A Collar and Tie (Ganymede Quartet Book 4) (62 page)

Henry lifted Martin’s hand to his mouth and kissed his
knuckles. “Whatever you want,” he promised. “Whatever it takes for you to be
all right with it.”

Martin smiled and gave a little shrug. “Well, I want you to
be happy, Henry. I really do. We’ll find a way.”

Henry was nearly dizzy with relief at Martin’s acquiescence.
Surely they’d be able to do some of what they’d done before. He wanted to sit
again in the Fleur-de-Lys Café surrounded by carefree and sociable inverts who
all envied him Martin’s companionship. He wanted to dress in his elegant
Hamilton & Sons tailcoat and waltz with Martin at a men’s ball. Martin
couldn’t object too much to these plans, he didn’t think. Martin might even be
willing to visit Scotty at the Venetian Bar. However, Henry wouldn’t be
suggesting any semi-public cocksucking or All-Male Revues, at least not right
away.

Henry felt hopeful. They didn’t have to make a dramatic
break with everything familiar. They could just go downtown to visit and then
come back home again.

“I don’t want you to leave,” he repeated, “and I don’t want
to make you do anything you don’t want to do, but things can’t just go back to
how they were before.”

“No, of course not.” Martin said. “We need a change, I can
see that.” He was quiet a thoughtful moment, then added, “We can compromise,”
seeming quite reconciled to the idea.

Henry was delighted. “Thank you. Thank you so much, Martin.”

“You’re welcome.” Martin leaned close and kissed his cheek.
Giving Henry’s hands a parting squeeze, Martin unfolded his legs and got down
from the bed. He put their dirty dishes on the tray and set the tray by the
door. He came back to the bedside and began unbuttoning his pajamas. Henry
hurried to stand, too, and reached for Martin’s buttons.

“Let me help.” He was more of a hindrance than a help, he
was sure, but Martin let him unbutton his pajama shirt while he worked on
Henry’s. They shed their shirts and pants and stood naked facing one another,
Martin’s hands on Henry’s shoulders and Henry’s hands on Martin’s hips. They
came together in a slow, gentle kiss, and Henry realized something.

“Hey.”

“Hmm?”

“You’re as tall as me now, aren’t you?” He was looking
directly into Martin’s eyes, not even the slightest inclination of his head
required. They’d always been very close in height, of course, but he’d been an
infinitesimal margin taller than Martin when they ran away, and now they were
the same.

Martin smiled, warm and fond. “I suppose I am. Everything
matches up, doesn’t it?” His thumbs stroked Henry’s collarbones in soothing
arcs.

Henry felt a pang of sadness that this change had happened
while they were estranged and felt unexpectedly teary. He hid his damp eyes by
drawing Martin close and wrapping his arms around his back.

Martin hugged Henry in return and kissed his neck. “We’re
growing up, don’t you think?”

They were. They were growing up.

It wouldn’t be as bad as Henry had feared, this growing up.
He would have to operate from behind a façade…but didn’t everyone have to do
that to some extent? He was rich and privileged and loved and indulged, which
was more than most people could say. Before he’d caused all the ruckus, he’d
anticipated that his father would condemn his behaviors and separate him from
Martin if he knew what existed between them, but that had not happened; Father
thought Martin was a good influence. As long as Henry didn’t embarrass him in
public, Father didn’t seem to care what he did in private. He wasn’t sure what Mother
knew, exactly, but he suspected she’d be delighted to have a queer son. Cora
was easy to please, and she liked Martin best, anyway. Louis still valued his
friendship. The rest of his friends knew nothing, and maybe they wouldn’t care
as much as he thought they would. He was rich, after all, and things were
different for rich people. Everything would be all right. He would move through
the world, and the world would bend to accommodate him.

They kissed and nuzzled one another sleepily. Henry was hard
again, but he didn’t want to do anything about it. Martin yawned against
Henry’s neck. “Let’s lie down.”

They got comfortable, Martin lying with his head on Henry’s
chest, his arm thrown over Henry’s body.

“Henry?”

“Hmm?”

“What did you think the future would be like? If we weren’t
together?”

Henry was puzzled. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

“When you thought about a future where we weren’t
together…did you have lovers? Free boys?” Martin sounded anxious about this
possibility.

Henry gave a short, surprised bark of a laugh. Did Martin
think he’d actually been planning a romantic future? “I never even thought
about it,” he told him, but he thought about it now. Slowly, he said, “I guess
I just sort of thought I wouldn’t have sex again, at least not with anyone of
my own choosing. There’d just have been you, then a big gap, then whoever my
father tells me to marry.”

“Oh, Henry.” Martin’s voice was gentle. “That makes me sad.”

“Well, what about you? Did you have all sorts of plans for
lovers?” Henry couldn’t help the jealous prickles that colored his voice.

Martin shook his head, rocking against Henry’s ribs. “No, of
course not.”

Despite his jealousy, Henry believed him. He tousled
Martin’s hair, traced the curve of his ear with a fingertip. “I only want you,”
he admitted. “I wouldn’t be rid of you for anything.”

“That makes me very happy.”

Henry thought back over their entire conversation. He wanted
to ask a question, but held back a moment, wanting to be very sure he wanted to
hear the answer.

“Martin? Why
didn’t
you leave?” Henry asked in a
small voice.

“Because I thought that if I stayed nearby, waiting for you
to need me, and if I was especially good, you’d eventually reward my patience
and accept my apology.” He turned his head to press a kiss to Henry’s chest.
“And isn’t that what happened?”

“Well, not really,” Henry said. “I mean, you
are
especially
good, but you didn’t need to be. This whole situation was all my fault.” It
felt good to admit it so plainly.

“Not
entirely
your fault,” Martin said with confidence,
though he offered up no examples that would place blame elsewhere. He ruffled
Henry’s chest hair with his fingertips and wriggled closer and they were quiet
a minute.

“Henry? Is it all right that I told you that…that I might
have left? ”

Henry had not liked hearing it at all, of course, but it was
best that Martin had said something. “Yes, of course. I’m glad you told me. I
want to know how you feel.”

“Can I tell you something else, Henry? A secret?”

“You can tell me anything.” Henry tightened his arm around
Martin’s shoulders and waited apprehensively to hear whatever else Martin might
have to say.

“I did spells every day to try to get you back.”

“Really?” Relieved, Henry was exceedingly flattered. “What
kind of spells?”

“Wishes. Writing them down and burning them.”

“What sorts of wishes?”

“Mostly just one.
Let Henry love me again
. Over and
over.”

This admission made Henry unexpectedly emotional. His voice
cracked when he said, “You needn’t have bothered. I loved you all along. I
never stopped, even when I wished I could.”

“Do you mean it, Henry?

“I do,” Henry said firmly. “You’re the love of my life,
Martin.”

“Henry—”

“No. Don’t say it. Don’t say I can’t be sure yet, or that
some free man might come along and turn my head. Don’t you dare suggest I’ll
love a wife more than you! Don’t say any of it. Just accept that I love you
more than anything, and I’ll do anything for you. I know I’m the master and
you’re
supposed to do things for
me
, but I don’t care. I just want to make you
happy, Martin. Let me do that for you, please.” When he reached the end of his
speech, Henry felt almost angry, his passion high.

Martin was quiet a moment, absorbing this declaration.
“Well,” he said slowly, “I think we can take care of each other, can’t we? We
can make each other happy. That’s fair, isn’t it? It doesn’t have to be one or
the other of us, after all.”

“That’s fair,” Henry agreed, a bit grudging. “That’s fine.”

“You’re my
life
, Henry, and knowing that you feel
just as much for me…well, it’s overwhelming, really.” He squeezed Henry’s ribs,
and Henry could feel him smiling.

Henry said, “You’re happy we’ve reconciled.” It wasn’t quite
a question.

Martin lifted his head to give Henry a sharp look. “
Of
course
I’m happy. I’m
ecstatic
. Don’t be ridiculous, Henry.”

Henry laughed, oddly pleased by this scolding which, in his
opinion, heralded the official return of their old ease. He liked that Martin
would talk to him like this again. They weren’t the same as other masters,
other slaves. They loved each other simply as men.

Martin yawned and sighed. “You know, I’m a little afraid to
go to sleep. I’m afraid I’ll wake up and this wonderful day will all have been
a dream.”

“Then we’re having the same dream,” Henry pointed out. “So
we’ll both want it to be true when we wake up, right? No matter what, we both
want to be together.”

“Oh, that’s very logical! I’m sure you’re right.” Martin
yawned again, his breath moist on Henry’s skin.

Henry shifted on the sheet, getting more comfortable, and
Martin nestled close, his eyes closed and a little smile turning up the corners
of his mouth. Henry felt he was the most precious thing in the world. Martin’s
hand, bony and graceful, rested lightly on Henry’s chest, over his heart, and
Henry put his own hand on Martin’s wrist to keep it there.

Henry thought back to the days before he’d met Martin, his
worries about opening the floodgates of desire. Back then, he’d had absolutely
no concept of how much he might feel for another person, how much he could want
someone. If he’d known, he might have shied away, too fearful to ever dare
plunge ahead. But he’d gone in naively and wholeheartedly, and he hadn't been
able to stop at what was allowed, hadn't wanted to, hadn't even tried.

For the first time in months, he thought of Madame Ersebet
telling fortunes from within a tasseled tent in the Briggs library. Maybe she
had really seen their futures after all. She had said that Henry would have but
one great love, which he felt was definitely true. He recalled that she had
predicted he would make a bad decision that would have a terrible effect on
Martin, and certainly that had come to pass, as well—as unhappy as Henry had
been, he did think their estrangement had probably been harder on Martin.
However, she’d also promised things would work out in the end, and surely that
was what was happening now. Maybe she was a real gypsy after all.

Henry bent and kissed the top of Martin’s head and
whispered, “Goodnight, Martin. I love you,” hoping he would hear the words
whispered back.

But Martin was already asleep, his lashes lying dark on his
freckled cheekbones. Henry drew him closer, so grateful that he was able to do
so, so happy they could be together again. As he drifted into sleep, Henry
realized that their reconciliation had been inevitable, fated. How could it be
otherwise?

Martin belonged to him, body and soul, and he belonged to
Martin, in his heart.

“1-2-3…Happy Birthday!”

There were a hundred voices or more shouting it together,
and a hundred pairs of hands clapping their approval as Henry bent toward the
cake and blew, extinguishing all seventeen candles in one relieved exhalation.
He stood upright and turned, looking for Martin before any other, and smiled
his happiness.

“Oh, Henry, give your mother a kiss, darling.”

At Henry’s elbow, Mother turned up her cheek for him to peck
and squeezed his hand. She looked more vivid and lively than he’d seen her in
recent years, leaning on Pearl’s arm in her occasion dress, the bronze with
fuchsia roses. She’d taken jewelry out of the vault for the party and was
bedecked in pink sapphires the size of walnuts and a virtual constellation of
diamonds.

“Me, too.” Cora tugged at Henry’s sleeve. “I want a kiss,
too, Henry.”

Henry got down on one knee and hugged his sister, pressing a
kiss to her forehead. He had insisted she be allowed to attend, expecting a
fight, but his parents had acquiesced readily, slightly baffled that he’d want
an 8-year-old at his party, but without any objections whatsoever.

Everything turned out to be easier than Henry thought it was
going to be.

Father cleared his throat and said, “Happy Birthday, son.”
He held out his hand and Henry shook, and then Father patted him stiffly on the
back. They stood regarding one another an awkward moment, Henry’s skin
prickling with heat, but then Henry’s friends were surrounding him with
well-wishes of their own, and the uncomfortable spell was broken.

It was possible he would never be at ease with his father,
but he was willing to believe now that Father cared for him, that Father was
kind. Henry knew he wasn’t the son Father wanted, but it was clear Father
wasn’t going to waste time and effort condemning him for his nature. Father was
very astute, and he’d seen that Martin made Henry a better person, a more
useful
person; Henry understood
now
that there had never been any possibility
that Father would have taken Martin away.

Henry shook hands with his friends and no small number of
people he did not know, accepting their well wishes with good grace. When he
happened to cast a glance over the shoulder of the  hearty blond stranger who
was pumping his hand, he saw Father bending to listen to Mother as she laid her
hand on his sleeve. This was remarkable in and of itself, and at first Henry
didn’t understand what he was seeing next, because Mother leaned on Father’s
arm and he escorted her solicitously to a spindly settee near the wall. Pearl
trailed behind, her eyes on her mistress, seeming quite notably unencumbered.

Henry would not jump to conclusions, would not presume the
blossoming of love between his ill-suited parents, but surely this picture
represented a welcome degree of civility and accord.

As Henry watched, Nurse led Cora over to their parents and,
although they seemed no more comfortable with her than usual, they did listen
to her as she prattled, and Father gave her three careful pats on the crown of
her glossy dark head.

Cora gestured to the large bouquet sitting on a table beside
the settee and made as if to touch; Nurse quickly intervened, catching her hand
and giving it a placating pat. Henry could understand his sister’s impulse. The
flowers were beautiful, a hectic variety of colors and forms, displayed in
large arrangements in places of prominence around the room. Henry wondered if
they’d been chosen for their Hetaeria meanings, if Martin had had that sort of
influence on the proceedings. There
were
roses in the vases.
Red
roses.

In addition to the flowers, the freshly-papered walls were
festooned with greenery, and again Henry suspected these decorations might have
Hetaeria properties. He would have to question Martin later.

Henry sidestepped into the edge of the crowd to make way for
the cake to be cut. Martin came to stand at his side, their shoulders touching.
Henry extended his littlest finger and brushed the side of Martin’s hand.

“Happy Birthday, Sir,” Martin murmured. He linked his pinky
with Henry’s for a fraction of a second before pulling his hand away.

Henry was grateful for the contact, however fleeting. In the
past, he’d found Martin’s reluctance to engage in these little intimacies
frustrating, but he understood that Martin was looking out for him, protecting
him from his most foolhardy romantic notions, and now he was prepared to let
Martin guide him in regard to matters of propriety.

He glanced over at Jesse and Louis standing together having
an animated discussion, forming a sort of bridge between the Algonquin and
Lawton crowds. To Henry’s relief, his best friend and his cousin had taken an
instant liking to one another. Besides a fondness for Henry’s company, they had
their interest in unconventional women in common, and no doubt Jesse was
regaling Louis with tales of Elizabeth’s bohemian sensibilities.

He’d been able to reconcile with Louis on Thursday, Martin’s
birthday, which had been a lovely day all around. Only good things had
happened, for him and Martin both. He’d celebrated Martin’s birthday with the
slaves and later had nervously offered himself up for Martin’s use, both as a
sort of apology and because he
wanted
it, wanted Martin to fuck him, and
it had been wonderful. All the hours since making his apology to Martin had
been better than he would have dared hope for, and he felt lucky—so
ridiculously, blissfully lucky—that Martin had forgiven him.

Martin said, “I’ll be right back, Sir. I’ll just get your
cake.”

Henry made a conscious effort not to watch him go, instead
smiling and greeting as many more of his guests as cared to approach him, a
steady stream of people. All of his school friends had come, as had Jesse’s
friends, but the majority of the people crowded into the reception room and
hall were young men and women who’d attended the Metropolitan Ball and were
entirely unknown to him. Having so many strangers in his lonely house at once
was so unprecedented that it seemed quite unreal, and as he floated in this
dream, he felt neither shy nor conspicuous in spite of being the center of
attention.

“Happy Birthday to you, Mr. Blackwell. I must say, you look
very happy!” Abigail DeWitt appeared at his side, smiling up at him, Helena at
her back.

Henry had not seen her since the night of the Metropolitan
Ball, of course, and was a little wary of her despite the fact that they’d
actually had a nice time together. He hoped she would not flirt with him, and
felt his face grow hot in anticipation of such unwelcome attention.

“Oh, thank you, Miss DeWitt. Well, I suppose I am happy…it
is
my birthday party, after all.”

“I’m very happy, too. Do you know why?”

Henry smiled at her. “As a matter of fact, I do.” He’d heard
the gossip from friends when they visited the arcade on Martin’s birthday. “I
understand you’re to be married to Mr. Calvert.”

Abigail frowned prettily. “Oh, I did hope to surprise you,
Mr. Blackwell! Well, never mind. It’s partly because of you, you know.”

Surprised, Henry said, “How so? What did I do?”

“You said such a wise thing! You told me you wouldn’t want
to live without mutual passion,” she explained. “And I realized I wouldn’t want
to, either.” She paused a minute, smiling down at her hands; Henry noticed she
was wearing a dark blue sapphire on her left ring finger. “I was quite
shameless in my pursuit of
you
, Mr. Blackwell, but you were decidedly
uninterested, and my feelings were hurt—”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Miss—”

“Goodness, no, it’s perfectly all right!” she said. “I was
simply unaccustomed to being in that position. It’s quite humbling!” She
laughed and touched his arm, the blue stone glittering on her finger. “After
all, I’m uninterested in
so many
young men, and I can’t be feeling sorry
for all of
them
! Their interest is neither my fault nor my concern.”

Martin returned with a cake plate. “Here you are, Sir. Shall
I get some for Miss DeWitt and Helena, as well?”

Abigail answered for Henry. “Thank you. That would be
lovely.”

Henry wanted very much to eat his cake, but did not think he
ought to do so until Abigail had her piece, as well. It smelled delicious,
sweet and tangy. He did so love lemon!

“When I met Mr. Calvert, there was such a spark! I found him
attractive on a
very
deep level. And when you came to collect me from
him, you said your bit about mutual passion, and I recognized then that you
didn’t feel the least spark for me, and I shouldn’t waste another minute
chasing a man who didn’t want me. It isn’t enough to merely want or be wanted,
but you have to have both, just as you said.”

“Yes, of course,” Henry said, thinking it safe enough to
agree. All around him, people were eating cake with expressions of bliss, and
Henry was nearly salivating at the sharp scent of citrus.

“Besides your complete lack of interest,” Abigail said, “there’s
the problem of your age. You’re far too young for me. Very unsuitable!” She
laughed and gave him a winsome smile.

“A young lady such as yourself requires a mature husband,”
Henry agreed. “A young man has nothing to offer you.”

“I think you’re right. Do you recall my Mr. Calvert?
Terribly handsome? Red hair?”

“I do remember him. You seemed very compatible.” The air had
crackled between them, and they’d given every impression of eager and willing
mutuality. “I suspect you’ll have a happy life.”

“We really do have a great deal of chemistry! It’s quite
overwhelming!” She waved a hand in front of her face as if to cool herself
down, and Henry couldn’t help but laugh. “It’ll be a summer wedding,” she said.
“As soon as I graduate. You will come, won’t you?”

“Of course I will,” Henry promised.

“Here you are, Miss DeWitt. Helena.” Martin held out plates
for the girls and gave Henry a quick smile.

“Please get some for yourself,” Henry encouraged him. He
recalled eating from the same cake plate at Jesse’s birthday party, but did not
feel brave enough to do anything so bold here at his own.

He took a bite of his cake. It was tart and sweet, moist and
light. He closed his eyes a moment to enjoy it in a sort of enhanced sensory
isolation, his mouth tingling with bright, complex flavors. He hoped there
would be cake left over, because he wanted to taste this on Martin’s lips,
Martin’s tongue.

“My, but this cake is delicious!” Abigail said, sounding
very sincere.

“Look, Miss,” Helena said in a loud whisper. “There’s Mr.
Maguire.”

Abigail turned to glance at the young man in question, who
was trailed by a dark-haired slave who looked familiar. The slave saw Helena
and gave her a wave and a wistful smile.

Abigail rolled her eyes. To Henry, she said, “Mr. Maguire’s
Max is Helena’s beau.”

Oh, yes. Henry had seen Helena and Max flirting at the ball.

“Might we talk with them, Miss?” Helena asked hopefully.

“Really, Helena! Be patient! Let me finish my cake!” She
laughed and shook her head. “Does your Martin have a girl, Mr. Blackwell?”

“No,” Henry said firmly. “He does not.”

Abigail considered this. “He must be quite choosy,” she
remarked. “He’s such a handsome fellow, I’m sure he has a great many
opportunities for romance.”

“He never mentions any,” Henry told her quite honestly.

“Perhaps he’s the type who’s content to serve a master,”
Abigail said blithely, forking up another ladylike bite of cake.

Did Abigail know what she was saying? Henry felt his skin
flush with embarrassed heat.

“Our Dad’s slave is like that,” she continued. “Very
devoted. Of course, he doesn’t have that relationship with Dad
now
. Not
since they were boys. He’s had a sweetheart at our neighbors’ house since
Albert and I were just little, one of their footmen.” She told him this as if
it was entirely unremarkable, and he supposed it was. There wasn’t any stigma
for slaves, after all.

What would Abigail think if he told her about Martin and
himself? Would she be interested and matter-of-fact? Would she denounce him as
a deviant? This little story about her father’s companion gave him hope that
she’d be accepting, but that might strictly be a fantasy of his own. That might
just be one of his reckless, romantic notions, and he would do well not to
indulge it.

When Reggie returned home, Henry would have a lot of questions
for him. How did you know whom you could tell your secrets to? That Louis was
able to accept his affection for Martin, more or less, was a great relief, but
Henry didn’t know if Louis would be unusual amongst his friends, or if others
would be equally generous. With what little Martin had told him about Charles
Ross and Simon, he wondered if Charles might understand. But how would he even
broach such a topic?