party,” Henry allowed, unwilling
to share all that he’d seen with his mother!
“There’s some kissing that goes on.”

Mother
laughed. “You’re sparing my sensibilities because I’m a lady,
aren’t you darling? I know very well it’s more than that! When we
were young, my Pearl loved parties and told me all
about them.” At this, Pearl blushed to the tips of her ears and
looked down at her hands in her lap.

The
idea of the Pearl he knew, a gentle and modest lady, having sex in a
back room at some wild party was a little upsetting, but there was no
reason to think it couldn’t be true.

Father
cleared his throat. “You understand it was fine to attend this
party since it was in your own home, Henry, but you’re not to go to
slave parties elsewhere. If you let Martin go, he goes on his own,
understood?”

“Yes,
sir.”

“You’re
not to get mixed up with slave girls. It’s bad for your reputation,
and the consequences are dire for the girl.”

“Yes,
sir. I know.”

“You
have Martin to take care of your needs,” Father reminded him.
“He’ll have to be sufficient until you’re old enough to marry.”

This
was mortifying beyond belief. Henry shrunk into himself, flushing a
furious crimson.

“Henry.
Do you understand?”

“Yes,
sir. I understand.” Henry hunched in his chair, feeling exposed and
persecuted.

Mother
sat up straighter and adjusted her shawl around her shoulders. “By
the way, Hiram, why on earth did you allow the party to be held
here?” she asked. “I was quite surprised, you know. It would have
been much more usual to rent a hall.”

Father
gave her a black look. “Perhaps if you’d seen your way to give me
counsel beforehand, I would have made a different decision.”

“Didn’t
Timothy suggest—?”

“I
thought to do Billy a kindness for his years of service,” Father
said. “I didn’t see the harm in having it here. It’s a very
large house and it was no bother to any of us. A few broken glasses
was all the damage.” He rattled his paper and settled back behind
it.

“Our
family surely has an eccentric reputation,” Mother remarked with a
haughty sniff.

Henry
thought she was right, but just as much for her reclusiveness as for
Father’s social errors.

Down
the hall, behind Henry’s locked door, he shook with relief to be
alone with Martin at last. They undressed quickly, leaving their
clothes scattered on the carpet. Henry bent Martin over on the bed
and dropped to his knees behind him. He parted Martin’s ass cheeks
and spit on his asshole, which twitched as Henry’s saliva slid down
the cleft toward his balls. Martin whimpered and shifted his weight
back, toward Henry’s mouth.

“Please…”

“Please
what?” Henry blew across Martin’s wet asshole and grinned as
Martin sucked in a sharp breath and squirmed.

“I
can’t wait. I want your mouth on me.”

Henry
spit on him again and chuckled at Martin’s frustrated whine. He
couldn’t wait, either, though. He licked Martin, a slow drag of his
tongue from Martin’s balls up to his hole, making him wet, flicking
and probing and drilling down while Martin shuddered and moaned, his
voice muffled by the bedcovers.

Henry
tugged on his own cock while he licked. Martin thrust against the
coverlet, sinuous twists of his hips while he pushed back against the
pressure from Henry’s mouth and tongue. Henry usually didn’t let
Martin rub against anything while he licked his ass, but he would let
Martin have it this time. He liked the feeling of Martin moving under
his mouth, grinding against his own cock. He imagined that this was
what Martin would move like if he was fucking the Spanglers’ ginger
footman, the muscles of his buttocks contracting and relaxing as he
humped the coverlet.

Henry
lifted his head and spit on Martin’s asshole and then pushed his
finger inside. Martin groaned and arched his back. Henry got to his
feet and reached with his free hand for the nightstand drawer. “Do
you want to be fucked now?”

“Please,
Henry. I’ve wanted you all day.”

“Spread
your legs.” He nudged Martin’s leg with his knee. “More. Nice
and wide.”

“Like
this?” Martin drew one knee up beside himself on the bed, splayed
open.

Henry
pushed two oiled fingers in Martin’s hole and gave him an
affectionate slap on the ass with his other hand. “That’s
perfect.” He oiled his cock and slid the head along the cleft of
Martin’s ass. His heart beat faster as Martin shuddered.

“Please,”
Martin murmured, rocking his hips against the bed. “Nice and slow,
like we talked about, please.”

Henry
leaned over him and Martin turned awkwardly so that they might kiss.
Henry lined up his cock and pushed his hips forward, letting loose a
little moan as his cock breached Martin’s hole. Martin whimpered
and his fingers clutched at the coverlet as he arched his back and
offered himself to Henry.

Slow
and steady, in and out, every stroke flaying Henry’s nerves,
leaving him raw. His entire skin was tingling and sensitive, his cock
most tender of all. He gripped Martin’s hips with bruising pressure
just to stop the shaking of his hands. Martin writhed beneath Henry
and rutted against the bed, making little helpless cries with each of
Henry’s thrusts. He pushed his shoulders and chest up off the bed
and twisted to look back at Henry and reach for him. Henry took his
hand, bent over it and kissed it.

“Henry,
oh, Henry,
you’re mine.”

Henry’s
chest ached with love. He felt sodden and foolish. “Who else’s
would I be?” He blushed and let Martin’s hand go, caressing
Martin’s buttocks and parting them to look bashfully down at his
cock sliding deep in Martin’s hole.

“Will
you come in me? I want to feel it.”

Henry
immediately began to tremble and kneaded Martin’s ass to steady his
hands. “I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Then
do it.”

Henry
fucked him a little faster, a little harder, jolting the bed frame
with each thrust. Martin cried out and made breathless grunts as
Henry’s hips slammed into his ass. Martin slipped his hand beneath
his belly to touch his own cock, humping his fingers and grinding his
hips back against Henry’s. The dusky skin of his asshole was shiny
with oil, stretched tight around Henry’s cock, and he moved like
his hole was greedy for Henry, that he needed him ever-deeper inside.
He lay sprawled on the bed, brazenly offering up his ass with his
back arched, his tawny hair spilling over his face, and Henry wanted
to say momentous things to him, impetuous things, but he bit back the
words and came in a blast of white light.

Impulsively,
without any forethought, Henry pulled out while he was coming, his
cock jerking with each thick spurt, painting Martin’s fucked-open
hole milky white, and reveling in the sight of his spunk on Martin’s
skin and dripping down over his hole. Just as impulsively, he thrust
back inside, the way slicked by his semen, and felt his cock jerk a
final satisfying time.

Martin
had still not come. He made frantic noises and ground his hips down
against his hand. Henry tried to continue to fuck him, but his spent
cock went soft and slipped from Martin’s body.

“I’ll
clean you up,” Henry suggested. He spread Martin’s buttocks with
his hands and looked at the mess he’d made with complete possessive
tenderness.

Martin
began to breathe in excited gasps. “Oh, Henry, are you going to…?
Oh, god, that’s so dirty!
Please,
Henry…”

Henry
bent over and put his face between Martin’s cheeks and licked him
thoroughly, licked the white from his skin and his sensitive open
hole. Martin shuddered with each stroke of Henry’s tongue and began
calling his name with desperate urgency, his hips jerking as Henry
thrust his tongue deep in his ass. He stilled and groaned and came,
his hole twitching under Henry’s tongue.

Henry
ran his hands up and down Martin’s back and over the globes of his
ass. He bent to kiss the back of Martin’s neck, an open-mouthed,
soft bite, and then lay on him a moment, his chest pressed to
Martin’s bony back. Martin rolled beneath him, up on his hip, and
slipped his arm around Henry’s neck, pulling him down for a kiss.

“I
made a mess,” he murmured. “All over the coverlet.”

“We
have people to do the laundry,” Henry reminded him. He pushed
Martin over on his back and noted the darkened wet spot on the bed
and the sticky shine of semen on Martin’s belly. Henry bent and
licked him clean, and Martin made breathy, excited exclamations and
petted Henry’s head as he did so.

They
lay sprawled across the bed, Martin on his back and Henry curled
around him, Martin stroking Henry’s hair, until Martin sighed and
gently pushed Henry away. “I need to take our laundry down to
Mary.”

Henry
wanted to cling to him, to make him stay, but knew it would only
annoy him and he would leave anyway. He lay waiting on the bed and
listened to Martin working the taps in the bathroom, first taking a
minute to clean himself and then filling his basin.

Martin
padded back into the room and Henry propped himself up on his elbows
to watch Martin wash his cock, his touch purposeful yet also
lingering and tender. When he looked into Martin’s face, Martin
smiled back at him, his expression open yet intimate and so
wonderfully fond, and Henry felt things for him he’d never felt for
any other person, things he’d never imagined he was capable of
feeling.

Martin
put on his pajamas and dressing gown and collected the laundry in his
basket. He kissed Henry and said, “I’ll be right back.”

While
he was gone, Henry brushed his teeth and then flopped down on the
bed, accidentally rolling into the wet spot and then fastidiously out
again—it was cold!—before returning to it to smell Martin there,
feeling like a dirty little animal for doing such a thing.

Martin
returned in short order and shed his dressing gown and pajamas as
soon as he was inside the door. He went naked to the bathroom and
brushed his teeth and then joined Henry on the bed.

Under
the covers, in Henry’s arms, Martin asked, “Henry? With all of
the dirty things you do for me, don’t you think you might let me
try doing some of them for you, too?”

Henry
stiffened a little, wary. “What do you mean?”

“I
could lick your ass—” and here, he seemed to instantly recognize
that Henry was about to protest “—or if not that, then maybe I
could touch it for you? It feels so good that I know you’d like
it.”

“I
don’t know, Martin…” As always, Henry couldn’t help thinking
that he was just somehow dirtier—actually
dirtier—than Martin. He wasn’t terribly hairy, but he was hairier
than Martin, and that added to his sense that his own ass crack was
more complicated than Martin’s fine-haired faerie-prince cleft.

“We
could try, and if you didn’t like it I wouldn’t ask again.”

“Why
do you want to?”

“For
the same reasons you
do. I want to make you feel good.”

“You
already make me feel good,” Henry said firmly. “I don’t need
anything else.”

“I
want it, then, Henry. I want to know you in that way. If we’re
really lovers, shouldn’t it go both ways?”

It
was a good point. Henry sulked a little as he contemplated it. Had
Martin’s other partners allowed him such latitude? Henry didn’t
want to ask, but he was fairly sure the answer was yes. He felt
unquestionably that dead Richard had let Martin do whatever he
wanted, and he didn’t want Richard to have that over him.

“I’ll
think about it,” he promised, kissing Martin’s forehead.

Seeming
satisfied for the moment, Martin said, “Thank you, Henry,” and
craned his neck for a kiss on the lips.

Henry
felt good about how they’d left it: he hadn’t made any promises,
and he would
think about it, and Martin seemed happy enough for the time being. He
decided he could wait a few days before making any decisions; if
Martin responded favorably to Henry’s Valentine’s Day
declaration, then he’d feel more inclined to allow Martin a little
leeway.

Henry
fell asleep quickly and dreamed of Martin fingering and licking and
fucking the ass of an appreciative little ginger and Henry was hurt
and jealous that Martin would do such things for anyone but him. He
woke Monday morning unreasonably irritated at Martin for these
ephemeral transgressions and struggled not to punish him for things
he hadn’t actually done. It did occur to him, though, that Dream
Martin had only gone after the little redhead because Henry wouldn’t
give him what he wanted.











In
the few remaining days before the Valentine’s holiday, Henry became
more anxious about his planned declaration. What would Martin think?
Would it matter to him? Would he be happy? Would he say the words
back to Henry? And what if he did? What would the words mean coming
from a slave?

Henry
had gradually come to understand—dimly, inarticulately, and with
fretful concern—that any declaration from Martin, no matter how
heartfelt it might seem, was tainted by circumstance. Martin was
Henry’s property—Father’s property, actually—and he was no
more able to make choices for himself than was any of the family’s
horses. Henry wanted Martin to have the freedom to choose to be with
him, but he could take away Martin’s ability to choose at any time,
which meant it wasn’t Martin’s to begin with.

Henry
believed that Martin cared for him, and he also believed that Martin
would have cared for him had they met as free men, but he had an
uncomfortable awareness that Martin had been trained to be devoted to
his master, whoever that master might be. The thought that Martin
might have cared so deeply for anyone who’d taken him home filled
Henry with anxiety. Martin was so special to him, and the thing he
wanted most was to be truly chosen by this boy he adored. But there
was no way to separate Martin from his slave status, and Henry wasn’t
sure Martin’s romantic feelings could be separated from his desire
to be the best possible companion, the best possible slave.

These
niggling ideas were upsetting and unwelcome, coming to the forefront
of his mind in quiet moments and draining the enjoyment out of little
intimacies. He didn’t want to ask Martin about the truth of his
feelings because he didn’t think it would help. He knew that Martin
would confidently claim he wouldn’t have felt so passionately about
any other young master, and he’d probably believe it himself, but
Henry wasn’t so easily convinced.

But
even if Martin’s affections were colored by bondage, even if Henry
could never be sure Martin loved him above any other boy he might
have called master, Henry had to tell him how he felt. The pressure
to share his feelings bubbled up in his chest, in his throat,
threatening to burst from his lips. He was afraid he’d blurt it out
in front of his friends—or his father. If he could say the words to
the one person who needed to hear them, then maybe he’d be able to
keep quiet in front of everyone else.

However,
there was some indication of finer feeling on Martin’s part—the
red rose painted on his protection stone—and Henry clung to this
proof. At the party, Tom had been firm in his characterization of red
roses as symbols of passionate love, not mere affection. With the
stone, had Martin already made a declaration? Henry agonized over
possible interpretations and their significance.




There
were other reminders of the uncertainty of love. On Monday after
school, Martin had a report about the progress of Tom’s affair with
the stable slaves.

“I
understand that they had a lovely time together Saturday night. I
think Tom might be falling in love with them,” Martin remarked,
helping Henry off with his school uniform. “He normally prefers a
female partner—”

Henry
did not believe this for a minute. “He likes you,
and now he likes them,”
Henry pointed out. “I do believe he likes girls, too, Martin, but I
don’t think he actually prefers them.”

“Well,
regardless, Henry, he’s grown so very fond of Jerry and Arthur, and
he seems a little surprised to feel this way. I worry that they
aren’t taking him seriously and he’s going to have his heart
broken.”

“Don’t
get in the middle of it,” Henry advised. “No one will thank you
for getting involved.” He stood in his underwear before the open
wardrobe. “The blue suit will be fine, I think. And the waistcoat
with the serpentine stripe.”

“Very
good.” Martin handed Henry a clean shirt, which he pulled on and
let Martin button.

“They’re
quite a bit older, aren’t they? Jerry, at least.”

Martin
fit a fresh collar around Henry’s neck. “Well, yes, Henry, they
are
older. Jerry must be 24 or 25, and I know Arthur is 20. But what does
that matter?”

“Just
what you were saying about them taking him seriously. To them, he’s
nothing more than a boy, isn’t he?”

“He’s
just as capable of great feeling as any adult, though, Henry. Just as
you and I are, after all.” Martin seemed a little offended at
Henry’s shortsightedness. He knelt down with Henry’s suit
trousers and held them ready. “It will be difficult to see Jerry
and Arthur at dinner and not want to put in a good word for him.
Maybe you don’t see it, but Tom is a fine person and they’d be
fortunate to have his love.”

Henry
was annoyed by this generous assessment of Tom’s value, as it
stirred up his simmering worries about Martin’s real feelings for
Tom and Tom’s intentions toward Martin. Tom might well be in love
with Jerry and Arthur, but that didn’t necessarily diminish his
desire for Martin. But all he said was, “You’d best not say
anything. Let them handle their own affairs.”

“Of
course. I know you’re right.” He bit his lip and buttoned on
Henry’s braces. “It’s just that I want his feelings to be
returned. I want happiness for everyone. Don’t you want that too?”

Henry
kissed him in answer, touched by Martin’s sweetness, and the
kissing intensified such that Henry soon shed the clothes he’d just
put on, overcome and giddy with his passion. Martin’s stated
desire, happiness for everyone, gave Henry hope that Martin might be
receptive of his feelings when he made his announcement.




Henry
had signed Martin’s valentine the evening he brought it home,
waiting until Martin went down to dinner before sliding it out of his
magazine. He had written With
all my love. H.
and had drawn a little heart. He’d thought that if the card was
found by some nosy person in the household, it would be better to
have just the initial, but now he felt silly: it was obvious who H.
was. Now, on the eve of the fated day, he wondered if four words were
enough, if it would have been better to put a poem, even if he was
just copying it from elsewhere. But it was too late to make any
changes; he’d just have to hope for the best with his uninspired
offering.

Although
it pained him to do so, Henry decided to forego making any
announcements in the morning. They wouldn’t have any time to
celebrate—assuming there was celebrating to be done—so he decided
to hold off on making declarations until they returned from school.

Martin
was brisk and chipper and kissed Henry sweetly as he straightened his
tie. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Henry.”

“Happy
Valentine’s Day to you, too.”

None
of Henry’s classmates had real sweethearts. Some had girl cousins
with whom they were close. A few had casual associations with
working-class girls that they kept hidden from their families.
Wendell had his girl, dance hall Betsy, and was meeting her downtown
after school to give her a card, and Freddie was going along in case
she brought a friend. Louis gave Albert his card to give to Abigail,
and when Louis wasn’t looking, Albert rolled his eyes.

After
school, as Martin held Henry’s coat for him to put on, Henry
noticed an envelope sticking out of Martin’s pocket. “What’s
that?”

“Oh,
that, Sir. It’s from Tom.” Martin hurried to add, “He gave
cards to others, as well, Sir.”

Henry
felt a surge of irritation. He wanted to snap that Tom should turn
his attentions elsewhere and not get above himself, but all he said
was, “Oh, Tom,” and shrugged into his coat.

All
the way home, Louis chattered manically about the card he had sent
home with Albert, about whether or not Abigail would remember him
fondly, and whether this gesture would make her more favorably
disposed toward him in the future. Henry caught a glimpse of Peter
smirking at Martin as Louis talked and felt a little sorrier for
Louis. There was not a single person who believed Abigail would ever
turn her favor on homely little Mr. Briggs.

Billy
let them in and took their coats, informing them that they might find
cookies for the holiday in the breakfast room. They found a plate of
heart-shaped, pink-iced shortbreads on the sideboard.

“Tell
Cook thank you,” Henry said happily, stuffing a cookie into his
mouth. “Martin, let’s bring the rest to my room.”

Inside
Henry’s room, the door locked, they kissed, their spit sugar-sweet.
Breaking away, Henry said, “I have something for you.”

“I
have something for you, too, Henry.”

“Really?”
Henry drew back and looked at him quizzically.

Martin
laughed. “Let me go get it.”

Henry
had hidden his card beneath his desk blotter and got it out now. He
had no reason to feel as nervous as he did. Martin liked him very
well, he knew it, but what if he didn’t feel as Henry did? Martin
had said himself that he’d wanted his master to like him a little
more than he ought, and he had certainly gotten that with Henry;
maybe everything between them had simply been a ploy to secure better
working conditions. Maybe Henry was about to make a fool of himself.

Martin
emerged from his room with an envelope in hand and high color in his
cheeks. “It’s nothing special, really; it’s just a card.”

“That’s
special,” Henry insisted. “Or I hope it is, since it’s all I
have for you, either.”

They
sat on the side of Henry’s bed and exchanged envelopes.

“Should
we open them at the same time?”

“Ready?
One, two…three!”

Henry
worked his finger under the flap and popped it open. His hands shook
a little. Would it be a friendship card only? He should be prepared
for that, and, after all, friendship was a very fine thing in and of
itself. He would be happy with friendship, he would.
With the flap open, he could see a wedge of the card, vivid colors.

It
was a love card. Two cherubs, one dark, one tawny, fishing hearts
from a stream beneath a canopy of cherry blossoms. “To My
Valentine.” On the back, Martin had written I
belong to you, Henry, body and soul
and signed it xo
Martin.
Henry gasped in relief and felt the heat flood his face.

“Do
you mean this, Henry?” Martin asked urgently. “When you wrote
‘love,’ did you really mean love?”

“Yes,
I meant it,” Henry told him. “I love you, Martin.” It felt
wonderful to say so.

Martin
made a little noise, sharp and excited and triumphant. He threw
himself into Henry’s arms and kissed him, trembling and digging his
fingers into Henry’s biceps. “Say it again, Henry. Tell me
again.”

“I
love you.”

“Can
I say it back to you, Henry? Do you want to hear it from me?”

“I
do if it’s true.”

“It’s
true, Henry. I love you.”

Henry
held Martin’s beautiful face between his hands and Martin put his
hands lightly on Henry’s wrists. Henry believed him; Martin didn’t
look like a liar. He seemed so happy, bright color in his cheeks, his
brilliant eyes alight. Henry slid Martin’s glasses from his nose,
folded them, and groped one-handed to place them on the nightstand
while kissing him, then kissing him harder and pulling him close.

Martin
pushed him gently away. “I don’t want my card to get bent.”
Henry laughed, finding this charming, while Martin collected the
cards and envelopes from the bed and put them safely on the
nightstand. “Laugh if you must, but I’m going to treasure this
valentine.”

“Believe
me, I will, too.” He pulled Martin back down to lie on the bed. “Do
you want me to say it again? I’ve been wanting to say it for so
long that now I just want to say it over and over.”

“Once
more, then, please,” Martin said, smiling.

“I
love you, Martin.”

Martin
clung tight to Henry, burying his face in his neck. “I love you,
too, Henry.”

They
made love—that was definitely the right word for it, at least
today—in a fervent rush, half-undressed, clothes jerked awry,
aquiver with the enormity of what they shared, what they had
together. Henry couldn’t stop himself saying I
love you
over and over, but it was all right because Martin wanted to hear it.
Martin was shaking, deep in the grip of some strong emotion as he
moved urgently over Henry’s lap. He begged Henry’s name, and
Henry heard it with fresh ears, understanding that what Martin was
asking for, over and over, and every time, was Henry all to himself.

He
could give Martin that. He’d do it happily.

Was
it possible for people to be closer than this, inside each other’s
skins and breathing each other’s breath? When at last he put his
hand on Martin’s cock, Martin cried out and came, and then he came,
too, like a natural consequence of Martin’s pleasure.

Martin
curled against Henry’s chest while catching his breath as Henry’s
cock softened in his ass.

“Say
it again,” Henry murmured. “Tell me.”

“I
love you. No one but you.”

“What
else?”

“You’re
mine.”

Henry
hadn’t known that was what he’d wanted to hear, but it was
exactly right. He sighed and held Martin closer still, rubbing his
back in soothing circles. He was so happy, happier than he’d ever
thought possible. He was full up with joyous relief and felt silly
for ever doubting Martin’s feelings. Hadn’t Martin shown him love
every day?

As
and after Martin performed his clean-up, they shared a dreamy
interlude of what Henry felt could now properly be called lovers’
talk, which was marred only slightly by Martin’s tentative
assertion that Henry would have other lovers at some future point.
Henry was annoyed, but he would not let it ruin his mood.

“There’s
not going to be any future person,” Henry said firmly, tamping down
his irritation. “The one I love is you. I don’t need anyone else.
I certainly won’t be looking.”

“I
don’t need anyone else, either.” Martin was meek, apologetic. He
drew Henry into a close embrace.

“I
don’t want to fight,” Henry murmured, kissing Martin’s neck.

“Me,
neither. I’m sorry.”

“Please
stop worrying about what’ll happen in the future,” Henry told
him. “You really don’t have to, and it hurts my feelings
besides.”

“I’m
sorry,” Martin said again. “I just…I’m trying to be
realistic.”

“You
have to trust me,” Henry said, willing Martin to do just this.
“Forget whatever they told you at Ganymede about how masters act.
That’s not me. I love you. So much, Martin.” He kissed Martin’s
mouth and gave him a little shake, as if that would make him
understand.

“I’ll
do better,” Martin promised him. “I love you, too. More than I
thought possible.”

“Yeah?”
Henry was pleased by this.

“Yes,
definitely. I didn’t think I’d have a master like you.”

Henry
shook his head. “This isn’t to do with me being your master,”
he said. “It’s just love.”

They
made love again, this time up against the wardrobe mirror because
Henry wanted to see their faces together, to appreciate their pained,
adult expressions. He enjoyed seeing how his hands looked on Martin’s
skin, fingers digging in, holding him in place. His face in the
mirror over Martin’s shoulder was dark with passion, his expression
somber; this was his real self, the face he would show only to his
beloved.

It
was dirtier this time, rougher, the way Martin liked it. Henry’s
hips slammed against Martin’s ass, jolting his body up against the
glass, and Martin gave a hitching gasp with each thrust. When he gave
Martin leave to touch his cock, he came calling Henry’s name, and
so Henry came, too, collapsing against him, cock jerking in his ass.
He never wanted to let him go.

For
once, Martin was in no hurry to clean up, in spite of the spunk
dripping down his thighs and the surface of the mirror. He turned in
Henry’s arms and kissed him deeply, urgently, as if he hadn’t yet
had his fill of Henry. They kissed and kissed as their ardor slowly
mellowed. Henry’s blood stopped fizzing and his impulses gentled;
he could enjoy their closeness without needing to act upon it.

Martin
broke off kissing. “Henry?”

“Hmm?”

“Do
you want another cookie?”

Martin
lay on his back on the bed picking the icing off a cookie and getting
crumbs on the coverlet. “This goes against all my training,” he
said happily. “My teachers would be so angry with me.”

Henry
ate the last bite of his own cookie and licked his fingertips. “What
part of it goes against your training?”

“Offering
up my feelings without you asking for them. My feelings aren’t
supposed to matter, after all.”

“Your
feelings do
matter to me, though.”

“I’m
certainly glad they do, Henry. But it’s still wrong, you see? In
telling you I love you, I’m encumbering you with my emotional
concerns and putting them on par with yours.” He did not seem at
all sorry of this, though, which Henry found gratifying.

“Well,
I’m glad you did. Nothing has ever made me happier.”

“I
hoped you’d feel that way. It is
good service if it makes you happy, is what I think.”

Henry
preferred not to consider Martin’s love a service,
so changed the subject. “Say, when did you find a moment to buy a
card, anyway?”

“I
should ask you the same. I skipped lunch one day—they’ll let us
do that sometimes if we have a legitimate need. I said I needed to
buy you some headache tablets and went to the shop.”

“They
let you go off by yourself?” Henry wasn’t sure he liked that
Algonquin would do this without asking his permission. Henry didn’t
think Martin had ever had occasion to be out in the world on his own
before, and his immediate concern was that someone might have
harassed Martin, interfered with him.

“I
was a little nervous,” Martin admitted, “and I did worry you
might not like it, but I really wanted to get you a valentine.”

“No
one bothered you?” Henry worried that people—that men—would
have sought to waylay Martin, to talk to him or touch him.

Martin
laughed gently. “No one took any notice of me, Henry. I was just a
slave on an errand. Every time we go downtown we see unaccompanied
slaves going about their business and we don’t pay them any mind.”

Those
slaves weren’t Martin, though. They hadn’t his appeal, his charm.
They weren’t special, and Henry didn’t love them. He didn’t
like the idea of Martin moving unaccompanied and unprotected through
the world, but he did appreciate that Martin had done it for him,
out of love. With effort, he let his worries about Martin’s safety
go, and returned to discussion of the cards.

“That
was a smart plan. I got yours when I went to buy that magazine,
remember?”

“Oh,
of course. While I was looking at the peep shows.”

“Hey,
show me Tom’s card,” Henry said, suddenly remembering its
existence.

Martin
rolled off the bed and brushed crumbs off of his chest as he padded
to his room.

Tom’s
card was an unambiguous friendship card, signed Friends
always, Tom,
with an innocuous little heart drawn alongside. Henry could find no
real fault with it. Martin should have friends, of course. He’d
hoped Martin would be close with Peter, and they seemed to like each
other well enough, but their friendship was nothing like the strong
affinity Martin had for Tom.

“It
was very thoughtful of Tom, don’t you think?” And perhaps he
could read Henry’s mind, because he added quite casually, “I
didn’t have one for him.”

Henry
shrugged and handed the card back. “I’m glad you have a good
friend,” was all he said.




The
next day brought a letter from Uncle Reggie.

Little
Prince,

I
am writing to you from my charming villa in the Italian countryside,
though admittedly it is somewhat less charming at this time of year
than it will be in the spring when everything is in full leaf. It’s
so beautiful in the spring—I wish you could see it. I regret that I
won’t have the opportunity to show the house to you, or to throw
you one of the parties we were known for. I am going to miss this
house and all the good memories it contains.

I
am making progress, albeit slowly. There are furniture dealers coming
out from the city tomorrow to look at the contents of the house—I
put it off as long as I could, but it has to be done. I am going to
have a few special pieces shipped back home to put in my rooms in
Gilbert’s house, but I will have to let go of almost all of it. I
am feeling most crushingly sentimental at the moment and am certain I
don’t want to sell a stick of it!

I
am reluctantly entertaining offers from Mr. Ellsworth’s former
rivals for the purchase of his antiquarian book business. These are,
for the most part, grisly old men, and they’re circling like
hideous, moth-eaten vultures. Some of them were quite terrible to Mr.
Ellsworth when he was alive—it’s a business full of back-stabbing
and craven behavior, surprisingly—and I am disinclined to sell to
any of them. Eventually, however, I will have to choose one, though
none is deserving. I have to remind myself that the sooner I am free
of my encumbrances here, the sooner I can come home to my siblings
and my dear nephews.

I
can’t quite get used to the idea that the little boys I left behind
are now almost grown men. I had worried that there would be no
remainder of the fondness you had for me when you were children, but
I’ve been delighted and gratified to find that you both love me
still and are willing to forgive my long absence. I love the other
children, of course, but you and Jesse have always been special to
me, and I can’t tell you how pleased I am that you like one another
as well as you do. I do hope you will try to spend more time
together. I think you’ll find Jesse sympathetic, and I hope you
boys will be supportive of one another as you grow into adulthood.

I’ve
written to my friend Sullivan about your predicament. Sully is the
youngest of my friends. He was only about 15 when I left the city, so
he’s right between us in age and might have the best idea of where
a boy as young as you could meet the right sort of people. I don’t
want you getting mixed up with a bunch of toughs, and I don’t think
you want to make friends with a bunch of flamboyant types, either.

I
hope this letter finds you well. All the love from Benjy and myself
to you and your lovely Martin. Write when you have a moment, darling
boy—I’d be absolutely thrilled to hear from you.

R.

Henry
showed the letter to Martin. “You’ll help me write to him, won’t
you?”

“Whatever
you need me to do,” Martin assured him. “But, really, it should
be easy enough. Just tell him what you’ve been up to. That’s all
he wants to know.”

Imagining
the letters Jesse must be writing, the poetry and grand descriptions,
Henry wasn’t sure that a mundane accounting of his schoolboy
existence would be enough to satisfy Reggie. If he were face-to-face
with Reggie, he might be inclined to confess that he’d officially
declared his love to Martin, but he certainly wasn’t going to write
that down in a letter—too bad, because no doubt his uncle would
have found it interesting.

The
declaration loomed large in his mind. Henry resisted the urge to
constantly tell Martin that he loved him. Since first declaring his
love he’d said it only a handful of times more, and surely that was
wise, but his heart hammered out the words and they threatened to
leave his mouth with every breath. Trying to be mature about
declaring his love was leaving him feeling just as desperate as if
he’d not said anything in the first place. Restraint seemed
prudent; surely his love would mean more if he wasn’t constantly
blabbing it about. He had intended to restrict himself to one
declaration a day, at nighttime, in bed; he had so little experience
of adult people expressing love that he wasn’t sure what was or was
not reasonable, but that was where he intended to start.

It
was difficult, though, as Martin did so many things that were
eminently lovable. For instance: the affectionate way he straightened
Henry’s jackets across his shoulders. The occasional unthinking
nudges he gave his glasses to keep them on the bridge of his nose.
The look of intense concentration on his face as he ran a razor over
Henry’s throat each morning. Mundane, ordinary things transformed
by Martin into holy acts.

Martin
always said it back, sometimes even said it first. Martin was
actually freer with it than Henry, clearly not worried about
overdoing it. He said it when they were fucking, his voice roughened,
grunting it out, which threw Henry off his rhythm, overcome with the
desire to perform especially well, to warrant the love that Martin
professed.

Henry
wondered if Martin were practiced at saying the words, if he’d ever
told any other boy that he loved him, but hesitated to ask. He
thought he knew what the answer would be, and he didn’t want to
hear Martin admit that he’d been in love with Richard. He didn’t
want Martin to lie to him, but he did often want the truth to be
something other than what it was.

Sunday
evening, they lay curled together on top of the bedding, sweat
cooling on their skins, and Henry burned with the desire to say what
he felt. He readied himself to say it, his official daily love
announcement. It wouldn’t be the first time this day, though. He’d
been unable to resist telling Martin in the morning, leaning over to
whisper in his ear as they sat alone in the breakfast room, Martin
with a drop of maple syrup on his lip that Henry longed to lick away.
Martin had been wide-eyed at Henry’s daring, but had not returned
the sentiment until later, up in Henry’s room with the door locked.

Henry
had been unable to resist saying it again then, either, during their
post-breakfast sex, with Martin riding his prick and coming on his
chest, saying Oh
god, Henry, I love you so much,
as he wrung an orgasm out of his pretty cock. The combination of
Martin’s words and his hot spunk splatting against Henry’s chest
was the catalyst for an unparalleled intensity of feeling on Henry’s
part, and the words came out of him without volition, as if he were
in a trance.

He’d
managed to keep from saying it the rest of the day, though he’d
wanted to, many times. It helped that they were in company with
friends, where such declarations would have been both inappropriate
and foolhardy. They’d gone walking in the park with Louis and Peter
after lunch, met up with some of their other friends at Bethesda
Terrace, and spent the afternoon following three vivacious young
ladies and their very comely slaves hither and yon. The girls had
accepted the boys’ attentions as if they were their due, which
Henry took offense at, and he hung back while his friends fell all
over one another trying to impress the girls with their gallantry,
wit, and manliness. For once, girls read Henry’s signals correctly
and focused their efforts on the boys who were receptive to their
charms, leaving Henry free to watch Martin at leisure.

Freddie
wasn’t with them, so neither was Tom. Martin had to make due with
Simon, Dick, Ralph and Peter for company, but he gave every
indication of enjoyment, laughing and chatting with the others, and
Henry had longed to hang back and walk with him, to listen to him
talk, to smell and touch him, but instead had to listen to his
friends trade hectic, suggestive banter with some big-headed girls.

He
watched Charles flirting with the prettiest of the three, a brunette
in a blue hat decorated with sad little stuffed birds, and glanced at
redheaded Simon and considered what he knew of their relations. From
what Martin had told him, he understood that Simon preferred men and
was quite satisfied with Charles as a master, though of course he
couldn’t know if Simon loved his master. He wondered if Charles
loved Simon, if he’d ever said so. Charles wasn’t like Henry,
though; Charles definitely liked girls. He was just nicer to Simon
than he had to be.

When
they got home, Martin wanted to practice his violin and Henry let him
do it. He lay on the bed with his hands behind his head, his cock
half-hard and his eyes closed, and said, “I love…the way you
play.”

Martin
said, “Thank you, Henry,” with a brilliant smile, but said
nothing more.

Hours
later, after both had eaten dinner and all had listened to Pearl read
another batch of magazine articles aloud, Henry was dismissed to his
room, where he let himself be undressed and put into bed. Martin put
on his pajamas and went downstairs with the laundry and the little
green glass bottle, as they were out of oil. He was gone longer than
usual, which Henry supposed was to be expected, but he grew impatient
nonetheless.

Martin
returned with a full bottle and an impish grin, and climbed onto the
bed and into Henry’s embrace. They rolled around and wrestled a
little, ending up on their sides, spooning, Martin twisting his upper
body so that they could keep kissing while they fucked. Henry loved
that they could have so much of their bodies touching in this
position, that they could be so close.

Martin
asked, “Do I feel good to you, Henry?” in a breathy voice, a
little shy, as if he really wasn’t sure.

He
felt so good that Henry was shaking. He wrapped his trembling hand
around Martin’s cock and said, “You feel amazing. You feel so
good to me.” He couldn’t last. He kissed Martin and said, “Can
I come? Are you close?”

Martin
made a throaty little growl and his cock flexed in Henry’s fist.
“Do it, Henry. Let me feel it.” He arched his back, pressing his
ass against Henry’s hips.

Henry
let go of Martin’s cock and took hold of his hip for leverage and
began to fuck him with purpose, wanting to come, wanting to explode
into him. Martin’s body, his ass, was the perfect meld of velvety
heat and tight slickness; Henry’s cock never felt better than when
it was inside Martin. He felt the tension build deep at the root of
his cock and the last few frantic seconds were like a race, running
pell-mell for the tape and bursting through. He shuddered and groaned
in Martin’s ear, his eyes fluttering shut.

“Hold
me.” Martin wriggled against Henry, his back pressed to Henry’s
chest. “Help me come, too.”

Henry
held him close, wanting to keep his cock inside Martin as long as
possible. He kissed the back of Martin’s neck, his hand spread low
across Martin’s belly, while Martin tugged at his prick.

“Henry,
Henry,
oh, god, I—” He cut off his own words with a shout and he stilled
as the muscles of his belly jumped under Henry’s hand.

Henry
curled around him, still inside him, but Martin turned in his arms so
that they might kiss, causing Henry’s cock to slip out of his body,
and both made sounds of dismay. Henry trembled still, little shivers
that gave him goose bumps.

In
a low voice, Martin asked, “Are you cold?”

“No,”
Henry said. It had been nearly twelve hours since he’d last said
it; surely he could say it again now. “I’m not cold. I just feel
so much, Martin. I…I love you.” Saying it aloud, at last, was
like being parched and sere and then drinking a river, and Henry
exulted in it, drenched in emotion.

Martin
moaned and held Henry closer, fitted himself against his body. “I
love you, too, Henry. I want to tell you all the time, you know. I
stop myself a thousand times a day—”

“Why?
Why stop yourself?”

“I
don’t want you to think I’m saying it frivolously. I want to come
to you as a man who loves you, not a silly child.”

Henry
laughed and gave Martin a squeeze. “I feel the same way. I’m
trying to be very mature, but it’s hard when I want to tell
everyone how amazing you are, and how lucky I am to have you.”

“You’re
so sweet.” Martin was quiet a moment and then said, “It’s too
bad there’s no one we can tell, no one at all.”

“It’s
not safe,” Henry said by way of agreement. He thought his best
chances of being understood were among other queer men, but he
supposed it was possible that even queer men would frown on a man
falling in love with a slave. He recalled Reggie’s promise to help
him and hoped that his uncle would come through. If he could tell
just one person, and that person would be happy for him, he might be
able to be content.











On
Monday, Freddie was uncharacteristically taciturn and irritable in
between morning classes. In the break between Mr. Granger’s class
and Mr. McLachlan’s, he came to Henry’s desk and leaned over,
speaking to him in a low voice.

“I
need to talk to you alone, Henry. I’ll find you after lunch, all
right?”

Henry
was instantly concerned. “What’s this about, Freddie?”

Freddie
shook his head. “After lunch.”

It
was cold and raining, so boys opted to stay indoors after lunch,
wandering the hallways and lounging in the library. Henry found a
quiet seat at an empty table in the reference section by a
rain-spotted window. Martin stood near his chair and Henry turned to
look up at him.

“Do
you know what Freddie wants? Did Tom say anything?”

Martin
paled. “I think Mr. Caldwell should tell you, Sir.”

“So
you do know something! Tell me what’s—”

“Oh,
here’s Mr. Caldwell, now, Sir. He’ll explain it all.”

Freddie
approached, his expression grim, and Tom followed with his head
bowed, looking miserable and ashamed. Freddie sat down across from
Henry, Tom at his back.

Freddie
leaned over the table and spoke quietly. “So, listen, Henry. I have
to tell you something I’d rather everyone didn’t know. If all the
guys found out, there’d probably be a riot, but it affects your
slaves, so I’m telling you and only
you, all right?”

Henry
was a little alarmed. “What’s going on, Freddie?”

“It’s
Tom,” Freddie said. “He’s got the clap and he’s probably
given it to your stable slaves. He won’t have given it to any of
our friends, thank god, but I know some of them would panic anyway if
they knew, so please
don’t tell anyone, Henry, I’m begging you.”

“Uh…okay.
Wow.” Henry was a little overwhelmed. “How did he get it?”

“One
of his girls,” Freddie said dismissively, his face twisted with
disgust. “I gave him leave to do as he pleased, but I thought he’d
use some common sense!”

Henry
had some minimal knowledge of gonorrhea thanks to James. When James
had contracted gonorrhea, he’d bragged of it just as he’d bragged
of the promiscuity that exposed him to the disease, but he’d
complained bitterly of the weeks-long cure.

“We
had the doctor in to see him,” Freddie continued. “He spent the
entire weekend having his prick flushed with silver solution, and
he’ll probably have to keep on treating it another couple of weeks
at least.” He turned and looked over his shoulder at Tom, and
although his annoyance was still very apparent, he gave Tom a
lopsided smile. “Poor idiot.”

He
turned back to Henry. “He’s very worried about your slaves. What
are their names again, Tommy?”

“Jerry
and Arthur, Sir,” Tom said glumly.

“Maybe
you knew already, but he’s been carrying on with them for awhile,”
Freddie said. “He’s quite fond of them, you know, so this is bad
luck for him.”

Henry
thought of how happy Tom, Jerry and Arthur had all seemed at Billy’s
wedding and felt terrible for all three of them. He supposed it was
possible that Jerry and Arthur might overlook this, but it seemed
unlikely.

“I
wanted you to know so you could have your doctor look at them. It’s
best to catch it early, they say.”

“I-I’m
really sorry, Sir,” Tom said in a quiet, tremulous voice. “I
never wanted anything like this to happen.”

“Of
course you didn’t,” Henry said, trying to sound reassuring. “Have
you talked to Jerry and Arthur yet?”

“Not
yet, Sir. Mr. Caldwell is letting me go see them after school today.”
Tom certainly did not seem as if he was looking forward to this,
however.

“So,
promise you won’t tell the others, Henry.” Freddie’s eyes
darted nervously around their corner of the library. “I haven’t
even told Wendell, and he’s my best friend,” he said. “It’s
all under control now. I haven’t taken Tommy to a swap in awhile,
and I’m keeping him out of them until he’s cured, so I don’t
see why anyone should need to know.”

This
sounded reasonable to Henry. “I won’t tell. Thanks for letting me
know. I’ll make sure Jerry and Arthur are looked after.”

Freddie
got up from his chair. “I need to go find Wendell, or he’ll
wonder where I am. Thanks a lot, Henry. You’re a good sport.”

Henry
turned to look up at Martin, wide-eyed. “So,” he said, his voice
just louder than a whisper. “This is bad news.”

“Do
you think we should just tell Mr. Tim, Sir?” Martin asked in an
equally hushed tone. “Maybe your father won’t even need to know.”

Henry
had not thought that far ahead. He stood up; it was easier to talk in
whispers if Martin wasn’t having to bend over to hear. “It’s
good that Tom is going to tell them himself, don’t you think?”

“He’s
so worried, Sir! He’s afraid they’re going to be very mad at
him.”

Henry
rather thought they would be. He felt bad for Tom, and for Jerry and
Arthur, but he felt vindicated for opting out of swaps, and for
keeping Martin all to himself.

Louis
and Peter rounded the nearest row of shelves.

“There
you are!” Louis crowed triumphantly, unconcerned that he was in a
library. “What are you doing over here by yourself?”

“I
was looking something up,” Henry said, making a vague gesture
toward the books.

This
seemed to satisfy Louis, who shrugged off this uninteresting
information. “Do you have any cards?”

“Cards?”

“We
want to play poker, but no one has any cards.”

“We’re
at school,”
Henry pointed out. “Who has cards at school?”

“Apparently
nobody,” Louis said, with another shrug. He turned to Martin, “Say,
do you have any idea why Freddie is so cranky? You being so close
with Tom, and all.”

Martin
lied smoothly. “No, Sir. Tom hasn’t mentioned anything that might
be bothering Mr. Caldwell.”

“Come
on over here with the rest of the guys,” Louis said, with a jerk of
his chin. “Jeremy has some new dirty pictures he’s showing
around.”

“Really?”
Henry tried to sound interested and thought he came off rather weak,
but it seemed to pass muster with Louis. He followed his friend to a
corner deep in the stacks where boys were passing around photographs
of women exposing their tits and cunts. Henry feigned interest in
these lewd images, hoping there might be a sex photo with a glimpse
of cock, though he was ultimately disappointed in this regard.

While
Henry shuddered inwardly at images of women’s soft parts, he
glanced up occasionally to look at Martin where he stood leaning
against the shelves with Tom, who seemed near tears. When the bell
rang, Henry and his friends followed their slaves downstairs to their
respective classrooms, and he noted with some jealousy that Martin
put a comforting arm around Tom’s shoulders.

After
school, they could say nothing until they parted from Louis and Peter
at the front gate.

They
gave Billy their coats and went upstairs.

“What
do you think we should do, Henry?”

“Father
and Timothy won’t be home for another couple of hours at least,”
Henry said. “I guess we just wait.”

“Will
you come down to talk to Mr. Tim with me when he’s home? I don’t
know why, but I’m a little nervous.”

“I’m
sort of worried that Jerry and Arthur will be in trouble,” Henry
admitted.

“Me,
too, Henry.” He sat next to Henry on the edge of the bed and leaned
his head on Henry’s shoulder. “Tom is so frightened. He’s
worried that Jerry, especially, will never want to see him again.”

“Well,
that’s not unlikely,” Henry pointed out. He picked up Martin’s
hand and intertwined their fingers. “He really does like them a
lot, doesn’t he? I could see how upset he was this afternoon.