A Most Personal Property (Ganymede Quartet Book 1) (2 page)

“Yes?”

“…I just wondered if there was anything interesting in the paper today,” Henry offered weakly. He let go of the jamb and shoved his hands into his pockets.

Father frowned, looking annoyed. “Not that I imagine would concern you,” he said. “Is that all, son?”

“Yes, sir.” Henry cursed himself for a coward, but he turned to go.

“Are you sure you don’t need any assistance, Sir?” Timothy asked, always concerned with Henry’s welfare.

Henry willed Timothy to read his mind and to talk to Father on his behalf, but his mental powers were weak and so Timothy did not intercede.

“No, thank you. Billy’s helping me.”

“I’ll see you at dinner, then, son,” Father said, dismissing him.

Dejected, Henry made his way back toward the entry hall and up to his bedroom.

Billy stood in front of the window with his back to the door, but he turned to smile as Henry entered the bedroom. “Did you want to dress now, Sir, or are you bathing?”

“I’ll take a shower,” Henry decided. He crossed to stand before his wardrobe and allowed Billy to undress him. He was put into his dressing gown and slippers to walk the few yards to the bathroom, where Billy started the water for him and put his toiletries in order.

“It’s ready for you, Sir.” Billy stood behind Henry and helped him to shrug out of his dressing gown and then waited with a towel while Henry washed. Although Henry was shy and often worried about his body’s unpredictable reactions in attractive company, he was in no way troubled by being naked in front of his family’s slaves. Timothy and Billy had long been concerned with Henry’s well-being and comfort and it had never occurred to Henry that they might look at him with anything but professional regard.

Following his shower, Henry was dressed in his grey suit and, after asking if there was anything else he might do, Billy left him to his own devices.

There was a large brown envelope next to the lamp on Henry’s nightstand, and the sight of this brightened his mood instantly. It was the new issue of
Pals
! He tore open the envelope and let the paper fall to the floor before eagerly flipping through the pages.

Henry had received
Pals,
a boys’ monthly with serialized stories and a wealth of the sort of information that boys generally found useful and interesting, since his 10th birthday. Over the years, Henry had learned any number of things that were without practical application yet seemed worth knowing: a handful of maritime knots, rudimentary Indian smoke signals and the proper way to play mumblety-peg. He’d learned to make a dugout canoe (“First, fell a tree…”) and how to build an emergency shelter should he become stranded in the woods. He was enthusiastic about the model of inquisitive boyhood that
Pals
presented, and he eagerly read every word of every issue, including the correspondence page, and he entered the contests faithfully, even though he never won anything.

For these last four years, Henry’s favorite part of
Pals
had been
Drake’s Progress
, the serialized story of one Captain Theo Drake, his companion slave George, and the crew of his ship, the
Dauntless
, as they traveled the world in search of adventure.
Drake’s Progress
had started in standard enough fashion—Theo was a plucky, resourceful orphan who made a success of himself—but it wasn’t until Theo had made his fortune in the gold fields and met his slave, the redoubtable George, that Henry had become truly invested in the story.

It had been an eventful tale, to be sure, and Henry had always enjoyed adventure stories, but the real reason he so looked forward to
Drake’s Progress
each month, and preferred it above any other serial he followed, was the tantalizingly ambiguous relationship between the heroes, Captain Theo and his George. Reading between the lines, Henry saw shocking hints of unprecedented emotion passing between the two men. Sometimes these hints were subtle, other times blatant, and Henry was often surprised at the daring of the writer, but of course there was no one he could talk to about his interpretation. But even if Henry was the only person who saw this secret relationship, he took great comfort in his version;
Drake’s Progress
had given him his only evidence that otherwise admirable men might share his inclination.

Henry slumped down in an armchair before the cold hearth with his magazine. He found where the new installment of
Drake’s Progress
started and marked it with a finger slipped between the pages while skimming the articles before and after, intending to save the best for last. However, he found that he could not concentrate on the magazine at all, and did not feel he had the attention for even Theo and George.

Henry got up from his chair and paced around the room before flopping down on his bed with a dramatic sigh. He lay there for a while staring at the ceiling, before belatedly recalling Timothy’s admonitions about putting his boots on the furniture, and shifted to let his feet hang over the side of the bed. How humiliating it would be to not have a companion slave! If Father would not give him one, maybe he would at least allow Henry to go to a different school, some abolitionist institution where his companionless state would not be unusual or shameful.

Henry knew he was not the son Father wanted. He was not without good qualities, but he wasn’t a terribly
useful
person, and Father appreciated utility. He intended to leave a legacy and Henry was naturally a key component in this scheme: Henry would distinguish himself in his studies concurrent with taking up the yoke of responsible slave ownership. He’d go to a college of Father’s choosing, where he would study subjects Father deemed relevant and, if he did well, he’d be rewarded with some brief period of edifying foreign travel after his graduation. He’d return home to employment within an appropriate branch of Father’s empire and he’d roll up his sleeves and work his way up the ranks in short order so that he might be considered an admirable man in his own right by the time Father helped him to choose a suitable bride at 25 or perhaps 26 years of age—Father would allow for a little flexibility in the timing of the marriage. There would necessarily be grandchildren. Father had always wanted a large family but he and Mother had not been able to manage more than Henry and his much-younger sister Cora; Henry, therefore, would be expected to make up the difference.

Henry already fell short of the plan. He was a terrible student, distinguishing himself only through his exceptional shortcomings, and he did not hold out hopes that his college record would be any different. Although the Blackwells were wealthy enough that Henry never need hold a job, Father believed in the value of work and would not let Henry shirk. Henry couldn’t begin to guess where his aptitudes might lie, but he didn’t suppose it mattered; he would be given employment commensurate with his meager abilities. As for the wife, he simply did not want one at all, but there was no possibility he’d be allowed to remain a bachelor.

For while it was true Father could be extravagant and generous, he expected obedience in return, and Henry could not see a way to alter the course of his own life in any positive way. He was Father’s only legitimate son and Father considered him his property, to mold and shape as he desired. Henry would not be allowed to indulge his fancies. He would never run away to ride on a riverboat, or join the circus. He wasn’t going to be a soldier or sea captain or brave adventurer. Henry wouldn’t be allowed to be whimsical or dilettantish.

But how would Henry get anywhere in life without a slave of his own? A man of their class without a companion might as well be no gentleman at all. Would Father really deny him something so necessary for his future success?

Henry fretted until Billy knocked at the door, coming to dress him for dinner. He was changed from his grey suit into his dinner clothes without giving the process much thought, raising his arms and lifting his feet at appropriate times. This time tomorrow, he
should
be being dressed by a boy his own age, a slave he’d chosen for himself, but it seemed almost certain now that this wasn’t going to happen. He went down to dinner in a funk, and when he sat down, Father told him to stop moping.

Father sat at the head of the table with Henry at his right hand and Mother at his left. There was space for twenty at the table, and the cavernous room was always chilly. Although the Blackwells sat bunched together at one end of the long mahogany table, there was little conviviality in their gatherings.

Henry had heard enough gossip to understand that his parents’ match was a financial arrangement, not an affair of the heart. They were very unalike, in looks as well as personality. Hiram Blackwell was an intimidating figure. In addition to his imposing girth, he was nearly six-and-a-half feet tall and towered over nearly everyone. He was a shrewd man, unsentimental and gruff, and he did not bother to hide his scorn for those things which displeased him. He had come up from nothing and made a staggering fortune, but he had no people, no traditions of any kind.

In contrast to Henry’s rough-hewn father, Louisa Wilton Blackwell was petite and olive-skinned with glossy black hair, the Wiltons’ Native blood strongly in evidence, and she was from a good family, an
old
family, though a family without money. Indeed, she had been a great beauty, and there were still vestiges of that in her fine-boned face, but half a lifetime of vaguely-defined maladies had taken their toll. Mother was quite reliant on daunting quantities of laudanum to get through her days, and this dependency was something that was not discussed.

Tonight, Mother was in one of her moods, distant and fragile, speaking in a whisper and only to her companion, Pearl. Father paid no further attention to Henry during the meal, and none to his wife, either. He did speak to Timothy, who took dictation in a notebook while Father cut his meat. Randolph the butler and Billy served the food in silence. Henry thought that the dining room, with its crystal sconces and chandeliers and ornately-figured wallpaper, should not have seemed as dismal as the Blackwells made it.

For the duration of the meal, Timothy stood behind Father’s chair as he always did, ready to take dictation or serve in any capacity. Timothy was brisk and proper, with an air of quiet authority, and Father relied on him implicitly. Henry loved Timothy; he had been more of a father to him than Father.

Henry wasn’t quite as close with Mother’s slave, Pearl. Pearl was kept quite busy with her mistress’ demands and had had fewer occasions to assist in Henry’s upbringing. That job had been left mainly to Nurse. In her youth, Pearl had also been a great beauty, and she still was in certain lights, but her mistress’ illnesses had affected her, as well. Like all slaves, she dressed plainly, in blacks and greys, but unlike most, she wore her hair plainly, as well, pulled back in a tight, nut-brown bun without braids or other adornment. She was gentle and unassuming, the very definition of ‘ladylike.’

After dinner, they repaired to the upstairs parlor, their family room. Father was of a mind to see his daughter, so Timothy sent Paul upstairs to fetch her. Seven-year-old Cora came down with Nurse to say goodnight and the occasion of the invitation had put her in high spirts. Like Henry, Cora was tall, dark and attractive. Unlike Henry, she was talkative and assertive, and the piping timbre of her voice made Father wince, though he allowed her to sit on his lap a few minutes and kissed her cheek.

Cora was always so happy to see Henry that he felt guilty for not spending more time with her. When she got down from Father’s lap, she approached Henry with a little hesitation, shyly flirtatious, and blushed when he smiled at her.

“Henry, did you know? When I start regular school next week, I get to start dancing school, too.”

Henry did know this. “It was the same for me,” he assured her, “when I was your age.”

“Nurse says you were tall even when you were little.” She leaned her hip against the side of Henry’s chair and reached out to toy with his cufflink. “When you were my age, were you taller than me, do you think?”

“You’d have to ask Nurse. I never paid any attention to things like that.”

“I’m taller than any of my friends,” she offered, ruffling the fine black hairs on the back of his wrist with a tentative fingertip. “I’m tallest of anyone.”

Henry was also taller than any of his friends, and he was a little apprehensive that he would end up as tall as Father or even taller. He did hope his little sister didn’t grow up into some ungainly stork of a girl, but he did not share this with her.

Cora suddenly slumped over sideways, flopping bonelessly over the arm of the chair so that her dark ringlets spilled across Henry’s lap, and the abruptness of her movement startled him.

“Cora!” Henry sat up straight in a hurry, pushing back in the chair, trying to put space between his crotch and his little sister. He waved his hands ineffectually, trying to shoo her away, but she clearly did not share his sense that hers was inappropriate behavior.

Unconcerned with Henry’s panicked fussing, Cora said, “You know, you can come upstairs any time you want, Henry. Any time you want to play. You’re not too big to play, I don’t think.”

From her spot near the door, Nurse said, “Stand up, please, Miss,” in a tone that brooked no argument.

Cora sighed and stood upright, tossing her curls back over her shoulder with an impatient jerk of her chin. “It gets boring with just Nurse,” she said confidentially, leaning close and lowering her voice, surely to spare Nurse’s feelings.

If Cora’s life followed Henry’s pattern, she would live in the nursery, separate from the adult household, until she was at least 10, with Nurse assuming the entire responsibility for raising her. She would continue to see the rest of the family infrequently until that time, and likely wouldn’t see them much more often afterward. Henry only saw his parents at meals; neither parent had ever shown much interest in getting to know anything about him.

Father had been frowning during Cora’s exchange with Henry. “There’s been quite enough chatter for one night. Cora, say goodnight to your brother and your mother.”