The Housemistress (6 page)

She’d gone too far—that much is obvious. Was it looking down her blouse that did it? Or making that daft crack about reporting her for stepping over the line? Whichever straw it was that proved to be the last one, Carriveau’s disposition had done a swift one-eighty, transitioning from casually flirtatious to strained austerity in a heartbeat.

“Uck!” She jerks her bare foot, flinging off the wandering spider.

Responding to her utterance of revulsion, a head pops up over the adjoining cubicle wall. An untamed bob of curly red hair frames a pale, freckled face, hazel eyes gleaming with youthful excitement at the sight of a potential new friend.

“What’s your name?” The girl grins, propping her elbows on the dividing wall.

“Rylie.”

“I’m Gabrielle. Gabby, if you like.” The girl thrusts her right hand over the wall. “Why do you look sad? Is this your first time away from home?”

Rylie shakes her head and Gabby’s proffered hand. “I think I upset Miss Carriveau.”

“Already?” Gabby snorts. “How did you manage that?”

“I don’t always think before I speak.”

“Congratulations, you’re a teenager.” Gabby laughs heartily. “I ‘spect our good old house mum’s well used to it, though.” She peers over the cubicle wall at Rylie’s belongings, leaning so far forward that she almost falls in. “Where are you from?”

“Canterbury, Kent.”

“Crikey! You’re a long way from home! Mum and dad keen to get rid of ya?”

“Keen to whip me into shape, more like.”

“Ooh.” Gabby’s eyes widen. “Are you a bad ‘un?”

Rylie chuckles. “Yeah, I’m such a bad influence. You’d best stay well clear. My intolerance of parental bullshit might be contagious.”

Cutting their conversation short, Carriveau returns to the dormitory—as promised, at fifteen minutes on the dot—her arms full of books. She begins on the left side of the room and makes her way down the row of cubicles, checking each one in turn, making sure everything is in order before signalling her approval with a nod of her head and a succinct goodnight.

She speaks in English until she reaches a German exchange student, whereupon she slips seamlessly into the girl’s first language and instructs her to hang up her school uniform before turning in for the night.

Afterward, “
Gute nacht, Gersten
.”

“
Gute nacht, Fraulein Carriveau
.”

Two cubicles down, Carriveau finds a lacy pink thong in the middle of the aisle. She hooks it onto the toe of her shoe and dangles it in the air.

“Yours?” She offers it to the girl in the nearest cubicle.

The undergarment is quickly snatched up.

Carriveau reaches the end of the aisle and makes her way down the other side of the room, offering only one reprimand for some spilt glittery nail polish, expressing grave disapproval that the mess hadn’t been cleaned up before it dried, but making no mention of the fact that it’s expressly forbidden. As she approaches Rylie’s cubicle, her already waning smile tightens.

“Harcourt, you left these in my study.” She holds out the bundle of books she’s been cradling. “If you need anything, don’t be afraid to come to me,” she goes on, her paper burden lifted. “My door is always open.”

Her words express tenderness, but her tone implies indifference. Perhaps the latter is intended to conceal the true depth of the former, but the more she talks, the more tenderness seems to win out, causing an underwear-clad Adel Edwards to glare at Rylie from her cubicle on the other side of the room.

“I know it can be a difficult transition for a girl who’s never boarded before, but I will endeavor to do everything in my power to make sure you leave this institution with fond memories of your time here.” Carriveau’s eyes never leave Rylie’s. “Do you think that will be possible?”

Rylie can’t stop her cheeks from flushing. “I should think so, Miss.”

“Good. Happy girls make a happy house, which makes for an exceedingly happy Housemistress.” With a smile that seems only slightly forced, Carriveau turns her attention to Gabby. “Laurenson, you’ll take care of Harcourt tomorrow, won’t you? You have several of the same classes.”

Gabby, still kneeling on her bed, leaning over the cubicle wall, nods. “Yuppers.”

“I’ll let your other teachers know that you’ll be helping her out for the next two or three days, so if you’re a few minutes late here and there, you won’t be marked down for it.”

Gabby beams. “
Carte blanche
!”

Carriveau rolls her eyes theatrically, returning her attention briefly to Rylie. “Goodnight, Harcourt.”

“
Bonne nuit, Mademoiselle
.”

Rylie can’t be certain, but as Carriveau turns away, she seems to let a genuine smile escape. Has their earlier moment of impropriety now been forgiven?

Carriveau completes her arc around the room, turns out the lights, and steps into the hallway, the rhythmic sound of her footsteps slowly fading. Still, Rylie can’t shake the feeling that she should apologize for her impudent behavior. In particular, for the lewd posturing and the cheeky taunts. Unable to get into bed without clearing the air, she tiptoes out of her cubicle and pads barefoot into the hallway, the dormitory door creaking on its hinges.

Already halfway to her private quarters, Carriveau comes to an abrupt stop.

The hallway falls silent.

Her back to the dormitory, the Housemistress offers no movement but the slight turn of her head, waiting for the student to announce herself.

“
Mademoiselle Carriveau
.” Rylie’s quiet voice reverbs in the sterile corridor.

“That was quick.” Carriveau pivots, otherwise staying put. “Is there something amiss?”

Rylie lowers her gaze to the floor, wiggling her toes. The linoleum tiles are cold against her bare feet, but nothing in the world could be as frigid as Carriveau’s icy demeanor in this moment. Not even the Arctic tundra. Was chasing her out into the hallway yet another wrong move? Too much eagerness? Desperation? Too late now.

“I … I’m afraid I’ve done something to upset you.” Feeling uncharacteristically teary, Rylie dare not look up for fear of being utterly crushed by those hardened emerald eyes.

Barely a second passes before Carriveau melts. Her expression softens, and she strides back toward the dorm, her hands outstretched.

“
Non, ma chère. Pas du tout
.” She sweeps Rylie’s hair out of her face and thumbs her cheeks. “Not at all. Why ever would you think that?” She keeps Rylie’s head tilted up, cupping her chin, slender fingers pressed to her neck.

“Earlier, you left the dorm so suddenly.” Rylie sniffles. “I thought I must’ve done something wrong. I was joking when I said I’d report you for—”

“I know.” Carriveau smiles reassuringly. “You did nothing wrong, sweetheart.” She moves her hands up, holding Rylie’s head, fingers weaving through her hair. “Absolutely nothing. I was the one who conducted myself poorly.”

“No.” Rylie would shake her head, but she’s being held too firmly. “You were only helping me, I—”

“Hush.” Carriveau presses a soft fingertip to the teen’s bare pink lips, letting it rest there for a moment. “It was improper, and that’s all there is to it.”

Her finger slips away and she extricates herself from Rylie’s personal space, taking a small step back. “Now you must get to bed. I can’t make exceptions.”

That word rebounds from brain cell to brain cell in Rylie’s mind. Exceptions? What sort of exceptions? Relaxing the curfew? To her ear, Carriveau’s cryptic assertion sounds more like the reiteration of a mantra than it does a simple warning to a new pupil. As a recovering alcoholic might look at themselves in the mirror each morning and say “I will not drink today,” so Rylie can picture Carriveau repeating quietly to herself, “I can’t make exceptions.”

Convincing herself of this fact—and that she hadn’t imagined the faint undercurrent of determination in her Housemistress’s voice—Rylie heads for the dormitory, wondering what rules Carriveau might be tempted to break.

As she reaches the door …

“Rylie,” Carriveau purrs out her name. “Wait.”

Obediently, Rylie halts, her hand on the knob. She can hear Carriveau’s stiletto heels clicking on the linoleum behind her, and by the time she spins around, she finds herself practically backed up against the dormitory door.

Without saying a word, Carriveau places her steady hands back on either side of the dumbstruck teen’s head and brings her forward, pressing a chaste kiss on her forehead.

“
Bonne nuit, mon ange
,” she whispers, her eyes roving over Rylie’s features somewhat reverently. “
Fais de beaux rêves
.”

Rylie shivers as Carriveau calls her an angel and wishes her sweet dreams. All too soon, though, she feels the warmth of Carriveau’s touch dissipate, leaving her with nothing but the lingering sensation of those deep red, lipstick-coated lips.

“Don’t forget to look at your books,” Carriveau says in parting. “Make sure I didn’t forget anything.”

Rylie nods, watching Carriveau walk away, her skirt clinging to her delightfully spankable
derrière
, then she slips back inside the dorm, tiptoeing quietly to her bed, trying to draw as little attention as possible.

Once in her cubicle, she retrieves her stack of library books off the floor and—using her cell phone as a light source—sorts through them, setting aside those she knows she’ll need for tomorrow’s lessons.

At the bottom of the pile, she finds a paperback that lacks a Larkhill Boarding School library sticker on the spine. Curious, she flips it over.

Her heart drums inside her chest. It’s the Occitan book from Carriveau’s study, and the first page has a freshly-inked inscription:

Sleep doesn’t come easy. Rylie lies awake, listening to the creaks and groans of the building, the woodwork expanding and contracting in response to heat or cold, the pipes complaining as somewhere, someone in the building makes a demand for water.

Soon enough, there’s another noise keeping her awake.

“Oh,
Mademoiselle
…” a soft, girlish voice mewls in the darkness.

Rylie holds her breath, listening for more. A dream, perhaps?

“Oh, Vivienne …” the voice whispers frantically. “Yes! More!”

Nope, definitely not a dream.

The voice is quiet, but distinct: it’s Adel Edwards.

Bed sheets ruffle and hit the floor, kicked off the bed no doubt.

“Oh, I’m going to come …”

No fucking way! Rylie peels back the covers on her own bed and rises slowly to her knees, peering into the shadowy room beyond her rectangle of private space. To her right, there’s a giggle: two of the other Lower Sixth girls are making out beneath the covers. To her left, there’s Adel Edwards … completely alone.

Rylie stifles a chuckle. Adel is lying on her back, her nightdress bunched up, legs spread, both hands vigorously working between her legs.

“Oh, fuck me!” she begs huskily, her eyes closed, her breathing labored. “I’m gonna come so hard for you …”

And she does.

As her climax hits, Rylie turns away, afraid of letting out a guffaw. She’s about to flop back down in her bed when a flicker of light catches her attention. Left on for safety’s sake, in case anyone needs to venture out to use the bathroom in the middle of the night, dim yellow hallway lights illuminate a two-inch crack beneath the dormitory door, and at this moment, the warm glow seeping through is broken by the movement of a shadowy figure on the other side.

Feet.

Ankles.

There’s someone standing near the door, leaning against the doorjamb.

Rylie squints at the shifting shapes, making out the thin bar of a stiletto heel. It couldn’t be, could it? Miss Carriveau? Listening to Adel Edwards masturbate? Holy shit!

Rylie strains to hear anything beyond Adel’s orgasm. Is Carriveau touching herself out there? Is she horny? What
is
she doing?! Was she just walking by and happened to overhear her name uttered in the heat of sexual fervor? Did curiosity compel her to stay?

Whatever the case, in the wake of Adel’s climax, Carriveau slinks away, the shadows receding as the house quiets back down to its usual nocturnal rhythm of distant clangs and clatterings, a squirrel scratching away in the attic.