The Housemistress (15 page)

Rylie smirks, amused to hear the stern edge of Carriveau’s voice juxtaposed with such a tender endearment, the odd combination sparking a shallow fit of giggles that’s abruptly abated by the discomfort in her chest.

“Oh, my love.” Carriveau bends to kiss the heart of the bruise. “You must see the nurse.”

As her lips make contact, she feels Rylie’s fingers slip around the back of her neck, enticing her to continue. Murmuring her willingness, she plants kisses around Rylie’s bellybutton, flicking her tongue in it before moving her mouth higher, finally pausing at the hem of Rylie’s bunched-up pajama top, toying with the buttons.

“You can if you want.” Rylie reads her thoughts. “I’m naked underneath.”

Carriveau falters.

“Here”—Rylie undoes the buttons herself—“let me show you.” She peels back the lightweight cotton, displaying her naked breasts.

“
Oh, Seigneur
!” Carriveau exclaims in a hushed voice, admiring Rylie’s adolescent body.

Her nipples are rigid and swollen, begging to be kissed, the surrounding areolae puffed up. Both breasts are full and round; they’re two small handfuls.

Trembling uncontrollably, Carriveau trails a finger down Rylie’s chest, between both delightful mounds, over soft, milky skin.

“I wish they were bigger.” Rylie looks down at herself. “More like yours.”

“Oh, no,” Carriveau coos, transfixed. “They fit you perfectly.”

She scoops one into her hand, gasping at the sensation of Rylie’s firm, warm flesh, and quickly brings her mouth to the other. She sucks the nipple into her mouth, pulling on it, nipping it, swirling her tongue around it.

“I need you,” she mumbles, kissing her way back down Rylie’s body. “I want more of you.” She reaches the waistband of Rylie’s pajama bottoms. “I can’t resist you.” She gives one sharp downward tug on the waistband, baring the top of Rylie’s shaved mons.

She drops a kiss there, gripping the pajama bottoms with both hands as Rylie raises her hips and whimpers, urging her to do away with the clothing and fuck her. But then …

Voices herald the unwelcome return of three Lower Sixth girls, and Carriveau recoils like a frightened animal. She stands up, abruptly and unexpectedly revealing her presence to the perplexed students. Not only is it a shock for them to see her there, but to see her inside someone’s cubicle, presumably on the bed, is a jaw-dropping sight indeed.

Flustered, Carriveau strives to regain her poise. “If you’re not sick, you have to get up,” she barks at Rylie, straightening her blouse. “No more moping, Harcourt.”

Her cheeks burning, she snatches up her jacket and hurries toward the door, the three girls staring at her, struck silent by the heavy tension in the room.

“
Qu’est-ce que vous regardez
?” she snaps at them. “
Que voulez-vous
?”

What are you staring at? What do you want?

All three shake their heads and avert their eyes.

“Hurry up and get ready, else you’ll be late,” Carriveau warns, striding out of the room.

She locks herself away in her study, but gets little more than ten precious minutes alone before she’s required to perform her morning uniform inspections.

As is now routine, Rylie takes her place at the back of the line, catching Carriveau’s eye at intervals, flashing her sly smiles. When her turn comes, Carriveau makes sure she looks presentable, but tenders no forehead kiss. Instead, she takes a quick look around for Miss Ansell, then checks her watch.

“Would you like to come into my study for a few minutes?”

“Why?” Rylie feigns confusion. “Have I been a naughty girl?”

Holding back laughter, Carriveau takes Rylie by the hand and leads her away. “Let’s not start that.”

She flings open the door to her study and stops dead in her tracks. Miss Ansell is sitting in front of her desk, looking right at them—and at their entwined fingers.

Carriveau drops Rylie’s hand. “May I help you, Miss Ansell?”

“It’s the fifteenth of the month.” Miss Ansell waggles a notebook at her. “We need to go over the house ordering, and I need your permission to call a plumber. There’s a broken tap in the Upper Sixth bathroom.”

Trying her best to appear unfazed, Carriveau takes a deep breath. “One moment,” she commands Rylie to wait, then crosses to her desk, fills out a Hall Pass, and hands it off to her. “See the nurse before your first class, yes? No dillydallying.”

Intent on behaving as if nothing’s amiss, Carriveau gives Rylie a peck on the forehead before sending her on her way.

“You’re going too far with her,” Miss Ansell criticizes once they’re alone.

“I kiss all my girls in that manner.” Carriveau shrugs it off.

“And the rest?”

Carriveau sits at her desk, her jaw tight, taking a moment to answer. “It means nothing.”

Miss Ansell regards Carriveau closely: her tear-filled eyes, her clenched teeth, her taut lips, two fingers pressed against them, as if physically holding her emotions inside.

“Are you … ? Not again?” Miss Ansell shakes her head despairingly. “You need to get out of here and find yourself a woman.”

“I can’t; it would complicate my relationship with the children. There would never be the time to devote myself to this house, both of my classes, and to a girlfriend. One of those would surely suffer, and I wouldn’t be doing my job properly if I didn’t put the children first.”

“Just as long as you remember that’s what they are: children.”

“The girls in this house are young women,” Carriveau becomes defensive. “And Rylie’s seventeen.”

“But you’re her teacher!
You
can’t have her.”

That seems to hit home.

“It’s a lapse, that’s all.” Carriveau shuffles papers, distracting her mind. “I’ll fix it.”

“See that you do.” Miss Ansell lets a heavy silence drop. “I’m sure you don’t want to see this end like the other.”

Carriveau sits alone in her office, no sound but that of a softly ticking clock and the creak of her chair as she shifts and opens up her laptop. Accessing Larkhill’s student records, she types the name ‘Harcourt’ into a search field and brings up Rylie’s class schedule.

Right now, Rylie’s in a psychology lesson.

In half an hour, she has a free period.

Clicking a link for student contact information, Carriveau scrolls through Rylie’s home address, her parents home and cell phone numbers, other emergency contacts, and then gets to Rylie’s e-mail address and personal cell phone. Retrieving her own cell phone from a pocket in her jacket, she taps out a message.

She sets the phone down, not expecting to receive a response.

A second later, it buzzes.

Scowling, she responds:

The prompt reply:

Smiling for the first time since her conversation with Miss Ansell, Carriveau sets the phone aside again. Unfortunately, her cheer is short-lived. She can’t help but think about all the things she should say to Rylie when the excitable teen arrives. Starting with: “I’m afraid we can’t keep doing this. I’ve let it escalate much too far, and I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry for that. I let myself get carried away with you, and it has to stop.”

Then: “None of this can happen again. You must find a way to be happy with things as they are, or I’ll have to insist that you be transferred to another house.”

Even as she thinks it, she knows those words will never cross her lips. She pushes them out of her mind, losing track of the time as she battles with her conscience, and long before she’s ready for it, there comes a knock at the door.

“
Entrez
!” She looks up as Rylie enters, her heavy thoughts lifting upon first sight of the girl. “Darling, how did it go with the nurse this morning? What did she say?” She invites Rylie to sit in front of her desk.

“She reckons I have a cracked rib, but says it’s nothing to worry about unless I start having any difficulty breathing.” Rylie dumps her backpack on the floor and plonks into one of the two available chairs, rattling a pill bottle she pulls from her cardigan pocket. “She gave me some painkillers and told me to take it easy for six weeks.”

“Is there anything I can do for you?” Carriveau gets up from behind her desk and moves to the chair beside her favorite pupil.

“Well, now that you mention it”—Rylie turns her chair to face her Housemistress—“there is this massage technique she told me about, to help take my mind off the pain. She said I could do it myself, but it’s better if I can find someone else to do it for me.”

“Of course.” Carriveau strokes Rylie’s arm. “What is it?”

“It’s simple.” Rylie prepares to demonstrate. “First, you put your fingers together like this”—she pairs her fore and middle fingers, curling them upward—“then you insert them in my—”

Carriveau gives the teen’s arm a light slap. “Very funny.” She rolls her eyes.

Rylie giggles, clutching her ribs. “Worth a try, I reckon.”

“You’re incorrigible,” Carriveau scolds her. “And I wish you’d tell me who did this to you.” She lays a hand over Rylie’s bruise. “Larkhill does not tolerate bullies.”

“I’m not being bullied,” Rylie assures her. “Some people are just sore losers.”

“This was a game?”

“Not to me.” Rylie smiles warmly, keeping the truth of the event to herself, afraid that if Carriveau were to find out the injury was caused in a clash between her two suitors then she might put an end to their dalliance.