A Collar and Tie (Ganymede Quartet Book 4) (25 page)

“
Dad
!” she complained, wriggling out from beneath his
arm. “
Please
don’t treat me like a baby.”

“There are some people here I’d like you to meet,” he told
her. “We’ll want to fill up your dance card, pumpkin.” Seeing her expression,
he laughed. “Don’t pout, Abbie. I promise, you’ll like some of them.”

“Fine.” She turned to Henry. “Remember, I’ll see you for
that waltz, Mr. Blackwell.”

“I won’t forget.” Henry gave her a rueful smile, feeling a
little sorry for her. She walked away with her parents, Helena following behind
with the other DeWitt slaves, leaving Henry alone with Martin.

Martin leaned close. “You were wonderful, Sir. You looked
like a prince.”

Henry blushed at the praise. “I thought we did all right,”
he admitted. “The girls all looked pretty, I hope.”

“Very pretty, Sir,” Martin agreed. “Would you like to ask
some girls to dance?”

“I suppose I’d better.” Henry looked around for likely
girls.

“What about Mrs. DeWitt, as well, Sir?” Martin looked at him
expectantly, head cocked. “I think it would be a nice gesture, Sir. I do think
you should dance every dance if you can find partners.”

On the way to catch up with the DeWitts, they came across
the rest of the girls from Henry’s set—Lacey Dormand, Lettie Stokes, Cecile
Langford, plus his original partner, Ginevra Collingsworth—and Henry signed up
to dance with each of them. Ginevra stood with friends she thought ought to
dance with Henry, as well, and Henry was happy to oblige. Encouraged by the
enthusiasm with which these young ladies had accepted Henry’s requests, he grew
bolder and simply began asking random girls if they’d dance with him, and all
but one said yes.

While seeking dancing partners, they also ran into Henry’s
friends, singly and in groups, and twice snuck out into the hallway to sip
surreptitiously from boys’ flasks. At last they found the DeWitts, who stood in
a clump of parents all nodding and sipping champagne, and Mrs. DeWitt seemed
very pleased by Henry’s request, giving him the last dance before the
intermission supper. Because of all the sneaking and sipping, Henry ran out of
time before he could fill out his dance card for the second half of the ball,
and hoped that he might still be able to find some partners once the dancing
was underway.

The music began. Henry danced the first two dances with
complete strangers, but found Lettie for the third tune and led her out onto
the floor for a giddy polka. She was tall, and her reddish hair reminded him a
little of Martin’s, and so he could almost imagine he was dancing with Martin
in front of all these people, and that the crowd found it entirely unremarkable
except for the fine quality of their dancing.

After seeing Lettie to her next partner, Henry found Ginevra
for a varsovienne. They executed the skips and hops of the dance in high
spirits. Henry was happy to have the chance to dance with Ginevra after all;
she was a good dancer, perhaps better than Abigail.

Henry got through the first half of the ball in this way,
passed from girl to girl and enjoying himself immensely, until the final dance
before the intermission supper, which he had promised to Mrs. DeWitt. She was a
passable dancer, not as good as her daughter, but it was only a waltz and
required no especial skills. As he led Mrs. DeWitt off the floor and back to
her husband and slave, Henry was aware of Martin trailing behind him and wished
they might have a moment together, some intimate moment where he could share
this joy he felt, the pleasure of doing something well. All he could manage was
a glance back over his shoulder at Martin’s handsome face, and Martin gave him
his dazzling smile.

Henry delivered Mrs. DeWitt to her husband and waited with
them for Abigail. Abigail was returned to her parents’ care by a bachelor who
didn’t look so objectionable to Henry’s eyes, but Abigail looked very happy to
see Henry again all the same.

Abigail put her arm through Henry’s. “I’d like some punch,
Mr. Blackwell, if you don’t mind.” They all went through to the supper room
together and Martin was dispatched to get punch.

Albert, with Cecile Langford on his arm, found them in the
crush of the supper room. “We can’t find her parents,” he explained cheerfully.

Louis appeared looking slightly disgruntled. “I think my
girl ditched me. I took her to find her parents, and then she just thanked me
and said she’d see me at the end of the night to take her home.”

“Really?” That seemed like a rather harsh cut, though Henry
imagined that having Louis as a dancing partner had been hard on Miss Angstrom.

Abigail’s father wanted to introduce her to some more
gentlemen and so the DeWitts led her away. Gordon and Julian joined Henry and
his friends, as did Wendell and Ralph. Mr. and Mrs. Langford appeared and then
disappeared with Cecile. More boys from their class arrived without their
partners, all having been politely dismissed by the girls’ parents so that the
girls might focus on meeting potential husbands.

It was notable that the adults were all drinking champagne,
the escorts and debutantes only punch, and this seemed quite unfair; they
should be treated as adults, even if for just this one night.

“We need to get something to drink,” Louis said. “I emptied
out my flask
ages
ago.”

“There’re tons of cases of champagne in the hall, Sir,”
Julian said. “I saw them when I went to the washroom. I’m sure we could take
some without it being noticed.”

“So you’re volunteering, then?” Louis asked. “Good. Who’s
going with him?”

Julian did not look very happy about the task he’d
inadvertently set for himself. Louis volunteered Peter, and Raymond, Miles and
Davey were put forth by their masters to serve as accomplices, and the five of
them were sent off to not only procure the alcohol, but to find a place where
they could all drink it in relative private.

The boys sat together at two tables and had their slaves
bring them plates from the buffet. Some of the slaves did double-duty, serving
the masters whose slaves were off stealing champagne. The slaves stood behind
their masters’ chairs with their own plates, eating quietly. The boys discussed
the ball thus far, and most were finding it very agreeable. Henry thought he
was perhaps having the best time of any; he’d danced every dance in the first
half of the ball and his partners had been most complimentary of his skill.
Other than dancing the second waltz after supper with Abigail, Henry had no
other commitments. He wanted to dance more, of course, but thought he might
actually be able to find a moment alone with Martin if he were lucky.

Halfway through the supper hour, Julian came back looking
red-faced and sweaty. He bent and whispered to Gordon, who then conferred with
Louis. A broad grin spread across Louis’ face.

“Gentlemen,” he said in an excited, confidential tone. “We
have champagne!”

Half the group remained behind, as it was felt it would draw
too much attention if they all vacated the supper room at once. They were
promised that one of the slaves would be sent back to fetch them after an
appropriate span of time, not too long. Henry was part of the first group,
however; as Louis’ best friend, he wasn’t about to be left behind on one of
Louis’ schemes.

Julian led the way. They traversed the hall as if heading
for the washroom, but continued past it and through an unmarked door into a
hall lined with stacks of champagne crates.

“How did Julian even see this, Sir?” Martin wondered in a
whisper.

Henry assumed that Julian had been snooping when he spotted
the champagne, not just going to the washroom, but supposed it was good that he
had done so.

White-coated waiters carrying glassware passed them in the
hall and looked askance, but of course said nothing.

Julian opened another door, this leading to a stairwell. “We
took it down here, Sirs,” he explained, holding the door open so that all might
pass.

“What is this, a basement?” asked Jeremy.

“Sort of, Sir. It opens onto the courtyard.”

Julian hurried ahead and opened yet another door. “In here,
Sirs.”

Peter, Miles, Raymond and Davey sat on the carpet in a
dimly-illuminated room devoid of furniture passing around a bottle. French
doors led out to the hotel’s central courtyard; shadows and light from the supper
room above played across the little square of grass.

Miles stood. “Should I open a bottle for you, Sirs?” He
didn’t wait for an answer, but began twisting the wire muselet off of a bottle.

“Let’s get several going,” Louis suggested. “You open one,
too, Peter.”

The boys arrayed themselves around the room, sprawling and
flopping and bumping into one another. Davey was sent upstairs to get the rest
of the group.

A bottle came Henry’s way and he drank deeply. He could just
see Martin out of the corner of his eye, sitting close to Tom, who watched
avidly as Martin tilted his head back and drank from the bottle the slaves were
passing. As always, Henry’s feelings about Tom were complicated, his jealousy
at odds with his desire to see Tom and Martin together. Another bottle came on
the heels of the first, and Henry drank again.

They were all guzzling the champagne, giddy and careless and
laughing. The second half of their group arrived, along with a few boys Henry’s
friends had met in their quadrille sets. Every now and then, someone would urge
everyone to keep it down, to be quieter, but the quiet rarely lasted more than
a moment or two. They could hear the hubbub from the supper room above and then
the sounds of that dissipating.

“The music’s going to start again,” someone remarked, and
several of the boys got hurriedly to their feet and called to their slaves,
needing to be back in the ballroom for the first post-supper dance.

Henry had no such obligation. The second waltz, his dance
with Abigail, was actually the third tune that would be played; there was a
polka in between. He leaned back on his elbows and laughed at his friends’
jokes and drank from the bottles when they came around. Some of the slaves
dragged in a second case of champagne and more boys, mostly strangers, came in
and out. He kept an eye on Tom and Martin and entertained himself imagining
what Tom would do if only Henry would let him. As beautiful as Tom was, Henry
didn’t really like the idea of fucking him himself, so any encounter would be just
the two slaves with Henry watching, and maybe telling them what to do. This
fantasy, with Henry controlling everything, was very compelling.

Henry blinked, snapped out of his reverie. Martin’s hand was
on his shoulder.

“Sir? The polka is almost over, Sir, and we should find Miss
DeWitt.”

Henry let Martin pull him to his feet and they said their
goodbyes to the room. Halfway up the stairs, which they were taking two at a
time, Henry squeezed Martin’s hand and Martin laughed and pulled away.

“Sir, you’re drunk!”

Martin spotted Abigail leaving the dance floor on the arm of
a burly fellow with big sideburns. She looked relieved to see Henry.

“You’re a welcome sight, Mr. Blackwell. If nothing else, you
know how to dance. Some of these fellows…” She shook her head. “I suspect
they’re not really gentlemen.”

“It’s that bad? None of them are any good?”

“Oh, well.” Abigail grew pink. “Well, there was one I liked.
He could dance and he’s quite nice-looking.”

“I
told
you there’d be someone,” Henry reminded her,
offering his arm. They moved toward the dance floor and another man, not
looking where he was going, nearly collided with Henry, who stopped abruptly,
swaying on his feet and nearly dragging Abigail off of hers.

Abigail looked at him sharply. “Are you drunk, Mr.
Blackwell?”

“What? No, Miss DeWitt, certainly not.”

She laughed. “You
are
. Is my brother drinking, too?”
She did not wait for him to answer. “Oh, to be a boy! You get to have all the
fun!”

They waltzed, quick and light and airy. As the music came to
a close, Abigail got up on her tiptoes and whispered, “Take me with you. Take
me to where the champagne is. I want to have fun, too.”

There would be no end to the repercussions if he were caught
doing any such thing. Dragging a girl of good family into such a situation, a
room full of boys and alcohol, would ruin her reputation—and his. Father would
be furious. Mr. DeWitt might insist that Henry marry her. He couldn’t do it; it
couldn’t be done.

“I’m sorry, Miss DeWitt. You know I can’t do that.” A
mustachioed gentleman looked at them expectantly, holding his arm out. “Is this
your next partner?”

Abigail shot him a baleful glare. “You could if you wanted
to.” She gave the new gentleman her hand and turned her back on Henry.

Martin came to Henry. “Sir, would you like me to find you
another dance partner? I saw Miss Angstrom just a moment ago, Mr. Briggs’ girl.
She might appreciate a good partner, Sir.”

“Sure, all right. Take me to her.”

Martin took him to Miss Angstrom, who was delighted to dance
with Henry, saying she’d been disappointed to be moved out of his set without
ever dancing with him, and Henry was appropriately flattered. He danced the
next two dances with girls he’d never seen or talked to before, then left the
ballroom with Martin and made his way down the back stairs.

The door to the courtyard room was propped open with a
chair, but even so the air seemed a little close and humid. The room had mostly
emptied out. There was only one bottle of champagne left in the second case.
Freddie and Tom sat with Wendell and Ralph, and Henry went to join them.

“We’re all drinking out of the same bottle,” Freddie
cautioned, “so I hope you don’t mind slave spit.”

Henry definitely didn’t mind slave spit. He snorted, amused.
“No, that’s fine.” He took the nearly-empty bottle and drank, then passed it to
Martin. Again, he watched Tom watch Martin drink from the bottle. It still
baffled him that Freddie didn’t want Tom, didn’t mind that Tom was so blatant
in his regard for Martin. Didn’t he get the least bit jealous? If Martin
watched Tom like that, like he was licking him with his eyes, Henry would go
crazy. Did Martin really not think Tom wanted him, or was he just saying that
to keep Henry from going nuts?