A Free Choice (Ganymede Quartet Book 4.5) (12 page)

Martin did not dignify this with a response. He cast a baleful eye at Billy and ate some scrambled eggs.

“Really,” Jerry said, “your work ethic is admirable. Day after day of back-breaking labor…” He snorted with amusement.

“Down on your knees, slaving away.” Billy laughed as Martin scowled at him.

It would do him no good to be affronted. Martin made himself smile, though it felt a bit strained. “It
is
satisfying work,” he said, aiming for an air of unconcern. “Not the kind of satisfaction you get working under a butler or a
horse
, of course.”

“Oh ho!” Jerry reared back from him, both insulted and impressed by the jab. Down at the other end of the table, the maids looked over with interest at the noise of his outburst.

“I’m sure those are
far
more rewarding jobs,” Martin said with lofty disinterest. He picked up a strip of bacon and put it in his mouth.

Billy laughed and leaned back in his chair. “No, I guess you’ll never know what it’s like to answer the siren call of the doorbell,” he said. Then, as if it had only just occurred to him, he said, “Does he even expect you to open doors for him?”

“Of course he does!” Martin said, slightly offended. “I do everything I’m meant to do. I don’t shirk my duties!”

“So touchy!” Jerry said, clapping him on the back. He left his hand on Martin’s shoulder and rubbed it. “We really do know what a good boy you are, Martin. He’s lucky to have you.”

“I’m fortunate, too,” Martin said firmly.

“You know, I’ve wondered…” Billy’s voice was a slow drawl, and his sly expression filled Martin with dread for what his next words might be.

But then Mr. Tim swept into the mess with an air of industry and scowled at Billy. “Billy, go relieve Paul. He needs his breakfast, too. Jerry, if you’re finished, I’m sure you have work to do. Lucy, please go see that the breakfast room is in order. All the Blackwells will be eating together this morning, and we all know how particular Mr. Blackwell can be.” He observed Martin with his nearly-empty plate and said, “Martin, keep an eye on the clock. Mr. Blackwell will expect to eat breakfast with his son, and we don’t want to keep him waiting.”

They all said, “Yes, Mr. Tim,” and got up from their places at the table.

There was nearly an hour before Henry would be expected downstairs. Martin took a minute for himself, and went out into the side yard with a handful of seed for the birds who had become accustomed to this treat and waited for it with distinct avian impatience, peeping and squabbling. There were cardinals amongst the birds, and Martin liked to imagine some of them were the offspring of the little red bird that had so captivated young Henry.

Delia, one of the chambermaids, stepped out of the door behind him with a handful of seed of her own and laughed. “Oh, you beat me to it!”

“We’re going to make them fat,” Martin remarked. “They won’t be able to fly.”

“They’re spoiled,” Delia agreed, scattering millet on the paving. “Everyone feeds them.”

As they watched the birds peck, there were two large electric delivery vans just pulling into the yard. These would be the food, or perhaps the flowers. Cook had made Henry’s cakes, though she was allowing the pastry chef from Mr. Blackwell’s favorite restaurant to ice and decorate them under her supervision. The Blackwell kitchen would be responsible for a few dishes, but most of the food was being provided by two fine restaurants that enjoyed Mr. Blackwell’s patronage. Mrs. Blackwell had balked a little at this, with the unspoken reason being that Mr. Blackwell frequented these establishments with his mistress, but she had no better suggestions, and so had reluctantly agreed to the plan.

The flowers had been chosen for season and beauty first and foremost, but Martin had asked for some specific flowers and greens because of their Hetaeria meanings. When he’d said to Mrs. Blackwell, “Really, Ma’am, I think we absolutely have to have red roses. They’re such a nice contrast with the greenery,” Miss Pearl had raised an eyebrow but said nothing contrary. There were going to be a great many red roses!

Weeks ago, when he’d made his case for the flowers, he’d hoped that Henry would pick up on the symbolism and he’d see that Martin still loved him. He’d hoped that Henry’s heart would soften toward him and he’d be afforded an opportunity to explain himself. Today, he was quite sure Henry would be aware of the meaning of the roses, and he’d know that Martin had never wavered in his regard.

Cook and Mr. Tim came out to meet the deliverymen and Martin and Delia returned inside, out of the way. Martin hurried upstairs to wake Henry.

“Rise and shine, Henry.” Martin opened the heavy drapes. “Everything is arriving for your party.”

Henry stretched lazily in a square of sunlight, burnished gold skin. “Let’s not have a party,” he suggested. “Let’s stay in bed all day.” He held out a hand, beckoning.

Martin laughed but went to him and took his hand. “We did that yesterday.”

“It was a lot of fun,” Henry pointed out.

They’d tried the licking experiment, and it did turn out that Martin probably couldn’t come from that alone, but it had been very worth attempting.

“But I spent weeks planning this party for you,” Martin said. “I really want you to enjoy it, Henry.” He wanted this, and then he wanted Henry to praise him for doing a good job, but he certainly wouldn’t ask for that. He let himself be pulled down to sit on the bed, but he would not lie down despite Henry tugging at his arm. “Besides, your father wants to have breakfast with you. We don’t want to keep him waiting.”

Henry sighed. “I suppose you’re right.” He wrapped his arms around Martin’s waist and dragged him a few inches further onto the bed, then used Martin’s body to pull himself up to sitting. “I’ll get up.”

“I’ll start your shower.” Martin tugged his jacket back into place as he hurried to the bathroom.

With five minutes to spare, Henry was sitting down at the breakfast table in his black-and-grey-checked suit, waiting expectantly for his milky coffee.

Mrs. Blackwell was wearing one of her old dresses, a dull black, but she was lively as she asked, “Well, darling, do you feel more grown-up?”

Martin glanced back from the sideboard and saw Henry’s blank expression. Henry blinked at her. “Not really,” he admitted. “It isn’t actually my birthday, though.”

Mr. Blackwell snorted at this, but he did not look up from his newspaper.

Mr. Tim and Miss Pearl were downstairs, occupied with party business, so Billy and Martin served all three Blackwells.

“Martin, darling, some tea, please,” Mrs. Blackwell said. He’d learned to do it to her satisfaction while planning the party. Lemon and a very little sugar. When he brought the cup to her, she put her hand on his wrist to keep him at her side. “Hiram,” she said. “Hiram, I do think you did so well by Henry to get Martin for him.”

Mr. Blackwell gave her a long look, unsmiling. After observing Mr. Blackwell these many months, Martin had developed some ability to interpret his judgmentally stoic expressions. Most of the time, the set of his mustache seemed to indicate he found his interlocutor inane.

Henry was frozen, fork midway to his lips.

Mr. Blackwell raised his eyes to glance at Martin, and Martin did his best not to quail under his scrutiny. No matter how intimidating he might be, Mr. Blackwell had always been very kind to him.

Mr. Blackwell sighed. “Thank you, Louisa. I’m glad you approve.”

“He’s
very
capable,” Mrs. Blackwell said. “As his schedule permits, you should let him help Timothy so he can learn to properly run a house.”

“I will take that under consideration,” Mr. Blackwell said, though it did not sound as though he would, or at least not on Mrs. Blackwell’s recommendation.

“Henry, darling, have your cousins met your friends before? I can’t imagine there’s been the opportunity.”

“No, ma’am. I’m a little anxious about introducing them, but I hope Jesse and Louis will get along. I think Eli can probably get along with anyone.”

Mrs. Blackwell thought on this a moment. “Jesse is an artistic type,” she noted. “It’s sometimes hard for regular people to understand artists.” She cocked her head and looked at Henry. “I know you don’t paint or draw, darling, but I do think you have artistic tendencies.”

Mr. Blackwell made a loud, propulsive noise which he tried to stifle behind his napkin; all eyes went to him as he recomposed himself.

“Hiram, are you quite well?” Mrs. Blackwell asked, though her tone indicated she did not believe him stricken with any legitimate complaint.

Mr. Blackwell cleared his throat. “I’m quite well, Louisa. Thank you for your concern.”

Across the table, Henry was red in the face, his eyes on his plate. Poor Henry! If Henry would only look up, Martin could try to offer him reassurance with a smile.

Mrs. Blackwell patted Martin’s wrist. “Such a talented, capable boy!”

“Thank you, Ma’am. You’re very kind.” He paused a moment then asked, “Will there be anything else, Ma’am?”

“No thank you, darling.”

Mr. Blackwell cleared his throat again. “More coffee, please, Martin.”

Martin got coffee for Mr. Blackwell, a scone for Mrs. Blackwell, called downstairs for a pitcher of ice water and stood by the dumbwaiter waiting for it to be sent up, refilled Henry’s plate, and put a hand just briefly on his shoulder as he delivered it to him.

Henry turned to smile up at him, and he seemed very grateful when he said, “Thank you, Martin.”

“My pleasure, Sir,” Martin murmured in reply.

After breakfast, Henry wanted to look in on the party rooms, but Mr. Tim saw them in the hall and shooed them upstairs, out of the way.

“I don’t suppose we have time for sex,” Henry said, his tone indicating he was sure of Martin’s answer.

“No, we don’t,” Martin said firmly. Anyone might solicit Henry’s opinion about some aspect of the party between now and the arrival of guests, and it would not do for Henry to be caught in flagrante.

“What shall we
do
, then?” Henry asked, flopping back dramatically across his bed.

“I have an idea.” Martin went to sit on the bed beside Henry and put a hand on his hip, liking how the bone fit the curve of his palm.

“Well, what is it?”

“I’m sure you’ve read it to yourself already, but I haven’t seen the new story in
Pals
. The one about Pony Express boys. I could read it to you.”

Henry sat bolt upright. “
Yes
! Let’s do that!” He got up and went to his desk and retrieved the magazine from a stack of schoolbooks and old homework.

“Here.” He handed it to Martin, open to the correct page. “I think there might be something between two of the riders, but I won’t say which ones. I want to see if you notice it, too.” He fell back on the bed, wriggling to get comfortable, his booted feet hanging off the edge.

Martin reached for Henry’s bootlaces and made quick work of the knots.

“I can do it,” Henry said, sitting up to prove it.

Martin made a face. “I’m better at it, and it’s my job. It’s done anyway.” He pulled Henry’s boots from his feet and then dealt with his own. He helped Henry off with his jacket and put it with his own at the foot of the bed. He sat cross-legged with his back to the headboard, Henry sprawled diagonally across the bed before him.

“I’m ready,” Henry announced, hands behind his head. “I can’t wait to hear what voices you’ll do.”

“Well, I’m doing them for the first time, and I don’t know their personalities yet, so I’ll be trying different things,” Martin cautioned. “I’ll definitely know what everyone sounds like for the next chapter, though.”

“That’s perfectly understandable,” Henry assured him. “Since I know what happens in this one, I can tell you if I think you’ve got just the right tone or whatever.”

“I’ll appreciate it,” Martin said. And then he began to read.

It was a fact that Pony Express riders had all been small, wiry fellows, weighing less than 125 pounds, and young, being less than 18 years of age. They were, unlike Theo and George, very much like working-class boys Martin and Henry might encounter on the streets of the city or at the arcade, except of course Western. The main character, Sonny, was a cocky freckled redhead who used what passed for salty language in a boys’ magazine, and it was very easy for Martin to imagine that Henry might want to fuck someone like Sonny, some squirmy little dirty-talking ginger who’d be rendered speechless impaled on Henry’s big cock. Martin made an effort not to be ill-disposed toward Sonny because of this specific imagining, and made sure to do an especially good voice for him as penance.

Sonny’s compatriots were Clem, a serious, dark-haired fellow who liked to read, and Levi, a naïve blond who was the best rider of the lot. There were others, but those were the main characters, and Martin managed to settle upon suitable voices for each, with Henry’s enthusiastic approval.

As Martin read, he realized there were possibly some logistical differences between how the boys in the story carried the mail and how the real-world Pony Express riders had done it. Sonny, Clem and Levi spent a lot more time together, and had a lot more idle time, than Martin suspected was anything like accurate. But it did give Sonny and Clem time to become “better friends,” which was their stated aim.

The chapter did little more than establish the characters and their setting, but it was interesting and fun to read. At the end, Henry turned to him and said, “Oh, Martin, it’s
so
much better when you read it!” He reached for Martin, who let himself be drawn down into an awkward kiss.

“I’m glad you liked it.”

“So did you notice anything? About how the riders get along?” Henry was very eager for his answer.

Martin hoped they were on the same page. “Well…I think Sonny is drawn to Clem, but he doesn’t know why yet. Is that what you thought?”

“
Yes
!” Henry beamed at him. “When Sonny says goodnight in the bunkhouse and just stands there a moment looking at Clem…well, that seemed like
something
.”

Martin smiled. “I used to do that with
you
.”

Henry laughed. “Does it ever bother you that you fell in love with an idiot?”