“How conservative? My skirts go to my knees.”
“I would prefer floor-length, but I suppose that’s impractical.”
“I’m afraid I didn’t pack my parka and nun’s habit.”
“This is a school of teenage boys. And a young woman as lovely as yourself might prove to be a distraction.”
Gwen's hands tingled. Third lovely in one hour. Maybe the crush was mutual?
“So you do think I’m lovely?”
“I’ve seen worse.”
“I appreciate the miserable attempt at a compliment, Headmaster.”
“You’re most welcome, Miss Ashby.”
“I’ll try to find some burlap bags.”
She started down the stairs.
“Miss Ashby?”
“Yes, sir?” She paused on the landing.
“If for whatever you reason you decide not to stay here with us, please allow me to apologize for my ill temper. I was not expecting you. Or anyone. Since Miss Muir left, we’ve had no ladies here. I believe I’ve forgotten how to behave around one.”
“Thank you, Headmaster. I appreciate that. I didn’t take anything you said personally. Except for the part where you said you found me lovely. I promise you won’t regret giving me this chance.”
“I might not regret it. But perhaps you will.”
She thought he was making a joke, but no amusement shown in his eyes or on his face. She smiled at him anyway.
Smiling still, she left the main building and headed for her car. She took another look around. Beautiful…so beautiful was William Marshal Academy that she wanted to take a picture of everything she saw—the turrets, the Tudor cottages, the winding cobblestone paths, the stained glass windows. She could scarcely believe it was real.
She pulled her phone out of her bag and found that she had no bars at all. Not a huge surprise. The waitress had warned her the area was a cell phone dead zone. Gwen walked down the path but picked up no signal at all. She’d try contacting Tisha again tomorrow. She headed back to Hawkwood Hall to retrieve her things from the headmaster’s quarters. In a row of windows on the second floor she saw the faces of thirty teenage boys staring at her—a question in their eyes.
“He’s letting me stay!” she called out to them.
They cheered the news, and Gwen could only shake her head in wonder. In what world were teenage boys excited to get a new English teacher? Was this North Carolina or Heaven? Whatever it was, it was her home now for one week.
One week. And then maybe…just maybe…forever.
Gwen carried her things from Hawkwood to the cottage Headmaster Yorke had said would be hers for the week. She couldn’t believe she would get to live here permanently if she got the job. With fingers trembling from excitement, she turned the key in the lock and stepped into an elegantly appointed foyer. On her right she saw the parlor with antique patterned sofas and carved wooden chairs. On her left she spied a smaller room with a writing desk. She had her own office here, too? Wonderful. She wouldn’t even have to use the one at the school. Then again…the headmaster had warned her not to get comfortable. Did he have no intention of keeping her on at all after a week? She knew she’d pass a background check, and as long as she had a place to live and three meals a day, she could live on a small salary. All she could do was her best and keep her fingers crossed that the headmaster liked what he saw. She certainly did.
Someone had been in the cottage already and turned on the lights for her. Something about the house seemed so familiar to her. This cottage had the same sort of lighting as her grandparents’ house, the same sort of table lamps and flickering yellow bulbs. A moth danced around the Tiffany-style ceiling light. She let it be. No moth had ever hurt her. She welcomed its small, fluttering company.
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
