Книга - The Headmaster

The Headmaster
Tiffany Reisz


A fever dream of desires fulfilled…Nestled in the shadow of the Appalachians is where Gwen Ashby stumbles upon the William Marshall Academy, and she's given a trial position as a literature teacher. The gothic boarding school seems trapped in time yet it feels like home the moment Gwen arrives.She's charmed by the lovely buildings, bewitched by the eager students…and utterly seduced by the headmaster. Edwin Yorke is noble, handsome and infuriatingly proper. But his tweedy exterior and courtly manners conceal a raw sensual power that Gwen longs to unleash.It's strangely thrilling to be the only woman on campus—save one other. An eerie white-clad figure roams the grounds by night. She never speaks. She leaves no trace. But this ghostly blight on Gwen's new dream life is the key to the Marshall Academy's mysterious allure.RITA® Award nominated title from International Bestselling Author Tiffany Reisz.







A fever dream of desires fulfilled.

Nestled in the shadow of the Appalachians is where Gwen Ashby stumbles upon the William Marshall Academy, and she’s given a trial position as a literature teacher. The gothic boarding school seems trapped in time yet it feels like home the moment Gwen arrives.

She’s charmed by the lovely buildings, bewitched by the eager students…and utterly seduced by the headmaster. Edwin Yorke is noble, handsome and infuriatingly proper. But his tweedy exterior and courtly manners conceal a raw sensual power that Gwen longs to unleash.

It’s strangely thrilling to be the only woman on campus—save one other. An eerie white-clad figure roams the grounds by night. She never speaks. She leaves no trace. But this ghostly blight on Gwen’s new dream life is the key to the Marshall Academy’s mysterious allure.

RITA® Award nominated title from international bestselling author Tiffany Reisz.


The Headmaster

Tiffany Reisz






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Dedicated to beautiful magical North Carolina and the beautiful magical people who live there.


Table of Contents

Cover (#uaad70b1c-d0b7-5b0b-9853-64eb75baf34a)

Back Cover Copy (#u424612dc-3f8f-52b0-878a-66211d7108cc)

Title Page (#u6a2cbe48-685e-570a-b56b-5165aae65d87)

Dedication (#ud9c3dc16-9c3a-5504-ad34-1c1b1c469aa9)

Chapter One (#uc0039822-672b-5b14-88f5-3fe0bbf3ae7c)

Chapter Two (#uad5457b6-1195-581a-b08e-09b505d5542f)

Chapter Three (#u87e3b629-afd2-5644-bcd9-0db5ef3e9167)

Chapter Four (#uafe331ba-ce3f-5aa8-ab74-a74f934f26c5)

Chapter Five (#u4223cb93-c31d-526d-a69c-d250a287a051)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright Page (#litres_trial_promo)


Chapter One (#ulink_623aa7b1-d113-5da9-b1d0-4dc84a0e4f8f)

She’d never make it to Chicago alive.

Not unless she got some coffee. Stat.

Bone-weary from driving, Gwen pulled over and parked in front of a small diner at the edge of tiny Andover. The August air felt heavy with the heat, and when she inhaled she caught the scent of the nearby Appalachian Mountains in her nose. Everything smelled so warm, moist and alive—the rich, dark soil, the beech and maple trees, the leaves taking their last breath of summer… So much life and beauty around her, and yet Gwen wasn’t part of it.

She took her phone out of her messenger bag and snapped a quick picture of the mountains that rose up behind the town. Gwen stepped inside the diner and fifty years into the past. It looked like it had been plucked from 1960—or at least a sanitized version of 1960—with the chrome stools that sat belly-up to a white-and-red bar and the waitresses in their paper hats and white dresses. The Rolling Stones crooned “As Tears Go By” from a gleaming jukebox. She couldn’t hear the song without thinking of her father singing it to her as a lullaby twenty years ago.

Inside the bathroom, Gwen noted the movie posters hanging in the stalls—Bye Bye Birdie and Dr. No. Conrad Birdie versus James Bond—she knew who she’d put her money on. Back out in the diner, she ordered two cups of coffee—one for here and one to go. As she sipped, she mentally calculated how far she’d come and how far she had left to go.

That morning she’d left Savannah, Georgia, at 10:00 a.m. She’d driven four-and-a-half hours—over three hundred miles. She’d probably sleep in Kentucky somewhere tonight, which would leave about four-hundred miles to go to get to her friend Tisha’s in Chicago tomorrow night. And then…what? Try to be the best houseguest ever while she job-hunted for a teaching position. Hopefully she would get one quickly and wouldn’t have to spend the next six months sleeping on Tisha’s couch.

“Miss?” A man who had to be in his mid-sixties sat two stools away from her and summoned the waitress.

“What can I get you, sir?” the waitress asked.

“Directions? Out to old Marshal? It’s been fifty years since I’ve been to the school. Forgot the way.”

The waitress smiled kindly at him. She patted the back of his weather-beaten hand.

“I’ll draw you a map, sir. Easy to get lost out there.” She took a pen from her pocket and doodled a map on the napkin while the older man watched and nodded. “And you’ll turn here. Be careful, because they took the old sign down.”

“Thank you, miss,” the man said and gave her a weak smile. She handed him half a dozen napkins—white with red trim, just like the diner counters.

“You take these with you. You might need them.”

He nodded solemnly and put the red-trimmed napkins in his pocket.

Gwen watched the scene. Maybe the waitress had pegged him for the sentimental type. Curious about the school, Gwen pulled her phone back out and searched for “Marshal School” and “Andover, North Carolina.” Nothing came up.

“Don’t even bother,” the waitress said to her. “We’re in a black hole out here—no 3G, no 4G. You have to drive five miles north just to pick up any internet.”

“It’s okay. I was just trying to look up the Marshal School.”

“The Marshal School’s about ten miles from here, right on the edge of town. Boarding school. Progressive, the school says. I just say it’s weird.”

“Weird?”

“Weird.” The waitress nodded. “Rich parents send their kids off to go to a school where they can’t even use their phones? What’s the point of being rich?”

“I guess the point is being rich enough to pay someone else to raise your kids. You know if they’re hiring?”

“The Marshal School? It’s usually hiring. Goes year-round so teachers get burned out there pretty fast. You a teacher?”

“I am,” Gwen said. “I was a TA at Savannah State. I didn’t get any classes for this fall.”

“You want to go teach some crazy high school students, Marshal’s the place for you.”

“I’ll take any job that’ll have me,” Gwen said.

The waitress tilted her head to the side and gave her a sympathetic look.

“Divorced?” she asked.

Gwen laughed. “No. Just dumped. And even then I can’t blame him. My boyfriend moved to Africa to teach in a village school. Something on his bucket list, he said. I couldn’t afford the apartment by myself and then no classes to teach…”

“Been there,” the waitress said. “Divorced and jobless. Ended up here.” She pointed at the diner. “Nice place. But if they don’t put some modern music on the jukebox soon I’m going to take a golf club to it.”

“I feel like I’m in a time machine,” Gwen said. “James Bond watched me pee.”

“What a perv,” the waitress said, smiling. “And this whole damn town is stuck in 1964, but that’s okay. The present wasn’t all that kind to us. Maybe the past will take better care of us—you and me both.”

Gwen thanked the waitress and finished her coffee. She paid her bill and followed the old man out of the diner.

“Sir?” she asked, and the man turned around. “Can I look at that map of yours for just a second?”

“Of course, young lady.” He gave her the napkin map and she took a picture of it with her cell phone.

“Thank you, sir. Why are you headed to Marshal?” she asked him when she returned the map.

“Went there a long time ago. Graduated in 1963, so I’m a lucky one. Thought I’d visit some old ghosts. That’s all.” He shoved the map into his suit pocket. “You be safe out there.”

“I will, sir,” she said, not knowing quite why she needed to be safe, but it was good advice in general—advice she planned to take.

As she walked back to her car Gwen considered whether or not she actually wanted to do this…drive out to Marshal and see if they were hiring. The waitress seemed to think they were. Wouldn’t hurt to ask, would it? She didn’t look much like a teacher right now. She had on jeans with brown boots, a brown crewneck shirt and a matching brown suede newsboy cap. At least she had fit right in at the ’60s-themed diner. Cary always said the newsboy hats she wore made her look like a go-go dancer. Well, if the school was as weird as the waitress said it was, maybe they’d appreciate her retro-wear. At best she might end up with a teaching job and not have to drive all the way to Chicago. At worst, nothing would come of it and she was out an hour of her life.

She got back into her car and made sure all her boxes that she’d stuffed into the backseat and passenger seat were still secure. She’d packed everything she owned into her car yesterday and found it all fit. Barely, but it still fit. She was twenty-five years old, newly single, without a job, both parents were dead and gone, and everything she owned could fit inside a Toyota Camry. So why not go begging for a job at this boarding school in the middle of nowhere?

What did she have to lose?

When she couldn’t think of a single good answer, she turned on her car and headed to Marshal. Gwen pulled up the hand-drawn map on her phone and headed out to the school. The entrance to Lexington Lane was so overgrown with ivy that Gwen missed the turn the first time she passed it. Going five miles an hour, she finally spied the turn-in. She drove two miles through a canopy of trees casting shadows and sunlight onto the road.

“Beautiful…” Gwen breathed as she rounded a corner and the school came into view. Where she’d expected a gleaming state-of-the-art industrial new school, she found a Tudor castle instead rising over moss-covered stone walls standing at least twelve-feet high. The only break in the wall was at the end of the road. The William Marshal Academy was spelled out in wrought-iron lettering at the top of the high arched opening from the road into the school courtyard. At the side of the arch hung the school crest in dazzling silver. She stared at the crest for a long time—she wasn’t sure how long. But something kept her from driving forward and something else kept her from going back.

Fear. She put a name on what held her pinned in place as if a high invisible hand pushed his fingertip to the top of her car. She imagined if she hit the accelerator the wheels would do nothing but spin impotently in the dirt.

Snap out of it, Gwen ordered herself. She recognized this fear because she’d felt it before. It wasn’t anxiety as the doctors defined. Wasn’t a panic attack. Wasn’t a flashback. It was change. All her life, when she stood hovering on the threshold of a new experience, she froze and trembled thusly. Her first day of college, her first date with Cary, her first night with Cary, her first job teaching… Every time she stepped onto a new path in her life, she’d face the terror of the first step. It was a road in the woods and as solid as it seemed. And yet she might as well be walking on a tightrope across a canyon with no net underneath for all that she trembled, for all that she feared. The unknown lay beyond the gates and beckoned her in and shooed her out, and she didn’t know which message she believed.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw something. A flash of fur and black eyes—it seemed to dive through her car. With a scream, Gwen hit the accelerator, and the car shot forward like a bullet from a gun. The wheels caught gravel and the car slid sideways, and in a second that felt far quicker than a second, metal had twisted, blood dripped and the scent of smoke filled her nostrils. The deer that had done the deed stared at her with blank, alert eyes that did—and yet did not—see her. And with one mighty leap it was gone as quickly as it came.

And so was Gwen.


Chapter Two (#ulink_cdfe1534-c7f1-596d-8057-02da792e178a)

Gwen came to in fits and starts. She’d open her eyes only to feel the weight of consciousness pressing back down on her. Back to sleep, it seemed to say, the voice male, imperious and irrefutable. She did as she was told. She could do nothing else.

When she woke up again, she didn’t try to open her eyes. Instead she used her other senses to gauge the damage. She sensed her body was whole and that no tubes or needles ran in or out of any veins. Pain was localized to the side of her head. Nothing else hurt. She wondered if she had a concussion. Did concussions cause hallucinations? She heard improbable dreamlike voices all around her.

First she heard a man’s voice—adult, authoritative and British. British? Yes, his accent was definitely that of an Englishman, proper and educated.

But other voices answered his—younger ones, eager ones, scared but delighted for some reason.

“How did she get here?”a boy asked.

“I wish I knew,” the man replied.

“Will she live?” came another boy’s voice.

“Can we keep her?” asked another.

“Go back to class,” the man said, and no one dared defy him. “Let her sleep.”

Gwen did sleep again and when she woke once more, she woke fully. She could open her eyes, move her head, and see where she was and how she was.

She seemed to be fine. No broken bones. Few cuts. Few bruises. But where she was…that was the mystery.

She lay in a bed, a grand one with white sheets, an ornate carved walnut headboard, a deep green-and-gold brocade blanket over her and a Tiffany lamp on the end table at her side. A Tiffany lamp and a black rotary phone. Everything about the room she’d woken in declared it was the property and purview of a man.

With a groan of discomfort, Gwen forced herself from the bed. How long had she been in it? Why had she been brought here instead of taken to a hospital? Behind the closed bedroom door hung a polished oval mirror. She looked like herself. She had some bruising around her left cheek and a white bandage had been applied to her temple. When she ran a hand through her hair, slivers of glass came out.

She had her clothes on except for her shoes. Where they’d gone, she had no idea. Carefully she eased the door open and called out a tremulous “Hello?”

No answer.

She retreated into the bedroom again. A door on the opposite side of the bed led to a wood-paneled bathroom, as masculine as the bedroom she’d found herself in. Odd. Whoever lived here must have been an old-fashioned sort. Instead of an electric razor, a straight razor in a case sat on the bathroom counter next to a white-bristled shaving brush. A leather strop, the sort her grandfather had used to sharpen his kitchen knives, hung from a hook on the wall. The bathroom smelled of leather and soap and other pleasant male scents—bergamot, citrus and cedar.

Gwen turned on the tap and drank cold water out of her hands. How long had she been unconscious? She was dehydrated but not enough to be sick from it. Her mouth felt like sand and her head throbbed, but she sensed she would be fine. The bathtub, an old porcelain monster, beckoned to her. She’d love to wash the glass from her hair. She knew she should look for the owner of this bedroom, this bathroom, this…wherever she was, but she’d been in a car accident and had a head injury. She had an excuse to do whatever she wanted, and what she wanted was to get clean.

She filled the bath with warm water, stripped naked and sank into the heat. Sighing with pleasure she submerged herself fully in the water, letting it soak her bloodied hair, her bruised skin. When she rose up again, she felt healed. The wound on her temple was still there. No miracle had occurred, but she did feel better than she would have dreamed she would from something as simple as drinking and bathing in warm water.

As blissful as she felt in the bath, she didn’t dally. When she was certain she’d washed all the shards of glass from her hair, she stood up, pulled a fresh white towel around her and stepped onto the floor. Her clothes had blood on them—not much, but enough that she didn’t want to put them back on. Not now when she felt so clean and whole again. On the back of the bathroom door she found a pale blue striped-silk bathrobe and pulled it on. It looked like something Sherlock Holmes would wear. She swam in the thing. It must belong to the man who owned this…whatever it was. House? Apartment? And the man must have been tall, broad-shouldered and very handsome.

Handsome?

Gwen froze, her hands on the silk cord she’d just knotted around her waist. A man stood in the doorway to the bedroom. From the expression on his face, she could see he was shocked to see her up. Or maybe he was shocked to see her wet and wearing only his bathrobe. Or maybe because she existed. She didn’t know the exact reason for his shock, but he was shocked and the feeling was mutual. She’d been right. He was tall. He was broad-shouldered. He had black hair peppered with grey and wore silver-rimmed eyeglasses on his strong-jawed and handsome face. He looked no more than forty but every day of forty.

“I’m sorry,” she said when she’d recovered her powers of speech. He seemed like the sort of man one apologized to, daring to be undistinguished in his utterly distinguished presence.

“Might I ask what you’re sorry for?” the man said. “That way I know what trespass I’m forgiving.”

“Um…I guess this is your bathrobe?”

“Dressing gown.”

“I don’t know where my other clothes are,” she continued. “The ones I had on are bloody. I can take this off if you—”

He held up his hand.

“Wear it,” he said.

“Are you sure?”

“Quite sure.” He stood up even straighter and his frame filled the doorway to his bedroom. They stood a moment in silence studying each other. She felt acutely aware of her wet and naked body under the dressing gown, and although the man’s eyes never left her face, she sensed he was acutely aware of it, as well.

“Do you have a name?” he finally asked.

“Gwen. Gwendolyn Ashby. And you are?”

“Edwin Yorke. I’m headmaster here.”

“Headmaster? Am I at the school? The Marshal School?” Her memories of her conversation at the diner came back to her.

“The William Marshal Academy,” he corrected. “And yes, you are.”

“That’s good then. I was coming here. Someone in town said you all might be hiring?” She made the sentence a question, hoping the answer was yes.

“Are you a teacher?”

“English and literature,” she said. “I’m an amateur grammarian and a professional reader.” Gwen smiled. He didn’t. She soldiered on. “I was on my way here to see if there was a job opening. Actually I was going to Chicago, but thought I’d try my luck.”

“You crashed your car into the side of my school.”

Gwen winced.

“I’m sorry about that. I was trying to avoid a deer. I hope no one was hurt.”

“Someone was hurt.”

“Oh, no. Who? It wasn’t a student was it?”

“You were hurt.”

“Oh, yes,” she said, her panic immediately subsiding. “Is there much damage?”

“Only to you and your car. I don’t think you’ll be driving it for a while.”

“I should call a tow truck, I guess.” She didn’t have much money and a tow truck would take half of her gas budget for her trip to Chicago. And God knows how much repairs would cost.

“We’ll worry about all that later,” he said as if her problems were his problems. “You should eat and rest. I’ll have the boys bring your things up.”

“The boys? You have children?”

“I have sixty children.”

Her eyes went wide.

“Students,” he said with a tight smile. “Here at the Marshal Academy.”

“Small school. All boys?”

“All boys. You are, in fact, the only female on campus right now.”

“And here I am in your bathrobe. I mean, dressing gown.”

“Stay.” He raised his hand. She stayed.

He left her alone in his bedroom again, and she sat on the bed. Looking down she saw the robe had opened enough that the headmaster of Marshal had gotten more than a glimpse of her cleavage. Only woman on campus? That could either be a very good thing or a very bad thing. The headmaster—Edwin Yorke—had been nothing but a gentleman to the near-naked girl who’d stolen his bathrobe. And he was handsome. And English. And tall. And did she mention handsome? Maybe she should stop focusing on how handsome he was and get back to focusing on how screwed she was.

She ran her fingers through her wet hair to tame it. In the other room she heard voices, whispers and laughter. The laughter sounded young, much younger than the headmaster. Then the door reverberated with the sounds of seemingly a dozen hands knocking all at once.

“Who’s there?” she called out.

“Laird,” a teenage boy’s voice answered. “I’m a very nice person. I promise.”

“If you weren’t, would you admit it?” she asked.

“No, I’d probably lie and tell you I was nice,” he admitted.

“Are you lying?” she asked. “Or are you actually nice?”

“Headmaster Yorke is standing right here. He’ll make sure I’m nice. Or he’ll kill me.”

“Then you should probably come in before he kills you,” Gwen called out. “I can’t have your life on my conscience.”

He opened the door with one hand and with the other hand he covered his eyes.

“I have your things from your car,” Laird said, his hand still shielding his eyes.

“No, you don’t,” she said. “You have nothing with you.”

“I couldn’t carry the bags, open the door and cover my eyes all at the same time.”

Gwen smiled. Not that Laird could see that smile what with his eyes covered. He looked about seventeen or eighteen with dark red hair and a sweet face—what she could see of it.

“If you can handle seeing a woman in a bathrobe, you can uncover your eyes,” she said. “If you can’t, just back away slowly and I’ll get my own things.”

“I can handle it,” he said and lowered his hand. He stared at her through narrowed eyes. “Are you married?”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m not asking for me,” he said.

“No, I’m not married.”

“Good. You’re hired,” Laird said. At that an arm reached into the room, clapped down on Laird’s shoulder and dragged him bodily back out the door.

In his place her suitcase appeared.

“It was nice to meet you,” Laird called out from behind the door. “Please stay forever.”

“Nice to meet you, too, Laird.” She walked over to her suitcase and bent over to pick it up. It was then she realized Headmaster Yorke was still standing outside the bedroom door and had likely seen straight down the bathrobe. She flushed crimson and he merely looked past her.

“Dinner is in half an hour,” he said, his voice cold and strained. “You’ll dine here in my quarters. I won’t subject you to any further scrutiny by students. Yet.”

“I’ll get dressed,” she said.

“That would be an excellent idea.” He placed meaningful emphasis on the world excellent.

She dressed in the best clothes she owned—a pencil skirt and white blouse—and in half an hour she went looking for the headmaster. What she found was an elegant mahogany dining table laden with food (whitefish in sauce, celery hearts, chilled honeydew melon) and wine (red and blush). It was a feast for a king, but the king never showed. When the headmaster said she’d be dining in his quarters, she’d assumed it would be with him. She didn’t want to think about why his absence disappointed her. She wanted to talk about a job—that was why. Of course.

Disappointed or not, she still ate every bite on her plate and then some. When was the last time she’d eaten so well? Living on a TA’s income had meant living on student rations. Now sated, Gwen left the table and wandered the headmaster’s quarters.

From the window by the dining room she saw she was on a high floor of a building. She must have been five stories up. How had she gotten here? Someone must have carried her up the stairs to this place. Had it been a student? Had it been the headmaster himself?

Gwen walked from window to window as she tried to get her bearings. From her high vantage point, she could see a square stone wall outlined the perimeter of the grounds. Outside the wall the forest loomed dark and wild. Inside the wall she saw nothing but manicured lawns, walking paths and several other buildings. Gwen was clearly in the tallest of the buildings. To the left and right of her, she saw two smaller buildings of wood and stone. Another building peeked out from the back. Cobblestone walkways connected all the buildings to each other. A turret of sorts rose up from each corner of the wall. Turrets? Stone walls? Ivy? The school was far more evocative of a medieval French fortress or an old Ivy League college than a Southern high school.

What it was, if she had to pick only word, was beautiful. Breathtakingly, heart-stoppingly, daydream-inducingly beautiful. Already she sensed herself falling under the spell of the school. She could hear the heels of her shoes clicking on the cobblestones, books under her arms. She could see herself sitting on the stone bench under the overhanging oak tree grading papers. She could imagine herself here, teaching, happy.

She’d never let herself hope or dream that she’d be happy—really happy, not just not miserable—someday. Maybe when she was a kid she had assumed happiness had been possible for the likes of her. But that was before her mother had died of cancer when she was little and her father of a heart attack when Gwen had been a freshman in college. She’d found stability if not grand passion with Cary. But then she’d lost him, too, when he’d gone to follow his dreams. Safety and stability was her definition of happy.

But…

What if she was a teacher here? What if she did stroll those paths, sit under that tree, teach a student like Laird and take orders from someone like Headmaster Yorke? Then…maybe…just maybe…she could have safety and stability and happiness.

Or maybe that was just another dream?

Gwen left the headmaster’s quarters and found the steps that led downstairs. She wanted to see her car and assess the damage. But once she reached the second-floor landing she heard the sound of voices in a faraway room. Talking and laughter. She followed it to the source.

She walked past closed doors that led to empty classrooms. It was evening. Of course no one was in class. But something was happening, something behind the door at the end of the hall.

Gwen opened the door and stepped into a magic forest.


Chapter Three (#ulink_f6727fd8-97bf-5fc7-bf59-8fb99e62dbe9)

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.


Chapter Four (#ulink_0f40605e-7e12-52c5-ab62-a385f2029546)

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.

She laid the mystery of Miss Muir aside while she unpacked her bags and settled into the house.

Gwen decided to spend the entire weekend working on a lesson plan. The boys said they were sick of Ivanhoe. It must be Headmaster Yorke’s favorite book, but she hadn’t even read it. Sir Walter Scott appeared on none of her college or graduate reading lists. Last semester she’d taken a seminar on the Brontës. Great books, but probably a bit too girl-oriented for a class of nothing but boys. No romances for a while—not until they learned to trust her judgment. She’d ease them into the Brontës and Jane Austen in time. Charles Dickens was always a good bet. Boys loved Dickens. David Copperfield might be too long for a one-week trial. Great Expectations? Possibly. Young Pip aids a convict, meets a crazy woman, falls in love with cold-hearted Estella and learns valuable life lessons about who is and who is not his friend. Young readers loved crazy Mrs. Havisham in her decaying wedding dress, and the moldy rat-eaten wedding cake. A wonderfully Gothic tale. She’d start there with the boys. Hopefully they hadn’t read it yet.

All Friday night, Gwen mentally composed her lectures. Monday she’d introduce them to the life and works of Charles Dickens and give them an introduction to Great Expectations. Tuesday they’d talk about the first three chapters. She had it all planned out. A perfect week. Headmaster Yorke would never want to let her go.

Teaching…walking…talking with students…reading…meetings with the headmaster…long meetings…dinner meetings…breakfast meetings…

And then a bang sent Gwen jumping a foot in the air. She’d been so lost in the quiet of the cottage she’d almost started to believe everyone had gone to bed. She dashed down the stairs to the front door and opened it. Two boys stood outside on her porch.

“Boys…hello there,” she said. “Christopher was it? And Laird?”

“That’s us,” Laird said. “We came to say hello and see if you needed anything.”

“We’re the welcoming committee,” Christopher said. “So…welcome.”

“A committee of only two?” she teased.

“More boys wanted to join the welcoming committee,” Christopher explained. “But they weren’t welcome.”

Gwen laughed and the boys smirked and nodded at one another.

“Well then, I’m glad you two took the time out of your not welcoming people onto the welcoming committee to welcome me to Marshal. This is a beautiful school.”

“Thank you,” Laird said with a bow. “I built it all by myself.”

“You did a spectacular job. Can I have a tour?”

“You can, but that’s not our area. We’ll have to send you the touring committee for that.”

“Who’s on the touring committee?”

“Everyone who’s not welcome on the welcoming committee,” Christopher said with only the slightest trace of his stammer.

“So what does the welcoming committee do since they don’t give tours?” she asked, crossing her arms and leaning on the door frame. The boys looked at each other again.

“I don’t know.” Christopher ran his fingers through his hair. Cute kid. He had a young John Lennon look about him with his shaggy haircut, suit and skinny tie. “We formed the committee about five minutes before we knocked on your door.”

“We should have planned this better,” Laird said. “Sorry, we haven’t welcomed anyone before.”

“You didn’t welcome Miss Muir when she got here?”

“She was here before us,” Christopher said. “And she wasn’t all that welcome.”

“You didn’t like her?” Gwen asked, curious about her predecessor.

“She didn’t like us very much,” Laird said and shrugged. “Her loss. And our gain. We have you, and you like us.”

“Very much,” she said. “And I like the school, too. So far.”

“Tell her the thing.” Christopher prodded Laird in the arm.

“The thing?” Laird asked. “Oh, the school thing. Sure. I can do that.”

Laird paused and cleared his throat. Christopher hit him in the chest.

“The William Marshal Academy,” Laird began his speech, sounding like a well-rehearsed tour guide, “was founded in 1893 by General John Foley, gentleman hero of the Union Army.”

“The school,” Christopher continued, “was established to take the best young men of America and train them in the ways of academic scholarship and ethical learning.”

“The school motto is Fortius quam fraternitas nullum est vinculum,” Laird said.

“There is no stronger bond than brotherhood,” Christopher translated for her.

“That’s very impressive,” Gwen said applauding.

“You should also know that Thursday night is roast beef night, so try to have something to do on Thursday night,” Laird said.

“Not good?” she asked.

Christopher mimed slicing his hand across his throat.

“Good advice,” she said. “I’ll be sure to take it. Anything else I need to know about the school?”

“Headmaster Yorke isn’t married,” Christopher said.

Gwen pursed her lips at him.

“What?” he asked. “I thought that was important information.”

“The headmaster’s personal life is none of my concern,” Gwen said. “Has he ever been married?”

Laird raised his eyebrow at her.

“I said it’s not my concern,” Gwen said. “I didn’t say I didn’t want to know.”

“She has a point,” Christopher said.

“So?” Gwen asked.

“He was married,” Laird said, nodding. He leaned in closer. “I heard he’s…you know.”

“What?” she whispered.

Christopher looked around as if checking for spies.

“The D word,” Christopher said in an even lower whisper.

“Deranged?” Gwen asked. “Demonic? Dying?”

“Divorced,” Laird said, his voice strangely grave.

“Oh.” Gwen shrugged, amused by how shocked the boys were over a divorce. “It happens.”

“Does it?” Christopher asked. “My parents said they’d rather die than ever get divorced.”

“I’d rather die than ever get married,” Laird said.

“You and me both,” Christopher said. They shook hands. “But the headmaster should get married.”

“He needs a wife,” Laird agreed. “Someone younger than him so she can keep up with him. I caught him reading Shakespeare’s First Folio in the northwest turret last week. He was correcting it.”

“Younger. Definitely. And pretty. But she has to be smart, too,” Christopher said. “He’d go bonkers unless he had a smart wife. He needs someone to lecture to.”

“Pontificate at even,” Laird said.

“Someone who isn’t us,” Christopher said.

“Boys? Can I ask you a question?” Gwen asked.

“Anything, Miss Ashby.”

“Did you cajole Headmaster Yorke into hiring a new literature teacher because you need a new English literature teacher? Or are you all trying to play matchmaker for the headmaster?”

Christopher looked at Laird. Laird looked at Christopher. They both looked at her. This was becoming a habit of theirs.

“Yes.”


Chapter Five (#ulink_781c8817-f79d-5d13-94b4-e9840dbc0ad2)

After Gwen kicked the welcoming committee off her porch, she spent all of Friday evening settling into the cottage. On Saturday she had breakfast in the school dining hall—coffee, eggs and an English muffin. The rest of the day she wrote out her lecture notes on Great Expectations. It wasn’t until she written ten pages of notes that she realized she hadn’t yet checked to see if they had any copies of the book in stock at the school.

Oops.

She ran to the library in Hawkwood Hall to see what books they had on hand she could teach, and found it well stocked with all the great classics. All the great classics written before 1900, that is. She’d found Mr. Reynolds, a wizened gentleman with a cane, and asked him where all the Hemingway, Faulkner and Fitzgerald books were.

“Headmaster Yorke doesn’t approve of modern literature,” he’d said. “I hide them in the back.”

“Modern literature? Hemingway? Modern?” Gwen laughed. “He’s hardly Franzen or Foer.”

“Who?” Mr. Reynolds asked. He adjusted his eyeglasses. They had thick lenses and black frames. They looked like the sort of glasses her grandfather had worn while in the army. He had a hawk nose and a willowy rasp to his voice. He could have been anywhere between sixty and a hundred years old. Gwen guessed closer to one hundred.

“What about Great Expectations? I’ll need thirty copies of it.”

“Of course,” said Mr. Reynolds. “I have them right here.”

He passed a box to her, the books already inside.

“You have them? All of them? Boxed up already?” She was torn between suspicion and delight. Mostly delight.

“We have every book you’ll need,” Mr. Reynolds said with a wink behind his Coke-bottle glasses. “Just ask.”

“Every book I’ll ever need? Sounds like Heaven,” she said with smile.

“It’s a library,” he said. “To me it’s the same thing.”

That was the moment Gwen knew she had to stay at this school the rest of her life. These were her people.

Gwen signed a slip of paper for her books, and Mr. Reynolds peeled off the carbon copy and gave it to her. Carbon copies? Hilarious. One more bit of antiquity that had survived and thrived at Marshal. This school was weird, but it was a good kind of weird. Her kind of weird.

Headmaster Yorke seemed determined to give his students a classical education. No modern technology was in sight. Apart from electricity and one ancient-looking telephone on the third floor of the main building, she’d seen no technology at all. No cell phones, no laptops, no Kindles or iPads or anything. Instead students read leather-bound hardcover books and wrote diligently while hunched over in the library study carrels. From the kitchen window in her cottage, she saw some students out on the lawn playing a stripped-down version of baseball. No catcher, just a pitcher and batter and a few boys scattered around the bases. Their laughter and playful insults kept her entertained for an hour.

That evening she had a quick dinner in the dining hall. She sat with Mr. Price, who told her all about his years at Marshal. He’d been here twenty years, he’d said, and loved every single day here.

“And Headmaster Yorke,” she asked, trying to keep her voice neutral. “How long has he been here?”

“Ten years,” Mr. Price said. “We worried that the new headmaster was an English gentleman when he came. Didn’t know if he’d melt in the heat.”

“Doesn’t look like he did.” Gwen glanced across the room where Headmaster Yorke stood in quiet conversation with another student. The student had a notebook in his hand, and he and Headmaster Yorke appeared to be going over a bit of homework.

“He surprised us all. Took to this place like a duck to water. Never met a more dedicated headmaster in my life. Good man.”

“Good man when he’s not threatening to murder the students, right?” she teased.

Mr. Price chuckled. “My dear, that man would die for these boys and they know it. I can’t tell who’s more loyal to whom—the headmaster to the students, or the students to the headmaster.”

Loyal? What a strange word to use about high school students and their principal. Had she felt any loyalty to her teachers? Not that she recalled. Affection? Yes. But loyalty? It was a military term almost. Patriots were loyal. Soldiers were loyal. Did the students consider themselves squires, young knights-in-training loyal to King Edwin of Yorke? He certainly had a regal bearing to him. Head high, strong jaw, perfect posture, broad shoulders that belonged on a soldier far more than a teacher. And such penetrating eyes. Every few moments he’d glance her way, and she felt his gaze on her as much as she saw it.

What was he trying to see when he looked at her? She didn’t know, but she did love the way he looked at her. She wondered if he was lonely here at the school with all this responsibility and no one to share it with. Maybe she could ease his burdens a bit by taking over the literature classes. He fascinated her. What brought a man all the way from England to become headmaster of a boarding school of only sixty students in the middle of nowhere? And was he divorced, or were Laird and Christopher just guessing? If he was divorced, what happened? Did she come with him to America and hate it here? Did he leave her? Did she leave him? Gwen could certainly sympathize with being left behind. They should talk about it, get to know each other. If he was half as good and noble as Mr. Price said Headmaster Yorke was, she could only benefit by befriending him. If he was a king and the students his knights, surely he could use a lady in his court.





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