A Collar and Tie (Ganymede Quartet Book 4) (45 page)

“Please, Sir, if you’d only let me—”

Henry gritted his teeth, furious at Martin’s pleas. “Are you
deaf
? I don’t want to talk to you. I never want to talk to you again,
understand?”

Martin’s pathetic begging and tragic demeanor filled Henry
with a complicated rage. It took all his strength to resist Martin’s
entreaties. Whatever explanation Martin wanted to offer, Henry was definitely
not prepared to hear it. He wanted to think that nothing could excuse Martin’s
betrayal, but if he listened to Martin talk, it seemed all too possible that he
would change his mind, and he refused to let that happen. He
deserved
to
be angry! Martin
should
feel bad for what he’d done.

Martin withdrew meekly and stayed quietly in his room until
his dinnertime. When he attempted to speak to Henry on his way out, Henry held
up a hand as if he could block the sound of Martin’s voice, and the gesture cut
Martin’s words off abruptly.

Alone, Henry lay on his bed and stared at the ceiling. He
felt like he could cry, but his eyes remained dry. He wondered if this was what
it was like to be dead. He lay passive, limbs heavy and lifeless, overcome with
loss, the loss of the most vital and precious connection he’d ever felt. He’d
thought Martin had felt it, too, and it had meant everything to share such
tenderness.

His greatest fear was that Martin had never loved him. What
if everything that had happened between them was simply Martin providing good
service, telling Henry what he wanted to hear? Doing things that Henry wanted
but Martin merely tolerated? Lies upon lies.

When Martin returned to dress him, Henry ignored him as best
he could. His feelings were so confusing: anger, grief, love, rage, and the
fervent desire for things to go back to the way they had been before, although
he did not know if that could ever be possible, if he would ever be able to
forgive Martin his betrayal. He wanted to turn back the clock, back to the
night of the ball, and when Martin cautioned him against waltzing together in
the courtyard room he would listen, and they’d never even end up in a position
to kiss, and there would be nothing for Louis to see, and they would never need
to escape.

He looked down on Martin’s bent head, the width of his
shoulders, as he tied Henry’s boots. His neck looked delicate and vulnerable
without his tail. Henry felt so mournful, so bereft, and he knew that the only
thing that would make him feel better was being held in Martin’s arms,
comforted by Martin’s smells, safe in the security of Martin’s love. But he
couldn’t ask for any of that now.

Martin looked up at him with a wan smile. “You’re ready,
Sir.”

Henry grunted and strode past him, out into the hall.

Downstairs at the table, Mother was tearful and tremulous
anew, intent on exacting promises that he would never run off again.

“You promise me, darling, that you won’t ever do that again!
I was so terribly worried, Henry!” She dabbed at her eyes with a lacy
handkerchief.

Henry kept his eyes on his plate. “I’m very sorry I upset
you, ma’am.” He wondered if Mother knew where he’d been, what he’d been doing.
They hadn’t discussed it in her room, and he wasn’t in any hurry to tell her;
he hoped that Father had kept that information to himself.

After dinner, for once he wished that Pearl’s reading might
go on for hours, but it seemed to take less time than usual, and he was forced
back into close proximity with Martin, the two of them trudging down the hall
to Henry’s room without speaking. Henry kept a sullen silence as he let Martin
undress him, watching in the mirror as Martin went about his work. He wondered
what the rest of the Blackwell slaves thought about Martin’s brief absence, his
short hair, his solemn mood. He wondered what Martin had felt he could tell
them. He watched in the mirror as his own face grew red with shame.

The night was terrible and endless. He got into bed alone,
wearing pajamas, and pretended to have fallen asleep while Martin was shuttling
their laundry to the basement. Upon his return, Martin came to the bedside and
stood over him, just breathing, and Henry ached for him,
yearned
for
him, but he was determined to despise him and continued to feign sleep. At last
Martin left, and Henry lay awake for hours. At one point, he heard muffled
sounds that might have been Martin crying but refused to allow himself to care.

He went over and over their escape and their time downtown.
He didn’t understand Martin’s actions, why he would betray Henry in such a
calculated way. Several times, he thought to go into Martin’s bedroom and
demand answers, but he was afraid of what Martin might say. He might have never
loved Henry at all, and if he said as much, then it would be too horrible to
face him, vulnerable and pathetic and still very much in love. The more Henry
thought about it, the more certain he was that this was the issue, that Martin
had never loved him and so wasn’t bothered about breaking his heart. Everything
that had happened between them had just been the result of slavery and
training, and Martin betraying him was simply Martin serving his real master,
Henry’s father. Martin’s tears were crocodile tears. Martin only cried because
he was sorry he’d been found out.

Henry wished he was the sort of fellow who could shrug off a
devastating disappointment like this, but the truth was that every bit of
confidence, every scrap of self-worth that Henry possessed, was contingent upon
Martin’s love. Without Martin’s affection, he was overwhelmed by profound
insecurities, a sense that he was unfit for any human purpose. He felt utterly
alone in the world and did not know where he might turn for comfort.

It grew light outside before he slept, and then he was being
awakened again, Martin calling,
Sir, Sir
, in a nervous tone, his hand
hovering above Henry’s shoulder, clearly unsure if he was allowed to touch him.

Henry dried himself off after his shower and then adamantly
refused Martin’s offer to shave him and instead did it himself, although much
less expertly than Martin would have done. He was dressed in his blue plaid, by
far the flashiest of his suits, and it reminded him of the stylish clothes he
had purchased for Martin, all of which had been abandoned in their room at the
Calamus. He went down to breakfast with Martin meek at his back, and the
breakfast room was empty but for the two of them. Martin pulled out Henry’s
chair, and then hesitated, his hand on the back of the chair he usually sat in.

Henry would not be able to bear it if Martin sat beside him.
“You can’t sit down with me anymore,” Henry blurted. “Not now. You’ll just have
to eat with the rest of the slaves.”

“Of course, Sir. As you wish, Sir.”

Henry ate in silence, Martin equally silent behind his
chair. After finishing his helpings of coddled eggs, bacon, sausage, potato
hash and blueberry pancakes with maple syrup, Henry found he no longer had the
stomach for seconds. He drank his milky coffee feeling as low as he’d ever
felt.

Henry didn’t know how he was going to manage. He felt hot
and ashamed just being in a room with Martin, and the silence was grimly
uncomfortable. Father was expecting too much of him. Maybe another boy could
adapt, but Henry didn’t think he could go from the loving closeness and erotic
ease he had shared with Martin to a strict, service-based relationship. He had
loved
Martin! He had said things to Martin that he’d meant with all his heart. He
had done things with Martin that he couldn’t imagine ever wanting to do with
anyone else. The ache in his chest felt like a lead weight crushing his spirit.

Henry set his coffee cup in its saucer. “Find out where my
father is.” He did not dare turn around; he did not want to see Martin’s face.

“Sir?”

“I want to talk to my father. Find out where he is.”

“Of course, Sir. I’ll be right back.”

Father was in his office. Henry dithered on whether or not
he wanted to bring Martin in with him, and finally decided that he wanted
Martin to hear what he had to say so that his feelings would be abundantly
clear.

Father sat in his armchair with a newspaper in his lap,
puffing a nauseating cigar, and squinting at Henry through the smoke. Timothy
sat in the other armchair wearing the same expression of sympathy and
disapproval he’d worn at the Calamus.

“Yes, son?”

“I wanted to talk to you about Martin, sir.”

“What about him?”

“I-I really can’t live with him, Father.” He darted a glance
over his shoulder, a reflexive jerk, and Martin was bloodlessly pale. “I don’t
want him in my room anymore.”

Father snorted. “Just where do you suggest we put him,
then?”

“Well, there are so many empty bedrooms, sir. He could go in
the one next to mine.” Father was shaking his head, so Henry hurried to add,
“Or, or he could go up to the third floor with the rest of the slaves.”

“We’ve discussed this. He’s fine where he is,” Father said
dismissively. “You’re behaving like a child, Henry.”

“But, Father—!”

“You’ll have to find a way to get along.”

“We could sell him and I could have another,” Henry blurted.
He didn’t know if he really meant this or not; he certainly didn’t want
another, and he didn’t want Martin to go to anyone else. He regretted the words
immediately.

Martin made a tiny sound of dismay at Henry’s back.

Father gave Henry a look of such disdainful reproach that
Henry cringed. “What, and get you one who might encourage you to pursue your
half-baked schemes? Really, Henry, I’m not about to punish Martin for your
mistakes.”

“But—”

“Just yesterday you wanted to run off with him,” Father
reminded him. “I’m sure he’s fundamentally the same boy he was then.” Father
rattled his newspaper and cast his eyes down upon the page. “I don’t want to
hear any more about this, son.” He flicked a glance up at Henry. “Unless
there’s something else, you may go.”

Fuming and humiliated, Henry left the room with Martin close
behind.

“Sir?” Martin sounded on the verge of tears. “Might I
please—?”

“I’m not talking to you,” Henry reminded him. “And I’m not
listening to you, either.” He would not look at Martin; he would not let
himself be swayed by Martin’s show of distress. He would stand firm: Martin should
never have betrayed him, and now he would suffer the consequences of having
done so. Henry resolved not to let Martin see anything of what he felt; he
would be cold and reserved, distant and mature.

Inside Henry’s bedroom, Martin hesitated at the door between
their rooms. “Sir, if you would just let me—”

“Please close the door behind you,” Henry said haughtily.
With a wounded expression, Martin did as he was told. Henry snatched up a novel
from his nightstand and crossed to sit in his armchair before the hearth,
although there was no fire lit. As soon as he sat down, he recalled most
vividly that the last time he’d sat in the chair he’d been in evening clothes,
Martin mouthing his cock through his trousers, and he hurriedly got up again.

He lay down on the bed, defiantly putting his boots on the
bedspread, and opened the covers of his book. The lines of type were just grey
blurs and Henry couldn’t concentrate on their meaning. He wondered how many
times they’d had sex in this bed. No matter how you classified it, or what you
called it, if you broke it down and counted all the fucking, all the
lovemaking, and all the sucking and fingering, surely it was hundreds of times.
What about all the times they’d touched and kissed? What about all the secrets
they’d shared? Had none of it mattered to Martin? Henry had believed that
Martin loved him, but if Martin had really loved him, they’d be on a train to
New Orleans right now.

He wondered what Martin was doing in his room by himself. He
was being very quiet. He seemed very unhappy, but Henry was unsure what this
meant. Martin’s own actions had put him in this situation, after all. If he had
wanted to stay in Henry’s good graces, he shouldn’t have gone behind his back
and schemed with Father. Martin likely expected Father to reward him in some
way, but could Father offer anything that would compare to the love and
devotion Henry had wanted to give him? Henry thought not.

It just didn’t make any sense. How could their love have
meant so much to Henry and so little to Martin?

It had only been a day, but Henry ached with the loss of
him. He needed some interim measure, some way to have a little of Martin
without sacrificing his pride. With a sudden sense of purpose, he put his book
down and pulled the pillows out from beneath the bedspread and buried his face
in each of them in turn, seeking some hint of Martin. The maids were far too
diligent about changing the bedding, and the pillows smelled of nothing but
laundry soap. He thrust the pillows away from him and cast about the room for
something, anything, that might carry Martin’s scent.