The Housemistress (4 page)

As Rylie stands to be inspected, she watches a huddle of shadows gather on the other side of Carriveau’s study door, well aware of what that means: they’re being eavesdropped on.

Either not noticing or not caring, Carriveau continues undaunted, blatantly disregarding school policy once more as she takes Rylie by the shoulders and straightens her posture. “Shoulders back, head up.” She hooks a finger under Rylie’s chin, tilting her upwards. “Show off that pretty face.”

Rylie does precisely as Carriveau asks, but not because she has any inclination to conform to the exacting standards of the school. She merely wants to prove that she does actually have a bust hidden beneath the baggy Larkhill cardigan that’s hanging limply off her shoulders.

Indeed, Carriveau’s eyes do spend quite a bit of time in that area. She flicks Rylie’s hair off her shoulders, fussing with the shoulders of the cardigan, trying to get it to sit better.

“This does not fit you well,” she concludes at last. “Take it off.”

Rylie hesitates, scarcely able to believe she heard correctly.

Mistaking that hesitation for discomfort, Carriveau crosses the room to a large odds-and-sods cupboard and flings it open, simultaneously revealing a shelf full of spare Larkhill cardigans and her honorable intentions.

Not wanting Carriveau to think her coy, Rylie swiftly unbuttons the ugly cardigan and hands it over. “It’s supposed to be my size.”

“Hmm.” Carriveau looks none too surprised. “Missus Bursnell likes a looser fit. I’ve long suspected that she has the staff who run the campus supply shop switch the labels.”

“Does she have a problem with femininity?” Rylie wonders, catching a glimpse of her hair in a wall mirror, remembering Missus Bursnell’s instruction to constrain it. “She told me I’m not to wear my hair loose like this.”

“Shame,” Carriveau mutters absently, checking the label on the cardigan and selecting one a size smaller from the cupboard. “It’s unfortunate, but our esteemed Headmistress fears that sexuality is a distraction from scholarly endeavors.”

“Yet she hired you.” The words escape from Rylie’s mouth before her brain has a chance to edit them. “I mean, you’re so …” She starts to backpedal, but she can tell by the wry smile on Carriveau’s face that the retraction isn’t necessary.

“It’s true, the Headmistress and I share little but the desire to educate.” Carriveau dangles the new cardigan on the end of her finger, closing the gap between them. “I’ve always felt that she would be best suited to a primary school environment, away from hormonal adolescents.” She puts a finger to her lips, indicating silence. “But don’t repeat that.”

Rylie takes the cardigan and puts it on under the careful watch of Carriveau’s eyes. This one fits perfectly, wrapping snugly around her breasts—which pleases them both.

“
Bien mieux
,” Carriveau approves. “Much better.” She swirls her finger in the air. “Now turn around,
s’il vous plaît
.”

Rylie spins in a slow three-sixty, giving Carriveau ample time to continue the inspection of her uniform, starting with her shirt collar and tie, picking at a few minor things here and there.

“How old are you?” the Housemistress asks casually, crouching to check the hem of Rylie’s skirt.

“Seventeen, Miss.”

“Oh, really?” Carriveau sounds surprised. “That makes you the oldest girl in my Lower Sixth dorm, bar one other who’s approaching eighteen also.” She says that with a smile. “When’s your birthday?”

“September—two days after the start of the school term. I’m always the oldest in my year and it sucks. I’ll be almost nineteen by the time I finally graduate from the sixth form.”

“Older is good,” Carriveau mumbles to herself, pinching a loose thread between her fingers. “What classes are you taking?” She changes the subject without skipping a beat, giving the thread a gentle tug.

“English Language, Biology, and Psychology,” Rylie answers proudly, her pride withering when she realizes that her selection no doubt precludes her from having the pleasure of being taught by Carriveau. “I was taking French as well, but I dropped out mid-way through last term,” she adds, almost apologetically.

“
Quel dommage
; what a pity.” Carriveau looks up at her, flashing a perfect set of pearly whites. “Never mind, I shall look forward to having you in one of my classes at least.”

Rylie frowns, confused. “You teach English? Not French?”

“Both.” The flawed stitching unravels in Carriveau’s fingers. “Why did you drop out of French? It’s such a shame. My sixth form French classes seem to get smaller and smaller every year.”

Rylie looks needlessly rueful. “The AS-level French teacher at my old school was awful. I didn’t like him at all.” A thought runs through her mind. “Is it too late to change my enrollments?”

Carriveau’s delicious red lips curl upwards again. “You’ve missed almost half a term. You’ll have to promise me and Missus Bursnell that you’ll make efforts to catch up with the rest of the class.”

Rylie nods. “I can do that.”

“And you might have to take extra lessons,” Carriveau warns, winding the unraveled thread around her finger. “Maybe even some private tutoring.”

That’s meant as cautionary fodder for consideration, but it sounds like an invitation.

“With you?” Rylie clarifies, just to be sure.

“
Oui
,” the arresting French woman answers with a smile, her fingers still at work.

“In that case,” Rylie concludes, “I wouldn’t mind at all.”

“Very well, then.” Carriveau pulls the thread taut. “I’ll see to it first thing in the morning. I sincerely hope you won’t tire of looking at me, though. Having me here after classes, and in English, and French, and private lessons … we’ll be seeing a lot of one another.”

As she says that, she leans forward to break off the offending thread, giving Rylie a clear view down her blouse—albeit fleetingly. In a second, she’s back on her feet, retrieving a needle and thread from the supply cupboard.

“It’s strange that you were transferred from your old school so abruptly in the middle of a term,” she muses, dropping to her knees again at Rylie’s feet, sewing tools in hand. “Did you have problems there?”

Rylie shrugs. “My parents thought so.”

“Are you troublesome, Harcourt?” Carriveau asks with a smirk.

“I don’t think so, Miss.”

“That’s just as well.” Carriveau slips on her reading glasses and threads the needle. “I’m many things, but a disciplinarian is not one of them. This house is run on mutual trust and respect. I set clear boundaries, and I expect you to adhere to them at all times. If you can do that, I daresay we’ll get along.”

Kneeling closer than before, she takes the hem of Rylie’s skirt in her hands and flips it up to expose the underside so that she can begin stitching. Her face is at crotch height, and Rylie can feel body heat radiating from her as she works. Every now and again, a subtle draft drifts beneath her lifted skirt, cooling the gusset of her knickers, evaporating some of the moisture there.

She’s aroused, and awkwardly so. Hoping that Carriveau can’t smell how uncontrollably horny she is, the throbbing between her legs making her increasingly anxious, she clutches two fistfuls of her skirt, wiping her clammy palms off on the soft cotton.

Carriveau peers up at her over the rim of the reading glasses, aware of a shift in her disposition. “
Êtes-vous nerveuse, mon chou
?”

Rylie’s distracted brain struggles with the simple language conversion: Are you nervous, my cabbage? Being called a cabbage is momentarily disturbing, until she recalls her parents’ French housekeeper calling her that when she was a child. Ergo, it’s an old-fashioned term of endearment.

“
Non, Madame
,” she lies, finally responding.

“
Madame
?” Carriveau briefly stops stitching. “
Mademoiselle, s’il vous plaît
.
Je suis célibataire
.” She focuses back on the needle and thread.

“
Célibataire
?” Rylie assumes there’s more to the translation than the seemingly obvious.

“It means unmarried, not celibate,” Carriveau explains. “Although, it has to be said, I’m finding it increasingly difficult to tell the difference.”

Whether she’s fishing for flattery or not, Rylie pounces on the opportunity to dish some out.

“
C’est tragique
,” she offers condolences for her Housemistress’s marital state, then returns the compliment given to her earlier in the foyer.
“Tu es
belle, Mademoiselle Carriveau
.”

Carriveau arches an eyebrow, secretly pleased that Rylie finds her attractive. “
Je suis flattée, ma chère
.” She looks up, gauging Rylie’s understanding of the French, offering an English translation just in case. “I’m flattered.”

There’s a pair of scissors in the cupboard, but instead of fetching them when she gets to the end of the seam, Carriveau finishes off the stitching and bends forward to cut the thread with her teeth, sending Rylie’s hormones into overdrive.

It’s all the teen can do to withhold a gasp, biting on her lower lip as Carriveau’s warm breath tickles her bare thigh, making her skin prick with goosebumps.

“There.” Carriveau rocks back on her heels, admiring her handiwork, seemingly unaware of Rylie’s sexual excitement. “Good as new.”

She lifts the reading glasses back onto the top of her head, but doesn’t yet retreat. Instead, she places a hand on Rylie’s hip and runs it down over her thigh and rump several times, smoothing out some slight, barely visible creases in the skirt, pressing firmly, molding her hand to fit the contours of Rylie’s body.

“This could use an iron,
non
?”

Rylie feels a tiny shiver ripple through her core. Her beautiful French Housemistress just totally copped a feel! The astonishing moment of quasi-permissible intimacy doesn’t last, though. A stern female voice startles the eavesdroppers outside the door, causing the shadows to scatter. Shortly thereafter, there’s a knock.

“
Entrez
!” Carriveau calls out, still on her knees.

The woman who enters is several years older than Carriveau. There are flecks of gray in her done-up auburn hair, her face bears some lines of age, and she’s started to widen around the mid-region. Her ankle-length, tie-die skirt belongs in a decade far removed from this one, and her bobbly sweater is at least one size too big.

Caught off-guard by Carriveau’s position on the floor in front of Rylie, she hovers in the doorway, not knowing quite where to cast her eyes. “Pardon my intrusion.”

Wholly unconcerned, Carriveau gets to her feet, accepting the hand Rylie offers to help her off the floor.

“Miss Ansell, we have a new student.” She squeezes Rylie’s hand before letting go. “This is Rylie Harcourt.” She takes Rylie by the shoulder and pushes her forward, presenting her to the frumpy woman. “Harcourt, this is Miss Ansell, Deputy Housemistress and teacher of geography.”

Miss Ansell smiles politely at Rylie, then gets on with business. “It’s almost nine-thirty.” She consults her watch to be certain. “Should I show Harcourt to the dorm?”

“
Ce n’est pas nécessaire
.” Carriveau dismisses the suggestion with a flick of her wrist. “I can do it. If you wouldn’t mind, though, could you check on the kitchen? Some of the children and I were baking cookies before I was drawn away.”

“As you wish.” Miss Ansell appears reluctant to go, but doesn’t argue.

“We have two dormitories here,” Carriveau explains as she leads Rylie up the staircase. “One for the Lower Sixth, and one for the older girls in the Upper Sixth. While I am responsible for the house overall, Miss Ansell helps out with the Upper Sixth—doing bed checks, wake-ups, and so on—and she’s in charge of the house when I’m not here.”

At the top of the stairs, the hallway branches off left and right: Upper Sixth dormitory to the left, Lower Sixth dormitory to the right, bathrooms adjacent to each. Miss Ansell’s private quarters, Carriveau points out, are located at the far end of the Upper Sixth hallway, while her own are located at the end of the Lower Sixth hallway.

As she stops at a large linen cupboard to collect fresh bed sheets and a duvet cover, Rylie breaks away from her to examine the many and varied framed photographs hanging on the walls.

Some are house pictures, with Carriveau and Miss Ansell standing proudly with their students from one year to the next. As with most school pictures, there are always one or two students who ruin an otherwise perfect shot by looking in the wrong place at the wrong time, and last year’s photograph is no exception. One of the Lower Sixth girls has her head turned partially to the side, her eyes fixed on something that was obviously far more interesting than the photographer.

Rylie squints, trying to follow her sightline. She appears to have her eyes locked on Carriveau, as does one of the other girls—and
that
girl Rylie recognizes. She’s the rather bedraggled student who came to Carriveau’s rescue in the lobby.

Going back beyond three full school years, there’s a different Housemistress and Rylie loses interest. Other pictures are from various sporting events, where the houses are pitted against one another to promote friendly competition. Lacrosse appears to be a particular favorite, and one of the most recent pictures is of a sporty blonde bearing Carriveau house colors—purple and gold—holding up a trophy.