The Housemistress (3 page)

Rylie wrinkles up her face, imagining eyeballs melting down her cheeks. “You what?”

“Gooey eyes,” Souliere repeats. “How you say?
Les yeux de l’amour
?”

The eyes of love.

“Goo-goo eyes?” Rylie translates, diverting her gaze to her plate of food, unaware that she’d been staring. “You think I’m making goo-goo eyes at her?”

Souliere giggles. “It’s okay. She’s making them at you, too.”

Sure enough, Rylie raises her eyes to the faculty tables once again and finds Carriveau looking right back at her. There’s a reserved, slightly lopsided smile playing on her lips, almost cheeky, but not overtly so.

Rylie’s heart thrums.

Arms laden with library books, Rylie follows Souliere inside one of the smaller boarding houses on the school grounds. They don’t bother to knock.

The spacious halls echo with laughter and giggles, the strong, welcoming smell of baking drifting through the air. To the left of the main entrance, there’s an open plan living area—the common room—complete with television, video games, beanbags, armchairs, and four sofas. To the right, there are three doors: one marked Carriveau, one marked Ansell, the other marked Study Room. In the center of the hall, a wide staircase leads up to the first floor, branching off left and right.

At the very back of the ground floor, there’s a large kitchen. It has enough seating for just under forty people, three sinks, two ovens, five microwaves, and more pots and pans than Rylie’s ever seen. Right now, the tables and counters are dusted with flour, fragments of egg shells, spilt milk, and the odd chocolate chip: they’re baking cookies.

Students ranging from sixteen to eighteen are mixing, kneading, rolling, cutting, and appear to be having a great deal of fun in the process. Carriveau is there in the midst of it all, offering tips and guidance, making sure nobody puts their fingers near the blades of the electric whisks, or touches a power outlet with wet hands.

At the largest table, one of Carriveau’s older—and least enthusiastic—pupils is kneading a powdery mixture in a bowl, barely dipping her fingers into it, afraid to make a mess.

“It’s cold and gloopy,” she complains, pulling a face.

Carriveau, the taller of the pair by more than a foot, swoops in behind the overly tentative young baker, leaving mere inches between them.

“It won’t bite you, Varlow!” She laughs, grabbing the girl’s hands and pushing them deep into the puddingy goop, forcing her to be much less delicate. “Work the ingredients together like this. See?” She manipulates Varlow’s hands, cookie dough splurging between their entwined fingers. “You have to be firm!”

Varlow giggles. “It feels icky!”

“But it’ll taste delicious.” Carriveau kisses the side of her head.

It’s chaste, brief, and motherly.

Announcing their presence, and the arrival of a newcomer into the fold, Souliere clears her throat, drawing Carriveau’s concentration away from cookie making.

“
Mademoiselle Carriveau
”—she grabs Rylie by the sleeve of her cardigan and pulls her into the kitchen—“
voici la nouvelle fille, Rylie Harcourt
.”

Carriveau peels herself away from Varlow, doing so calmly and slowly. “
En anglais, Souliere
.” She wags a mildly disapproving, dough-covered finger at the eleventh year pupil, reminding her to speak English. “
Combien de fois l’ai-je répété?
Vous devrez parler en anglais
, m
ême avec moi
.”

Rylie works the French over in her head: How many times must I repeat myself? You’re required to speak English, even with me.

“
Pardonnez-moi, Mademoiselle
.” Immediately realizing she’s made the same mistake twice, Souliere dips her head submissively. “I’m sorry, Miss.”

Not in the mood to harp on the matter, Carriveau turns her attention on Rylie. In silence, she sucks raw cookie dough off one of her fingers, her cherry red lips wrapped around the slender digit, sliding from base to tip as she regards the pretty blonde with the same intense interest she’d shown earlier in the hallway.

Afterward, she flits her eyes back to Souliere. “Before you go, tell me what you think of this.” She offers up another dough-encrusted finger.

The invitation is innocent enough.

Souliere takes a swipe of the sugary goodness on one of her own fingers and brings it to her mouth. “It’s good.” She savors it. “Very sweet.”

Before Rylie has a chance to wonder if she might be lucky enough to receive the same enticement, Carriveau’s eyes are already back on her.

“Have you any allergies, Harcourt?”

Rylie shakes her head.

“Good.” Carriveau holds the index finger of her other hand out. “So have a taste.”

Noting that the proffered finger is being held at mouth level for her, Rylie steps forward and puts her lips around the base of the tendered digit, maintaining eye contact with Carriveau all the while, surprising the French woman with her boldness. When she gets to the tip, she flicks her tongue against Carriveau one last time, puckers her lips, and closes her mouth in the motion of a kiss, gently slipping away.

In the wake of it, lost in the sensuality of it all, she forgets to speak.

“Well?” Carriveau prompts her. “Do you like it?”

Eager to impress, Rylie calls upon some of the French she learnt at her old school, hoping she can string a few decent words together without sounding like a complete fool.

“
J’aime beaucoup cela
.” She licks remnants of dough off her lips. “
Merci
.”

I like it a lot, thank you.

Carriveau’s mouth twitches, another smile trying to break free. “
Parlez-vous français
?”

“
Oui
.” Rylie squishes an inch of air between her thumb and forefinger, indicating a small amount of knowledge, not wanting to over-sell herself. “
Un peu
.”

Pinching the nail of her recently cleaned finger between her teeth, the moist fingertip resting on her lower lip, Carriveau finally lets the persistent smile escape.

“
Je vous aime bien, Harcourt
.” She follows that declaration with a translation, lest it should get misinterpreted. “I like you.”

Rylie is transfixed on her lips. They look so soft; so kissable; so—

“Take her to my study,” Carriveau directs Souliere, her command snapping Rylie out of a blossoming daydream. “I’ll clean up and be right there.”

Nodding compliantly, Souliere tugs on Rylie’s cardigan again and leads her to the room marked Carriveau. Inside, there’s a mahogany desk, cluttered with school books and test papers. One wall is completely covered by a custom-made bookshelf, while another is adorned with a small selection of Carriveau’s educational certificates. She has a frigging PhD in English language and literature.

Rylie starts tallying things up: gorgeous, French, smart. How much better could this get?

“You want me to wait with you?” Souliere offers.

Rylie shakes her head. “I’ll be fine. Thank you.”

“Have fun, then.” Souliere smirks. “
À bientôt
! See you soon! You’re a Larkhillian now!”

Alone in Carriveau’s study, Rylie sets her heavy books down on a leather sofa opposite the desk and begins to explore the bookshelf. Many of the books are, of course, about languages—including some that Rylie’s never heard of. One of these looks similar to French, but it’s called Occitan.

She fingers the spine of a book called
Occitan: A Beginner’s Guide to Lenga d’Òc
. The book’s author: Dr. Vivienne Carriveau.

Curious, she scoops the book off the shelf and flicks through it, becoming so absorbed in it that she doesn’t hear the door open and close behind her.

“You have interest in languages?”

Carriveau’s voice makes her jump.

“I’m sorry.” She snaps the book shut, startled to find her Housemistress sneaking up on her. “I wasn’t snooping. Honest.”

“Don’t be silly.” Carriveau makes her hold up the book, revealing the subject of her fascination. “Books long to be read as we humans long to be loved. It is their
raison d’être, non
?”

“I suppose so.” Rylie looks down at the book in her hands, curious to know what kind of language this is and why she’s never heard of it. “What is Occitan?”

“It’s a very old language from southern France. One of the Romance languages.”

“A Romance language?” Rylie’s never heard the term before.

“
Oui
.” Carriveau smiles, her eagerness to teach impossible to conceal. “Same as French, or Spanish, or Italian, which all derived from Vulgar Latin a long, long time ago. Unfortunately, Occitan is now rather endangered.”

“Endangered?” Rylie imagines people stabbing dictionaries with tiny spears. “Like snow leopards and black rhinos?”

“In essence.” Carriveau accepts the comparison. “Many of the people who speak it are advancing in their years, and if they don’t pass on the language to the next generation—as my grandmother did with me—it will slowly become extinguished, like a candle’s dying flame.”

“That’s so sad.” Rylie slips the book back onto the shelf. “Are you fluent?” She realizes the stupidity of the question as soon as it leaves her lips. “I guess you must be.” She reddens with embarrassment. “Can you say something to me in Occitan? I’d like to hear it.”

“
Mais bien sûr
!” Carriveau beams, thrilled to be asked. “Of course! How about a poem?” She offers that rhetorically, locking on to Rylie’s blues as she begins. “
Las! Qu’ieu d’Amor non ai conquis, mas cant lo trebalh e l’afan, ni res tant greu no·s covertis com fai so qu’ieu vau deziran. Ni tal enveja no·m fai res cum fai so qu’ieu non posc aver. Per una joja m’esbaudis fina, qu’anc re non amiey tan
.”

She pauses briefly to gauge Rylie’s response, then continues.

“
Quan suy ab lieys si m’esbahis qu’ieu no·ill sai dire mon talan, e quan m’en vauc, vejaire m’es que tot perda·l sen e·l saber. Tota la genser qu’anc hom vis encontra lieys no pretz un guan. Quan totz lo segles brunezis, delai on ylh es si resplan
.”

Reciting select verses from memory, she never once breaks eye contact.

“
Dieu prejarai qu’ancar l’ades o que le vej’anar jazer. Totz trassalh e bran et fremis per s’Amor, durmen o velhan. Bel m’es quant ilh m’enfolhetis e·m fai badar e·n vau muzan! Qu’apres lo mal me venra bes be leu, s’a lieys ven a plazer
.” She stops and smiles. “Would you like to know what it means?”

Entranced, Rylie nods.

“Alas! I haven’t gained, of love, but the torment and pain, for nothing is as hard to gain as that which I am seeking, nor any longing affects me as that for what I cannot have. I rejoice because of a pearl so fine that I never loved anything as much.” Carriveau’s heavy accent injects an extra layer of sensuality into words that are already brimming with feeling.

“When I am with her,” she goes on, “I am so astonished that I don’t dare vouch my desire, and when I part, it seems to me that I lose all my sense and my learning. The fairest woman one has ever seen, compared to her, isn’t worth a glove. When the entire world turns to darkness, light shines from the place she rests.”

She takes a deep breath, ostensibly affected by the beauty of the words even as they spill from her own lips, and when she moves into the last verse, a little heat rises into her cheeks.

“I shall pray God that I may touch her one day, or that I may see her go to bed. Awake or asleep, I quiver and am startled and shaken because of my love for her. It pleases me when she drives me insane, and makes me gape in stupor. For after the ill, the good will come. Soon, if such is her pleasure.”

Silence descends.

She looks away, if only to hide her blush. “It was written by a twelfth century troubadour called Cercamon. Not much of his work has survived.”

She moves toward her desk, leaving Rylie utterly dumbstruck and trying to wrap her head around what just transpired. Was that a poem? Or was that flirting? Maybe that’s how people with doctorates in language and literature do it. After all, the private recital of some twelfth century poetry written in a dying language is bucket loads more romantic than your bog standard chat-up line.

“Come now.” Carriveau breaks the silence, beckoning Rylie to the center of the room. “Let’s take a proper look at you.”

CHAPTER THREE