A Collar and Tie (Ganymede Quartet Book 4) (44 page)

He stared at Mother’s carpet, the toes of his boots. He was
utterly disheartened, utterly demoralized. He felt as if he’d been crushed,
flattened, and that there was a gaping, sucking void where his heart had been.
He felt he was too sad to cry. His thoughts were tortuous and recursive. He’d
thought he and Martin were in love, the both of them; had it only been on his
side? He’d felt that Martin loved him, too, but really, what did he know of
love? Martin was Henry’s whole life, all he cared about, all he wanted, and it
was beyond terrible that Martin would turn his back on everything Henry felt
for him. He’d only wanted to keep Martin safe, but Martin had been scheming to
return home again before they’d even left the house.

As Henry awaited a summons to Father’s office, he wondered
if Martin would be taken from him, and did not know how he felt about the
possibility. Before this morning, it had seemed the worst thing that could ever
happen, but now Henry couldn’t be sure he ever wanted to see Martin again. It
occurred to him that if Martin wasn’t sent back to Ganymede, then he’d be
joining Henry in his bedroom again, physically close and breathing the same
air, and he didn’t want that, not now. He felt sure it wouldn’t be possible for
him to survive having his betrayer always at his side. Other arrangements would
have to be made, he’d insist upon it.

At last, there was a knock at the door and Pearl opened it
to Martin, shamefaced. Henry extricated his hand from Mother’s loose grasp—she
seemed to be peacefully asleep—and went to see what he wanted.

“What is it?” he demanded gruffly. He couldn’t look at
Martin, too hurt and angry to bear the sight of his face.

“Your father wants to see you now, Sir.” Eyes downcast,
hands behind his back.

“What about you? Where are you going?”

“I’ll be in your room, Sir, waiting.”

“No,” Henry told him. “You can’t be. I don’t want that.”

“I-I’m sorry, Sir. It’s what your father expects, Sir.
You’ll have to talk to him.”

Henry left Martin in the doorway, in a hurry to see Father
and insist that Martin be removed, but Father wasn’t interested in hearing it.

“Nonsense. That boy has been an excellent investment in your
future, Henry. Timothy has nothing but praise for him.”

Timothy, standing behind Father’s chair, nodded agreement.

“It’s certainly not your place to come in here making
demands, son. I’m
extremely
angry with you.” There was a pugilistic
restiveness to the way he shifted in his chair that Henry found very unnerving.
Would Father hit him? Henry had a sense that Father had hit a great many people
in his time, though perhaps not so many recently. Might he make an exception
for a disobedient and disappointing son? He seemed disapproving and judgmental,
as always, but significantly more ireful. He puffed on his cigar and eyed Henry
critically through the haze.

“Your behavior was reprehensible. Stealing and gallivanting
around on some selfish jaunt, and worrying your mother sick. She is a very
fragile woman and you put her under terrible strain!” He fixed Henry with an
accusing glare and Henry squirmed miserably.

The ensuing silence stretched long, and Henry tentatively
offered, “I’m sorry, sir.”

“Your mother was in hysterics. She required a doctor.”
Father frowned and knocked the ash off his cigar into a heavy crystal ashtray.
“I was
very
concerned about you, son.” He indicated Timothy with a wave
of his hand, smoke swirling. “Poor Timothy was heartsick.”

“I was, Sir,” Timothy agreed. “It was very thoughtless of
you to run off like that. We were all so worried!”

“And disappointed,” Father said. “You’ve never lacked for
anything. You get more pocket money than most men make in a year. And then you
ransack my office!” Father’s meaty fist came down on the edge of his desk,
sending a stack of papers sliding to the floor.

Henry jolted in his seat at the impact. “I-I’m sorry, sir.”

Timothy crouched down to collect the paperwork.

“Leave it, old man,” Father said, giving Timothy a pat on
the back. “Leave it for now.” He turned back to Henry. “I don’t think you have
any idea of the sort of trouble you might have brought down on your head,
traipsing around a neighborhood like that with a wad of cash. Flashing that
kind of money might have gotten you killed!”

Henry had not thought the neighborhood so terrible as that,
but he wouldn’t debate it with Father.

“As for that, you’ll give back all the money you took.” Once
again, Father puffed on his cigar and cast a baleful eye on Henry.

“Yes, of course, sir,” Henry offered in a tiny voice.

Father sighed; Henry could not recall if he’d ever heard his
father make quite such a defeated sound before, and did not think it a good
sign he was hearing it now.

“What do you have to say for yourself, son? Why on earth
would you run off? I provide you with a very comfortable life. An enviable
life!”

“Um…” Henry grasped for something to say, something that
would satisfy his father without exposing himself. “I was…” He had no words.

Father frowned. “Out with it, Henry. The truth, and be quick
about it.”

And then Henry realized that Father surely already knew what
Henry was about, or could guess. After all, Father had fetched him from the
Calamus, and he would have understood what sort of place it was. Father was
shrewd and canny and not easily fooled. But he wanted Henry to give him a
reason, say the words, and perhaps Henry owed him that.

Henry swallowed hard, head bowed, his clammy hands fisted on
his thighs. “I-I was afraid.”

“Afraid? What on earth were you afraid of?”

“I was afraid that people—that
you
—would…would find
out about me.”

“What are you getting at, Henry?”

In a small voice, scarcely above a mutter, he said, “I was
afraid everyone would find out about Martin and me. How…close we really are.”

Father snorted at this, then sighed and shook his head. He
seemed unsurprised by the implications of Henry’s halting words. Father tilted
back in his chair, wood and metal protesting at the strain. “Have you done
something that would expose your behavior to scrutiny?”

Henry’s voice was barely above a whisper when he said,
“Y-yes, sir. I…I shared a moment with Martin at the ball. Louis saw us.”

“That’s unfortunate.” Father thought on this a moment. “I’m
assuming this indiscretion was your idea.”

Henry did not answer, but he felt the heat rise up from his
collar.

“Just like the nonsense in the park,” Father noted. “Well.
Your inclination will pose a problem if you continue to be indiscreet, and I
am
concerned in that regard because you demonstrate so little common sense.
Martin’s a sensible boy and you should listen to him when he cautions against
such foolish displays.”

Henry bristled at the praising of Martin, feeling that
Martin was definitely in collusion with Father.

“Having this sort of preference is certainly not ideal. I
don’t propose to do anything about it, mind you—my experience with your uncle
leaves me confident that a leopard cannot change its spots. I won’t pretend it
doesn’t disappoint me.” Father sighed again. “But you’ve been happy, Henry. You
were always such a glum lad, but that’s changed since we brought Martin home. I
think you’ve enjoyed your life these last months. Your grades have improved, as
well. As long as you understand what I expect from you in the future, whatever
you get up to with your slave is none of my concern.” While Henry sat
dumbfounded, Father continued, saying, “You’re a Wilton, too, after all. All
the Wilton men are at least half-fairy.”

This generalization, Henry realized, had some basis in
reality.

Father made a dismissive gesture with his cigar, creating a
swirl of smoke. “You’re far more Wilton than Blackwell, son, which makes it
difficult for us to understand one another. You’re going to need coaxing and
coddling to get anywhere in life, and I
will
do that for you, Henry, but
you have to make good decisions, too. You’re angry with Martin, and I
understand that, but he’s got more sense than you, son. He did what was best
for the long term, and he did it knowing the consequences. That’s the sort of
young man you want on your side.”

As examples of Martin’s good sense and planning skills,
Father insisted on showing Henry the letters Martin had written. The first,
left behind in the middle of Martin’s bed, read:

Mr. Blackwell,

Henry has decided we should run away. I cannot change his
mind, but I will do my best to see to his safety while we are gone. I do not
believe he will be in any danger. We have plenty of money. I don't think he
plans to leave the city, at least not right away. I am sure that you will want
to avoid publicity or police involvement for Henry’s sake, and if you can wait,
I will send word as to where you can find him when we are settled, hopefully in
a day or two.

Your faithful servant,

Martin

Per Father’s report, Martin had written the second when he’d
gone to the haberdasher’s shop to pick up his suits. The note had been
delivered by a newspaper boy who was paid five dollars for his service:

Mr. Blackwell,

Please pay the bearer of this note $5 for its delivery. Henry
is at the Calamus Apartments on 14
th
Street,
registered in his own name, in room 412 on the 4th floor. I know Henry intends
for us to go out this evening, but I can't be sure where, or for how long. I
can be certain, however, that he will be back in the room by tomorrow morning
if you will come for him then. I believe Henry is quite safe in the meantime. I
only want what is best for him.

Your faithful servant,

Martin

Henry put the letters down on Father’s desk, blinking
rapidly against hot tears and feeling Martin’s betrayal anew.

“The Briggs boy,” Father said. “Does he plan on sharing what
he knows with others?”

Henry had thought Louis already had, but now he wasn’t so
sure. He’d been wrong about so much—anything seemed possible. “I-I don’t know.”

“We’ll deal with it as necessary,” Father decided, and Henry
certainly had no reason to doubt him.

They were silent for a time. Henry felt guiltier and
guiltier, staring at his hands in his lap. He felt that Father expected
something from him, some sign of understanding or show of remorse, but he
wasn’t sure what form it should take.

“I’m really sorry, sir,” he offered in a quiet voice.

Father sighed again. “Do you understand what a reputation
is
,
Henry?”

“Sir?”

“Your reputation is what people think they know about you.
It doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with the truth. You can be happy,
son, as happy as you like, but you
must
preserve your reputation while
you go about it.”

Henry didn’t care about his reputation, and his face surely
showed this.

Father scowled. “Henry. I ask very little of you, son, but I
am depending upon you to help build a legacy. You’ll need a wife of good
family, a society girl, upstanding and respectable, and the father of a girl
like that isn’t going to marry her off to a known invert.”

Henry started and blushed at ‘invert,’ shocked at how
casually Father used the term.

“I don’t want to know your business, Henry, and I don’t want
anyone else to know it, either. Keep your private life private. Do the little I
ask of you. And take Martin’s advice; he’s a smart boy. You did well in
choosing him.”

“I don’t want him anymore,” Henry declared sullenly.

Father scoffed at this. “Hurt feelings,” he said
dismissively. “You’ll get over it.”

Henry did not bother to argue this point.

“We’re all disappointed in you, Henry. You were very
foolish.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“You’re my son,” Father said. “I intend to see you safely
grown to adulthood. If it means I must confine you to the house until you’ve
matured, then that’s what I’ll do.” He turned to glance up at Timothy. “As for
your punishment, Timothy here thinks you warrant gentle treatment, and god
knows he’s always understood you better than I do.” Father shook his head, as
if Henry were a problem he knew better than to try to solve.

Henry did not know what he hoped for. Before they’d run off,
he’d been so convinced Father would take Martin away from him, but it was
painfully obvious now that Father would never return Martin to Ganymede; Father
thought Martin was a good influence. Just last night, being separated from
Martin was the worst situation he could imagine, and now he was on the verge of
begging for it. At this moment, he didn’t want Martin sold, but neither did he
want him at his side.

“You’re confined to the house for the week.”

This was an uninspired punishment, to be sure. Henry had the
suspicion that if Father was more impressed with him, he’d put more effort into
disciplining him. However, Henry would not argue in favor of harsher treatment.

“Yes, sir.”

“Go. Up to your room now. I’ll see you at dinner.” Father
swiveled in his chair, turning to Timothy with an air of relief. “Why don’t you
pour us a drink, old man?”

Dismissed, Henry slunk from the room. He staggered upstairs
in a daze. Martin had been right about everything. For whatever reason—Henry
would not presume love—Father would protect him if he was exposed. Had Father
guessed before Henry ran? Had he known all along? He might well have known from
the day they’d brought Martin home. Had Martin let something slip to Timothy?
Did everyone know?

Martin was in his own room, but came to the connecting door when
Henry came in. His eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, the color remarkable, and
his expression was hopeful despite evident strain. “Sir?”

Henry’s pained heart lurched in his chest at the sight of
Martin’s tearful face, but he stubbornly scowled and feigned indifference. He
flopped down on his bed and turned his back to Martin. “Go away. Don’t talk to
me.”