The Housemistress (2 page)

“
Merci
,” the woman purrs her thanks in French, checking the books to make sure she’s managed to save them all from the onslaught of the weather.

The girl—about Rylie’s age, her mousey-colored hair cut into a bob, her cheeks rosy from running to get out of the rain—hangs the umbrella on a rack near the doors, then returns to the woman’s aid.

“Can I help you with anything else, Miss?” She holds her hands out to take the books.

“I don’t think so, Edwards.” The woman rejects the offer, her thick French accent making every word sound warm and sensual. “You’re all wet.”

That shouldn’t sound dirty, but it does. The woman’s positively oozing sexuality. Black stiletto heels accentuate long, stockinged legs, the hem of her pencil skirt a tasteful distance above her knees, her ass and hips hugged tightly by the formfitting fabric. Her cotton blouse is snug around the bust, the top four buttons left undone, creating a plunging neckline that reveals a splash of bare, milky skin, no jewelry to draw attention away from it.

Long hair in the deepest shade of brown is tied harshly back, neat bangs parted in the middle, not quite long enough to reach her eyebrows. As she brings a hand up to tuck a stray wisp of hair behind her ear, an amethyst cufflink catches the light. The shade of dark purple matches her earrings, which match the accenting in the frames of the reading glasses on her head, the arms tucked into her hair.

Sensing the attention of someone’s eyes, she looks over and meets Rylie’s gaze. Her lips are painted come-fuck-me red, slightly parted and curled into a small smile. Mascara-coated eyelashes flutter, her emerald eyes shimmering in the glare of the foyer lighting.

Rylie’s not sure how much time passes this way, with blue eyes hooked unwaveringly on green, neither female able to break away, but it feels like hours.

“Are you new?” the woman asks at last, taking a step closer, turning her back on the other girl. “This is your first day?”

Rylie nods, clasping her hands behind her back so that she doesn’t fidget. “Yes, Miss.”

The woman keeps advancing, her stiletto heels clicking on the tiled floor. She has an elegant sway to her hips, the movement of her body hypnotic, her poise graceful and self-assured. When she gets within arm’s reach, she extends a hand toward Rylie’s face and fingers some hair out of her eyes, trailing a fingertip down her cheek as she moves the wayward lock of hair aside, lost in a reverie.

“You’re very beautiful,” she coos softly. “
Une très belle fille
.”

Over her shoulder, the wet girl is dripping onto the floor tiles, glowering. Rylie can see the look of disdain on the girl’s face, but gives little regard to it. The gorgeous French woman is fawning over her—this is epic!

Much to her disappointment, though, the door to the Headmistress’s office suddenly swings open, causing the woman to withdraw in a flash. Physical contact between a teacher and a student is, after all, meant to be explicitly prohibited.

“I must go.” The French woman checks her watch, excusing herself immediately. “
Bienvenue à Larkhill
!” She welcomes Rylie to the school as she heads for the main staircase, calling over her shoulder to wish the newcomer good luck. “
Bonne chance
!”

Rylie is left feeling a little dazed. Did that really just happen? They didn’t even exchange names. Who the hell was she? There’s no time for contemplation. Her parents step into the foyer, followed by the Headmistress, Missus Bursnell, who sets on her without pause for any pleasantries.

“You’ll have to brush that mop of hair and tie it back.” She peers at Rylie’s ears, examining her earrings. “Simple studs are permitted, but all other jewelry is forbidden.” She examines one of Rylie’s hands, picking at her black nail polish. “Clear nail lacquer only. You’ll find polish remover in your dormitory bathroom.” She drops the offending hand. “I’ll fetch someone to give you a guided tour of the school, and that’ll be all for today. You’ll start classes as normal tomorrow morning.” She hands over a thick pile of school supplies, naming them off one by one. “Year Twelve day planner, class schedule, book list, house rules—”

She goes on, but Rylie stops listening. Now in her late fifties, Missus Bursnell’s probably been a teacher her whole adult life. At least, that’s the impression Rylie gets. She has a practiced austerity about her, and a face that makes it appear as though she seldom smiles. Her lips are thin, slightly pursed, her cheeks somewhat gaunt. She has jowls, almost like a bulldog, as if all the plumpness from her face fell to her jawline when she hit menopause.

While one eye works actively to take in every detail of her surroundings—from the torrential rain outside, to the small puddle of water left behind where the scowling girl was standing before she practically chased the French woman up the staircase—the other eye remains eerily still. The two eyeballs aren’t even the same color. One is paled from age and encroaching blindness, while the other is a rich hazel. The fact that it’s a false eye couldn’t possibly be any more shockingly apparent, even if it still had the price tag on it.

When she’s done thrusting various things into Rylie’s hands, including a key for her sixth form house, which she’s told to guard like the Crown Jewels, Missus Bursnell pulls a cell phone from her pocket and taps out a quick message to one of the teachers in the building.

While waiting for the teacher to read the message and send forth the student who’s been chosen to conduct the tour, Rylie’s parents make a hasty departure, taking advantage of a temporary lull in the rainstorm. They tell her to behave, follow instructions, try to get along with everyone, and adhere to school rules—all the usual parent bullshit.

In the rush, they forget to say ‘I love you’, but that’s not an uncommon oversight in the Harcourt household. Rylie stopped giving it too much thought a long time ago, and now’s certainly not the moment to dwell on it. The doors are barely closed behind them when a bubbly girl with braided hair that’s so blonde it’s practically white runs down the staircase into the foyer, her rubber-soled shoes slapping against the tiles.

“No running!” Missus Bursnell barks before introducing them. “Set a proper example, for goodness sake.” She shakes her head at the girl, tutting her disapproval. “Harcourt, this is Ellie Souliere, one of our Year Eleven girls. She’s been a pupil here for almost five terms, and she’ll be your tour guide this afternoon. It’ll do her some good to practice her English with you.”

As if being deliberately belligerent, Souliere ignores that last comment and holds her hand out to Rylie. “
Bonjour
.” She smiles warmly. “
Ça va
?”

“English, Souliere.” Missus Bursnell sighs. “Don’t be so stubborn.” She shoos them both away. “Off you go now.”

Grinning, Souliere grabs Rylie’s hand and leads her away, excited to break with routine and spend the rest of the day leading the new girl around campus instead of being stuck inside a classroom doing algebra.

“What’s your name?” She speaks slowly, pronouncing each word carefully.

“Rylie.”

“Rye-lee,” Souliere repeats to herself, thinking it over. “I like it very much,” she concludes. “Which house have you been assigned to?”

Rylie consults one of the many sheets of paper in her bundle of supplies. “Carriveau.”

“
Ah
!
Mademoiselle Vivienne Carriveau, la plus belle femme du monde
!” Souliere clasps a hand over her heart. “You have the most luck! She’s the best Housemistress in the entire school. French, too,” she adds with pride.

French? Rylie perks up at that. Could Carriveau be the woman she met in the foyer? The provocative, high-heeled brunette could certainly fit Souliere’s enthusiastic and theatrical description: the most beautiful woman in the world.

“Are you in her house, too?” Rylie wonders, amused that Souliere is so besotted.

Souliere shakes her head. “Not yet had the chance.” She points to an emblem on her blazer that identifies her as a Year Eleven pupil, en route to take her GCSE examinations in the coming summer. “
Je suis trop jeune
. That is, I am too young.” She checks out a slightly different emblem on Rylie’s cardigan. “You are Lower Sixth,
oui
? Year Twelve?”

Rylie nods. AS-level examinations will await her in the summer months.

“Sixth formers are housed separately,” Souliere goes on to explain. “More freedoms and such. Like using an iron without supervision and doing your own laundry.”

“And Miss Carriveau is nice?” Rylie fishes, wondering how much more Souliere will divulge about this intriguing Housemistress.

“
La meilleure
!” Souliere grins, proclaiming Miss Carriveau to be the very best. “
Mademoiselle Carriveau est merveilleuse
! You’ll love her—everyone does. Just make sure you don’t … how to say it
en anglais
…” She racks her brain for the right wording in English. “Tumble on her with love?”

Rylie snorts. “Fall in love with her?”

“
Oui
!
C’est ça
! That’s it!”

“Why would I fall in love with her?”

Souliere shrugs. “You wouldn’t be the first
fille en mal d’amour dans la maison de Carriveau
, and you don’t want to end up with a broken neck like the last
ex-copine
.”

Rylie has trouble with a number of elements in that sentence. She wouldn’t be the first girl in Carriveau’s house to get lovesick over the Housemistress—that much she understands. But a broken neck? A poorly translated broken heart, she assumes. And
ex-copine
? The context suggests more than friendship. Ex-girlfriend? An exaggeration maybe.

She can think of at least fifteen different follow-up questions right off the bat, but doesn’t get to voice even one before the bell rings and students spew into the hallways.

Chaos erupts.

CHAPTER TWO

Much to Rylie’s increasing frustration, Souliere manages to drag out the tour for the entire day. They don’t stop until dinnertime, when they head straight to the refectory for something to eat.

As per Missus Bursnell’s rigid structuring of mealtimes, all students in years seven through eleven are required to eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner together in the refectory, as opposed to cooking for themselves in the kitchens of their respective houses, which the Lower and Upper Sixth students are allowed—and encouraged—to do.

The main doors to the refectory are closed to students at six o’clock sharp, and the children are served according to their year, beginning with Year Seven and ending with the sixth form. For tonight only, Rylie is permitted to sit with Souliere at the long bench table reserved for Year Eleven girls. In the future, if she wants to eat meals here, she’ll take a place at the sixth form table instead.

Once they’re all seated, another set of doors is opened to any members of the teaching staff who would rather eat here than go to the trouble of having to make their own evening meals, and they take their places in a separate area of the refectory, cordoned off from the student body by an ornate, wrought iron balustrade.

Barely listening to any of the conversations going on around her, Rylie keeps her eyes pinned to the faculty tables. The French woman is there, conversing with three other teachers, all speaking in heavily accented English, frequently slipping into either French or German, or something else entirely. They must represent the entire languages department, Rylie thinks, and they seem somewhat isolated from their peers. Apparently, even adults have cliques.

Rylie nudges Souliere with her elbow. “Is that Miss Carriveau?” She tips her head in the direction of the French woman.

“
Oui
.” Souliere grins. “She’s pretty,
non
?”

“When do I get to meet her?”

“I’ll take you to her house soon, after we pick up the books you need from the library.” She pronounces it lie-berry, drawing out the final syllable for an extra beat. “But be careful,
mon amie
, I think you have gooey eyes over her already.”