A Collar and Tie (Ganymede Quartet Book 4) (51 page)

It is proving more difficult to sell Mr. Ellsworth’s business,
and that is because I am sentimental and feel the need to defend Mr. Ellsworth
and his values even now, though surely he is past caring. The best offer I have
received is from a most odious man, someone who was quite nasty to Frederick
while he was alive, and who did everything he could to discredit and undercut
him in business. However, he is offering me twenty percent more than the
next-highest bidder, and that is quite a meaningful amount of money to me. It
is difficult, also, to not be suspicious that all of the potential buyers are
seeking to cheat me, as they know the value of the inventory, and I am relying
on Frederick’s ledgers, which I know are neither complete nor accurate. I am
sure there are any number of priceless volumes hidden amongst the chaff and
catalogued in such a way as to obscure their true value.

But enough of my middle-aged problems, darling. Your dear
mother tells me that you had your ball and it was a big success. She also
alludes to some fuss with you and your Martin and says that you are ‘back home
again,’ which of course raises concern. Did you run off, darling? If you would
like someone to talk to, I would be happy to exchange letters in all
confidence. Might I also suggest you talk with your cousin? Jesse is nearly as
sweet as you and a very good listener.

If you don’t wish to write down your worries, never fear. I’ll
be home in July and we can talk then. I anticipate finishing up my business in
the next week or two, and then I’ve been invited to spend what remains of June
in the home of some dear friends in the city. They’ll be hosting some rather
lavish parties so that I can say goodbye to Italy and all the lovely friends
I’ve made here. It’s possible that I’ll have the opportunity to return to Italy
again to visit, but this
is
the end of my life here. But of course it
also represents a new beginning with my family and all those I parted from as a
foolish young man of 27.

When I return, I will want to introduce you to a few people, I
think. Most of them are terribly old, like me, but Sully is younger, and he’s a
bit of a devil and a lot of fun. Most people find him very charming. He always
has friends of all ages, and he has written and tells me he knows a few young
men in your situation. It is not my goal to transform you into some dissipated
libertine, of course, but I do think you’d feel more comfortable in the world
if you knew some nice boys with whom you’d have certain things in common.

Poor Benjy has caught a cold and I have been trying to take care
of him, but nursing is not my forte. He has been subjected to scalded soups,
lukewarm hot compresses, and a serious lack of clean handkerchiefs. I hear him
shuffling around in the corridor, so I’ll finish this up and go see what he
needs.

I love you, darling. The very best from Benjy and myself to
you and your lovely Martin. Write when you can.

R.

Henry felt sad and frustrated as he set the letter down on
his blotter. Why couldn’t Reggie be here
now
, when Henry needed his help
so desperately? His thoughts were racing and he wanted to write a reply
immediately, but when he sat down with pen and paper, he had no idea what to
say.
He doesn’t love me
, maybe. Or,
Why do I still love him when he
hurt me so badly?
As for Reggie’s suggestion that he talk to Jesse, Henry
wasn’t sure he wanted to admit everything to his cousin, both because he was
hesitant to reveal his true nature, but also because he feared that Jesse would
find his troubles laughable, that he would consider them the problems of a
childish fool. Jesse did not actually give the impression of being such a harsh
critic, but Henry was in no mood to risk anything.

With just days left in the school year, Henry was
anticipating a poor Latin grade—certainly no better than a D, and he wouldn’t
be surprised by an F—but felt he could count on another B in English as
counterbalance. He was not looking forward to the end of classes as much as he
might have. In past years, he had gone to the shore with the Briggs family for
the month of July, but obviously he would not be receiving that invitation this
year. However, as it was so well-established that Henry went to the shore with
Louis’ family, no alternate invitations were forthcoming. He could ask people,
he knew, and they would be happy to include him, but he didn’t want to have to
ask, and he didn’t want to answer the inevitable questions about his fight with
Louis. He would be spending the summer in the city, then, with few distractions
and only Martin for company. It did not escape his notice that just a little
over a month ago this exact scenario would have been his ideal summer.

After dinner, before Pearl’s reading, Mother had ideas about
opening up their own house at the shore, which Henry did not remember at all,
having last visited as a very small boy. Mother showed him a photograph of it
in an old album—a very large shingled house with a turret and wrap-around
porch—but it did not jog his memory. Mother assured him that there were plenty
of rooms, but Henry was not enthusiastic about this plan, as he suspected it
would throw him into yet more intimate proximity with Martin.

Father did not like the plan, either. He pointed out that
the family’s supplemental houses were all outdated, with 1880s decorations and
conveniences, and would no doubt require extensive work to be habitable by
modern people. He suggested that Mother set her sights on staying in the beach
house
next
summer, after she’d had a chance to bring it current, and
Mother had to concede this was wise.

“You can have your Mr. Phillips—”

“It’s Phipps, Hiram,” Mother hurried to correct him, with a
hint of irritation.

“Whatever his name may be. You can engage him to do the
other houses, as well, if you’re satisfied with his work here.”

“As a matter of fact, I am. Have you looked in on the rooms,
Hiram? I think he’s doing a lovely job.”

“I haven’t done so, no,” Father admitted. “I trust your
judgment, Louisa.”

Mother seemed very pleased by this vote of confidence, but
she said, “You should see what’s been done, Hiram, and tell me what you think.”

“When Timothy and I go down this evening, I’ll look,” Father
said. “Timothy has seen, of course, and he tells me it’s very nice. Modern.”

Mother had a smile for Timothy then.

“It’s for your party, Henry,” Father noted. “What do you
think?”

Henry had not expected to be asked and was slightly nervous
in answering. “Oh. It’s better, I think. Much better. It’s nice. I like the
colors.”

“Mr. Phipps has such an eye for color,” Mother said. “He
reminds me of Reggie in that way.”

“Surely that’s not the only way,” Father remarked, smirking
behind his mustache.

Mother scowled at him a moment. “What are you suggesting,
Hiram?”

“Nothing at all,” Father assured her. “I only noticed that
Phipps has similar taste in jackets to your brother.”

“Hmph.” Mother clearly suspected Father of disparaging both
Phipps and Reggie, but could find no fault in what he’d said. “After Henry’s
party, I’ll be asking Mr. Phipps to look at some other rooms. I’ll want to do
all of the bedrooms, of course. Would you be interested in having your bedroom
redecorated, Hiram?”

Father frowned. “Hmm. What do you think, Timothy?”

Timothy came forward, leaning into the lamplight. “I don’t
think it would hurt to hear Mr. Phipps’ ideas, Sir.”

“Very well,” Father agreed. “Have Phipps come up with a plan
and I’ll consider it.”

Henry thought it was nice to see his parents getting along.

Mother said, “Pearl, would you read for us, please?”

“Yes,” Father said, “Please do read, Pearl.”

Henry cringed. Pearl blushed with pleasure at the enthusiasm
displayed by the majority of her audience and began to read from
Lord
Pelham’s Companion
, a story about a foolish gentleman whose level-headed
slave kept him out of all sorts of silly trouble.

Henry resented the reading of this book as he believed it to
be at least in part directed at him. Mother and Father were both especially
attentive to the story and seemed to find Pelham’s antics very amusing, but the
fictional nonsense put Henry on the defensive.
He
wasn’t as ridiculous
as Pelham! He might not have Father’s shrewdness or toughness, but surely he
possessed the fortitude necessary to live in the 14
th
Street milieu or its like in any other city. Clearly, Father didn’t think so,
and neither did Martin; he’d heard Martin chuckling at
Pelham
in the
dark behind his chair and took the laughter personally.

By Wednesday afternoon, Henry had completed all his
classwork for the year and had turned in all his test papers. They would be
released from school at noon on Friday, and anyone who wanted to do so could
stay and watch the twelfth-year boys graduate. Henry was quite confident that
none of his friends would do any such thing; the twelfth-year boys were a bunch
of snobs who had refused to have anything to do with the eleventh-years despite
them all being slave owners. Traditionally, the twelfth- and eleventh-year boys
banded together against the slaveless underclassmen, but the class of 1901 had
been very disappointing in this regard. Henry and the rest of the class of 1902
felt that they would be much kinder to the boys coming up behind them.

They received their final grades on Thursday. Henry received
his A in math, a B-minus in English, Cs in history, geography and science, and
a D-plus in Latin, for which he was very grateful. It made him feel it might be
possible to achieve a C-minus next year, though of course he would need
Martin’s help, and he had no idea how he would go about getting it and still
retain any vestige of dignity.

Martin also received his grades. In the cloakroom, Henry
said, “Show me your report card,” and held out his hand. Martin had, once
again, received all As except for an A-minus in math.

Henry stood before Father’s desk, Martin a discreet distance
further back, and offered his report card with a sense of pride, though he was
a little worried that Father might not be satisfied with the modest improvement
in his Latin grade.

Father looked at the card and puffed on his cigar a few
thoughtful moments. “Hmm,” he said. “A D-plus.”

“Yes, sir,” Henry agreed. He hurried to add, “It was only a
D last semester.”

Father raised his head to look up at Henry, regarding him
frankly through a haze of smoke. He smiled then with a warmth that startled
Henry, who was unused to his father smiling at all.

“I’m proud of you, Henry,” Father said. “It isn’t the C I’d
hoped for, of course, but I’m pleased that you’re working to improve.”

“Er, yes, sir.” Henry felt short of breath. Father was
proud
of him?

“I think Martin’s been a big help to you,” Father remarked.
“Both with this Latin grade, and the improvement in your English, as well.”

Henry hesitated, before grudgingly admitting that, “Yes,
he’s helped a lot.” He darted a glance over his shoulder at Martin, who gave
him a weak smile; Henry frowned and faced forward.

Father and Timothy had praise for Martin with his As, though
their remarks made it clear they expected nothing less of him.

On the way back to Henry’s rooms, Martin tentatively
offered, “Sir? I-I’m proud of you, too,” and Henry hated that it actually did
matter to him.

“Does it matter what you think?” Henry asked the air in a
most unfriendly tone, unwilling to address Martin directly.

Martin recoiled as if stung, and Henry cringed, ashamed of
his own pettiness and cruelty. He did care what Martin thought, and it was
stupid to pretend otherwise. But he did not apologize, and he said nothing
more.

On Friday, all of the class periods were halved, and there
was no expectation of getting any work done, so the boys simply socialized in
the classroom. All that the teachers required of them were civil tongues and
physical restraint, though David and Philip were unable to operate within even
these loose parameters and were sent to the principal’s office for a
talking-to.

Dr. Foster reminded them that he would expect them to study
over the summer and then sat down with his newspaper, frowning at the pages
with a furrowed brow. Dr. Foster was, as always, an intimidating figure and the
boys were better-behaved for him than for the others. When the final bell rang,
Henry shyly approached Dr. Foster and offered his hand.

“Thank you for the D-plus, sir.”

Dr. Foster shook his hand slowly and cocked his head,
squinting at Henry over his glasses. “You’re a peculiar boy, Mr. Blackwell. I’m
glad you’re so pleased with your D.”

“D-
plus
, sir.”

“Yes, well. Enjoy your summer, Mr. Blackwell.”

They spent the afternoon at the arcade with all of Henry’s
friends and their slaves, and afterward Henry thought it would be the last time
they’d go. It had been awkward being with Louis and not talking or even
acknowledging one another. The worst of it was watching Martin bent over the
Mutoscopes and thinking of all the times he’d just followed Martin down the row
of machines, not even looking at the peep shows himself, but simply enjoying
the pleasure that Martin took in them, and it had made him want to cry. Later,
when the group went for ice cream, he could neither let Martin sit down with
him nor try to steal bites from his dish, and he became so morose that he could
not enjoy his own sundae. He did not think he would be able to bear it again.

In the days following the end of the school term, Henry kept
busy, accepting invitations to do anything that would prevent him from having
to be alone with Martin. They rode bicycles with Henry’s friends on Saturday,
and went on horseback with Victor and Will on Sunday and then again on Tuesday,
this time with Daniel and Allen coming along, as well.

Wednesday afternoon, Henry was reading on his bed and Martin
was being very quiet in his own room when Billy came to the bedroom door to let
Henry know that Jesse was calling on the telephone. Henry would have preferred
that Martin stay behind, but he said nothing, and of course Martin followed him
to the telephone alcove and stood outside the door while Henry talked.

“Hello? Jesse?”

“Henry! How are you?”

Miserable.

“Fine. How about you?”

“Well, I’ve graduated!”

“Congratulations,” Henry hurried to say. He should have
called Jesse last week to mark the occasion. A better friend and cousin would
have done so. “Did you do anything special?”

“Gene had a party for just his good friends, and his older
brother brought us a case of champagne. Everyone got pretty sloshed, so that
was fun. Gene asked about you the other day, by the way.”