The Headmaster

So quiet…so peaceful…so serene. She heard no traffic from the highway this far back in the woods. Silence reigned here, an almost unearthly silence. Closing her eyes she could almost hear her own heartbeat, her own breathing.. After living next door to college students for years, Gwen considered the silence a taste of paradise.

The school might be quiet now, but every floorboard in the old cottage creaked as Gwen carried her luggage through the hallway and up the stairs. She counted fourteen steps on her way up. She could walk from one end of her old apartment to the other in fourteen steps. Now she had an entire cottage to herself. Two whole stories. A grand parlor. An office. A kitchen and dining room… She laughed when she opened the door to the bathroom and saw the antique claw-foot bathtub. She would live in that bathtub. It could fit two people in there easily. Two people? Not a terrible idea. She allowed herself a single second to imagine herself and the handsome headmaster in that bathtub.

She pushed the thought out of her head. No. Bad girl. He might be tall and devilishly handsome when he was talking at her in his posh British accent, but she knew better than to get involved with a coworker, let alone a boss. There were rules against that. Good rules. Smart rules. Sensible rules. She would follow them.

Unless he didn’t want to.

Gwen opened the door to the master bedroom.

“Wow,” she said aloud. She’d never seen a bigger, grander bedroom in her life. The bed itself wasn’t much larger than a double, but it had a blue-and-gold embroidered headboard that arched four feet over the top of the pillows. The bed linens were white and lush and soft. She sat on the edge of the bed and sank deep into the sheets. She wondered why Miss Muir, the previous literature teacher, had left this place. Who could walk away from this sort of beauty? Gwen loved it here already.

On the nightstand sat an oil lamp. A real live oil lamp. Gwen hadn’t seen an actual oil lamp in years. Her grandparents had a couple as backups for when a storm knocked out the electricity. Gwen opened a drawer and found a book of matches. She struck a match and lit the lamp. Firelight danced across the room. She put the matches back and noticed a book tucked far back in the drawer. She pulled it out and saw it was nothing more than a Bible. Not the typical hotel room Bible, however. This one sported a genuine leather cover—black and supple. She flipped open the front page and saw a name written inside it. “This Holy Bible belongs to Rosemary Leigh Muir.”

So this Bible belonged to her predecessor then? Headmaster Yorke had been annoyingly cryptic about what had happened to the woman who’d once held the position of English literature teacher at Marshal. Perhaps she’d quit the job after an argument. Perhaps she and Headmaster Yorke had disagreed over the curriculum. Perhaps she’d grown tired of the year-round schedule? But she was gone now, and Gwen was here instead.

For the first time Gwen considered the reality that she was the one and only woman at William Marshal Academy. Would this cause any sort of problem? Surely not. The boys were all far too young for her to see them as anything but boys. She’d always preferred older men. Cary had been almost thirty when they’d started dating shortly after her twenty-first birthday. Headmaster Yorke appeared about forty—the perfect age in her estimation. Old enough to have achieved maturity and wisdom. Young enough to still be…Gwen paused and searched for the right word.

Virile. Virile was the right word. He might be the glasses-wearing headmaster of a boarding school, but his deep voice, broad shoulders and overwhelming presence made him the picture of masculine virility.

Gwen put the Bible back into the drawer before she accidentally happened upon that verse that said something about not lusting after your new boss. She should try to find out what happened to Miss Muir so she could mail her book back to her. Although Gwen wasn’t particularly religious, she respected the beliefs of others. It might be a family heirloom, too. According to the copyright date on the inside, the book had been printed in 1920. A ninety-year-old Bible was certainly worth something to someone if only for sentimental value.

She laid the mystery of Miss Muir aside while she unpacked her bags and settled into the house.

Gwen decided to spend the entire weekend working on a lesson plan. The boys said they were sick of Ivanhoe. It must be Headmaster Yorke’s favorite book, but she hadn’t even read it. Sir Walter Scott appeared on none of her college or graduate reading lists. Last semester she’d taken a seminar on the Brontës. Great books, but probably a bit too girl-oriented for a class of nothing but boys. No romances for a while—not until they learned to trust her judgment. She’d ease them into the Brontës and Jane Austen in time. Charles Dickens was always a good bet. Boys loved Dickens. David Copperfield might be too long for a one-week trial. Great Expectations? Possibly. Young Pip aids a convict, meets a crazy woman, falls in love with cold-hearted Estella and learns valuable life lessons about who is and who is not his friend. Young readers loved crazy Mrs. Havisham in her decaying wedding dress, and the moldy rat-eaten wedding cake. A wonderfully Gothic tale. She’d start there with the boys. Hopefully they hadn’t read it yet.

All Friday night, Gwen mentally composed her lectures. Monday she’d introduce them to the life and works of Charles Dickens and give them an introduction to Great Expectations. Tuesday they’d talk about the first three chapters. She had it all planned out. A perfect week. Headmaster Yorke would never want to let her go.

Teaching…walking…talking with students…reading…meetings with the headmaster…long meetings…dinner meetings…breakfast meetings…

And then a bang sent Gwen jumping a foot in the air. She’d been so lost in the quiet of the cottage she’d almost started to believe everyone had gone to bed. She dashed down the stairs to the front door and opened it. Two boys stood outside on her porch.

“Boys…hello there,” she said. “Christopher was it? And Laird?”

“That’s us,” Laird said. “We came to say hello and see if you needed anything.”

“We’re the welcoming committee,” Christopher said. “So…welcome.”

“A committee of only two?” she teased.

“More boys wanted to join the welcoming committee,” Christopher explained. “But they weren’t welcome.”

Gwen laughed and the boys smirked and nodded at one another.

“Well then, I’m glad you two took the time out of your not welcoming people onto the welcoming committee to welcome me to Marshal. This is a beautiful school.”

“Thank you,” Laird said with a bow. “I built it all by myself.”

“You did a spectacular job. Can I have a tour?”

“You can, but that’s not our area. We’ll have to send you the touring committee for that.”

“Who’s on the touring committee?”

“Everyone who’s not welcome on the welcoming committee,” Christopher said with only the slightest trace of his stammer.

“So what does the welcoming committee do since they don’t give tours?” she asked, crossing her arms and leaning on the door frame. The boys looked at each other again.

“I don’t know.” Christopher ran his fingers through his hair. Cute kid. He had a young John Lennon look about him with his shaggy haircut, suit and skinny tie. “We formed the committee about five minutes before we knocked on your door.”

“We should have planned this better,” Laird said. “Sorry, we haven’t welcomed anyone before.”

“You didn’t welcome Miss Muir when she got here?”

“She was here before us,” Christopher said. “And she wasn’t all that welcome.”

“You didn’t like her?” Gwen asked, curious about her predecessor.

“She didn’t like us very much,” Laird said and shrugged. “Her loss. And our gain. We have you, and you like us.”

“Very much,” she said. “And I like the school, too. So far.”

“Tell her the thing.” Christopher prodded Laird in the arm.

“The thing?” Laird asked. “Oh, the school thing. Sure. I can do that.”

Laird paused and cleared his throat. Christopher hit him in the chest.

“The William Marshal Academy,” Laird began his speech, sounding like a well-rehearsed tour guide, “was founded in 1893 by General John Foley, gentleman hero of the Union Army.”

“The school,” Christopher continued, “was established to take the best young men of America and train them in the ways of academic scholarship and ethical learning.”

“The school motto is Fortius quam fraternitas nullum est vinculum,” Laird said.

“There is no stronger bond than brotherhood,” Christopher translated for her.

“That’s very impressive,” Gwen said applauding.

“You should also know that Thursday night is roast beef night, so try to have something to do on Thursday night,” Laird said.

“Not good?” she asked.

Christopher mimed slicing his hand across his throat.

“Good advice,” she said. “I’ll be sure to take it. Anything else I need to know about the school?”

“Headmaster Yorke isn’t married,” Christopher said.

Gwen pursed her lips at him.

“What?” he asked. “I thought that was important information.”

“The headmaster’s personal life is none of my concern,” Gwen said. “Has he ever been married?”

Laird raised his eyebrow at her.

“I said it’s not my concern,” Gwen said. “I didn’t say I didn’t want to know.”

“She has a point,” Christopher said.

“So?” Gwen asked.

“He was married,” Laird said, nodding. He leaned in closer. “I heard he’s…you know.”

“What?” she whispered.

Christopher looked around as if checking for spies.

“The D word,” Christopher said in an even lower whisper.

“Deranged?” Gwen asked. “Demonic? Dying?”

“Divorced,” Laird said, his voice strangely grave.

“Oh.” Gwen shrugged, amused by how shocked the boys were over a divorce. “It happens.”

“Does it?” Christopher asked. “My parents said they’d rather die than ever get divorced.”

“I’d rather die than ever get married,” Laird said.

“You and me both,” Christopher said. They shook hands. “But the headmaster should get married.”

“He needs a wife,” Laird agreed. “Someone younger than him so she can keep up with him. I caught him reading Shakespeare’s First Folio in the northwest turret last week. He was correcting it.”

“Younger. Definitely. And pretty. But she has to be smart, too,” Christopher said. “He’d go bonkers unless he had a smart wife. He needs someone to lecture to.”

“Pontificate at even,” Laird said.

“Someone who isn’t us,” Christopher said.

“Boys? Can I ask you a question?” Gwen asked.

“Anything, Miss Ashby.”

“Did you cajole Headmaster Yorke into hiring a new literature teacher because you need a new English literature teacher? Or are you all trying to play matchmaker for the headmaster?”

Christopher looked at Laird. Laird looked at Christopher. They both looked at her. This was becoming a habit of theirs.

“Yes.”

Chapter Five

After Gwen kicked the welcoming committee off her porch, she spent all of Friday evening settling into the cottage. On Saturday she had breakfast in the school dining hall—coffee, eggs and an English muffin. The rest of the day she wrote out her lecture notes on Great Expectations. It wasn’t until she written ten pages of notes that she realized she hadn’t yet checked to see if they had any copies of the book in stock at the school.

Oops.

She ran to the library in Hawkwood Hall to see what books they had on hand she could teach, and found it well stocked with all the great classics. All the great classics written before 1900, that is. She’d found Mr. Reynolds, a wizened gentleman with a cane, and asked him where all the Hemingway, Faulkner and Fitzgerald books were.

“Headmaster Yorke doesn’t approve of modern literature,” he’d said. “I hide them in the back.”

“Modern literature? Hemingway? Modern?” Gwen laughed. “He’s hardly Franzen or Foer.”

“Who?” Mr. Reynolds asked. He adjusted his eyeglasses. They had thick lenses and black frames. They looked like the sort of glasses her grandfather had worn while in the army. He had a hawk nose and a willowy rasp to his voice. He could have been anywhere between sixty and a hundred years old. Gwen guessed closer to one hundred.

“What about Great Expectations? I’ll need thirty copies of it.”

“Of course,” said Mr. Reynolds. “I have them right here.”

He passed a box to her, the books already inside.

“You have them? All of them? Boxed up already?” She was torn between suspicion and delight. Mostly delight.

“We have every book you’ll need,” Mr. Reynolds said with a wink behind his Coke-bottle glasses. “Just ask.”

“Every book I’ll ever need? Sounds like Heaven,” she said with smile.

“It’s a library,” he said. “To me it’s the same thing.”

That was the moment Gwen knew she had to stay at this school the rest of her life. These were her people.

Gwen signed a slip of paper for her books, and Mr. Reynolds peeled off the carbon copy and gave it to her. Carbon copies? Hilarious. One more bit of antiquity that had survived and thrived at Marshal. This school was weird, but it was a good kind of weird. Her kind of weird.

Headmaster Yorke seemed determined to give his students a classical education. No modern technology was in sight. Apart from electricity and one ancient-looking telephone on the third floor of the main building, she’d seen no technology at all. No cell phones, no laptops, no Kindles or iPads or anything. Instead students read leather-bound hardcover books and wrote diligently while hunched over in the library study carrels. From the kitchen window in her cottage, she saw some students out on the lawn playing a stripped-down version of baseball. No catcher, just a pitcher and batter and a few boys scattered around the bases. Their laughter and playful insults kept her entertained for an hour.

That evening she had a quick dinner in the dining hall. She sat with Mr. Price, who told her all about his years at Marshal. He’d been here twenty years, he’d said, and loved every single day here.

“And Headmaster Yorke,” she asked, trying to keep her voice neutral. “How long has he been here?”

“Ten years,” Mr. Price said. “We worried that the new headmaster was an English gentleman when he came. Didn’t know if he’d melt in the heat.”

“Doesn’t look like he did.” Gwen glanced across the room where Headmaster Yorke stood in quiet conversation with another student. The student had a notebook in his hand, and he and Headmaster Yorke appeared to be going over a bit of homework.

“He surprised us all. Took to this place like a duck to water. Never met a more dedicated headmaster in my life. Good man.”

“Good man when he’s not threatening to murder the students, right?” she teased.

Mr. Price chuckled. “My dear, that man would die for these boys and they know it. I can’t tell who’s more loyal to whom—the headmaster to the students, or the students to the headmaster.”

Loyal? What a strange word to use about high school students and their principal. Had she felt any loyalty to her teachers? Not that she recalled. Affection? Yes. But loyalty? It was a military term almost. Patriots were loyal. Soldiers were loyal. Did the students consider themselves squires, young knights-in-training loyal to King Edwin of Yorke? He certainly had a regal bearing to him. Head high, strong jaw, perfect posture, broad shoulders that belonged on a soldier far more than a teacher. And such penetrating eyes. Every few moments he’d glance her way, and she felt his gaze on her as much as she saw it.

What was he trying to see when he looked at her? She didn’t know, but she did love the way he looked at her. She wondered if he was lonely here at the school with all this responsibility and no one to share it with. Maybe she could ease his burdens a bit by taking over the literature classes. He fascinated her. What brought a man all the way from England to become headmaster of a boarding school of only sixty students in the middle of nowhere? And was he divorced, or were Laird and Christopher just guessing? If he was divorced, what happened? Did she come with him to America and hate it here? Did he leave her? Did she leave him? Gwen could certainly sympathize with being left behind. They should talk about it, get to know each other. If he was half as good and noble as Mr. Price said Headmaster Yorke was, she could only benefit by befriending him. If he was a king and the students his knights, surely he could use a lady in his court.

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