The Housemistress (7 page)

Bonne nuit, en effet
!

Good night, indeed!

CHAPTER FIVE

Carriveau runs her hands over her hips, flattening her skintight skirt over her thighs. Is it too much? No, she shakes her head, dismissing the thought. This is one of her favorite suits. It’s formfitting, but not obscenely short. It more than covers the lacy tops of her stockings, which she wears simply for her own self-esteem rather than for any practical purpose.

The stockings, like the stilettos and the push-up bra, make her feel elegant and feminine, reminding her that she’s still a sexual being, despite the fact that her only bedmates of late have been battery powered.

Taking a deep breath, she adjusts the open collar of her blouse and applies a new shade of lipstick, counting down the final seconds until the commencement of the usual morning pandemonium.

“No exceptions,” she reminds her reflection, then walks briskly from her study, striding boldly into the Lower Sixth dormitory not a minute later.

“
Réveillez-vous
!” She claps her hands several times, making the slap of her palms as loud as possible. “Come on, girls! Wakey-wakey!” She glides down the aisle, leaning over to tug the corner of a duvet off one sleeping girl. “
Lève-toi, Mademoiselle Brody
.” She points a finger at another reluctant waker. “
Toi aussi, Petersen
.”

A cacophony of chatter quickly erupts, Carriveau paying no note to the fact that two of the Lower Sixth girls rise from the same bed. When she arrives at Rylie’s cubicle, she finds the newcomer lying prone, her pillow pulled over her face, one of her bare feet poking out from the bottom of the duvet.

“Up you get, sleepyhead.” Carriveau bends forward and grabs that exposed foot, shaking it gently.

Rylie groans, but does as she’s told.

“How was your first night with us?” Carriveau leans on the cubicle wall, her open collar shirt showing even more cleavage than yesterday.

“Very good, Miss.” Rylie sits up and yawns, ruffling a hand through her blonde mane.

“You’re feeling better about things this morning, I hope?” Carriveau’s eyes dart over to the bedside table, where the Occitan book is sitting proudly and prominently.

“A great deal.” Rylie rises to her knees to stretch, enjoying the view in front of her. “
Merci, Mademoiselle
.”

From this higher position, she can see two girls in the cubicle behind Carriveau. They’re whispering to one another, ogling her bum. After first wondering how they could be so openly disrespectful, she realizes Carriveau can see their reflections in the cubicle mirror. If she were so inclined, she could chastise them. She doesn’t.

“Today, I’ll make you breakfast,” she carries on her conversation with Rylie perfectly naturally, as if unaware of her admirers. “Tomorrow onward, you can fend for yourself in the mornings. How does that sound?”

Rylie takes a moment to think, composing her words carefully so as not to make a mistake when she tells Carriveau how perfect that sounds. “
Cela me semble parfait
.”

Judging by the curve of Carriveau’s lips, her diction is perfect, too.

“You’re quite adorable, Harcourt. Do you always make this much effort to impress your teachers?”

“No,” Rylie answers frankly, shuffling closer. “Do you always offer to make breakfast for the new girl?”

“Of course.” Carriveau pushes herself away from the cubicle wall. “Now hurry down.” She walks out of the dormitory without glancing back. “I hope you like toast.”

In the hallway, Carriveau weaves through a gaggle of half-naked, squealing girls with a broad smile pinned on her face. In contrast, Miss Ansell, who’s standing at the top of the staircase, refereeing between two Upper Sixth girls who’re fighting over a towel, looks as though she’s already reaching the end of a rapidly shortening tether—and it’s only seven o’clock.

She settles the dispute, sends the girls off to the bathroom, and drinks in Carriveau’s appearance: the closely fitted suit, the bright eyes, the upturned lips, and the palpable vivacity exuding from her.

“You look unusually cheery this morning,” she remarks, roaming her eyes from ankles to hair, a hint of suspicion in her voice.

“Because it’s a wonderful morning.” Carriveau beams, skipping down the stairs.

She’s the first one in the kitchen, and as she fusses around the room gathering bread, a plate, and a knife, she hums a song to herself, oblivious to the fact that she acquires a spectator halfway through the second verse.

“Since when do you have toast for breakfast?”

Miss Ansell’s voice makes her jump.

“It’s not for me.” She drops two slices of bread into the toaster. “It’s for the new girl.”

“Oh, aye? And when did we start doing that?” Miss Ansell folds her arms, her hands almost completely covered by the long sleeves of her baggy purple sweater.

Carriveau doesn’t reply.

“She’s a very pretty little thing, isn’t she?” The Deputy Housemistress continues to needle her colleague. “In fact, I reckon she looks a fair bit like our old Kaitlyn Simmons. You agree?”

Carriveau replies with a dispassionate shrug, feigning nonchalance. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Miss Ansell chortles, slumping against the countertop. “You must think I’m daft. I haven’t seen you this chipper since—”

Carriveau smacks the butt of the knife down on the counter. “That’s enough!” she barks at the Deputy Housemistress. “I’m in a good mood, that’s all. There’s no need to ruin it.”

Miss Ansell edges nearer, peering up at Carriveau’s taut mouth. “Is that a new shade of lipstick I see on those angry lips?” She moves away from the counter, ready to make her own breakfast. “Watch yourself, Vivienne.”

When she says Carriveau’s name, it sounds harsh and angular: Vih-vee-uhn. To hear it squawked at her that way makes Carriveau feel like a naughty little girl being reprimanded by her British nanny.

“
Vivienne, s’il te plaît
,” she purrs out her own name, her heavy accent and soft inflection making each syllable sound warm and smooth.

Vi.vjen.

In the next moment, Rylie enters the kitchen. Arriving before any of the other girls—having rushed through her morning routine for that very reason—she’s clearly cut some corners with her appearance. Her shirt’s only half tucked in, her skirt’s twisted sideways, her cardigan’s buttoned improperly, and her hair is bound in a messy braid.

Carriveau—her good mood restored by the teen’s arrival—suppresses laughter. Rylie’s hair is sticking up on top, two big tufts bunched near her crown, having nearly missed inclusion into the braid altogether. The sides are twisted, wrenched carelessly into chunks and tugged back to form the outer strands at the top of the off-center braid, which itself is so loose that some of the shorter sections of hair are already falling out of it.

“Is that the best you could do?” Carriveau beckons her over for a closer inspection.

“Does it look terrible?” Rylie supposes that it must. “This was my third attempt.”

Carriveau spins her around, checking to see if it can be salvaged. “Have you never braided your own hair before?”

“I’ve never braided
any
hair. I had to Google it.”

“
Tu es si mignonne
.” Carriveau pats her shoulder, amused that a seventeen-year-old girl could get this far in life without learning such a simple thing. “You’re so cute.”

With that, she presses a kiss against Rylie’s head, as she’d done to the girl named Varlow last night when they were making cookies. Then, she pulls a chair out at the table.

“Sit, eat, and I’ll fix it for you.” She sets the freshly popped toast in front of Rylie and fetches condiments from the fridge. “What do you like on your toast?”

“Jam?”

Carriveau grabs two jars—one grape, the other strawberry—and leans over the table, pushing them in front of Rylie. In doing so, she gives the rapt teen another perfect view down her blouse.

“Would you like anything else?” She lingers there.

Rylie watches her breathe in, her lungs expanding, her breasts heaving in the push-up bra, her blouse pulled tight around them. She reaches slowly for the strawberry jam, averting her eyes from Carriveau’s cleavage only when she realizes Miss Ansell has caught her being less than subtle about her interest in her Housemistress’s breasts.

“
Non, merci beaucoup, Mademoiselle
,” she answers after a dazed pause.

“Very good.” Carriveau straightens up.

Clang!

Thunk!

Upstairs, a girl shrieks, her cry of displeasure followed by laughter and shouting.

Carriveau and Miss Ansell share a look, each waiting for the other to respond. Since the noises appear to be emanating from the left side of the house, it seems reasonable to assume that the Upper Sixth girls are responsible for the ruckus.

“Two of your girls,
non
?” Carriveau urges Miss Ansell to go.

Once the slightly homely geography teacher has cleared the room, Carriveau moves around the table, positioning herself behind Rylie, trailing a hand lightly up the teen’s arm and over her shoulder.

“You have such beautiful hair.” She unravels the tangled braid. “Other women would kill for this.” She digs her fingers in, dragging her manicured nails across Rylie’s scalp.

Rylie offers a soft murmur of appreciation, relishing the feeling of Carriveau’s long fingers running through her hair.

“Feels nice,
oui
?” Carriveau separates Rylie’s hair into three equal chunks. “But perhaps you should try a ponytail tomorrow?” She manipulates Rylie’s thick tresses gently but firmly. “I’m sure you can manage that?”

Rylie nods, unable to speak with her mouth full of toast.

“When you’re done, please fix your uniform.” Carriveau finishes off the braid. “You look like a ragamuffin, and I can’t let you leave the house like that.” She crosses to the other side of the room, pouring herself a cup of coffee from a freshly brewed pot.

“That’s not a very nutritious breakfast,” Rylie chides her, scoffing the last bite of toast. “Want me to make you something?”

Carriveau smiles wickedly, nursing her cup. “That would be an exception.”

Rylie gets up to deposit her plate in the dishwasher, but before she can get past Carriveau, two Lower Sixth girls burst into the kitchen, one chasing the other.

Barreling through the room without looking, the girl in front knocks into Rylie’s back, shoving her forward and into Carriveau, in turn forcing Carriveau against the countertop.

More concerned about spilling her hot coffee all over Rylie than she is about the sudden invasion of her personal space, Carriveau lifts the cup up and directs it toward the sink.

When the second girl comes in hot pursuit of the first, she knocks the plate clean out of Rylie’s hand. It tumbles through the air, and Rylie lunges for it, but …

Carriveau emits a reserved, involuntary ‘oof’ as their bodies collide, and the impact topples her sideways. Catching her before she loses her balance completely, Rylie makes a grab for anything she can get her hands around, resulting in another, stronger ‘oof’ when she makes contact with Carriveau’s rear.

It lasts but a second, Rylie’s hands hugging her tensed buttocks.

The plate smashes at their feet.

Carriveau jerks away, spinning to face the two unruly girls.

“
Arrêtez
!” she bellows, stopping them both instantly. “How dare you disrespect the rules of this house! No running!” She steps over the shattered plate. “Clean up this mess!”

She storms out of the room, and that’s the last Rylie sees of her until it’s time to depart for class. Rylie assumes she’s hiding in her study, and doesn’t expect her to come out until they’ve all left the house, so she’s surprised to find her standing patiently by the front door when it’s time for them to leave for morning registration and their first classes.

Fully prepared for this, the Upper and Lower Sixth girls line up in the hallway.

All but one, that is.

“What’s going on?” Rylie whispers to Gabby.

“A kiss goodbye.” Gabby blows her a smacker, grinning like a clown.