A Free Choice (Ganymede Quartet Book 4.5) (15 page)

Russ reached for Martin’s hand and squeezed. “I think you know that Mr. Wilton wants nothing but the best for Mr. Blackwell.”

Martin opened his mouth but his voice wouldn’t come out; he cleared his throat self-consciously and said, “Yes, I know this about Mr. Wilton. He’s very kind.”

How long had they known? What had given him away? Would they really keep it to themselves?

“Who…” He had to stop and swallow before he could continue. “Who thinks they know Mr. Blackwell’s business? Is it just you Orpheus fellows? Or is it everyone?”

Simon frowned. “Well, I don’t really know. Of course it’s us Orpheus men, but I suppose others might have guessed.”

“Tommy didn’t gossip,” Miles said, giving Tom a pat. “But when you came back to school with short hair, and you were obviously estranged from Mr. Blackwell, and you were both so unhappy…”

“It seemed like a love affair gone wrong,” Simon said bluntly. “I don’t know what Julian actually thinks now, but at the time he did ask me if I thought that was what was the matter.”

“Julian?” Martin was surprised Julian would be so observant about a homosexual affair, something that would be of so little interest to him personally. “Why would Julian care?"

“He admires you,” Simon said, as if Martin should know this already. “He was concerned.”

“He admires me?”

“Top boy from the top House,” Tom said, nudging him with his shoulder. “I think all of us look to your example at least a little bit.”

This was flattering news.

“You came back so defeated,” Miles said. “We were all worried, but we didn’t know what to do for you.”

“You didn’t want to talk,” Simon said, almost admonishing. “We did want to help, though.”

“Oh.” Martin was stunned. He’d spent these months being so wrapped up in Henry, for better or worse, that he’d paid little attention to anyone else. He hadn’t even realized his friends were aware of his distress.

He thought he’d been discreet.

“I don’t think any masters noticed anything, of course,” said Miles.

“They never notice the things that happen right under their noses,” Tom said.

Simon started to speak, hesitated, bit his lip, and then said, “Mr. Ross
did
ask me if something was wrong, but I told him I didn’t know.” Again, he put his hand on Martin’s sleeve. “Really, Martin, if Mr. Blackwell ever wanted to confide in another master, Mr. Ross would be most receptive. He’s kinder than you’d imagine.”

Handsome Mr. Ross was brash, outspoken, cocky, and unconcerned with anyone’s judgments, but Martin supposed he’d seen nothing from him to preclude kindness.

The tune concluded and the dancers all clapped and returned to the sidelines; as couples dissolved and formed for the next number, the first chair stood up and announced it would be the last waltz before the meal break.

Henry was striding the length of the room, smiling broadly, heading straight for Martin.

“I’ve got to go—” Martin explained to his friends. He didn’t wait for acknowledgment, but abruptly set off through the crowd to meet Henry, to intersect.

Henry wasn’t coming for him. Esther stood at the edge of the floor, her hands on Little Miss’ shoulders. Henry stopped before them, bending down to speak with his sister. By the time Martin made his way to Esther’s side, Henry was holding his sister’s hands tightly, her bright patent boots standing atop his feet. He glanced at Martin and gave him a brilliant, happy smile, and when the music started again, he waltzed Little Miss around in a swooping circle at the edge of the floor, out of the way of the grown dancers but still part of the celebration.

Little Miss was happier than Martin had ever seen her. Head thrown back, laughter like bells. It occurred to Martin that Henry might improve his sister’s life a great deal if only he’d make certain requests. What if Henry were to ask for Little Miss’ inclusion in family life
now
, rather than waiting until the arbitrary age of 10? The Blackwells were uncertain in their interactions with their chatty, assertive daughter, but
Martin
knew how to talk and play with her, and Henry knew how, too. Together they could entertain and even civilize her. Little Miss had a great many friends, and Esther kept her busy, but Martin was quite sure she needed her family. She needed her brother. Brother
s
, if he was being honest.

He would suggest it to Henry, and he was almost sure Henry would agree it was a good idea, if for no other reason than to make Martin happy.

As the tune ended, the room descended into genteel chaos. Martin was separated from Esther, didn’t see his friends. He waited for Henry by the door to the reception room, standing tall to make eye contact over the heads of all Henry’s guests. Henry saw him and gave a little wave. Mr. Wilton was beside him, as was Peter; Martin was confident that short Mr. Briggs and Russ were simply out of sight in the crush.

“Hello, Martin.” Henry touched his arm, affectionate and brief.

“Hello, Sir. Shall I fix you a plate?”

The buffet was a menu similar to that served at Mr. Wilton’s party. Martin loaded Henry’s plate with Angels on Horseback, Devils on Horseback, salmon croquettes, cold chicken, deviled eggs, cheese puffs, olives, and salted nuts, and got a cup of punch for him to wash it down with.

“Do you know what kind these are?” Peter asked, pointing at the croquettes.

“Salmon,” Martin told him.

Peter made a face. “Mr. Briggs doesn’t like fish.”

“There might be chicken ones, too. Maybe at the end of the table?”

Martin made his way back to Henry’s side with his meal, aware that most of Henry’s friends’ companions were doing the same. He was hungry and eager to get his own plate of food.

Henry had a warmth, a sort of invisible glow leftover from the dancing, and he smelled good. Martin leaned close for a surreptitious sip of air and said, “Here you are, Sir.”

“Oh, thank you, Martin.”

“I’ll be right back, Sir.” Martin made to go back to the buffet line for his own plate.

But Henry blocked his way. He had a stubborn set to his jaw as he held out his plate and said, “Martin, do you want some of mine?”

“Sir?” What was Henry doing?

“Angels on Horseback,” Henry said. “You like them, don’t you? Eat some off my plate. I’ve got plenty. Eat anything you want. We can get more, right?” He was looking at Martin intently, willing him to do as he suggested.

“Y-yes, Sir, of course.” This was a rule it thrilled Martin to break. There was precedent, family tradition on both sides. He smiled at Henry and held his gaze as he chose a salmon croquette from his plate and brought it to his mouth. It seemed especially delicious.

Mr. Briggs said, “Henry, what are you
doing
?”

Henry shrugged. “Sharing a plate. It’s not so strange. My mother’s people do it, don’t we, Jesse?” It was possible no one but Martin heard the nervous tremor in his voice.

Mr. Wilton laughed and offered his plate to Russ. “We’ve always done it. My friends do it, too.”

Henry managed to sound very matter-of-fact and even casual when he said, “You all know my father sits down with his companion. I understand he’s infamous for that.” None of the masters said anything, but they were listening and considering.

Mr. Ross laughed suddenly, brazen and bold, and said, “Why not? Here, Si. Come eat.” Simon smiled at his master, seeming very eager to participate in this new practice. He took Mr. Ross’ plate and ate a cheese puff.

Mr. Wilton’s friends, who were all quite accustomed to eating like this at their own parties, were perfectly content to do so here, as well. Henry’s friends looked at Henry, and then at Mr. Ross, and began to tentatively offer their plates to their own companions. Some seemed more nervous than others, glancing around to see who was daring to participate, who was abstaining, who might be vehemently opposed to this practice.

Mr. Howard from Henry’s quadrille set questioned Henry about this plate-sharing, and when Henry proved tongue-tied, Mr. Ross stepped in to tell a very blasé lie about it being something everyone did at Algonquin. None of the other Algonquin boys challenged this assertion, and Mr. Howard shrugged and offered his plate to his slave Bernie.

Soon nearly all the young masters, and a fair number of the young mistresses, were sharing plates with their companions. Only the masters from Powell Prep would not participate, sneering their disapproval from their huddle at the foot of the room.

Mr. Howard said disdainfully, “Who cares about them? All those Powell fellows are bastards anyway.”

Martin remembered that they’d heard this before while riding with that Mr. Hastings Henry had found so objectionable. If even the likes of Mr. Hastings thought Powell Prep boys unpleasant company, they probably were.

It seemed very special to eat like this, his head close to Henry’s, their fingers touching as they chose their food. They shared a napkin. They shared the punch. Some masters sent their slaves back for their own punch cups, but not everyone. It wasn’t a problem to share cups, not when everyone knew how close masters and slaves could be.

Everyone knew.

At Ganymede, they’d been told that different masters, different social groups, tolerated varying degrees of intimacy between master and slave, and that companions should defer to masters in this as in all things. They were trained to expect a certain lack of consideration, to reconcile themselves to carelessness. There were hints that sometimes things went very differently, that a very few masters were aching to be close with someone, anyone, and a companion in such a situation might be a lucky fellow. But even this was understood to be temporary. Masters would grow up and shift their affections to a wife, or at least a woman. No one ever suggested a master might remain devoted to a slave. It would necessarily be a passing phase.

But what about Henry’s Uncle Reggie and his Benjamin? What about Mr. Phipps and his Drew? Martin suspected there must be a huge number of wealthy homosexuals sharing meaningful closeness with their companions. What if Henry’s regard never wavered? The possibilities were almost frightening. If Henry never stopped loving him, he’d never stop mattering, and the idea of enduring importance was exhilarating, terrifying. What if Henry always felt like this about him, just as he said he would? What if Martin decided to trust that Henry knew his own heart?

He was too excited, breath short and hands shaking, and he tried to hide his happy distress behind gulps of punch.

“You’re thirsty,” Henry noted.

“I’ll just go get some more punch, Sir. Is there anything else you need?”

Martin made his way to the punchbowl. He’d had a little time to think about it, and while he wasn’t exactly happy that his friends knew Henry’s business, he wasn’t really surprised. Just like the Blackwell slaves, the Algonquin contingent had had ample opportunity to observe him with Henry, and he didn’t doubt there’d been signs for any interested party to see. It made sense, too, that as topmost boy of their year, the rest might have taken a keener interest in his business. He couldn’t worry about it. He would have to trust his friends—and he would do better going forward about protecting their secrets. He did feel guilty about telling Henry about Allen and Mr. Hollingsworth, even without using names.

He and Henry would have to be discreet. They would have to be careful. But Martin thought Henry could have much of what he wanted. There had been a fad in recent years for upper-class people to visit tawdry neighborhoods to gawk at the colorful lower-class denizens. If Henry visited certain parts of town in the company of other young gentlemen, if his adventures were tourism of a sort, that might be more socially acceptable and easier to explain than Henry sneaking downtown on his own. Mr. Wilton seemed a likely co-conspirator; possibly Mr. Ross, as well. He would think on it and help Henry decide how to proceed.

Near the end of the dinner hour, Martin and Henry left the group to say goodnight to Little Miss, who threw herself forcefully at Martin, knocking his glasses askew. Mr. and Mrs. Blackwell seemed quite bemused by her display of affection.

Mr. Blackwell made an embarrassing remark to Mr. Tim about his children being under Martin’s spell, and poor Henry was mortified. Martin was also made uncomfortable. He had not done anything underhanded or deceitful to earn the regard of the Blackwell children. He loved them. They both wanted to be loved, so he loved them, and they loved him back. However, he did not think Mr. Blackwell was actually trying to accuse him of any wrongdoing; Mr. Blackwell seemed to find the situation amusing, and he’d made it clear through his words and deeds that he was possibly fond of Martin himself. Martin did not think Mr. Blackwell would have given him a birthday present if he felt he was a malign influence.

Henry made his escape from his parents and headed toward a large group of his friends, all gathered around Mr. Wilton near the ballroom door. Mr. Wilton was telling a story with a lively expression and waving hands. It was wonderful that Mr. Wilton seemed so well-liked by all of Henry’s friends. Martin knew Henry had been especially worried about Mr. Briggs getting along with his cousin, but Mr. Briggs seemed quite ready to claim Mr. Wilton as his own friend. After the events of the last few days, Martin thought it possible that if Mr. Briggs were to witness Mr. Wilton’s usual treatment of Russ, he’d groan and grimace and say he didn’t want to see it, and then chalk it up to some quirk of the Wilton bloodline.

Mr. Wilton’s story came to an end and the crowd erupted in boisterous laughter.

Henry called out, “Jesse!” and raised his hand.

Mr. Wilton looked around at his name, and he smiled when he saw Henry.

Henry waved him over. “Come here, please. Bring Russ along. I need to talk to you a moment.”

“What about, Sir?” Martin asked, touching his sleeve. “Is everything all right?”

“It’s about your birthday present,” Henry said.

“Oh!” Martin was rendered breathless. “Oh, Sir!” He did his best to contain his excitement.

They went to the library for privacy and quiet, and Henry made his request. As Martin had suspected would be the case, Mr. Wilton was more than happy to accommodate them; in fact, he proposed that they play immediately after the party, which Henry adamantly refused. But they did agree it could be done in August, that Mr. Wilton would schedule a drawing session and they would all see where things went from there.