A Free Choice (Ganymede Quartet Book 4.5) (8 page)

“Well, you can think about what you might say,” Mr. Tim told him. “And then you can say it tonight after the Blackwells’ dinner. I think that would be appropriate.”

Henry came and peered over Martin’s shoulder. “What is it?”

Martin turned and smiled at him. Their faces were close together, perhaps too close. He leaned a little away, making distance. “Your father gave me twenty dollars, Sir.”

“Oh. That was generous.”

“Your father is a very generous man, Sir,” Mr. Tim said, his tone indicating his pride in Mr. Blackwell’s largesse.

“He’s setting a good example for me,” Henry remarked. He put his hand at the small of Martin’s back. “Are we done here?”

“Of course, Sir. Let’s get upstairs.”

They said their goodbyes to Mr. Tim and made their way down the hall to the back stairs. At the first floor landing, Henry said, “That’s quite a bit of money. You got more at Christmas, though, didn’t you?”

Martin laughed. “He gave me a hundred dollars at Christmas, Sir! I don’t know how I would ever spend that much money!”

As they climbed to the second floor, Henry asked, “Did he give that much to everyone?”

“No, Sir. Just Mr. Tim, Miss Pearl, and me. Everyone else got twenty dollars.”

“Even little Johnny?”

“I believe so, Sir. Mr. Tim told me as much.”

Henry thought about this as they made their way down the hall to his bedroom. “If you ever think of something you want to spend all your money on, I’ll be happy to go shopping with you.” He thought some more as Martin opened the bedroom door for him. “Or…you could go by yourself, if you wanted. If you promised to be very careful.”

Martin laughed and locked the door behind them. “You’re funny, Henry. You think some dastardly fiend is going to drag me off, but nothing that exciting would possibly happen.”

Henry flushed pink. “I know you think I’m being ridiculous, but I don’t think you realize how special you are.”

Martin kissed him, glancing and brief. “I’m glad you think I’m special. That’s all that matters to me.” He gave Henry a little push. “Let’s get you changed. We’re running late.”

“Wait,” Henry said. “Show me what Tom gave you first.”

Martin took the token from his pocket and held it out for Henry to see.

“Oh, it’s pretty,” Henry said, “but what is it? Can I touch it?”

“Yes, of course. Go ahead.” He offered it to Henry on an open palm. “It’s a friendship amulet. The blue stone is lapis.” He hesitated a moment, then added, “Lapis isn’t for regular friends, though. It’s…well, it represents a sort of commitment, I suppose. It marks an important relationship.”

Henry turned it over in his fingers. He laughed softly and asked, “So are you and Tom married now?”

Martin laughed, too. “Not exactly. But it is a loving gift.”

“It looks expensive.”

“I’m sure it was,” Martin agreed.

“Is it a different kind of talisman? What do you do with it?”

“See the loop? It’s meant to be worn. I could wear it on a long chain underneath my shirt so that it wouldn’t show, or I could pin it under my waistcoat.”

“Why do you have to hide it?” Henry handed it back to him and Martin put it in his pocket.

“Well, have you ever noticed slaves wearing jewelry, Henry? Some might have pierced ears, but they don’t wear other jewelry where it can be seen. Most masters don’t want slaves to decorate themselves.”

“You can wear it however you’d like,” Henry said. “I won’t stop you.”

“I’ll wear it like any other slave would do,” Martin said firmly. “I’ll be most comfortable doing that.” He pushed on Henry’s shoulder, turning him around, and gave him a nudge. “We have to get you changed.”

Henry took a step toward the wardrobe, but suddenly stopped and turned to gape at Martin. “Oh!
I
could give you secret jewelry, too, couldn’t I? No one would know you were wearing it, and even if they did, they wouldn’t know it was anything to do with me.”

Martin laughed. “You could if you wanted to.”

“Would you like it if I did?”

“I’m sure I would.”

“And you…” Henry began, a bashful flush coloring his cheeks. “You could pick out something for
me
.” He looked away, furiously red. “Only if you wanted to.”

“Of course I’d want to,” Martin assured him. “I even have my own money to pay for it.” He loved the idea—perhaps an exchange of such tokens was fated, as there was no other reason for a slave to be given so much money in the first place.

“What should we get?” Henry seemed energized by the idea. “When should we do it? Should we go to a jeweler tomorrow?”

“We don’t have to rush,” Martin told him. “We can think about it for a bit.” He gave Henry a gentle shove in the direction of the wardrobe.

“You have to go to a jeweler anyway,” Henry pointed out. “You need a pin or a chain for Tom’s present, don’t you?”

“We don’t have to rush,” Martin repeated. “We can think about what sort of piece we want, and what sort of symbols it should have. We can be thoughtful.”

Henry sighed. “You’re being very practical, Martin.” He lifted his chin so Martin could remove his necktie.

“Jewelry should be meaningful,” Martin said firmly, stripping Henry’s clothes from his body with efficiency. “
I
want to think about what to give you.”

“All right,” Henry said, giving in. “We can wait. I’ll need you to tell me the Hetaeria meanings of different stones, I guess.”

“I’ll be happy to tell you anything you want to know.” He held Henry’s shirt out for him to put on. “Quickly, please, Henry, or you’ll be late,” he cautioned. “We stayed downstairs too long.”

They hurried Henry into his dinner suit and made it to the table just in time. Mr. Blackwell gave Henry a long, disapproving look as Randolph and Paul brought in the soup.

After the meal, as they entered the family parlor, Martin cleared his throat and self-consciously said, “Mr. Blackwell, Sir? May I speak?”

Mr. Blackwell, was lowering himself into his chair, but he looked up at Martin and made a noise that Martin chose to interpret as permission.

“I just wanted to thank you for acknowledging my birthday, Sir. I appreciate how fair you’ve been with me, Sir, and how generous.” He felt unaccountably nervous, but Mr. Tim was smiling at him from behind Mr. Blackwell’s chair, so he felt reasonably sure he hadn’t said anything objectionable.

“Hmph.” Mr. Blackwell gave him a steady, assessing look. “You’ve been good for Henry,” he said. “Good people deserve rewards.” He turned his attention to the folder of correspondence Timothy had ready for him.

“Well, thank you, Sir. It’s much appreciated.”

After Martin’s show of gratitude, Pearl read another chapter of
Lord Pelham’s Companion
. Henry was sullen and restless for the length of her reading. It was obvious Henry did not enjoy
Pelham
, but Martin did not understand why. Martin liked the story. It was silly and lively and light, perfect to be read aloud.

After the chapter, Mr. Blackwell cleared his throat and thanked Pearl, who was very pleased at the praise.

“Henry.”

Henry sat up straighter in his wing chair. “Yes, sir?”

“I wonder if you might like a carriage of your own.”

Henry was quiet a long, puzzled moment. “Sir?”

“A carriage, son. For your birthday. Perhaps a phaeton, like the Ross boy has.”

“Oh.” Henry was quiet again.

So this was the reason for Mr. Tim’s questions. It was kind of Mr. Blackwell to offer, but Martin felt confident Henry did not want a phaeton. Henry had shown no interest to this point. All of the other young masters wanted their own carriages, but only Charles Ross had one. Simon confessed to dreading riding with his master. He said Mr. Ross was a reckless driver, and he admitted he was sick with nerves every time they took the phaeton out. Henry, at least, would likely be a very sedate driver, but that was only if he even wanted to drive.

“That’s not an answer, son,” Mr. Blackwell said, his tone verging on irritable.

“Oh, sorry, I…” Henry gave a little nervous cough. “No thank you, sir. It’s not necessary. I’m not interested in driving myself.”

Mr. Blackwell cleared his throat again. “Perhaps you’d like Martin to drive you instead,” he said. “That sort of thing is done, if a gentleman so chooses.”

Martin did rather like the idea of driving a carriage, but it was not a burning desire, so he was not disappointed when Henry replied:

“No, sir, I wouldn’t be interested in that. But thank you for the offer. It’s very generous.”

It certainly was! Martin hoped Henry would know better than to tell any of his carriage-coveting friends about his father’s suggestion, because they’d all think he was crazy not to accept the gift. Mr. Briggs would be incensed!

Mr. Blackwell made some sort of grumbling acknowledgment and then suggested Henry take himself to Hamilton & Sons. “I know you’re fond of clothes.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I’ll do that.”

Henry got to his feet and kissed his mother’s cheek, then went to stand before his father, who noted Henry’s shadow across his paperwork and looked up with a hint of impatience.

“Yes?”

Henry cleared his throat self-consciously. “Um, I just wanted to say that I…I appreciate all the things you’ve done for me. I really do.”

Martin felt so proud of him!

Mr. Blackwell did something with his face that might have been a smile. “Is that so?”

“Y-yes, sir. You’re very kind. I didn’t always see that before.”

Mr. Blackwell’s mustache twisted into a more suspicious shape and he narrowed his eyes at Henry. “Did Martin put you up to this?”

Henry’s face crumpled and his broad shoulders slumped. “No, sir. Of course not.”

Mr. Blackwell’s expression softened again. “I didn’t mean to insult you, Henry.” He seemed to think about what he might say. “You’re my son. I’ll always treat you kindly.” Another pause. “It’s good that you’ve acknowledged it. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, sir.”

Mr. Blackwell handed his papers to Timothy and stood ponderously, creaking and sighing as he rose. When he was upright, he loomed over Henry—it wasn’t just his significant height, but his
presence
. He offered Henry his hand, and Henry took it with a little hesitation.

“Good night, son.”

“Good night, Father.”

Mr. Blackwell shook Henry’s hand and kept hold of it with his right as he clapped him on the shoulder with his left. Henry was jolted by the impact of these well-meant thumps.

Mr. Blackwell released him. “Go,” he said, gruff but not at all unkind. “Off to bed.”

“Thank you, sir. Goodnight, sir.” Henry hurried from the room, and Martin had to trot to keep up with him.

Inside his bedroom, Henry let out a nervous laugh. “Why am I so scared of him? He
is
kind to me.” He did not sound entirely convinced by his own words. He stood before the wardrobe, ready for Martin to undress him.

Martin stroked his hair back from his face and looked into his eyes. “He’s very intimidating, Henry. He scares everyone.”

“Not Timothy. Not you,” Henry pointed out.

Martin thought about it as he knelt and untied Henry’s boots. Mr. Blackwell was gruff and impatient, but he’d always been good to his people. But even though Martin had insisted to Henry that Mr. Blackwell would be lenient with them if he learned of their situation, he
had
worried that Mr. Blackwell would punish or sell him. He’d been terrified.

“No, me, too,” Martin said. He stood and slipped Henry’s dinner jacket from his shoulders. “But I still have to do my job, so…” He thought a moment as he hung the jacket in the wardrobe. He’d been told some things that he hadn’t thought he should repeat, but maybe they’d help Henry feel more confident.

“I know you think your father judges you harshly,” Martin said, “but I’ve heard otherwise.” He held out his hands expectantly.

Henry shrugged his waistcoat into Martin’s waiting grasp. “What have you heard? From who?”

“Mr. Tim. He’s told me your father thinks you have a good character.”

Henry snorted in disbelief. “He does not.”

“He thinks you’re kind and generous. He thinks you’re loyal. He says those are admirable qualities.”

“Huh.” Henry seemed willing to accept this as possibly true. “What else?” He wadded up his shirt and handed it to Martin.

“Well, you know he likes that you’re good at math. And he’s glad your Latin grade has improved.”

“He knows that’s
you
, though,” Henry pointed out. He kicked off his trousers and let his drawers fall around his ankles.

“He likes that you accept my help. It shows humility and good judgment.” Martin had not been told this particular thing, but it seemed a reasonable conclusion.

Martin carried Henry’s laundry into his own room and Henry followed him, lounging naked in the doorway, glorious as a god, while Martin undressed himself.

“Does he say anything else?”

Martin thought about whether he should share the next bit, and decided he would. “He’s pleased that you and your sister are both so beautiful.” He let his jacket slip from his shoulders.

Henry scoffed at this.

“No, he is. He’s glad you take after your mother’s people. He thinks being handsome will help you in life if you let it.”

Henry considered this a moment. “Huh. All right. Maybe he doesn’t hate me.”

Martin snorted. “I’m pretty sure he loves you, Henry.”

Henry was quiet while he watched Martin hang his jacket in the wardrobe. “Say, about Hamilton’s…”

“Yes?” Martin unbuttoned his chrysanthemum waistcoat, which he had worn to celebrate his birthday.

“I’m officially asking your advice. Do you think I could get one of those velvet jackets?” Henry was looking at him very hopefully.

“Velvet jackets?” Martin feigned ignorance, stalling for time, unsure what he would say. He did not want to disappoint Henry.

“You know,” Henry said with a hint of impatience. “Like queer fellows wear. Reggie and that Mr. Phipps and all those men downtown.”

Martin frowned. “Are you sure you’d
want
to?”

“Well, I wouldn’t wear it to the
arcade
,” Henry said, rolling his eyes. “I’d only want to wear it downtown, to certain places, at certain times. I wouldn’t be
stupid
about it.”