A Collar and Tie (Ganymede Quartet Book 4) (35 page)

“Perhaps he's waiting for a ransom note, Sir,” Martin
suggested. “If he believes you've been kidnapped, he'll want to wait for
demands before involving the police, don't you think?”

This certainly made sense. “You must be right,” he told
Martin. It did make him feel guilty, though, that his family might be worrying
about him and waiting for a ransom demand that would never come. He hadn’t
really considered how Father and Mother might react to his disappearance.
Father would surely be angry about the intrusion into his office and the theft,
but he supposed there might be concern for Henry, too. Mother would be very
upset, no doubt, but at least she’d have Reggie back soon, and it was Reggie
who she really loved. He did not like to think of how his escape might affect
Cora and Nurse and Timothy, who were the only people who actually cared about
him in any real sense. He told himself that Cora was young and she’d forget
about him in time; conversely, the slaves were older, and so they had practice
with loss and disappointment. He wished there was some way he might reassure
them all. Perhaps they should send word once they’d made their plans to leave
and were beyond reach. It would be the kind thing to do, the responsible thing.

Henry ate baked eggs with cheese, a few rashers of bacon,
and French toast, and while he chewed he began to notice that the other patrons
were eyeing them with interest. One gentleman turned to his friend, his eyes on
Martin, and murmured something out of the side of his mouth. The friend
chuckled and also turned his gaze on Martin's fine face, his graceful neck.
Henry bristled, putting down his fork and narrowing his eyes.

“What's the matter, Sir?”

Henry flushed and shook his head. “Nothing. I’m fine.” So
what if they looked? Martin was extremely fair; people would look. The
important thing was that Martin was his own. In a low voice, he murmured, “You
have to stop calling me sir, Martin. Friends don't call one another sir.”

“I'm sorry, Si—
Henry
. I'm sorry. I'll try to
remember.”

The waiter brought them two checks and Henry paid both. He
would have to give Martin some money of his own to hold, he supposed. It would
look more usual if Martin could pay his own way.

The haberdasher was located almost directly across the
street from the cafe. Energized by the prospect of stylish clothes, Henry
crossed the street at a trot, Martin lagging behind. “Come on, Martin!”

Martin rolled his eyes. “It's not going anywhere, Henry!” He
did pick up his feet, however, and they reached the door of the shop together.
Martin opened the door and Henry went in first, shop bell ringing over their
heads.

It wasn't a large shop. To the right, there was a
glass-topped counter, folded shirts shelved behind it. To the left, a double
rack of suits and a three-panel mirror. At the rear, a dressing cubicle and a
curtained door. In place of prominence a few paces inside the shop stood a
mannequin dressed in a trim grey suit with a prominent red stripe and a narrow
white pinstripe. Under the suit was a pink shirt with white collar and cuffs
and a voluminous canary necktie secured with a pin with a red stone. It was
much showier than anything Henry was likely to see uptown. He felt it was in
fine taste; he was pleased to imagine what it would look like on Martin.

He elbowed Martin. “Say, what do you think of this?”

Martin wrinkled his nose as if he smelled something off.
“It's a bit flashy, don't you think, Si—Henry?”

Henry disagreed. “It has style,” he insisted. “It's modern.
It’d be wonderful on you.”

Martin frowned at this idea, and was opening his mouth to say
something, but was interrupted by a stranger’s voice.

“May I help you gentlemen?” A compact fellow in a
blue-striped suit came out from behind the curtain making a welcoming gesture,
ushering them in. “Are you in need of new suits, by chance?”

“My friend is in need of an entire wardrobe,” Henry said.
Martin's eyes went wide and he looked very much as if he'd like to protest, but
he bit his lip as Henry continued. “Suits, shirts, ties, everything. Oh, and
full dress for evening, as well.” Excited by the possibilities, Henry had just
decided that they
would
wear evening clothes to the Friday dinner and
dance; it made a better picture in his head if they were dressed properly.

“Very good, sir. And for yourself?”

“Evening clothes,” Henry said. “But first, my friend.”

“Of course, Mr…”

“Blackwell,” Henry supplied. He really needed to come up
with a pseudonym. He nodded toward Martin. “This is Mr…Watkins!” The name had
just come to him out of the ether and he seized upon it happily. Taken aback,
Martin glared at him and looked very much as if he had something to say about
the matter, and Henry realized that he’d perhaps been presumptuous in naming
Martin without asking for his input. He would apologize later, but Martin
needed a name, after all.

The salesman turned to Martin. “Mr. Watkins, I'm Josiah
Fleet; pleased to make your acquaintance. Shall we look at some of the
possibilities?”

In a strained voice, and darting a sharp look at Henry,
Martin said, “I have rather plain tastes, Mr. Fleet. Nothing to draw attention,
please.”

“Ah, but you are so tall and handsome, both of you—you can
wear anything,” Fleet said airily, dismissing his concerns.

Unlike their visits to comparatively-staid Hamilton &
Sons, no one came with a tape measure to record Martin's every dimension. With
a practiced eye, Fleet sized Martin up quite accurately. Henry belatedly
worried about Martin's tattoo, but it was not a problem, either—Fleet never saw
it. Martin simply told Fleet what size shirt he required, what collar
measurement, and Fleet took his word for it. Martin did not seem to have any
substantial problem with the shop's selection of shirts, but he balked at the
suits, the stripes and checks that were so much bolder than anything ever
offered at the uptown shops.

Blue-and-pale-blue stripe. Green-and-tan check. The
gray-and-red stripe from the mannequin. Black-and-white stripe. Blue-and-brown
plaid. Martin scowled at the mirror, but Henry thought he looked beautiful in
all of them. Jackets hung well from his bony shoulders and the narrow trousers
showed off his perfect ass.

“Is there perhaps a plain black, Si—Mr. Fleet?” Martin asked
hopefully. “Or perhaps with just a very narrow stripe?”

“I can look in the back,” Fleet told him. “We do cater to
a…more flamboyant gentleman, you understand.”

Fleet disappeared into the rear of the shop. Agitated nearly
to the point of vibration, Martin hurried to Henry's side and in a pressured
whisper asked, “What are you
doing
, Sir?”

“Henry.”

“Fine,
Henry
. What are you doing? You're dressing me
like a doll! Why do I need evening clothes? I don't like this! And you gave me
a name without even telling me you were going to do it! If I’m
free
,
Henry,
I
should pick my own name! I'm
very
unhappy!”

“I’m sorry,” Henry said in a soothing tone, hoping to
placate him. “I know I should have asked. We can change your name to anything
you want once we leave this shop, all right? As for the clothes, you have to
have something to wear, and I like you in these clothes, Martin. Why not wear
them for me?” He risked touching Martin's hand for a brief moment. “Please?”

Martin pulled his hand back, still frowning, clearly not
reconciled. However, Fleet returned with a more sedate suit,
black-and-grey-striped, and Martin seemed to actually like it a bit. The
blue-and-pale-blue was also deemed acceptable. Although they were three-piece
suits, Henry insisted on additional waistcoats in both turquoise and violet
paisley silk and a green brocade.

“They're a little vulgar, Henry,” Martin whispered.

“They look good on you,” Henry said firmly.

As for evening dress, the tailcoat was an utterly
conventional garment excepting a red silk lining, and Martin begrudgingly
admitted he found no significant fault with it. Henry found the sight of Martin
in the full costume quite took his breath away: long limbs, swan neck, stark
black and white, face like an imperious and critical flower.

Fleet called the tailor out from the back of the shop and
set the man to measuring inseams for Martin's clothes while he collected a set
of dress garments for Henry. He had to try three jackets before one fit close
enough to correctly; it did make him miss his bespoke Hamilton & Sons
tailcoat. He had left so many beautiful garments behind!

There were so many things to choose: shirt studs, braces,
collars; the choosing was exhausting. Henry sorted through a heap of neckties
on the glass counter. Whatever they chose, they could share, so Henry looked
with an eye to what he might like to wear himself. Martin seemed to have given
up trying to assert his own tastes and made only a token effort to even
distinguish one necktie from another, so Henry made the choices.

Martin crossed his arms judgmentally when he heard the total
for the spree; Henry paid from the fat wad of cash in his pocket and considered
it a bargain. Fleet smiled obsequiously and said, “Such a generous friend you
are, Mr. Blackwell.” Henry rather thought the man was implying something, but
also that he wasn't judging, merely acknowledging. Fleet told them that all of
the suits would be hemmed and tucked by the following afternoon. The rest,
however, could be carried away on the spot.

Fleet had directed them to a hatter a block up the road and
a shoe shop adjacent to that. Feeling somewhat encumbered, they obtained silk
hats and patent leather boots to complete their evening costumes. Martin asked
no more questions and made no more complaints, but Henry was certainly aware he
wasn’t particularly enjoying their shopping trip.

They carried all the packages back to the Calamus. Someone
had come while they were out to make the bed and put fresh towels in the bath.

Despite Martin’s subdued mood, Henry couldn’t help being
excited about Martin's new clothes and insisted on unwrapping everything. He
tried on the turquoise paisley waistcoat and found it a decent fit.

“It looks better on you, Henry,” Martin told him. “It
doesn’t really suit me.”

“We'll go to another store later and get you things
you
want,” Henry promised him. “But for now, please wear these things for me. I'll
take you out tonight and show you off, how about that?”

Martin seemed reluctant. “If you’d like, Sir. Henry.”

“Tonight we can just look around to see what there is to do,
but tomorrow I’ve reserved us a table for a midnight dinner,” Henry told him,
unable to keep his secret plans entirely secret. “A real grown-up party. That’s
why we need dress clothes. It’ll be our goodbye to the city before we leave
town.” He flopped down on the bed and pulled Martin down with him onto the pile
of silks and shirts. Martin lay in his arms passively and suffered his kisses
without enthusiasm. While they’d been out, Henry had been thinking about Martin
‘returning the favor,’ but with Martin in such poor humor, he hesitated to make
the request.

Henry tried to make Martin feel good, petting and stroking
him through his clothes, and Martin put up with this without seeming to
particularly enjoy it, which Henry found distressing. Martin had always liked
his touch, his attentions; if Martin didn’t like him, didn’t want him, who
possibly could?

Martin put his hands on Henry’s chest and gently pushed him
away. “Sir, do you think we might nap for a bit? I’m quite tired.”

“Oh, of course.” Flustered, Henry let go of Martin, who
rolled out of his embrace and turned away.

Martin drew up his knees, curled in a tense ball. Henry
looked at the satin back of Martin’s waistcoat stretched tight across his
shoulder blades and watched his ribs expand with his breath. He put out his
hand, his fingertips just shy of the curve of Martin’s waist. He wanted to lie
close behind Martin, to spoon him and offer comfort, but he did not know how to
approach Martin when he was in this unhappy state.

All of these changes were difficult, difficult for both of
them, but especially for Martin. Henry would have to be patient with him. Lip
caught between his teeth and breath held, he put his hand on Martin’s side and
tried not to be hurt when Martin flinched away from his touch.

Worried about Martin’s mood and affected by Martin’s
rejection, Henry slept only fitfully. When they awoke, Martin seemed slightly
less unhappy, and Henry suggested that they both wear something new. While this
idea excited him, he could tell that Martin was indifferent to the novelty, at
best. Henry wore the turquoise paisley waistcoat and a green tie, and
encouraged Martin to wear the violet paisley with a copper-colored necktie that
brought out the strawberry sparks in his hair and made his eyes look green as
moss. Henry caught him looking at himself in the mirror, frowning.

“What is it, Martin?”

Martin avoided Henry’s eyes. “Nothing, Sir. Henry.”

“No, it’s something. Just say it.”

“My
hair
,” Martin said plaintively. “I was so very
vain about it, Sir, and now it’s so
short
.”

Henry hugged him from behind and looked over his shoulder in
the mirror. “But you’re still so handsome.”

Martin shrugged, still frowning.

“I wish you could have kept it, too,” Henry admitted, “but
you know you could never pass for free with long hair like that.”

It was clear from Martin’s sour expression that he still did
not care about passing for free, that he would have much preferred to keep his
beautiful long hair, and so Henry let go of him and stepped away, tamping down
his irritation. This was going to be for the best. They would need to make a
new life for themselves safely away from his father, and if that meant Martin
had to have short hair for the rest of his life, then Martin would just have to
get used to it. They both would.