“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 continue
d. “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.
Chapter Four
Gwen carried her things from Hawkwood to the cottage Headmaster Yorke had said would be hers for the week. She couldn’t believe she would get to live here permanently if she got the job. With fingers trembling from excitement, she turned the key in the lock and stepped into an elegantly appointed foyer. On her right she saw the parlor with antique patterned sofas and carved wooden chairs. On her left she spied a smaller room with a writing desk. She had her own office here, too? Wonderful. She wouldn’t even have to use the one at the school. Then again…the headmaster had warned her not to get comfortable. Did he have no intention of keeping her on at all after a week? She knew she’d pass a background check, and as long as she had a place to live and three meals a day, she could live on a small salary. All she could do was her best and keep her fingers crossed that the headmaster liked what he saw. She certainly did.
Someone had been in the cottage already and turned on the lights for her. Something about the house seemed so familiar to her. This cottage had the same sort of lighting as her grandparents’ house, the same sort of table lamps and flickering yellow bulbs. A moth danced around the Tiffany-style ceiling light. She let it be. No moth had ever hurt her. She welcomed its small, fluttering company.
So quiet…so peaceful…so serene. She heard no traffic from the highway this far back in the woods. Silence reigned here, an almost unearthly silence. Closing her eyes she could almost hear her own heartbeat, her own breathing.. After living next door to college students for years, Gwen considered the silence a taste of paradise.
The school might be quiet now, but every floorboard in the old cottage creaked as Gwen carried her luggage through the hallway and up the stairs. She counted fourteen steps on her way up. She could walk from one end of her old apartment to the other in fourteen steps. Now she had an entire cottage to herself. Two whole stories. A grand parlor. An office. A kitchen and dining room… She laughed when she opened the door to the bathroom and saw the antique claw-foot bathtub. She would live in that bathtub. It could fit two people in there easily. Two people? Not a terrible idea. She allowed herself a single second to imagine herself and the handsome headmaster in that bathtub.
She pushed the thought out of her head. No. Bad girl. He might be tall and devilishly handsome when he was talking at her in his posh British accent, but she knew better than to get involved with a coworker, let alone a boss. There were rules against that. Good rules. Smart rules. Sensible rules. She would follow them.
Unless he didn’t want to.
Gwen opened the door to the master bedroom.
“Wow,” she said aloud. She’d never seen a bigger, grander bedroom in her life. The bed itself wasn’t much larger than a double, but it had a blue-and-gold embroidered headboard that arched four feet over the top of the pillows. The bed linens were white and lush and soft. She sat on the edge of the bed and sank deep into the sheets. She wondered why Miss Muir, the previous literature teacher, had left this place.
Who could walk away from this sort of beauty? Gwen loved it here already.
On the nightstand sat an oil lamp. A real live oil lamp. Gwen hadn’t seen an actual oil lamp in years. Her grandparents had a couple as backups for when a storm knocked out the electricity. Gwen opened a drawer and found a book of matches. She struck a match and lit the lamp. Firelight danced across the room. She put the matches back and noticed a book tucked far back in the drawer. She pulled it out and saw it was nothing more than a Bible. Not the typical hotel room Bible, however. This one sported a genuine leather cover—black and supple. She flipped open the front page and saw a name written inside it. “This Holy Bible belongs to Rosemary Leigh Muir.”
So this Bible belonged to her predecessor then? Headmaster Yorke had been annoyingly cryptic about what had happened to the woman who’d once held the position of English literature teacher at Marshal. Perhaps she’d quit the job after an argument. Perhaps she and Headmaster Yorke had disagreed over the curriculum. Perhaps she’d grown tired of the year-round schedule? But she was gone now, and Gwen was here instead.
For the first time Gwen considered the reality that she was the one and only woman at William Marshal Academy. Would this cause any sort of problem? Surely not. The boys were all far too young for her to see them as anything but boys. She’d always preferred older men. Cary had been almost thirty when they’d started dating shortly after her twenty-first birthday. Headmaster Yorke appeared about forty—the perfect age in her estimation. Old enough to have achieved maturity and wisdom. Young enough to still be…Gwen paused and searched for the right word.
Virile. Virile was the right word. He might be the glasses-wearing headmaster of a boarding school, but his deep voice, broad shoulders and overwhelming presence made him the picture of masculine virility.
Gwen put the Bible back into the drawer before she accidentally happened upon that verse that said something about not lusting after your new boss. She should try to find out what happened to Miss Muir so she could mail her book back to her. Although Gwen wasn’t particularly religious, she respected the beliefs of others. It might be a family heirloom, too. According to the copyright date on the inside, the book had been printed in 1920. A ninety-year-old Bible was certainly worth something to someone if only for sentimental value.
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