Читать книгу The Headmaster - Tiffany Reisz, Tiffany Reisz - Страница 8

Chapter Three

The magic forest was made of paper and Christmas lights. Once she stepped through the door, she felt a hand on her elbow. Headmaster Yorke pulled her by his side and raised a finger to his lips to silence her. He nodded, and she looked ahead at the play in progress.

A boy with dark hair and a slight stammer stood in the center of the paper forest and looked around as if lost.

“Do I entice you?” the boy asked. “Do I speak you fair? Or, rather, do I not in plainest truth, tell you I do not, nor I cannot, love you?”

“Christopher Hayes.” Headmaster Yorke whispered the name into her ear, and Gwen shivered at the feel of his breath on her neck. “He could barely get a full sentence out when he started here at Marshal.”

“Born with a stammer?” she asked.

The headmaster nodded.

“And now he’s acting in plays?” Gwen was incredulous. Not only because Christopher acted in a school play with a stammer, but also because none of the students teased him when his voice stalled.

Again the headmaster nodded, but this time she could see the gleam of pride in his eyes and the smile that threatened to take over the severe lines of his face.

Laird she recognized at once with his red hair. He wore a tablecloth like a skirt over his school uniform. The boys in the audience whistled and he rolled his eyes.

“Shut it,” he yelled at the crowd. “I’m trying to Shakespeare over here.”

That only incited more whistling and laughter.

“I forgot my lines. Line?” Laird called out.

“And even for that do I love you the more,” Gwen called out the next line. “I am your spaniel. And, Demetrius, the more you beat me, I will fawn on you.”

The room fell silent. Every pair of eyes had turned to study her.

“Use me but as your spaniel,” Laird continued the scene. He looked into Christopher’s eyes and spoke again. “Spurn me. Strike me. Neglect me. Lose me. Only give me leave, unworthy as I am, to follow you.”

Gwen stepped back into the shadows and the play continued. Side-by-side with the headmaster she watched until the intermission at the end of the second act. As the boys in their costumes and uniforms rearranged scenery, Headmaster Yorke lead her out into the hallway.

“You have A Midsummer Night’s Dream memorized?” he asked her.

“Yes, and Hamlet, Richard III, Henry V, and most of the comedies—the good ones.”

“You’re not an actress, are you?”

She laughed at the disdain in his voice. Why were the English so good at disdain?

“Merely a teacher,” she said. “I always have my students act Shakespeare out. You can’t really understand a play until you see it performed. Shakespeare especially. I had no idea he was funny until my junior year of high school when they took us to see A Comedy of Errors.”

“Tell me—” he began, but a familiar redhead opened the door and stuck his head into the hall and interrupted.

“Did you hire her yet?” Laird asked. “We need a new English teacher.”

Headmaster Yorke turned and glared at Laird. Laird winced and made a hasty retreat.

“As I was saying,” the headmaster continued. “What are your qualifications as—”

Now Christopher’s dark head appeared in the doorway.

“Are you the new English teacher?” Christopher asked, without stammering once.

“She is,” Laird said, standing next to him in the doorway. “Her name is Gwen Ashby.”

“Hello, Miss Ashby,” Christopher said. “You’re not married, are you?”

Headmaster Yorke answered the question for her by putting his hand on Christopher’s head and pushing him back through the doorway. Laird’s head popped through the door.

“Have you ever read Ivanhoe?” Laird asked.

“I’m afraid not.”

“Oh, thank God,” Laird sighed with obvious profound relief. He pointed his thumb at the headmaster. “He’s made us read it six times.”

The headmaster glared at Laird so hard that Laird seemed to shrink back into himself.

“No more Ivanhoe please,” he mouthed as he disappeared back through the door.

“You have very interesting students,” Gwen said. “I like them.”

“I don’t.”

“Liar,” came Laird’s voice from behind the door.

Behind his glasses, Headmaster Yorke looked up at the ceiling.

“Is it still illegal to kill students in America?” he asked.

“I’m afraid so, yes.”

“I’ll simply have to risk it. Come with me to my office, Miss Ashby.”

“Yes, I will. Thanks for asking.”

He arched his eyebrow at her.

“I was pretending you asked me, instead of ordering me.”

“But you are coming to my office.”

“Yes, since you asked so nicely.”

He looked at her, turned on his heel and stalked down the hall.

She knew he expected her to follow him so she paused, counted to three and then followed him. The sun was sinking but hadn’t set quite yet, and long slants of golden light poured in through the windows in the school building and set everything alight. The floors, walls and windows looked like they were on fire with so much sunlight, and ahead of her the headmaster cast a long shadow that she stepped into as he led her up the winding stairs.

They came to a room that was likely Headmaster Yorke’s office. He had a grand desk and large leather chair and windows behind him that would allow him to look down onto his school. And books, so many books in his office. Shelf after shelf of leather-bound volumes. No paperbacks. Not a one. This man took his library seriously.

He gestured to a chair in front of his desk and she sat down. He took his seat in his high-back leather chair, steepled his hands in front of his chest and stared at her.

“You won’t like it here,” he said. “I strongly encourage you to leave.”

“Is this how you start all job interviews?”

“Yes.”

“Is this like that scene in Fight Club where you tell me to leave and I get the job only if I stay?”

“The scene in what?”

“Fight Club? The movie? Ever seen it?”

“I’m a busy man, Miss Ashby. I don’t waste time on popular entertainment.”

“I’ll adjust my references accordingly then. Look, Mr. Yorke, I—”

He raised his hand to silence here.

“I realize you’re seeking employment, and I respect that,” he said. “But it would require an enormous sacrifice from you to become a teacher at this school. I left my home country years ago and have never returned. The students are here year-round. We work year-round. We teach year-round. We have everything we need here at the school, and we rarely leave the grounds. You would be required to commit yourself to this school as we have. Whatever life you have outside the walls of the school, you would have to give it up to remain here.”

“I appreciate your concern, but it’s safe to say I have no life outside the walls of this school. Having a life inside the walls of this school would be one more life than I have right now.”

“I find it hard to believe that a lovely young woman such as yourself has no life.”

“I don’t have any family anymore except for grandparents I don’t see very often. I had to switch colleges my freshman year after my dad died, and I lost all my friends in the process. I had a boyfriend. He moved to Africa to teach in a village there. When I tell you my entire life is in that car I wrecked trying to not kill a deer? I mean it.” She paused a moment. “Also, you think I’m lovely?”

He ignored the question.

“My condolences on the loss of your parents.”

“Thank you.” She swallowed a sudden lump in her throat.

“You look very young, Miss Ashby.”

“I’m about to turn twenty-six. Definitely old enough to teach high school students.”

“Even students such as mine? The boys here are precocious, highly intelligent. They require constant intellectual stimulation to keep their minds occupied. One student, bored by his classes, turned the courtyard statue of our founder, Sir William Marshal, into a jet-propulsion experiment.”

“I didn’t see any statues in the courtyard.”

“That’s because the experiment succeeded.”

“Oh, my.” She almost said something about the movie Real Genius and how it could have been worse—the headmaster could have ended up with a building full of popcorn or an indoor ice rink. But she kept that reference to herself.

“Indeed. It would be unfair of me to ask such a young and lovely woman to give up her life to teach here. I must insist you return to where you came from.”

Gwen might have agreed with him. She might have left. She might have packed things up and packed it in and packed off to Chicago like she’d originally planned.

But he’d called her lovely now. Twice.

She wasn’t going anywhere.

“I think I’d like to stay if you’ll have me.”

The headmaster raised his eyebrow and Gwen blushed.

“Have me as a teacher here,” she continued. “I’ve never met students who were that excited about Shakespeare. Please let me teach them.”

The headmaster stared at her. He seemed to be weighing something in his mind. Her merits? Her virtues? The pros and cons? Maybe he was just imagining throwing her down on his massive desk and having his way with her? Probably the former.

“You may stay,” he said, and Gwen opened her mouth to thank him. He raised his hand to silence her again. “For a one-week trial period. It will take a few days for you to get things sorted out, and I wouldn’t want you to leave until we were sure you’re completely healed anyway.”

“One week. I can handle that.”

“There’s something you must understand about this school before stepping into a classroom. The William Marshal Academy is not a normal school. It’s not an average school. It’s not a typical school by any means. Other schools say they want to train students and make them leaders. A leader is nothing. A leader is simply one who leads, and a bad leader can lead an army into Hell. I want these boys to be heroic, brave and wise. Like our namesake Sir William Marshal, the greatest knight in history.”

“I think that’s a very noble purpose,” she said, admiring Headmaster Yorke’s vision for the school and his passion for improving not only the minds but also the characters of his students. “And I promise I’ll do what I can to help.”

“I’ll simply be relieved if a week passes and you’ve not done them irreparable harm,” he said and pointed at his desk. “This is my office. Do not bother me when I’m working in it.”

“Can I bother you when you’re not working in it?”

“No.” He stood up and snapped his fingers. Obediently she rose to her feet. Hero or leader or simply handsome headmaster, she was ready and willing to follow him anywhere. Or at least into the hallway. “The other teachers have their offices in this hallway, as well. Mr. Price teaches math and science. Mr. Reynolds teaches history and philosophy. I’ve taken over the teaching of literature as Miss Muir has left us.” He pointed out various classrooms, offices and the supply room.

“Where did Miss Muir go?”

“I can’t say.” A shadow of something crossed his eyes.

“Can’t say or won’t say?”

“Both and neither. Miss Muir is none of your concern. Your work will be your only concern. This is your office you may use during the week you’re here.” He took a key ring out and opened the door. She loved the quaintness of the keys. These weren’t cut at Home Depot on a machine. They looked like skeleton keys, a jailer’s keys from a Wild West sheriff’s office or keys to a castle gate. He opened the door and she peeked into the office. Clearly a woman had worked here. Gauzy white curtains graced the windows. Instead of Headmaster Yorke’s carved wooden monstrosity of a desk, this little office boasted a petite writing desk with a feather pen and inkwell.

“No computers?” she asked.

“Computers?” Headmaster Yorke said with abject derision as if she’d asked where the dungeons were instead of the computer lab. “I don’t know what sort of school you think this is, but we have nothing to do with computers here. They can learn that in university if they wish.” He said the word computers like he was pronouncing a word in a foreign language.

“Interesting. That waitress said Marshal didn’t let students have phones. No computers either?”

“The students here use books. Books and pens and paper. Handwriting is taught here. The art of letter writing. I will not allow these boys to leave this school without knowing how to write a proper thank-you note. When you grade their work, you will grade their thoughts as well as their presentation. Form and content go hand-in-hand.”

“So I have to grade their handwriting, you mean.”

“Precisely.”

“I can do that.”

“You will do that,” Headmaster Yorke said as he closed and locked her new office door. “Since Miss Muir has left us, there have been no women on campus. You’ll likely feel unwelcome here and lonely.”

Gwen looked up at him. She had to crane her neck a bit.

“You’re very handsome and charming when you’re being overbearing and disdainful,” Gwen said.

Behind his glasses, Headmaster Yorke’s eyes widened in momentary surprise.

“Then I shall endeavor to be less overbearing and disdainful in the future.”

“Pity,” she said.

“As you will be the sole female resident at William Marshal, you’ll have your own cottage.” He stood by a window and pointed at a small Tudor home that sat back far behind the main building. Gwen inhaled and covered her mouth with her hand.

“What is it?” Headmaster Yorke asked, sounding concerned.

“Nothing…” Gwen shook her head. “It’s just so lovely. I get to stay there?” She looked at him and smiled.

“Yes, for one week while you’re teaching.”

“Thank you,” she said in a small voice.

“It’s only a house,” he said, seemingly surprised by her enthusiasm.

“I’m sort of homeless right now. I planned on sleeping in my car tonight. I can’t believe I’ll be staying in that house.”

Headmaster Yorke looked at her and, for the first time, he seemed to see her. She wondered what he thought as he looked at her. His eyes were not unkind, only curious.

“You were planning to sleep in your car? That’s not at all safe for a young woman. I would never allow that if I were your husband or father.”

“No husband. No father. I’m on my own.”

“Not anymore. You’re here at Marshal now and under my protection as long as you remain here. And you will not be sleeping in your car. That’s madness.”

“I was moving to Chicago,” she said. “I have my whole life in the car, and I didn’t want anyone breaking into it.”

“Better possessions stolen then your life endangered.”

“You’re very chivalrous.”

“I’m merely sane, Miss Ashby. Will you be missed in Chicago?”

“No. I only know one person there, and she was going let me crash on her couch. So this…” She pointed at the cottage. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Miss Ashby,” he said, and for once all the glaring ceased. When he was glaring, he looked very handsome. When he wasn’t glaring…well, he probably should start glaring again or Gwen was going to have that sex-on-a-desk fantasy again. “But remember, this is only for one week. Don’t get comfortable.”

“I’ll do my best,” she said, knowing she would likely never be comfortable in this man’s presence. Aroused maybe? But not comfortable.

“The male instructors are in that cottage,” Headmaster Yorke continued. “If you require assistance during your time here, Mr. Price or Mr. Reynolds will help you. The dormitories are there and there,” he said, pointing at the two smaller buildings that flanked the main building. “The fifteen- and sixteen-year-olds are in Pembroke. The seventeen- and eighteen-year-olds are in Newbury. My quarters are on the top floor of this building—Hawkwood. The library is on the first floor. Classrooms on the second and third floors. Offices on the fourth floor.”

“So you get the entire top floor? Nice.”

“I am Headmaster. I need to be able to survey the entire school at all times—day or night. These boys are under my protection. Their safety is my duty and my responsibility, a duty and responsibility I take very seriously.”

“I believe that,” she said when she saw the steadfast determination in his eyes as he surveyed the school grounds like a king on horseback surveying his realm. “I’ll go get settled into the cottage. I need to call my friend in Chicago first. Thank you. Thank you for everything.”

Gwen turned and headed for the stairs.

“Miss Ashby,” Headmaster Yorke called out after her. She paused at the top of the stairwell.

“Yes, sir?”

“Understand this, Miss Ashby—these boys are my students. I guide them, guard them… I won’t see them hurt or harmed or disappointed. The world is full of people simply waiting for the chance to disillusion them. But while they are under this roof, they are safe, they are encouraged, and they are cared for and protected. And they are educated.”

He put the greatest emphases on the word educated.

“I’ll take good care of them, I promise. And as for educated, I can promise they’ll be smarter by next Friday. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to unpack.”

“Yes, speaking of that…” Headmaster Yorke strode toward her and stopped only inches from her. She ignored a thrill of excitement at his closeness. The English department at her school was easily ninety-percent women. The few men she knew were all married and older. None of them had Headmaster Yorke’s presence. Stop it, Gwen. No crushing on the boss.

“Speaking of packing bags?” she asked.

“Yes. Your wardrobe.”

“My wardrobe? What about it?” she asked.

“I would appreciate if you dressed…”

Gwen looked down at her clothes. Her blouse was a V-neck. Maybe a bit too much v for the headmaster’s liking?

“How should I dress?”

“Conservatively.”

“How conservative? My skirts go to my knees.”

“I would prefer floor-length, but I suppose that’s impractical.”

“I’m afraid I didn’t pack my parka and nun’s habit.”

“This is a school of teenage boys. And a young woman as lovely as yourself might prove to be a distraction.”

Gwen's hands tingled. Third lovely in one hour. Maybe the crush was mutual?

“So you do think I’m lovely?”

“I’ve seen worse.”

“I appreciate the miserable attempt at a compliment, Headmaster.”

“You’re most welcome, Miss Ashby.”

“I’ll try to find some burlap bags.”

She started down the stairs.

“Miss Ashby?”

“Yes, sir?” She paused on the landing.

“If for whatever you reason you decide not to stay here with us, please allow me to apologize for my ill temper. I was not expecting you. Or anyone. Since Miss Muir left, we’ve had no ladies here. I believe I’ve forgotten how to behave around one.”

“Thank you, Headmaster. I appreciate that. I didn’t take anything you said personally. Except for the part where you said you found me lovely. I promise you won’t regret giving me this chance.”

“I might not regret it. But perhaps you will.”

She thought he was making a joke, but no amusement shown in his eyes or on his face. She smiled at him anyway.

Smiling still, she left the main building and headed for her car. She took another look around. Beautiful…so beautiful was William Marshal Academy that she wanted to take a picture of everything she saw—the turrets, the Tudor cottages, the winding cobblestone paths, the stained glass windows. She could scarcely believe it was real.

She pulled her phone out of her bag and found that she had no bars at all. Not a huge surprise. The waitress had warned her the area was a cell phone dead zone. Gwen walked down the path but picked up no signal at all. She’d try contacting Tisha again tomorrow. She headed back to Hawkwood Hall to retrieve her things from the headmaster’s quarters. In a row of windows on the second floor she saw the faces of thirty teenage boys staring at her—a question in their eyes.

“He’s letting me stay!” she called out to them.

They cheered the news, and Gwen could only shake her head in wonder. In what world were teenage boys excited to get a new English teacher? Was this North Carolina or Heaven? Whatever it was, it was her home now for one week.

One week. And then maybe…just maybe…forever.