by Bella Bryce
“Right, Fowler, we need to talk,” Brayden said later, as he approached the empty club chair beside his friend.
Bennett raised his eyebrows. “We’re schoolboys again, are we?” he asked, completely unamused.
“You’ve put me in a very awkward position with my daughter and I don’t appreciate it,” Brayden said, putting his hand up when Wellesley offered him a brandy on a tray.
“I’ve put you in a position to move on,” Bennett defended, looking over at his friend.
Wellesley quietly abandoned the seating area as Brayden leant forward in the club chair. “That is not your place to say,” he told Bennett. He didn’t easily get upset and he never raised his voice, but it was clear that Brayden was annoyed.
“It’s been my place since we were eight years old. I’m a year elder than you, I’m taller than you and I’ve always looked out for you. Are you trying to tell me now that I’m not to hold you accountable? Alice asked me why you stopped having birthday balls, what was I supposed to tell her?”
“The typical Bennett response would be, ‘never you mind, young lady, let’s get on with playing chess.”
“Your tone is completely out of order, Brayden,” Bennett said, putting his brandy glass on the small table beside his chair. “I think there’s a lot more to this than me telling Alice a modified version of what happened to your parents.”
Brayden crossed one leg over the other and looked into the fire, considering his words before speaking.
“I’m not going to apologise for being truthful with my niece,” Bennett continued. “At least thank me for not telling her all of the details as you and I know them. I gave her what I thought would be fair enough to satisfy her questions.”
“She’s a child, Bennett, her questions can go unanswered,” Brayden shot back.
Bennett shook his head. “It’s not me you’re angry with, so stop pretending you are. It’s time to move on.”
“I have,” Brayden replied.
“I’ve yet to see you wear the gift they gave you three years ago.”
Brayden looked up at Bennett. The gift his parents got him for his 26th birthday was still wrapped and locked away in the drawer in his study and he certainly wasn’t sure how Bennett knew anything about it.
“You can touch any subject you like—” Brayden started.
“Except for this one?” Bennett asked, as though he were about to scold him.
Brayden stared back at him.
“Alice adores you unlike anyone I’ve ever seen except your mother, rest her soul,” Bennett pointed at him. “Don’t you dare push her away.”
Brayden exhaled and crossed one leg over the other. He propped his chin up on the arm of the leather wingchair and then closed his eyes. Bennett picked up his brandy and let his words sink in.
“I could never push Alice away,” Brayden finally said.
“Then don’t start.” The ice in Bennett’s glass clinked as he put it to his mouth again and finished his brandy. “I think we’ve said enough for one evening. Wellesley will see me out. Goodnight.” Bennett stood and quietly walked out of the sitting room before he could be questioned further.
Brayden covered his eyes with his hand as his elbow rested on the arm of the chair. He couldn’t remember the last time a conversation ended so abruptly with Bennett. He hated quarrelling, but especially with his best friend. Bennett was usually right when he called Brayden out, too, which was hard to swallow.
Brayden knew Bennett was right only because he was good at it, but he wouldn’t have stopped him from leaving Waldorf, not that night and not after that conversation. He needed his space. They both did. It was the sharpest topic either of them could ever bring up, for a lot of reasons.
He stayed in the club chair for a long time with his hands over his eyes, long enough to realise that he hadn’t properly tucked his daughter in bed. She had been in the bath by the time he went up to see Elisabeth to bed and Celia said she would tuck the girl in. At the time it was ideal, because Brayden didn’t want to start the whole, ‘so I hear Uncle Bennett told you the truth about my parents being kidnapped and murdered and I should probably talk to you about it,’ awkward, uncomfortable and upsetting conversation. For both of them.
When he quietly entered Alice’s room, she was sitting in one of the window seats in her nightdress, dressing gown, and slippers, wrapped in a cashmere tartan blanket. Brayden stopped before he reached her, his suit still looking as tidy as it did from the moment he put it on that very morning, but his eyes were tired.
Alice turned and looked up at him when she noticed that he was there.
Brayden neared the window seat and sat down beside her. “Come here,” he said quietly, and nodded as he pulled Alice into his lap when she moved near to him. He took one of Alice’s hands in his own and looked at her.
“Are you cross with me?” she asked quietly.
His daughter was so sensitive to his feelings that he found it rather difficult to hide them.
Alice had grown to love Brayden deeply and her loyalty toward him was unmistakable.
“I wanted to understand, but you wouldn’t speak to me about it. I only asked Uncle Bennett because you were cross at dinner when I tried. I’m sorry, Father,” Alice said, her voice soft and worrisome.
“I’m not cross with you.” Brayden straightened one side of her dressing gown and met her eyes again. “What happened to them is not my fault, but I seem to have forgotten. Uncle Bennett was trying to help me remember.”
Alice nodded again. She inhaled and blinked a few times. “I’ve never had a father to give a birthday present to before,” she started. “I wanted to find out how to make it special,” she whispered as her chin quivered. She felt ashamed of how wrong she seemed to have gotten her approach.
Brayden’s face straightened and he looked back at her before pulling her into him and held her securely. Alice closed her eyes, taking in the feel of his arms as they held her and the feel of his blazer on her cheek. His sturdy posture made her feel safe, but it was Brayden’s fatherly scent and the way his hands clasped around her in his lap that made her heart swell. Perhaps it was because she’d never experienced appropriate fatherly intimacy before, that it was so meaningful. Girls who grew up knowing such love surely couldn’t understand how lucky they were.
“Forgive me,” he said quietly. He had rested the side of his chin against her head and every word he spoke was gentle in her ear. “It was selfish of me to assume that your questions about my birthday were misplaced. I take for granted that you are still adjusting.”
Alice could feel her eyes starting to fill with tears, as she remained lying against his waistcoat and blazer, her hand resting on his waistcoat buttons, which marched upward.
“Let’s put you to bed,” he said eventually, and stood up whilst still holding onto Alice. Brayden didn’t make a habit of carrying Alice around considering her age was ten and not two. But he didn’t want to let go of her. She laid her head on his shoulder and wrapped her arms around his neck as he easily carried her across the large, spacious bedroom. She scooted underneath the covers as Brayden sat on her bedside like he did every evening.
“Perhaps this would be a good year to restart the tradition,” he said, looking down at Alice. “You’d like a new dress and to attend a ball, wouldn’t you?”
Her face broke into a smile.
Chapter Seven
Brayden didn't even know where the car keys were anymore. He descended the main staircase just before 5:30 am, thinking about the only person who would know where they were.
Waldorf was silent except for the sound of Brayden’s expensive Italian shoes clacking across the marbled foyer, past the dining room doors, down the back corridor toward the kitchen, past the cloakroom and to Wellesley's pantry-come-study.
“Good morning, Sir. Would you like your coffee?” Wellesley asked, surprised by Brayden's very unexpected presence in the doorway. He immediately stood up from behind his desk where he was having his own coffee, no d
oubt the first of the day.
“No, no, please. I just can't seem to remember where... Father’s keys are, or were, kept,” Brayden said, keeping his tone strong.
Wellesley schooled his face to cover up any obvious emotion associated with Brayden mentioning his late father and quickly walked around to near the door to where Brayden stood.
“Oh. Yes, Sir. I've left them here in the cabinet with the others,” Wellesley said, using a key from his master ring to open a small wooden cabinet attached to the wall beside the door.
Inside were nearly countless keys organised by section and wing of Waldorf Manor, labelled by a small gold plaque above each one. Wellesley went straight for the ninth row and then turned to Brayden. He wasn't sure if Brayden wanted just his father's keys, his mother's to her classic car or his own keys.
“Just my father's,” Brayden said, clearing his throat, as he watched Wellesley's hand hover over three sets of car keys that hadn't been touched in a long time.
Wellesley turned back to the cabinet and removed ‘Oliver's’ keys and passed them to Brayden, who thanked the butler and said he would let himself out the front doors. Wellesley quickly disarmed the security system from his pantry-come-study before he knew Brayden would reach the front doors, so as not to embarrass him. It would have gone off, otherwise.
Wellesley didn't disarm Waldorf Manor that early unless it was planned.
Brayden opened one of the double doors and walked out onto the top of the stairs. The sun was just rising in the distance and the morning fog was dispersed throughout the front of the estate in patches. He looked down at his father's old car keys, feeling the ridges between his fingers. They looked just as new as the day Oliver James first brought them home. It didn’t surprise him. Everything at Waldorf Manor was always in top shape.
Brayden sat behind the wheel of his late father's flawless 1967 Ferrari, the engine quietly purring. It had been nearly three years since he'd seen the inside. The beige leather was still in mint condition, the gears and the dials looked unused; they practically were.
Oliver James only used to drive his car on Sunday afternoons with his wife Kathryn to his left and Brayden in the backseat. From as early as he could remember, until that fateful day nearly three years prior, they had taken a Sunday afternoon drive in his father's car. Kathryn used to drive her own car on some Saturday mornings to see Evelyn Fowler, but that was incredibly rare. Their chauffeur had taken them almost everywhere else and he still drove Brayden everywhere. He hadn’t wanted to sit in his own car, his parents had bought him a custom built, top of the line Jaguar XJR and he hadn’t driven it since their deaths.
Brayden cut the engine and looked in the rear-view mirror. It only took him half a second to turn it back on, put the gear into reverse and his feet on the clutch and pedal. Enough was enough. He was going to have a morning drive in his father's car and that was final.
The guards hid their surprise when they saw Brayden approach the gates.
“Good morning, gentlemen, I'll be back shortly,” he said.
The gates were opened and Brayden pulled into the quiet country lane in front of Waldorf Manor. Turning right, he changed gear and began to pick up speed. The sun was slowly rising in the distance and on the horizon as if keeping him company as he drove along. He listened to the engine, the nostalgic sound of a cherished vintage car, as he drove. Just passing by the place his family used to walk on Sunday afternoons was enough, he didn't need to get out and physically retrace those steps. It had also been where they found his parents’ bodies, so a glance in the direction at the Dead End was enough for him. Brayden turned and drove past without another look and carried on straight past Waldorf’s gates south on the country lane for twenty miles before taking several short turns until he reached the front gates of Barton-Court House.
“Sir, are you expecting anyone this morning?” Sullivan asked, with a frown. He certainly hadn’t been told to expect anyone at quarter past six in the blessed morning.
Bennett finished tying and straightening his tie in the mirror. “No, why?”
“A Ferrari just pulled through the gates. I think you might consider changing your passcode, Sir.”
Bennett frowned and pulled down his waistcoat. He thought for a moment as Sullivan approached and held out the blazer, which had been on the valet stand. Bennett slipped his arms through and let Sullivan straighten the shoulders.
“It’s about time,” Bennett said, realizing whom it was. He turned from the mirror, leaving Sullivan standing with a lint roller and no blazer to tend to.
“Sullivan, I’m going to get there first if you don’t hurry along,” Bennett called, as he left his bedroom.
“Brayden,” Bennett said, when Sullivan opened the front doors.
Brayden stepped into Barton-Court’s foyer and extended his hand to his best friend straightaway.
“I came to apologise,” he said, shaking Bennett’s hand.
“All is forgiven,” replied Bennett, giving Brayden a straight look.
Brayden let go of Bennett’s hand. He glanced at Sullivan and then back at Bennett.
“I have more to say. Could we—” Brayden started to ask, indicating with his eyes toward the double doors between the staircase behind Bennett. He was referring to the Great Room, where they could speak privately and formally and not in the foyer of Barton-Court House.
“Certainly. Coffee?” Bennett asked.
“That’d be lovely, thank you,” Brayden replied, as the butler took his coat and scarf.
“We’ll be in the Great Room,” he informed Sullivan before leading his best friend through the double doors into the oval reception room and to the left through the second set of double doors.
The Great Room was alive with fire blazing and drapes held back by elaborate cording to welcome the morning light as it poured through the massive windows along one wall.
Brayden was fortunate that Bennett was lively at that hour. They both had been ones to wake early, but he hadn’t known for sure if Bennett would have been ready to receive him at that hour. Brayden figured Bennett had been planning to collect Elisabeth so he was glad to catch him before.
“Thank you for understanding, Bennett, but I don’t feel my apology is good enough,” he said, once Sullivan left a silver tray on the table near to them with a French press of coffee and frothed milk.
Bennett poured a cup each and handed Brayden one in its saucer.
“It is good enough.” Bennett gave him a look.
“Not if you knew what I was really thinking half the time,” he replied, before taking a sip.
Bennett sat on the sofa with his cup and saucer and crossed one leg over the other.
“You’ve really been through it,” Bennett remarked.
“Yes, but you were right; we’ve always been accountable to each other. I have nobody else now for that. Alice is looking to me, whom do I look to?” Brayden asked quietly.
Bennett put his cup and saucer on the table in front of him and folded his hands and allowed his elbows to rest on his knees.
“You needed me to stand up for you at boarding school when we were boys, I’m afraid I’ve never really gotten over it. You’re as much my brother as Damian is; I know you know that. As a result, only a year apart or not, regardless of how we age, I will speak up to you when I need to. I’ve seen you pull away from things because of what you went through and last night was time I told you to stop. I’ve also seen you carry on with a damn shocking array of courage.”
Brayden listened to Bennett’s words and maintained a straight, gentlemanly face. Inside, his heart was aching. “Thanks, Bennett,” he said. “I am lucky to have had your parents to borrow, especially these last few years,” Brayden added, his tone of voice becoming more normal.
Bennett raised an amused eyebrow. “Borrow Mother anytime,” he said.
Brayden chuckled as he crossed one leg over his knee. When he sat back against the tufted sofa, he could get an incredible view of the estate fro
m the ceiling-high window adjacent. The morning was misty and cool and the sky full of snow threatening to drop at any moment. It was the perfect morning for redemption.
“I told Alice last night that I would have a ball this year to celebrate my twenty-ninth birthday. I think she was most excited about getting a new dress.”
Bennett pulled out his iPhone from his blazer and began looking through it.
“Good, because I’ve already emailed Anabelle Grayson, the events coordinator, and told her that might be the case. She came back with some details and a quote.”
Brayden looked up at the ornate ceiling, miles away, and back at Bennett. “That’s rather cheeky,” he said, managing a grin.
“It is indeed,” Bennett replied, not looking up from his iPhone whilst he scrolled through an email. “But I knew this conversation would come.”
Brayden watched him scroll through the email and pitied anyone who hadn’t experienced Bennett Fowler as the friend he’d come to know. Bennett was unfailingly loyal and that included when someone needed to be told to move on from even the most painful hardship, because he truly believed that shedding the weight of it would help.
“Right, here it is. I asked Anabelle for what she could put together in two weeks’ time at Waldorf because this was assuming it would take you a little while to come round to the idea.”
Brayden shook his head and exhaled an amused half-laugh.
“She obviously knows the layout and has all the previous years to go off. I just suggested a few things and she sent me a quote and a link to Pinterest. I don’t know why, I’m not planning anything.”
“Pinterest,” Brayden repeated. “What on earth is that?”
Bennett looked up at his best friend. “Ask your daughter to sort you out.”
Brayden smiled and took another sip of coffee. “My ten-year-old doesn’t have access to the Internet.”
“You shall have to wait until you get her an iPhone then.”
“Never going to happen,” Brayden said, as he put his cup and saucer on the table. “Can you forward me that email? I’d best chat with Ana since it’s only two weeks away. I’ll need to have Wellesley send her a guest list.”
