The Glass House Read online

  "Thank you," Damian replied, without looking up.

  He knew they were nearing Bennett's estate and the familiar country lanes that reminded him of his home at Greystone Hall and it made him glad to be back in England, somehow. Although, he knew that feeling was temporary. He hadn't wanted to return to England; it was rainy, dreary and pressurising to the 'hurricane-like' degree when he spoke with his elder brother most of the time.

  Damian had been gone for several months on Cunard's Queen Mary in a bid to escape his family's extreme wealth and the expectations associated with it, but namely, it was a bid to escape Bennett. His elder brother took no issue with wearing his three-piece suits, living in his domestically staffed estate behind electric gates and riding around in a limo. But Damian struggled to enjoy the formal lifestyle his parents Jon and Evelyn Fowler had provided at Greystone Hall.

  Bennett and Damian also previously had several lengthy and frank disagreements on the subjects of wealth and expectation, leaving unresolved tension between them. Bennett told his younger brother, in no uncertain terms, that he needed to start acting like a Fowler, which meant withdrawing his trust fund, buying an estate and hiring staff to run it, then filling his days with activities like gentlemanly strolls through his formal gardens and socialising with the other people in their social circle, sponsoring charity events and fully embracing the formality of wearing suits and drinking brandies each evening.

  Damian had been furious at the notion that he couldn't be Damian Fowler who might instead choose to live in a flat in London and have a career. Rather, Bennett had been furious that his brother had even entertained the idea. Bennett told him he would no longer consider Damian his brother if he tried. That was when Damian booked his year-long cruise, and using his elder brother's own words against him, told Bennett that it was precisely the "encouragement" to sort his life out that pushed him to do it. He needed a year on his own away from his family, England, his social circle, and the impending pressures of his wealth. Although, he didn't escape the latter very well considering it was precisely his wealth that provided the opportunity to go on an extravagant and formal voyage. He stayed in the best room and as such, dined at the best restaurant on board and had to dress up for dinner every evening just as he did at Greystone. In the end, he hadn't escaped much at all.

  The yearlong holiday had turned into barely three months by the time he returned to England for his elder brother's completely unexpected proposal to Elisabeth Warner. When Damian set off on the cruise months earlier, Bennett had no prospects, so it was rather a shock to receive the news. Although, if most people who knew Bennett were honest, they would admit they wouldn't have ever expected him to fall in love or any girl to love him back. It was perhaps judgemental and harsh, but no less the truth.

  Boxing Day, the day after Christmas, however, Damian felt that familiar itch and dashed to the airport to stay with a friend from his boarding school days on the continent despite his cruise had been paid for and would carry on for the rest of the year without him. He'd since been in Germany for over a month and rationed contact with his parents and Bennett, that was, until his friend had to go abroad for business. Damian didn't want to stay in the very modern Penthouse in Berlin regardless of how 'welcome' he was whilst his friend was away.

  Bennett was surprised when Damian phoned him. His brother still lived with their parents at Greystone Hall and had no reason to appeal to Bennett, especially considering the major disagreement that was still unresolved despite them having a lovely Christmas under the same roof. And yet, Bennett didn't hesitate to send his limo to collect Damian from the airport the following morning.

  The limo pulled through the gates at Barton-Court once the driver's fingers danced rather elaborately across the numerical keypad. Damian locked his iPhone and slid it into his blazer before tightening his tie; he knew how Bennett felt about untidiness. He also buttoned both cuffs, his blazer and slipped his topcoat on before putting his chewing gum into a piece of paper from his leather satchel. He thanked the driver after the door was opened for him.

  Damian didn't expect Bennett to have changed his stance on anything; although, recent events with meeting, courting and proposing to Elisabeth seemed to have caused a change in his brother whereby Bennett's patience felt more drawn out than it was before her. It was just the impression Damian got from the very few conversations they'd had over the phone from the Queen Mary and the little time they'd spent together on Christmas Day.

  "It's Sullivan, right?" Damian asked, when the butler opened the door to Barton-Court House.

  "Yes, Sir. Welcome, Mr. Fowler," Sullivan said, standing aside.

  Damian entered the foyer and waited for the young butler to close the door.

  "May I take your coat and satchel, Sir?" Sullivan asked.

  "Thank you," Damian replied, removing the expensive leather bag from his shoulder and offering it to the white-gloved butler. He stood still as Sullivan took his coat.

  "Forgive me, Damian, I was on the phone to Elisabeth," Bennett said, as he descended the grand staircase in front of his brother. "I wanted to be here the moment you arrived." Bennett's shiny black shoes touched the foyer floor and he extended his hand.

  "Not to worry, Sullivan's only just taken my coat," Damian replied, accepting his brother's hand.

  "How are you?" Bennett asked, looking directly into his younger brother's eyes.

  Damian was a little surprised at Bennett's sincerity. "Tired."

  "Would you like to have a bit of a lie down? Mary's done a guest room for you."

  Damian wanted to act surprised, but he also didn't want to insult his brother. "You didn't have to do that."

  Bennett glanced at the front doors and then back at his brother. "I thought, perhaps, you might consider staying here for a little while," he suggested. "Elisabeth won't be moving in until after the wedding, and we have yet to decide on a date. It would be nice to have a bit of company once I take her back to Waldorf in the evenings. And of course, the engagement party is next Saturday."

  Damian wouldn't have previously considered living with his elder brother because of how they disagreed before he ran off to the cruise he never finished. Although, Bennett's rather kind tone made him seem lonely. He wasn't, but he sounded more humble than Damian had ever known him to be.

  "I suppose I could keep you company for a little while," Damian replied, taken aback by his brother's lack of force. It wouldn't have been uncommon for Bennett to demand his younger brother stay with him at Barton-Court 'for his own good.' Instead, Bennett had politely suggested he stay – if he wanted to. "Admittedly, I wasn't keen to return to Greystone Hall."

  "Well, then." Bennett offered a small smile. "Sullivan, Mr. Fowler's cases are in the limo. Mary's put him in the room second down from mine."

  "Yes, Sir," Sullivan replied, before he crossed the foyer to the front doors.

  Sullivan would alert the limo driver who would bring the cases to the foyer before leaving to park in the garage. Sullivan would carefully take the cases to Damian's room, which would then be unpacked by Mary, because Bennett would want tea. Unpacking a gentleman's suitcase was a butler's job, but when tea needed to be served, it became the housekeeper's job because the butler served tea before he unpacked cases. At least, that's how things were prioritized at Barton-Court House.

  Bennett led the way straight through the double doors, which opened between the double staircases behind them and turned left through the oval reception room and through the double doors.

  "Sullivan will bring tea in a moment," Bennett said, as the two smartly dressed brothers entered the large, formal sitting room known as the Great Hall.

  Bennett stopped at one of countless places to sit; two Victorian sofas facing one another separated by a mahogany coffee table with fresh flowers in a short, polished silver vase. They sat across from one another and simultaneously crossed one leg over the other revealing expensive shoes and equally expensive 'made in England' lamb's wool socks. They w
ere more alike than either cared to admit. Damian looked over at his brother.

  "The last time I sat here was just after Elisabeth moved in," he reminisced.

  Bennett straightened one of his cufflinks and with a confident raised eyebrow, remarked, "Things have changed quite a bit, haven't they?"

  Damian nodded, glancing beyond his brother on the sofa in front of him to the beautiful ceiling-high windows along the right side of the Great Hall and the heavy velvet drapes secured on each side in intervals. He distinctly recalled the morning he met Elisabeth for the first time and the three of them sat precisely where he and Bennett were that moment, having tea. Bennett had received a phone call, excused himself and walked across the room to the window on the far right side, directly across from the double doors to the Great Hall. Elisabeth turned over her shoulder and watched Bennett stand in front of the window with his phone to his ear as he looked over the back of his estate and spoke into the phone.

  Damian distinctly remembered when Elisabeth had turned back to face him that she'd been blushing slightly. He also remembered seeing her empty cup resting in her hand, but when she turned back toward Damian she tried to drink from the empty cup. Blushing and absentmindedness – two very obvious signs of affection. Damian knew back then that Elisabeth felt something for his elder brother, but he never could have imagined, especially in such a short period of time in his opinion, that they would find themselves getting married and in only a matter of months.

  "How long was it that you began courting from when she moved in?" Damian asked, getting back on track with conversation.

  "A couple of weeks," Bennett replied, when Sullivan appeared and quietly set the table between them for tea. "It wasn't as easy as it perhaps sounds, either."

  "No?" Damian asked, finding the rather confiding Bennett a welcome change from the brother he'd always known as rigid, private and cold.

  "I didn't think it was fair to ask the girl if she had any emotion toward me when I'd made it very clear that the only situation under this roof would be platonic," Bennett replied, as Sullivan placed a three-tiered tray with pastries at the end of the table and poured the tea. Bennett and Damian both reached forward for their small pots of milk as Sullivan disappeared.

  "You'd only just left on the cruise; Elisabeth was finally settled, and our parents were adamant about taking on a supportive role in her life. And then one day I saw her looking at me in a way I've never seen a girl look before," Bennett said.

  Damian looked at his brother.

  "She never fought me, Damian. Not on the things I expected her to fight me on."

  "But she knew what she was getting into when she moved here," Damian said, knowing very plainly about his elder brother's love of discipline.

  "Yes, but that didn't mean she would always comply. There was a moment when I nearly couldn't go through with it." Bennett sat back against the sofa with his cup and saucer in both hands, his long and lean posture always making him seem like a model from a vintage catalogue.

  "Which part?" Damian asked.

  "I was about to wash her mouth out with soap," he said. "I nearly couldn't follow through. She looked at me and I wanted to cuddle her more than I wanted to correct her behaviour in that moment," Bennett said, staring at the table. "And I knew that Elisabeth was more than just someone to look after or discipline."

  Bennett's eyes went up to his brother.

  "Did you cuddle her?" Damian asked, quietly.

  "Eventually," Bennett replied.

  Damian looked down and smiled.

  * * * * *

  Listening was easier when Brayden wasn't watching Alice practise piano. There were too many other things he was tempted to correct. By the time she knew the music, it was time to stand nearby rather than right behind her.

  Brayden stood, his hands behind the back of his finely tailored suit, that morning as he looked out the most prominent window in the music room. If his old Russian piano tutor were in the room, Alice wouldn't be able to walk after her lesson, because he would have found fifty reasons to punish her for imperfections otherwise unknown to any other human.

  His eyes scanned the woodland in the distance, but they were mentally picturing and naming each of the notes in Chopin's Nocturne #20 in C sharp minor engraved in his mind. Brayden had learned how to play that piece when he was eight years old, but Alice had only begun playing less than a year before, so her progress was somewhat remarkable. His own musical study in his youth had been extremely intense, and his annually salaried tutor (despite that Brayden only played with him on weekends home from boarding school and holidays) hadn't held back with correction. Brayden was a lot more gracious in his correction toward Alice, although it certainly did occur.

  When Alice finished, she rested her hands in her lap and slouched as she looked over her shoulder. Brayden turned from the window and began walking toward her.

  "You look displeased."

  "Aren't you, Sir?" Alice asked.

  "Anything I'm displeased with can be easily corrected by you playing it again," he replied, stopping beside the Steinway Grand.

  Alice exhaled.

  "Look at bar twenty-one." Brayden pointed with one hand. "What is this?"

  "Pianissimo," Alice replied, as she read the direction on the sheet music before her.

  "And it stays that way until forty-seven." Brayden moved his hand along to the corresponding bar.

  "Yes, Sir," Alice said, following his hand with her eyes. "But I'm concentrating on playing the right notes so much that I usually miss the inflections or directions or whatever they're called."

  "They are dynamics, darling, but playing at the proper volume is part of playing the right notes. You can't play it properly unless you play all of it properly, and that includes volume and emotion. You're very nearly there, Alice. I think you know this piece well enough to play without the music. That might help you put a bit more emotion into it."

  "Uh!" Alice looked up at him in a panic.

  "You don't need it," Brayden said, folding the sheet music neatly and putting it behind his back. "Go on, begin again."

  "I can't perform without music tomorrow!"

  "You performed your first recital after only three months of lessons by memory," Brayden calmly reminded her.

  "But you wrote the music for me, and that was easy! They were more like exercises. This is Choppin!"

  "Chopin," Brayden corrected.

  "I can't do it," Alice said, her hands plastered down on either side of her petite self as she sat on the bench.

  "You've already decided that, have you?" Brayden looked down at her.

  "No, Sir. I know it."

  "Alice." He bent down to her. "What are you afraid of, darling?"

  She looked back at him. "I don't want to make any mistakes."

  Brayden signalled for her to move over. He'd made it very clear that during lessons he was the teacher and she was the pupil, and she was not to refer to him as 'father' during that time. But there were moments when he needed to reassure Alice as her father and not as her piano teacher. He sat beside her.

  "Making a mistake will not cause any harm. You know I only punish you for things that you know well and fail to heed, even in piano."

  "Yes, but since I played Yiruma at your birthday ball, the expectation is higher. I can't mess up tomorrow. This is such an easy piece."

  "My piano tutor used to make me play Twinkle Twinkle Little Star until I was twenty-one years old when I said the same thing. Look," Brayden said, and replaced the music in front of them. "Bar five, your left hand plays these broken chords." He demonstrated perfectly for Alice. She watched his hands glide across the keys.

  It was precisely moments like these that made her heart flutter; when the man she'd come to love as her father sat beside her at the piano and demonstrated how to play a piece he knew intimately. Alice found it endearing.

  "Just like that. Now, begin again and play through bar twenty. I want you to stop there, and then I'll demonstr
ate the shift to pianissimo."

  "Sir," Alice replied quietly, and rested her hands on the keys.

  Brayden's example of the broken chords in bar five proved to be helpful when she very nearly played it exactly as he had and carried on through bar twenty.

  "Good girl, that was very well done," Brayden said, keeping his tone not overly proud. He often had to remind himself for those few hours he was her tutor, and she was the pupil so as not to cuddle her every time she made improvements. Brayden saved that for when she practised well in the evenings or after a performance of some kind.

  "Right, now here is the transition," Brayden said, as he rested his hands on the keys and demonstrated the dreamy pianissimo for the next twenty-five bars. "It's very little effort, do you hear?"

  "It sounds so obvious when you play it," she remarked.

  "It will sound obvious to you once you've done it," he replied and watched as Alice rested her hands on the keys and played the next portion.

  "That was perfect," he said. "Now go back to the beginning and play through bar forty-seven. You have it, but I want to see and hear the transition. The weight of your hands will be an indication for me even from the front row tomorrow," Brayden said, standing up from the piano bench, taking the music with him.

  Alice's eyes widened.

  "You know the piece. Off you go," he said, folding it neatly.

  Alice exhaled and closed her eyes for a brief moment before starting over.

  * * * * *

  Evelyn Fowler drummed her perfectly manicured nails on her protruding hipbone over the material of her black shapely dress. The rattle of her pearl bracelet wrapped several times around her bony wrist echoed the impatience she felt as she pursed her lips and pulled her cashmere wrap around her shoulders with her other hand.

  "The roses were there last time, Fiona," she said, still drumming her fingers and watching one of her uniformed housekeepers intently.

  Fiona stopped arranging the roses in their vase and turned to her employer. There was little point in speaking— Evelyn Fowler would tell her how to proceed. Fiona just had to wait for it.