A Free Choice (Ganymede Quartet Book 4.5) (13 page)

Martin laughed, too, “I think you’ve gotten smarter since then.” He took Henry’s hand in both of his own, playing with Henry’s fingers. “But you were never an idiot, Henry. You were just unsure of yourself.”

“You’re really kind to me,” Henry remarked, squeezing Martin’s hand. “Say, when do you think guests will start arriving?”

Martin thought on this a moment. The party started at two o’clock, the cake would be cut and served at three. “I think your cousins and Mr. Briggs are all arriving around one,” he said. “You wanted them to come early.”

“Do you think Louis and Jesse will get along?”

“I don’t think you have anything to be worried about.”

They had two hours to fill. Henry, who had opted for the suit waistcoat in the morning, decided he ought to be fancier, and so Martin dressed him in his black floral brocade waistcoat instead, pairing this with an eggplant necktie. Martin thought it looked very smart on Henry, but he would not wish to wear it himself.

Once Henry was dressed, they necked awhile, gradually sinking into a comfortable stillness. Martin roused himself to set an alarm, but then returned to Henry’s arms and drifted into a light and pleasant sleep.

When the alarm sounded, Martin was immediately up, but Henry could sleep through anything and just whimpered and pawed at the warmth of the bedcover where Martin had lain. Martin put on his own boots, then hauled Henry around so his legs hung over the side of the bed and applied boots to his limp feet, as well.

“Huh?” Henry snorted awake and sat halfway up, propped on his elbows, as Martin tied his bootlaces. “Are we getting up now?”

“Yes, sleepyhead.” Martin kissed his forehead and then ducked out of range as Henry reached for him. “We don’t have time to cuddle,” Martin said, brooking no argument. “Your clothes are all rumpled. Stand up.”

Grumbling, Henry did as he was told, and Martin tugged his garments back in order.

“Your hair,” Martin said, smiling as he attempted to comb it into place with his fingers. “It’s very cute like this, but you’re not presentable.” He took Henry into the bathroom and wet a comb to tame his unruly waves.

Just as Martin got Henry’s hair combed, there came a knock at the door. Martin opened it to smiling Paul, who informed him that Mr. Wilton and Mr. Carmichael had arrived.

Martin turned to Henry. “Sir? Do you wish to meet your guests downstairs, or would you like them to come to you?”

Henry frowned in thought. “What do you think?”

“I think downstairs, Sir. Perhaps the lavender parlor.”

“Okay, downstairs it is.” He came to the door to join Martin. “Hello, Paul. We’re all going down.”

“Very good, Sir.”

Mr. Wilton, Mr. Carmichael, Russ and Owen all waited in the entry hall. Mr. Wilton seemed especially happy to see Henry. They all filed into the lavender parlor, and then Martin took Russ and Owen with him to find refreshments.

The reception room was full of people, nearly all of them unfamiliar. These were kitchen staff and waiters from the caterers who would be working at the party. Most of the Blackwell slaves would stay downstairs out of the way and weren’t to be involved in the party at all. However, they were to be allowed to eat some of the party food, and since they’d be able to hear the music quite clearly in the mess, Mr. Tim had given permission to move the tables out of the way so everyone might dance.

They returned to the lavender parlor with punch but no food.

“The food isn’t set out yet, Sir,” Martin explained. “Perhaps if we check back in a bit.”

“Oh, all right,” Henry said. “I guess we can wait.”

Mr. Wilton was eager for Mr. Carmichael to see the Blackwell house and Henry was amenable. They all trooped up and down the halls and in and out of rooms that the Blackwells never used.

Martin hung back with Russ and Owen, an ear always attuned to Henry’s voice, to any expression of need. He was dying to tell Russ what Henry had agreed to do, but it wasn’t his place. Henry would need to speak with Mr. Wilton first.

In the library, Mr. Carmichael called Owen over to look at a book.

“Hey,” Russ said in a low voice. “I’m glad you and Mr. Blackwell are friends again. You
are
friends, aren’t you? You seem very happy today.”

Martin couldn’t suppress his broad smile and ducked his head shyly. “We’re friends again,” he confirmed. He bent so he could whisper in Russ’ ear. “
He
apologized to
me
!”

“Really!” Russ seemed quite impressed.

When Mr. Wilton and Russ had come to lunch on Wednesday, Mr. Wilton had wanted to talk about everything that happened after the ball, and Henry had sent Martin and Russ from the room. Distraught, hunched on a hard chair in the otherwise empty mess, Martin had given Russ a tearful, halting account of the downtown debacle, trying to leave out as many of the particulars of his relation to Henry as possible. He’d told Russ that Henry had not allowed him to apologize. He’d confessed that he loved Henry, that it wasn’t just service at all, and Russ had hugged him and patted his back and assured him that he understood, of course he did.

And then they’d been summoned back upstairs, and everything that had happened since had been wonderful.

Henry called Martin over to look at a different book, to see if he knew what language it was written in, because none of the masters knew and Owen just shrugged when asked to offer an opinion.

Martin did not have much time to examine the text before Billy arrived at the library door to announce that Mr. Briggs had arrived.

“Send him to us, please,” Henry said.

When Mr. Briggs and Peter walked in, Henry and Martin made their respective introductions.

“Peter knows everything about me,” Martin said. “One of the few who do.”

“Oh, of course,” Russ said, understanding his meaning. “Well, we have that in common then, Peter.”

“I scarcely know Martin at all,” Owen remarked, making it clear this was perfectly fine with him, and they all laughed.

“Let’s ask Peter,” Henry said, raising his voice so they would hear. “Peter, come look at this book, will you?”

Peter did as requested, and the others went to join their masters, as well.

Mr. Briggs was apologizing for his late arrival. “Edward—my littlest brother—was in the park with our nurse this morning and got bit by a dog—”

“Oh!” Mr. Wilton was instantly concerned. “Is he all right?”

Mr. Briggs waved off his concern as unnecessary. “Oh, sure. He’s like a cockroach—you can’t kill him—but he was bleeding all over the place and wouldn’t stop crying. Edward likes me pretty well, so Annie begged me to go with them to the doctor to get him stitched up. It took a lot longer than I thought it would because it turns out Edward’s really afraid of needles.”

Mr. Carmichael laughed, though not unkindly. Mr. Wilton seemed full of soft-hearted dismay.

“You’re a good brother,” Henry said, which Martin thought a generous estimation. “Martin, do you want to take another look at this book?”

“Of course, Sir, I’d be happy to.” He stood shoulder to shoulder with Peter and looked at the page in mild consternation. It was a very foreign script, a very foreign alphabet, full of loops and swoops and movement. The book was a beautiful object and looked very old, and Martin thought that it probably shouldn’t be handled by a bunch of careless young men, but he wasn’t going to suggest this.

“Do you have any idea?” Peter asked, his voice low. He flipped a page, but it was no more comprehensible than the previous one.

Martin did not, and he opened his mouth to answer, but before he could say anything, Billy once again appeared in the doorway, this time to request Henry’s presence in the entry hall, as it was nearly two o’clock.

Mr. and Mrs. Blackwell were waiting in the hall with Mr. Tim and Miss Pearl. Mr. Blackwell was wearing his invariable black suit, quite impeccable. Mrs. Blackwell had changed from her frumpy black into the bronze dress with fuchsia roses that she seemed to favor for occasions. Additionally, she was wearing a glittering complement of jewelry, much befitting a woman of her status. It was not Martin’s place to say so, but it was nice to see her taking on her rightful role in proper raiment.

Henry’s guests might well be arriving all throughout the party hours, and he wouldn’t be expected to greet them all, but he’d greet this first wave of arrivals, and it would be Martin’s job to welcome their slaves and try to remember the names of masters and slaves both.

The doorbell rang at two minutes after two and Martin couldn’t help feeling excited, but it was just Mr. Lovejoy with Julian. Mr. Franklin with Ralph and Mr. Caldwell with Tom arrived right on Mr. Lovejoy’s heels. Then there were a pair of fellows whose names Martin remembered from the Metropolitan Ball attendees list, another spate of school friends, a whole slew of strangers.

Martin had worried that Henry would be bashful or nervous greeting so many unknown people, but he was in fine form, charming and at ease, even more handsome than usual in this confident mode. Many of the young ladies were quite bold, reminding Henry that they’d enjoyed dancing with him previously, or suggesting that they simply must dance with him today, and Henry assured them all that he intended to dance as much as possible. It seemed that nothing would disrupt his equanimity this afternoon.

For his part, Martin greeted these young masters’ slaves graciously, suggesting to them that they find refreshment for their masters in the reception room and informing them to expect the cake to be cut at three o’clock.

Between greetings, Henry leaned close and spoke out of the side of his mouth. “I’m
hungry
!” They hadn’t had any lunch, after all.

“We’ll get you something to eat soon, Sir, I promise.” He wondered how much longer Henry would be expected to play host; surely it wouldn’t be the full hour.

Mr. Blackwell stood a short distance behind Henry, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and whispering in a low rumble to Mr. Tim. Mrs. Blackwell was seated in a chair someone had brought out for her, smiling at the parade of young people with cool assessment, a haughty and elegant queen.

They’d been greeting people for perhaps half an hour when Mr. Tim stepped forward and whispered in Martin’s ear. “Mr. Blackwell thinks this has gone on quite long enough. After this next pair, Young Sir is free to mingle.”

Martin relayed this to Henry, and Henry’s greeting to the next guest, a complete stranger, was especially warm because of it.

Upon entering the reception room, Martin’s objective was to get Henry something to eat, a selection of hors d’oeuvres and some punch. This goal achieved, he was going back to get something for himself when he was waylaid by Tom, who encouraged him to eat off his plate instead. Martin wanted his own plate so he could return to Henry’s side, but Henry was surrounded by a crush of friends, and it would be quite impossible for Martin to get back to him without pushing and shoving young masters out of his way. He realized, with a sinking heart, that it would be like this all day.

As he ate both Angels and Devils on Horseback from Tom’s plate, Martin took a moment to admire the results of his planning efforts. The decorations were beautiful and in fine taste. There were dramatic bouquets in large epergnes on tables throughout the room, and he thought he could detect a faint fragrance of roses even above the young ladies’ collective perfumes. Additionally, there were swags of greenery and bunting looped on the walls, these punctuated with further clusters of flowers. If all had gone as planned, the ballroom and its attached sitting room would be similarly decorated.

He cast a longing look at Henry, but Henry seemed quite content without him, surrounded by friendly faces. Realizing what he was doing, he frowned and shook his head; it would not do to be mooning over Henry where anyone might see.

“…anyway. What do you think of that?” Tom asked.

Martin blinked. “Oh. Sorry. I was…”

Tom laughed. “You’re preoccupied,” he said. “Never mind. It wasn’t important.”

“I’m sorry,” Martin said again. “I…there’s a lot to keep track of today.”

He seemed to have lost track of all of it, though. He did not know where Henry’s cousins had gone, or Mr. Briggs, or their slaves. He did not know where the Blackwells were, and he could not see Mr. Tim, with whom he would need to coordinate when it came time for cake.

“Tommy, I have to go find Mr. Tim,” he said. “We’ll see each other later, all right?”

“Of course,” Tom said cheerfully. “I’ll definitely find you.”

Mr. Tim was still in the hall. “Oh, Martin, there you are. Good. It’s nearly time for cake.”

The next quarter hour was hectic. Henry was informed of the plan and maneuvered into the appropriate area of the reception room. The main cake was sent up in the dumbwaiter and transferred to a cart, then escorted down the hall by a cadre of waiters. Martin enlisted some of his friends to help him encourage the guests to make way for the cart. The Blackwells came to stand at Henry’s side, and Esther and Cora were with them; Martin wished he might say hello to Little Miss, but he thought it would prove disruptive.

If this was a smaller party, more intimate, Martin might have been tasked with lighting the candles, but here the job was done by a hired waiter. Hired staff would also cut the cake. They were seasoned professionals, veterans of many society birthdays, and it simply made sense to let them handle it, but Martin did feel a little wistful about missing out on this particular opportunity for service.

All the guests, free and slave, wished Henry a boisterous
Happy Birthday
and he blew out his candles to vigorous applause. Henry accepted birthday wishes from his family, including Little Miss, and was then besieged by friends offering their own well wishes. Martin made way for Henry’s friends, but when Henry stepped aside to allow the cake to be cut and served, Martin made sure to find his way back to Henry’s side. Henry touched his hand just briefly, and Martin dared to touch him back.

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