The Housemistress (19 page)

She’s still awake when the sun rises, and she lies tucked in a ball, waiting for the melodious cadence of Carriveau’s warm voice to sweep through the Lower Sixth dormitory, sticking steadfastly to routine as she knows she must.

But eight thirty comes and goes, and the dormitory remains silent. Groggy and tired, Rylie grapples for her phone on the bedside table, confirming the current time: eight forty-five.

Carriveau’s never woken them up even a minute late, and now it’s almost nine o’clock. Maybe she forgot to set her alarm. Maybe she slept badly, too. Maybe—

The dormitory door slams back on its hinges, an unfamiliar perfume drifting in, an irritable, curt voice rousing the Lower Sixth without care or feeling.

Rubbing her eyes, Rylie rolls onto her back, squinting at the frumpy figure making her way through the room: it’s Miss Ansell.

“Up!” the geography teacher commands them harshly, banging on cubicle walls. “I can’t have you rat-bags lying about in bed all day! Ups-a-daisy!”

Rylie is the last one to comply, vainly hoping that Carriveau may yet arrive to take over for her sullen Deputy, purring an apology in French before clapping her hands and ushering them all into the bathroom. Unfortunately, all she gets for her hesitation is a slap on the ankle.

“Get up!” Miss Ansell barks. “Lazybones!”

Though she’s had next to nothing in the way of rest, Rylie drags herself out from the covers and stumbles with the others toward the bathroom, taking a long look at the closed and locked door to Carriveau’s private rooms.

Clinging to the possibility that her always prompt and reliable Housemistress may simply not have had the heart to enter the dormitory so soon after last night’s cruel stunt, she gets cleaned and dressed as quickly as she can—in neat but casual clothes, as is permitted on Sundays—and runs downstairs, determined to restore the light to those bright green eyes … if she can find them.

The door to Carriveau’s study is open, the room empty. She’s not in the common room, nor in the kitchen, and her car isn’t parked in its usual spot outside the house. Fearing something may be afoot, she resorts to talk to Miss Ansell, cornering her in the kitchen after breakfast.

“Where’s Miss Carriveau?”

Miss Ansell fiddles with buttons on the dishwasher, squinting to see which ones to press, too busy working her way through Carriveau’s morning chores as well as her own to give Rylie even a moment of her time.

“What Miss Carriveau does on her days off is none of your concern,” she grumbles over her shoulder.

“Is she all right?” Rylie persists. “When will she be coming back?”

“Look”—Miss Ansell glares at her—“I don’t know what your game is, but Miss Carriveau doesn’t deserve all this nonsense. She’s kind and affectionate, and you buggers are all the same: you take advantage of her.” The irritated geography teacher gives the floor a cursory once-over with a horsehair broom. “Thankless takers, the whole bleeding lot of you.”

Rylie shakes her head earnestly. “I wouldn’t ever do anything to hurt her.”

Miss Ansell snorts air through her nostrils, but doesn’t comment.

“She is coming back, isn’t she?” Rylie pushes her for answers.

Doing her best to ignore the teen, Miss Ansell carries about her business, first putting away the broom, then wiping down the tables. Undeterred, Rylie waits, grabbing Miss Ansell’s arm when she tries to leave the room.

“Is Vivienne coming back?”

Caught off-guard by the child’s impudence, Miss Ansell’s first inclination to castigate Rylie for her behavior is abruptly dampened by the unexpectedly sincere look of concern in the teen’s eyes, and it takes the short-tempered geography teacher a moment to gather her wits.

“She shouldn’t, if she’s got any bloody sense.”

The older woman tears herself away, leaving Rylie alone, her fears unabated. A rumble of hunger gurgles in the pit of her stomach, but her heartache for Carriveau has her wound up in knots, and she takes no more than a bite of toast before she feels nauseous.

And she smells burning.

After ruling out the possibility that she’s set fire to the brand new toaster, she follows the stink through the house to the back door, tracing it to an old barbecue on which Adel is burning the manila rope noose in the middle of a patch of grass that passes for a back garden.

She should walk away. She doesn’t.

“Are you happy now? Is this what you wanted?” Rylie steps toward her, standing close enough that she can feel the heat from the fire. “Miss Carriveau’s gone.”

Adel stays silent, poking the burning rope with a spatula, turning it and rolling it like she’s cooking a long sausage link, her eyes focused on the task.

“Why are you doing this to her? Why are you being so mean?” Rylie moves as near as she dares, the flames raging, licking furiously in all directions, twisting in time with the wind. “She doesn’t love you.”

Adel spins to face her—the white-hot spatula clenched so tightly in her hand that her knuckles turn pale with tension—and Rylie stumbles back a few paces, tripping over an old lacrosse stick and falling bum first into a pile of freshly mown grass.

Adel tosses the spatula onto the lawn, fuming. “Everything was fine until you came here,” she snarls, strutting back into the house.

Alone again, Rylie picks shredded greenery out of her hair, thankful that she’d taken herself down, however clumsily, before Adel had a chance to do it for her.

For the rest of the day, she makes a concerted effort to avoid the company of others—even Gabby—and grumps about in a mope, barely eating, even skipping a traditional Sunday roast in the refectory. Unable to concentrate on even the simplest task, her homework and her house chores go neglected, leading Miss Ansell to put a black mark in her student record for laziness.

Come bedtime, she has no intention of sleeping. She lies awake for several hours, listening for the rumble of a car engine, or the bang of the front door. When she feels herself drifting into slumber, exhaustion getting the better of her, she creeps out of bed and into the hall, settling resolutely in front of the door to Carriveau’s rooms.

Must stay awake, she thinks to herself.

Must stay awake.

Must … stay … awake.

Must … stay …

In the wee hours of the morning, Carriveau turns the corner into the dimly lit Lower Sixth hallway and hesitates, spotting a crumpled bundle of blonde hair, pink skin, and white cotton lying limply at the door to her private quarters.

Stilettos clip-clopping on the floor, she steadily approaches the rhythmically heaving mass and crouches beside it, finding Rylie sound asleep, her head resting awkwardly against the door, her hair flopped in front of her face.

She’s only wearing her short cotton nightdress, the hem bunched up around her hips, and it affords her little warmth. Her arms are hugged tightly around her midsection, trying to preserve as much body heat as possible, almost every bit of bare skin pricked with gooseflesh.

Carriveau extends a hand to wake her, brushing a thick lock of hair out of her eyes, tucking it behind her ear, startled to find her cold to the touch.

“Rylie,” she purrs softly, to no effect.

For attempt number two, she lays a warm hand on Rylie’s exposed ankle. “
Chérie
,” she whispers against Rylie’s ear, gliding her hand up the teen’s smooth calf and thigh, edging beneath the hem of her nightdress.

Rylie’s pale eyes flutter open, taking a moment to adjust, relieved to see Carriveau’s familiar form before her.

“You came back!” She lunges forward, flinging her arms around Carriveau’s neck with such force that she almost knocks the unprepared French woman off her feet.

Carriveau squeals, bracing herself against the wall. “Always so exuberant!”

Rylie buries her face in Carriveau’s loose, dark tresses, inhaling her. “I missed you.” She clutches fistfuls of Carriveau’s hair, grabbing at any part of her that she can get her hands on. “I’ve been so worried about you.”

“Sshhh.” Carriveau soothes her, reaching up to unlock the door. “Come with me.”

She helps Rylie onto her feet and leads her inside, setting her down upon the sofa, rubbing her chilly arms, trying to draw some warmth back.

“May I get you something to drink? Perhaps something with a little heat.”

Rylie spies a bar fridge tucked under a table on the other side of the room. “What’ve you got? Are you hiding more booze in here?”

Carriveau sheds her suit jacket—leaving her in one of her standard skirt and blouse ensembles—and pulls a bottle of vodka from the freezer compartment in the fridge.

Rylie giggles. “You’re awesome.”

“I’m only giving you a tipple to warm you up,” Carriveau warns, pouring a generous measure into a beaker she repurposed from the science lab. “I’m not getting you drunk.”

She hands Rylie the beaker and sits beside her on the sofa, wrapping one arm around her shoulders, pressing the other to her chest, lightly squeezing her ribs.

Rylie winces. “Owie.”

“Oops.” Carriveau retracts her hand. “I forgot.”

Rylie snuggles tighter, the beaker in her grasp, warmth radiating between them. “Don’t apologize. I like having you close to me.” She peers down at Carriveau’s shoes, spying some dried dirt on the heels. “Where were you today?”

“What does it matter?” Carriveau kisses the side of Rylie’s head, skirting around the subject of her whereabouts. “
Je suis ici maintenant
. I’m here now.”

“I’m sorry. I’m not trying to pry.” Rylie sips the vodka, screwing up her face, her first taste of unadulterated hard liquor burning her throat. “I was just afraid, that’s all.”

“Afraid?”

“That you wouldn’t come back.” Rylie braves another sip.

“Oh, darling. I wouldn’t do that to you.” Carriveau nuzzles her face into the teen’s hair. “If it’ll ease your mind to know, I went to visit Kaitlyn. It’s a long drive, and that’s why I was gone so long.” She strokes Rylie’s locks. “There was no need to fret.”

Rylie glances again at the traces of dirt on Carriveau’s shoes: cemetery dirt.

She takes another gulp of courage. “What Adel did—”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Carriveau shuts her down. “Please.”

“Are you in love with her?” Rylie downs the rest of the vodka, growing accustomed to the fire it brings with it. “Is that why you keep putting on the brakes when you’re with me?”

Carriveau shakes her head. “I no more belong to Adel than I do to any of the other girls.” She sets the empty beaker on the coffee table. “None of them have ever been alone with me in my private quarters. None of them have ever kissed me, or … touched me. Nor I them.”

“But Kaitlyn was different?”

Carriveau answers carefully, nodding. “Kaitlyn was different.
You’re
different.” She tightens her grip around Rylie’s shoulders. “
Tu me rends faible
.”

Rylie recognizes the words: You make me weak.

That was one of Carriveau’s first confessions, and she can’t help but wonder if Kaitlyn made her weak, too. Is that what all this is about?

Clasping her hands in her lap, Rylie picks at a chip in one of her fingernails. “Do I remind you of her?”

“Yes,” Carriveau answers honestly, stroking Rylie’s golden hair, wishing she didn’t see so much of Kaitlyn in her appearance.

“Is that why you like me?” Rylie keeps her eyes downturned. “You wish I was her?”

“No!” Carriveau answers emphatically, pressing a series of rapid woodpecker kisses all over her head and cheek, venturing toward her mouth. “I won’t lie, that’s why you caught my eye when I first saw you. It’s why I couldn’t take my eyes off you, and why my defenses dropped so easily around you, but that’s as far as it goes.” She tenders her young lover an Eskimo kiss. “It’s
you
I’m attracted to, Rylie.” She pulls the teen more deeply into her embrace. “It’s
you
I spent hours with in my study, flirting and talking, having the most wicked thoughts, and becoming hopelessly, madly lost in you.”

Twisting in her Housemistress’s arms, Rylie strains her neck to make eye contact. “Will you tell me what happened between you and Kaitlyn?”

“
Pourquoi
?” Carriveau’s grip relaxes.

“Because I want you to stop holding back.” Rylie illustrates her point by clamping her hand over Carriveau’s on her shoulder, coaxing firmness into her touch. “You pull away from me whenever her name is mentioned.”

“I don’t mean to.” Carriveau caresses Rylie’s cheek, exploring her face, preparing to relinquish the truth. “Kaitlyn loved me too much, and I let her. All I shouldn’t have done, I did. I let my boundaries slip, and it was to her great detriment.”

“You had an affair,” Rylie reduces.

“It wasn’t an affair.” Carriveau’s hand falls away. “Kaitlyn was … a singular exception.” She looks down at the loving girl in her arms. “Or so I thought. She was a transfer, just like you, except she was already eighteen. She’d been out of school since her GCSEs—entirely focused on sports—but when an injury forced her out of her last national competition, she enrolled here.”

“You loved her?”

Carriveau nods, shaking a tear loose. “What Kaitlyn and I did wasn’t illegal. Immoral, maybe, questionably, but not illegal. She wasn’t even taking any of my classes.” Looking down, she fidgets with the hem of Rylie’s nightdress. “I assure you, the other girls at this school are nothing more than children to me. I’ve taught many of them since they were eleven or twelve years old.”