A Collar and Tie (Ganymede Quartet Book 4) (48 page)

“I’m going to my lesson now, Sir.”

“Fine.” Henry stared intently at the page of his book, as if
he couldn’t possibly tear his eyes away to look at Martin.

“I’ll have my dinner when I come home, Sir, and then I’ll be
up to dress you.”

“I
said
, fine,” Henry snapped.

“Goodbye, Sir.”

Henry said nothing, and Martin went out into the hall,
closing the door softly behind him.

Henry immediately got up and went and listened at the door.
Martin’s footsteps rang off the parquet, growing fainter as he neared the
stair. Henry locked the door. He didn’t know exactly what he was going to do,
but he knew he didn’t want Martin to catch him doing it.

He went into Martin’s room in search of his scent. What he
really wanted were Martin’s intimate smells, but he had to settle for last
night’s pajamas, plucked from the laundry basket and smelling faintly of
delicious, sleepy skin. Henry shuddered as he inhaled and felt quite sure that
he was nothing more than a terrible, shameful pervert, a dirty little animal
groveling. Just from burying his face in dirty laundry, his cock was already
iron hard and pinched by his trousers. He took the pajamas to his own bed and
lay back against the pillows and took out his cock.

The pajamas smelled like Martin’s skin, but they didn’t
feel
like Martin, and he wanted to feel Martin. He suddenly remembered the tail
and sat up in a hurry, lunging for the drawer.

He rubbed the tail on his cheek and smelled it. He was very
sorry he’d made Martin cut it, but he was glad to have it now all the same. He
unbuttoned his waistcoat and pulled his shirt up and let the hair coil on his
belly, as if Martin was bent over him about to suck his cock. A few hairs
slipped free of the tie and Henry examined the knot, brow furrowed. He would
have to be careful not to end up with a messy heap of loose hair. He tightened
the knot and then swished the tail back and forth along the length of his cock,
being cautious about fluids. Martin’s hair felt wonderful against his skin, and
it smelled like vetiver, and it reminded him of everything good that had
happened between them and let him pretend for a moment that nothing had
changed.

His cock felt heavy and hot and tender. He gave it a few
strokes and let the hair pool low on his belly and used all of his imagination
to pretend his hand was Martin’s molten mouth, that his thumb slipping over the
head was Martin’s tongue.

He put the pajama shirt over his face so that he could
breathe Martin in, and tried not to think of how ridiculous he must look, how
pathetic. As he got close to finishing, he fumbled in his waistcoat pocket for
his handkerchief, and when he came he caught most of the mess in the linen
square. Thankfully, he did not get anything on the tail.

He put the tail back in the cigar box and shut the drawer.
He stood and tucked and buttoned himself back into his clothes, and he took his
soiled handkerchief and the pajamas into Martin’s room and put them all in the
laundry basket. He made sure to hide the handkerchief under the pajamas so that
Martin wouldn’t even suspect that Henry had touched himself.

Henry realized that for as long as Martin continued to take
violin lessons, he would be able to repeat this experience, digging in the
laundry for Martin’s smells and jerking off with whatever he found. It was
humiliating, but it was better than doing without the smell of Martin, without
the touch of his hair. It was better than nothing.

On Friday, when Martin came back from his dinner to help
Henry dress, he relayed a request.

Martin crouched down with Henry’s trousers and held them
ready for him to step in. “Sir? Nurse sent word to me, Sir, asking if you might
come visit your sister sometime soon.”

“She did what?” It was highly irregular for a slave to
request a master’s presence, even if it was Nurse.

“Little Miss would like to see you, Sir. I imagine she’s
been very persistent with her requests.”

Henry pulled up his trousers and thought about this. It was
out of line for Nurse to ask, but Henry really didn’t care about that. It had
been perhaps a month since he’d spent time with Cora, long before the ball, and
long before running away. He knew full well she’d really be wanting to see
Martin and that he himself was only second-best. Martin would probably like to
see her, too, and the mean part of him wanted to keep away if only to deny
Martin the pleasure. But, actually, Cora and Nurse would serve as a welcome
buffer between Martin and himself, and he’d be stupid to pass up the
opportunity for a little relief.

“We can go tomorrow,” Henry said with a shrug, as if it was
nothing to him one way or the other. Henry saw Martin’s happy smile in the
mirror as he buttoned Henry’s braces at the small of his back, and he felt a
twinge of the old satisfaction that pleasing Martin had always given him. He
was suddenly struck with a visceral longing for Martin, like a punch in the
gut, and he was at pains to hide his distress. He shrugged into his waistcoat
and then dinner jacket without looking at Martin at all, fearful of his
involuntary responses.

On Saturday morning, Henry let himself be dressed in his
brown suit with a red foulard tie, and he could tell that Martin wanted to tell
him he looked nice, but instead held his tongue. Henry hated what had happened
to them, hated this gulf that yawned between them. He hated how mean he’d
become, how bitter. Why couldn’t Martin just apologize?

Father was in the breakfast room, but he ignored Henry
beyond a grunted greeting, delivered without looking up from his papers.
Timothy was seated at the table at Father’s left hand drinking a cup of coffee
and he gave Henry a nod and a smile. Henry’s arrival was nothing that would
require Timothy to get up from the table, of course, and Henry wondered if it
might have been possible, if things were different, for Martin to sit, as
well—if Father would have allowed it. He would never know now, he supposed.

Martin brought him plates of scrambled eggs with cheese,
bacon, sausages, fried potatoes, French toast with maple syrup and fruit
compote, and a scone specked with currants and lemon zest, as well as his usual
milky coffee. Henry ate self-consciously, aware of all the little sounds he
made in eating, while everyone else in the room remained utterly silent. Under
the circumstances, he could not bring himself to request second helpings.

Martin followed him from the breakfast room and then
upstairs to the third floor. In response to his knock, he heard Cora shriek
with glee.

“Nurse, someone’s here!”

Nurse opened the door with a smile. “Well, good morning,
Sir. Good morning, Martin. Such welcome visitors!”

“Martin! Henry!” Cora came running toward them but skidded
to a stop halfway across the floor. “Oh, no! Henry! What’s happened to Martin’s
hair?”

“It’s been cut,” Henry said, stating the obvious.

“But
why
?” Cora started moving toward them again, but
more slowly, her pretty little face screwed up in dismay. “Martin had the
prettiest
hair!”

In retrospect, Henry was certainly wondering
why
,
too.

She stood before Martin and took his hand in both of hers.
Sounding bereft, she asked, “Martin, why did you cut your hair so short?”

Martin went pale and opened his mouth to speak, but no words
came out.

“It wasn’t his idea,” Henry said quickly, not wanting to
hear whatever story Martin might make up. “I had it cut, Cora.”

“But why would you
do
that, Henry?” Her chin was
trembling and her eyes welled with tears.

“I wanted it short,” Henry said curtly. “Martin’s my slave
and I can do what I want with him.”

Judging from the accusatory, wounded glare that Cora gave
him, she thought Henry’s choice a poor one, and she seemed on the verge of a
sobbing tantrum.

“Now, Miss…” Nurse began, stepping toward Cora, reaching for
her.

“Do you know, Miss?” Martin said. “Your dollhouse Martin
looks much more like me now.”

“What?” Cora looked up at him, tearful but definitely interested
in what he had to say.

“Your dollhouse Martin has short hair, too, doesn’t he,
Miss? He looks like me now.”

“Oh, that’s right!” Cora was instantly cheered by this idea.
“He
does
look like you now, Martin! Come see! Come see what he’s doing!
He’s playing the violin so Honey can dance!” She tugged on Martin’s hand and
led him over to the dollhouse.

Henry stayed near the door, superfluous to Cora’s needs.

Nurse came to stand at Henry’s side, and together they
watched Martin kneel down next to Cora and cock his head, listening as she
chattered away.

“Sir? Is everything…all right?”

“What do you mean?” Henry asked sulkily. “Why wouldn’t
things be all right?”

“I’ve heard things, Sir. I’m told there’s some discord
between you and your Martin, Sir, and I’ve been concerned.”

“Who told you that?” Henry thought for a moment that he
would feel better if he could get angry at some slave for gossiping.

“Really, Sir, everyone knows there’s something amiss by now.
Up here with Little Miss, I’m the last person to hear any news.”

“You needn’t be concerned,” Henry said coldly. “You’re not
my mother, after all.”

Nurse was silent a long time, and Henry knew he’d hurt her
and felt terrible for having done so.

“I’m sorry,” he made himself say. “You’re better than a
mother.” He touched her shoulder and she leaned a little into the contact.

“I love you very much, Sir,” she said in a low voice. “I
want nothing but happiness for you. Martin seemed to make you so very happy,
Sir. Whatever has gone wrong between the two of you, you should try to put it
to rights.”

“It’s not up to me,” Henry said stubbornly. “You should be
talking to him, then.”

Nurse sighed. “Oh, Sir…you have to consider your respective
positions.”

“He can apologize to me anytime he likes,” Henry insisted,
arms crossed over his chest.

Nurse looked like she wanted to say something more, but Cora
called out to Henry, requiring his attention to a circus performance. Henry
approached almost warily, and sat on the floor near Martin, but not too close.

“You need to sit closer, Henry,” Cora insisted. “You can’t
see from there.”

“I can see just fine,” Henry told her firmly. He did not
want to get any closer to Martin than he had to, and he would much rather feign
being able to see Cora’s little play from a distance than risk rubbing
shoulders with the boy he wanted to stop loving.

After the circus, it was time to play dolls. Brindle was
thrust into Henry’s hands, Martin was given Minnow, and Cora picked up a blonde
who turned out to be Celery.

“Where’s Baby Ann, Miss?” Martin tidied Minnow’s ringlets
and put her dress in order.

“She’s nearly dead,” Cora said confidentially, her whisper
very loud. “She can’t be moved or her head will fall to pieces.”

“Oh, dear, Miss! That’s terrible news!” Martin managed to
seem genuinely sorry, and Henry supposed he might well be. His tolerance for
Cora’s games was so much greater than Henry’s.

“She’s over there,” Cora said, making a broad sweep with her
arm, taking in the corner where Henry could see that Baby Ann lay on the floor
under the corner of a tattered blanket. He couldn’t be sure from this distance,
but it appeared that there was now a hole in her head at the inner corner of
her eye, a big chunk of porcelain missing.

“Brindle should be looking after her,” Cora said. “Henry,
you make Brindle do her job.”

Henry did not want to do this. “Baby Ann’s sleeping now,
isn’t she?” he suggested. “She won’t need Brindle while she’s sleeping.”

Cora scowled at him. She was probably still mad about
Martin’s hair. “She is
not
sleeping, Henry. She’s wide awake. Brindle
has to take care of her. Baby Ann needs her laudanum.”

Henry got up with a sigh and crossed to the corner where
Baby Ann languished. “What do you know about laudanum?”

“It’s medicine,” Cora said with a shrug, and Henry guessed
she had no idea about their mother’s habit.

Henry lowered himself to the floor at Baby Ann’s side. The
doll was a wreck. There was indeed a chunk of her face missing. There was some
weird substance, a wax or putty, holding her glass eye in place against the
remaining porcelain. She had never looked good in Henry’s experience, but she
looked so thoroughly beyond hope that he felt sort of sorry for the poor thing.

He sat Brindle down on the floor beside Baby Ann and
arranged them so that Brindle’s hand touched Baby Ann’s fingerless paw in an
attitude of sympathy. Meanwhile, Minnow and Celery were carrying on an animated
discussion, but in such low voices that Henry could not hear what was said and
began to feel slightly paranoid that he was being discussed, perhaps even disparaged,
but he knew he was being ridiculous. What terrible things could his 8-year-old
sister possibly have to say about him?

She could be commiserating with Martin about his haircut, he
supposed.

“Henry, did Brindle give Baby Ann her medicine?” Cora called.
“She’ll be in terrible pain if she doesn’t get her medicine.”

Henry did not feel up to going through the motions of giving
nonexistent medicine to a broken doll. It was all pretend anyway. “Yes, she got
her medicine,” Henry said. “Actually, it was very strong medicine and it put
her to sleep.”

Cora frowned at this, though clearly she could not fault the
logic, while Martin looked over at him with an amused smile. The smile made
Henry happy and angry in equal measure.

“Brindle is going to sit with Baby Ann awhile,” Henry
announced. “I’m going to talk to Nurse.” He got up again and dusted off the
seat of his trousers.

“You can be this other girl, then,” Cora suggested, holding
up a doll with a snarled auburn wig and a yellow dress. She looked at the doll
and pressed her lips firmly together, not quite frowning. “I forget her name,
but you can make one up if you want.”

Caraway. Radium. Bonnet. Any random word would do, he
supposed. “No, I’m going to talk to Nurse. You play with Martin.”

She looked a little disappointed, but he was letting her
keep Martin, and that obviously pleased her. Henry turned his back on his
sister and his slave and went to sit beside Nurse, who was sitting in the only
adult-sized chair in the nursery.

“Oh, Sir, would you like the chair?” She was already getting
up.

“No, no, it’s fine. I’ll sit on the floor.” He sat with his
legs stretched out before him, leaning back on his hands, and watched Martin
play with his sister. He was so sweet, so good. Why didn’t he love Henry more?
Why didn’t he feel sorry about what had happened?

“Might you boys take lunch with Little Miss today, Sir?”
Nurse asked, keeping her voice low. “I know she’d be thrilled, Sir. I could
just call down and Cook would be happy to send up food for the two of you, as
well.”

Henry did not really want to do this, but then he thought
about sitting in the breakfast room with Martin standing silent behind his
chair, no sounds but the sounds of his own mouth chewing, and suddenly spending
the lunch hour with his sister seemed almost like fun.

“Sure,” he said. “Why not?”

“I’ll just make the call, then, Sir. Little Miss will be so
pleased!” Nurse got up and crossed to the spot behind the door where the house
telephone sat on the same spindly little table it had been sitting on since
Henry’s own infancy. He had a pang of longing for a return to the innocence of
childhood, a time before sex and romantic love, a time before betrayal.

Martin made Minnow dance, and he was speaking to Cora and
smiling, and he was so beautiful that Henry’s chest ached to look at him. He
felt so disheartened, and wanted so badly to be close to Martin again. His
memory of Martin’s mouth against his own was so strong that he could very
nearly taste his spit. If he could just kiss Martin, kiss him and hold him close,
even with their clothes on, he would be so happy. But Martin had to be sorry,
had to apologize. Henry couldn’t just take him back without Martin showing
contrition.

Nurse came back and sat down. “Everything is settled, Sir.
Cook is sending up extra cake for you boys.”

“That’s good.” Henry shifted closer to Nurse’s chair, then
leaned to lay his head against her leg.