A Most Personal Property (Ganymede Quartet Book 1) (18 page)

“Well, son,” he said. “Since your mother is indisposed and Pearl will not be reading tonight, I suggest you find some way to entertain yourself.” He nodded at a spot above Henry’s head, presumably Martin’s face. “You’ve got your slave, of course.” To Timothy, he said, “We’ll go directly to the study, then.”

There was nothing to do but return upstairs and find some way of keeping Martin busy. Slowly climbing the staircase, Henry wracked his brain for something they might do, some way to be engaged that wouldn’t be a torment. He realized he was behaving as if Martin were a very pleasant but unwelcome guest instead of a slave that Henry could command. If he didn’t want to face Martin, he could just banish him to his own room and Martin would have no say in the matter. Yet, that would seem like punishment, and if anyone were to be punished, it should be Henry for being such a terrible gentleman, a lousy master, and queer besides.

It was early to put on pajamas, but Henry didn’t relish the idea of sitting around in evening clothes when pajamas would be so much more comfortable. After some slight vacillation, he made a decision and was changed into his pajamas, then gave Martin leave to change into his own. When Martin returned to Henry’s room to ask if he might do anything for Henry, as Henry had known he would, Henry ignored his question.

“Do you want a book to read?”

“Sir?” Martin seemed taken aback.

“I know you like to read. Do you want a book?”

Martin recovered quickly. “Certainly, Sir. I would appreciate that a great deal.”

“Get your dressing gown. I’ll show you the library.”

They went downstairs. Billy was in the hall and he and Martin greeted one another with concise nods, Billy bowing to Henry and calling him, “Sir.” The library was next to Father’s office. The office door was closed, but there was light coming from underneath along with the strong smell of cigar smoke. They could hear Father and Timothy laughing; although he’d often heard this jovial laughter through the solid door, Henry had never actually
seen
his father laugh.

The library was one of the larger rooms in the house. It was set up for a serious scholar, though no such person used it. Father had purchased several collections of books to fill its shelves, and the collectors of those books had been discerning bibliophiles. People who cared about books liked to see Father’s collection and were impressed. Father seemed to feel it was enough to have them, and did not trouble himself with reading them. They were not all impressive tomes, however; there was a section of shelving near a window that had been given over to Henry’s books, adventure stories and annual volumes for various boys’ publications, and this is where Henry led Martin.

“You’re welcome to borrow anything here,” Henry told him. “Not just my books, but any of the books.”

Martin smiled at him, genuinely happy. “Thank you, Sir.” He looked around the huge room. “This must be twice as big as the library at Ganymede, Sir! So many books!”

“You had a library there?”

Martin nodded. “Yes, Sir. We had every sort of room there. We had to know what a great house would be like. But nothing as nice as your house.” He ran his index finger along the spines of Henry’s books.

“Anything you want,” Henry repeated.

“I’ve read the first three in this series, Sir,” Martin said, pulling a book from the shelf. “I didn’t realize there were so many of them. It’s quite exciting to have so many more to read!” His delight seemed sincere and Henry was pleased with himself.

As they walked back upstairs, Henry told him, “You don’t have to ask me, all right? Just borrow whatever you want, whenever you want.”

“Thank you, Sir. That’s very generous.”

But back in Henry’s room, Martin persisted in asking Henry difficult questions.

“Is there anything I might do for you, Sir? You’ve been so generous with me, Sir. I’d be pleased to be of service.” He stood before Henry, hands behind his back, shifting from one foot to the other. He looked so hopeful. He had to be wondering what was wrong with Henry. Maybe he’d even guessed.

A distraction occurred to Henry, and it would have the benefit of being something he was genuinely interested in. He sat on the edge of his bed and looked at Martin where he stood. “What was it like,” Henry asked, “at Ganymede? Tell me about it.”

“What do you want to know, Sir?” Martin cocked his head and looked at Henry, curious. “I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

“How did you live? In houses, or…?”

“We lived in dormitories, Sir. All boys of an age living and working together. I knew the same boys my whole life, Sir, until I came to you.”

“Do you miss them?”

Martin’s expression seemed to indicate that he did indeed, but he only said, “Maybe a little, Sir. But we all knew, always, that we’d be separated. Well, unless there were twin masters—that happens every now and then, of course.” Martin shook off the faint air of melancholy that had settled over him. “Anyway, Sir, we were brought up always understanding our position, and grateful for the opportunities provided to us.”

To Henry, this sounded more like something that had been drilled into Martin’s skull rather than something he actually felt, but he let it pass. “What did you have to do to earn your mark, anyway?”

“Well, Sir, as potential companions we had to excel—at everything, really. Studies, sport, service. I was—you knew this, Sir—I was part of an elite group. We were just a little bit better at everything.” He then hurried to say, “Just a little, though, really.”

“And you were the best of that group.”

“Well, yes, Sir, that’s what they said,” Martin admitted, his cheeks reddening. The color was very becoming. “In truth, all five of us were quite equal, I think. I
was
one of the first companions tattooed, though, Sir, which was an honor.”

“When did they decide to train you as a companion instead of, say, a butler?”

“We were sorted at 12, Sir. I was chosen then.”

“Based on what criteria?”

“Oh, Sir…” Martin’s flush deepened. “I’m embarrassed to say.”

“Say it,” Henry insisted. “Tell me.”

“Because of all the skills I mentioned, Sir, and then…because I was pretty.” As if Henry had indicated some doubt, Martin hurried to tell him, “I was a very pretty child.”

Henry laughed. Martin was still so pretty. “Don’t be embarrassed. It’s not really bragging. Everyone knows companions have to be good-looking.” As the thought occurred to him, he asked, “Say, what happens if someone isn’t good enough to earn their mark?”

“Oh, they become slaves of the House, Sir.” Martin made a face, sympathetic and disparaging at the same time. “They bear a different mark.” After a brief pause, he added, “It’s a very shameful thing for them, Sir, very disappointing.”

“Oh. I just wondered,” Henry said, “if they ever let anyone go free. The failures, I mean.”

“The House has invested a great deal of time and money in a slave by that point, Sir,” Martin told him. “They can’t let that go to waste. It would be bad business you see.”

Henry nodded; he could see the reason in that.

“I was proud to be chosen to be a companion, Sir,” Martin offered a little shyly. “It meant that my hard work had paid off. It also meant that I would have to work even harder for the next few years, but I was glad to do it.”

Henry thought that so far Martin had shown admirable work ethic. Henry felt that he was quite lazy in comparison. He rather thought that Martin was the sort of son Father wished he had, an accomplished boy who could be shown off.

Martin added, “I’m ready to show you all I can do, Sir, whenever you need me.” He gave Henry an intense look, full of longing and startlingly vulnerability.

Henry blushed and looked away. “I think I’ll read for a bit before I go to sleep. You can do the same if you’d like.”

“As you wish, Sir.” Martin turned away, seeming defeated, and Henry felt bad for disappointing him, but he honestly didn’t understand his disappointment, unless perhaps it was professional, wanting to be put through his paces.

Henry got under the covers and read until he was tired and had nearly forgotten about Martin’s existence, but was reminded of him again when he turned out his lamp and Martin’s was still lit. Martin immediately put his lamp out, as well, but now Henry was thinking of him again, remembering him naked in his room, imagining him playing the violin without his clothes and his hair falling loose. He turned and groaned into his pillow. His prick was hard, and he wanted to punch something. He felt like he might cry! He was so wound up and there seemed to be nothing he might do that would relieve the pressure: he would feel like this until he let himself have Martin, plain and simple.

If he let himself have Martin, really have him—if he let himself kiss Martin and suck his cock, as he longed to do—then he’d be happy then and there, no question. But if he did that and Martin told anyone, any other slave or, god forbid, his father, he’d be ruined and everyone would know him for an invert. He would have to trust Martin. He would have to believe that Martin wouldn’t be disgusted by his desires. If Martin were also queer, he might risk it, but how would he ever know that, anyway? He felt confident that a slave as well-trained as Martin would give every impression of being amenable to whatever his master wanted to do, but it might all be just an act.

Henry tossed and turned for hours before finally sleeping.

“Rise and shine, Sir.” Martin’s hand gently shook his hunched shoulder; Martin’s knuckles grazed his cheek.

Henry blinked blearily and shook his head. “Good morning,” he said. It was starting again, another day of grasping after topics of conversation, another day of awkward hesitation and endless blushing. He was not looking forward to it. He was also still very tired, having had nothing but terrible sleep since bringing Martin home. He yawned his foul breath in Martin’s face as Martin helped him on with his dressing gown.

Henry showered and shaved and allowed Martin to dress him in his brown suit. They went down for Henry’s breakfast and, once again, his parents were absent from the table. Henry ate a quantity of scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, and blueberry pancakes with whipped cream and syrup, and enjoyed his milky-sweet coffee. Because they were alone, Henry offered Martin a seat at the table.

“Thank you, Sir, but I ate a large breakfast earlier.”

“Was it as good as this one?” Henry doubted it, though in truth he had no idea what the slaves ate.

Martin smiled. “Perhaps not, Sir. But I am still full, nonetheless.”

As Henry was finishing his breakfast, there was a telephone call from Louis inviting Henry to go downtown to the arcade. Henry readily agreed and they arranged to meet in fifteen minutes.

Henry went back upstairs, Martin close behind, to get his money. He kept it in a large tea tin on the mantelpiece. The tin was stuffed full; Henry didn’t need to spend a lot of money of his own, and his father kept giving him more.

“If you need money for something,” he told Martin, “it’s here.” He took out a wad of bills and smoothed them flat between his thigh and the palm of his hand.

Martin shook his head, “No, Sir, I couldn’t take your money.”

“I know Timothy will usually buy you whatever you need,” Henry said. “But if there’s an emergency of some sort, just know it’s here, all right?” Martin looked doubtful. He was surprisingly stubborn. “All right?” Henry asked again.

“Yes, Sir,” Martin said grudgingly.

Henry held out a few bills. “Take it. You’ll need money for the games.” He gave the money a little shake and Martin reached for it reluctantly. “Don’t you want to play the games?”

“I’ve never played games, Sir.” Martin seemed ashamed of this, like he was letting Henry down.

“You’ll love it,” Henry said confidently.

They went out to sit on the front steps to wait for Louis and Peter. It was nice weather, not too hot, and there were a lot of people passing by the front gate, countless carriages and omnibuses moving briskly up and down Fifth. In just a few more days, Henry would be cooped up in a classroom—Martin, as well. It was good to enjoy the nice days while they lasted.

Louis and Peter appeared and Louis rattled the gate in greeting. Henry and Martin went to meet them and the four of them crossed the street to wait for the omnibus. Henry and Louis sat on the bench and the slaves stood in attendance.

Louis was telling Henry that he thought he’d found a routine that would work for him going forward. “I’ll use his mouth first thing, then bugger him after lunch—or after school, when school starts. Then at nighttime I’ll—”

Henry covered his ears. “Louis! Why are you telling me this?”

Louis looked baffled. “Why not? I’m curious what you’re doing, too, you know.”

Henry felt his cheeks go hot. “I’m not telling you anything.”

Louis sighed. “There’s no need to be such a priss, Henry. We’re all doing it. There’s no reason to be embarrassed. It’s for
health.
”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Henry shook his head adamantly. “Please, Louis, no more.”

“Fine, you big baby. Oh, here comes the omnibus.”

They climbed to the upper level to enjoy the breeze as they rode. Martin held onto the back of Henry’s seat for balance as he swayed in the aisle and Henry resisted the urge to turn to look up at him.