A Collar and Tie (Ganymede Quartet Book 4) (31 page)

“You go on in and wait for me,” Henry told him. “There’s
something I have to do.”

“Do you need my help, Sir?”

“No. It’s better if I just do it.”

“Sir?”

“Just wait here. I'll be back soon.” He gave Martin a little
push into the room and ignored the confusion and concern on his face.

Henry crept down the stairs; no one was in the hall at the
moment, though Randolph and one or the other of the footmen would be nearby. He
went down the south corridor to Father's study. Henry had been afraid the door
might be locked, but of course Father would not lock the door in his own house:
who here would dare to violate Father's private sanctum? Henry went into the
room on tiptoe, breath held. He had to hurry. Father and Timothy wouldn't be
home for perhaps two more hours, but any one of the slaves might see Henry come
out into the hall and become suspicious.

His guess had been correct: there was money all over the
office. He found a thick stack of twenties in the back of the top desk drawer,
another of tens in the bottom drawer. There was a fat roll of fives that Henry
did not take time to count hidden in the humidor.

There was a portrait of Mother when she was young that Henry
was suspicious of; it did not seem likely that Father held Mother's image dear
enough to justify her presence in his office, and this brought to mind a scene
years ago in
Drake's Progress
wherein Captain Theo found a safe hidden
behind a painting. Henry lifted the painting off its hook and indeed found a
safe. It took several excruciating minutes to find a likely string of numbers
written on a scrap of paper under the desk blotter, and another minute of
fumbling with sweaty hands to get the safe open. He found roughly three thousand
dollars in cash, various denominations wrapped in neat bands, and who knows how
much in paper, stocks and bonds. Henry didn't know what to do with stocks and
bonds, but he took all of the cash. For three thousand dollars, he and Martin
could live well, couldn't they? They could go anywhere in the world. Regular
people lived on ten dollars a week. This money might last them years. It would
be more than enough to keep them fed and sheltered until he could find some
sort of work.

Henry stuffed the money inside his waistcoat and jacket,
buttoned his jacket around the bulk, and kept it from falling out the bottom
with his hands. He crept to the door. There were no sounds from the hallway. He
cracked the door and listened again. Nothing. Quickly and quietly, he stepped
into the hall and shut the study door behind him. He looked around. The coast
was clear. He sprinted awkwardly for the stair hall, slipping on the marble
floor, caught the banister and swung himself up onto the staircase. He ran all
the way to his room and slipped inside, still trying to be quiet.

“Sir?” Martin was pacing, looking worried, and he came to
meet Henry as he entered.

Henry pushed past him. Breathless, he said, “We need to go.
We need to hurry.”

“Go where, Sir?”

Henry noted the honorifics. This was not how he wanted to
start their new life, with Martin uneasy and making a point of his servitude.

“Change out of your school clothes,” Henry told him. “Do you
have anything besides your uniform that you can wear?” He went to the bed and
let his jacket fall open, disgorging money onto the coverlet.

Martin ignored his request. “Sir? Where did this money come
from?” He frowned, pointing at the pile of bills with an accusatory finger.

“I took it,” Henry told him. “We'll need it. We're leaving.”

“Just where are we going, Sir?” Martin clearly disapproved
of this idea. “Sir, we can’t—”

This was not open to discussion. “Martin, just get changed!”

“But, Sir—”

Henry glared at Martin, frustrated, and snapped, “I’m your
master, aren’t I? Do as I say!”

Martin went wide-eyed and pale at Henry’s words and dropped
his gaze in submission.

Henry softened his tone. “Change into something…something
normal, not slave clothes, and then pack. Hurry! Please!”

Martin did not want to do it, that was plain. Every line of
his body telegraphed his reluctance and disapproval. He stalled, stacking the
scattered money in neater heaps.

“Stop it!” Henry swatted at Martin’s hands. “Go change into
regular clothes.
Please
.” Martin looked very much as though he wanted to
argue, but he bit his lip and disappeared into his room.

Henry bent and yanked on his bootlaces, then stood and
dropped his school jacket on the carpet. He wouldn’t wear his school clothes
again—good riddance.

While Henry was kicking free of his school trousers, Martin
came back out again dressed in his usual house uniform: fawn pants, black
jacket, black waistcoat. “This is what I have to wear, Sir, other than my
evening clothes.”

Henry frowned. It was obviously a service uniform. “There
are some old black trousers in my wardrobe,” he said. “I know they won't fit
perfectly, but they'll look all right. It'll look more like a suit.”

“Sir,” Martin said, “won’t you please tell me what we’re
doing?” He obeyed, though, shedding his fawn trousers and going to Henry's
wardrobe, flicking quickly through the hanging garments.

“We can't stay here anymore,” Henry told him. “I think
that's obvious.”

“Not at all, Sir!” Martin protested. “It’s not obvious at
all.”

“It’s not safe here,” Henry explained.

“But I don’t think that’s true, Sir!” Martin insisted.
“There’s no reason to think—”

“Please don’t argue with me, Martin.” Henry was convinced of
the rightness of his plan, and he would not let Martin’s resistance weaken his
resolve. “I’ve made a decision: we're going to find someplace where there are
people like us.” He watched Martin pull on the black trousers, which were a bit
short, but not too noticeably so. “Help me. Get me out a suit.”

“This is a bad idea, Sir.” Martin cautioned. “Please think
about this, Sir.”

Henry shook his head. “I’ve thought about it. Just get me a
suit, please.”

Lips pressed into a bloodless line, Martin silently helped
Henry to dress in his old blue suit, then went into the trunk room to pull out
two cases at his request. Henry packed his own, his methods haphazard. Anything
he forgot could be replaced, so long as he had Martin. He put most of the
stolen money in the bottom of his case along with his tea tin full of pocket
money. He packed socks and underwear and a box with collars and cuffs. He
reached into the wardrobe and pulled out the first suits he put his hands on,
the brown and the grey. He pulled out shirts and a handful of ties. Ties—Martin
could wear ties from this day forward! The idea of Martin in the guise of a
free man was extremely compelling to Henry, but he recognized that Martin would
be resistant. He got his shaving things and his toothbrush out of the bathroom
and threw them in on top of the clothes. He moved to close the case but then
remembered one last thing: the vial of oil from the bedside. He would not
forget that!

Martin came out of his room with his own packed case. He
folded the grey suit into his case, as Henry directed him to do, giving the
impression of being very unwilling even as he did as he was told.

“Make sure you have everything you want,” Henry told him.
“Don't forget your violin. We have to go
now
.”

“What about your sister, Sir?”

“My sister?”

“Shouldn’t you say goodbye to Little Miss, Sir?”

He ought to, certainly. But Nurse would be there with her,
and Nurse could make it difficult for them to leave if she got an inkling of
what they were up to. He did love his sister, and if he were a better brother,
he'd tell her goodbye. But it was too complicated; the important thing was to
get away with Martin. “No,” he replied. “We'll just go.”

Martin narrowed his eyes, disapproving and defiant, chin
jutting. “But we should say goodbye to your sister, Sir. You’ll break her heart
if you just leave.”

“We don’t have time,” Henry insisted. “Do you have
everything?”

Martin ignored the question. “She’ll miss you, Sir. So will
Esther.”

Henry felt he was getting wound tighter and tighter, frantic
and tense, and he needed Martin to cooperate. His heart was pounding, and he
was jumpy and irritable and overwhelmed with the need to get away. He’d left it
too long already; they should have gone yesterday. “Stop it, Martin. Don’t
argue with me.
I’m
your master, and
I’m
in charge, and
I
say we’re leaving now.” He turned for the door, picking up his case. “Besides,”
he said, “it’s
you
she’ll miss, anyway.”

Martin shot Henry a wounded, accusatory glare. “I will miss
her, as well, Sir.”

Oh, this was taking too long! Frustrated, Henry snapped, “Do
you still follow orders, or not? Stop arguing!
Shut up
and come with
me.”

There was a long, expectant silence. Martin was plainly
shocked by Henry’s harsh words and harsher tone. Henry felt his face grow hot
with shame, but refused to let himself feel badly for scolding Martin, not when
time was of the essence and Martin’s very life was at stake. They had to hurry!
As Henry watched, Martin dropped his gaze and picked up his case.

“Of course I follow orders, Sir,” Martin said quietly, his
hurt feelings very evident.

Henry decided he would feel bad about it later, when they
were safely away. Right now, escape was all he would let himself care about.

They went quietly down the stairs. Henry had not considered
that they might have to deal with Randolph or one of the footmen, but luckily
none of them were in evidence in the front hall. Henry had worried a little
that Martin might make noise or otherwise alert the other slaves at this stage
in an attempt to thwart Henry’s plan, but Martin was obedient and cooperative
and made no sound. They got their hats and slipped out the front door with
their cases and hurried down the block, away from the Blackwell house.

“Sir? Will you tell me now where we’re going, please?”
Martin hurried to keep up.

“We're going downtown,” Henry told him. “We need a cab.”

Martin hailed a cab and climbed in after Henry. Rather than
sitting at Henry's side as he usually did, Martin chose to sit on the
rear-facing seat, arms crossed over his chest, obviously disgruntled and still
feeling the sting of Henry’s sharp tongue. As the cab started to roll down 5
th
Avenue, Martin said, “Sir,
please
. What are
we doing?”

In truth, Henry’s plans were general rather than specific.
The important thing had been to get away undetected. “We’re escaping,” he said.

Martin glowered, not liking this answer, and did not
respond.

In the aftermath of Henry’s scolding, Martin seemed both
angry and wounded. Henry hated that he’d hurt Martin’s feelings, but he’d
needed Martin to do as he was told. It had been imperative to get away as
quickly as possible; he was sorry he’d been harsh, but he would not apologize
for wanting to keep Martin safe.

“I’m sorry I yelled,” he offered tentatively.

Martin sniffed and looked away.

Henry sighed. He looked at Martin, whose beautiful hair had
grown nearly to his waist, and came to an unwelcome conclusion. A long
strawberry strand had escaped its tail and hung in Martin’s face. His hair was
very long and there was a lot of it; it would never fit under his hat, and he
could not possibly pass for free. Henry loved Martin's hair, loved how it felt
against his skin when Martin bent over him, loved how it pooled on his stomach
when Martin sucked his cock, loved to hold it in handfuls—but Martin's long
hair marked him as a slave.

Martin stood out, but he needed to blend in.

“We'll have to get your hair cut,” Henry decided. “Like a
free man's.”

“Sir?” Martin had been staring with unfocused eyes out the
cab window, but went wide-eyed and pale with alarm at Henry’s words.

“I'm sorry,” Henry said, and he was. “I'd rather not,
believe me, but there's no choice.”

Martin grew paler still, seeming to crumple in on himself.
He lifted a hand to touch his hair reflexively. “My hair, Sir?” He looked as
though he’d just received a blow. “But—” He shut his mouth and swallowed hard.

“I’m sorry,” Henry repeated. “It has to be done. You can’t
pass for free with such long hair.”

Martin shook his head, “Sir, no, I don’t want to pretend—”

“
Please
don’t argue with me, Martin.” Henry was sure
things would go easier for them in their new life if Martin appeared to be a
free man. It also occurred to him that if Father came looking for them he’d be
searching for a dark boy and a slave with distinctive long strawberry hair.
“There’s really no choice,” he said again.

“Are you sure, Sir? You’re so very fond of it.” Martin
tangled his fingers in his tail, looking quite despairing.

“I am,” Henry agreed. “But you understand, don’t you? It’s
important that people believe you’re free.”

Martin shook his head, rejecting the haircut and freedom
both.

“It’ll be all right,” Henry said, hoping to reassure. He
leaned across the gap and patted Martin’s knee; Martin flinched away, not at
all comforted.

Henry sighed again. He didn’t
want
to cut Martin’s
hair, after all. This haircut was a very difficult decision, unpopular with all
involved, and he suspected it was the first of many difficult decisions he’d
have to make in the coming days. “Keep an eye out for a barber shop. You look
out that side.” Henry indicated where he wanted Martin to focus his attention
with a jerk of his thumb and began to scan the street on the opposite side of
the cab.

Despite his obvious reluctance to go along with Henry's
plan, Martin was actually the one to spot the barber shop. “Will that one be
acceptable, Sir?” Martin asked somewhat grudgingly as he pointed it out. From
the outside it looked suitably masculine and club-like, with lots of dark wood,
like someplace Father and Timothy might go.