The Headmaster. Tiffany Reisz

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ Clearly a woman had worked here. Gauzy white curtains graced the windows. Instead of Headmaster Yorke’s carved wooden monstrosity of a desk, this little office boasted a petite writing desk with a feather pen and inkwell.

      “No computers?” she asked.

      “Computers?” Headmaster Yorke said with abject derision as if she’d asked where the dungeons were instead of the computer lab. “I don’t know what sort of school you think this is, but we have nothing to do with computers here. They can learn that in university if they wish.” He said the word computers like he was pronouncing a word in a foreign language.

      “Interesting. That waitress said Marshal didn’t let students have phones. No computers either?”

      “The students here use books. Books and pens and paper. Handwriting is taught here. The art of letter writing. I will not allow these boys to leave this school without knowing how to write a proper thank-you note. When you grade their work, you will grade their thoughts as well as their presentation. Form and content go hand-in-hand.”

      “So I have to grade their handwriting, you mean.”

      “Precisely.”

      “I can do that.”

      “You will do that,” Headmaster Yorke said as he closed and locked her new office door. “Since Miss Muir has left us, there have been no women on campus. You’ll likely feel unwelcome here and lonely.”

      Gwen looked up at him. She had to crane her neck a bit.

      “You’re very handsome and charming when you’re being overbearing and disdainful,” Gwen said.

      Behind his glasses, Headmaster Yorke’s eyes widened in momentary surprise.

      “Then I shall endeavor to be less overbearing and disdainful in the future.”

      “Pity,” she said.

      “As you will be the sole female resident at William Marshal, you’ll have your own cottage.” He stood by a window and pointed at a small Tudor home that sat back far behind the main building. Gwen inhaled and covered her mouth with her hand.

      “What is it?” Headmaster Yorke asked, sounding concerned.

      “Nothing…” Gwen shook her head. “It’s just so lovely. I get to stay there?” She looked at him and smiled.

      “Yes, for one week while you’re teaching.”

      “Thank you,” she said in a small voice.

      “It’s only a house,” he said, seemingly surprised by her enthusiasm.

      “I’m sort of homeless right now. I planned on sleeping in my car tonight. I can’t believe I’ll be staying in that house.”

      Headmaster Yorke looked at her and, for the first time, he seemed to see her. She wondered what he thought as he looked at her. His eyes were not unkind, only curious.

      “You were planning to sleep in your car? That’s not at all safe for a young woman. I would never allow that if I were your husband or father.”

      “No husband. No father. I’m on my own.”

      “Not anymore. You’re here at Marshal now and under my protection as long as you remain here. And you will not be sleeping in your car. That’s madness.”

      “I was moving to Chicago,” she said. “I have my whole life in the car, and I didn’t want anyone breaking into it.”

      “Better possessions stolen then your life endangered.”

      “You’re very chivalrous.”

      “I’m merely sane, Miss Ashby. Will you be missed in Chicago?”

      “No. I only know one person there, and she was going let me crash on her couch. So this…” She pointed at the cottage. “Thank you.”

      “You’re welcome, Miss Ashby,” he said, and for once all the glaring ceased. When he was glaring, he looked very handsome. When he wasn’t glaring…well, he probably should start glaring again or Gwen was going to have that sex-on-a-desk fantasy again. “But remember, this is only for one week. Don’t get comfortable.”

      “I’ll do my best,” she said, knowing she would likely never be comfortable in this man’s presence. Aroused maybe? But not comfortable.

      “The male instructors are in that cottage,” Headmaster Yorke continued. “If you require assistance during your time here, Mr. Price or Mr. Reynolds will help you. The dormitories are there and there,” he said, pointing at the two smaller buildings that flanked the main building. “The fifteen- and sixteen-year-olds are in Pembroke. The seventeen- and eighteen-year-olds are in Newbury. My quarters are on the top floor of this building—Hawkwood. The library is on the first floor. Classrooms on the second and third floors. Offices on the fourth floor.”

      “So you get the entire top floor? Nice.”

      “I am Headmaster. I need to be able to survey the entire school at all times—day or night. These boys are under my protection. Their safety is my duty and my responsibility, a duty and responsibility I take very seriously.”

      “I believe that,” she said when she saw the steadfast determination in his eyes as he surveyed the school grounds like a king on horseback surveying his realm. “I’ll go get settled into the cottage. I need to call my friend in Chicago first. Thank you. Thank you for everything.”

      Gwen turned and headed for the stairs.

      “Miss Ashby,” Headmaster Yorke called out after her. She paused at the top of the stairwell.

      “Yes, sir?”

      “Understand this, Miss Ashby—these boys are my students. I guide them, guard them… I won’t see them hurt or harmed or disappointed. The world is full of people simply waiting for the chance to disillusion them. But while they are under this roof, they are safe, they are encouraged, and they are cared for and protected. And they are educated.”

      He put the greatest emphases on the word educated.

      “I’ll take good care of them, I promise. And as for educated, I can promise they’ll be smarter by next Friday. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to unpack.”

      “Yes, speaking of that…” Headmaster Yorke strode toward her and stopped only inches from her. She ignored a thrill of excitement at his closeness. The English department at her school was easily ninety-percent women. The few men she knew were all married and older. None of them had Headmaster Yorke’s presence. Stop it, Gwen. No crushing on the boss.

      “Speaking of packing bags?” she asked.

      “Yes. Your wardrobe.”

      “My wardrobe? What about it?” she asked.

      “I would appreciate if you dressed…”

      Gwen looked down at her clothes. Her blouse was a V-neck. Maybe a bit too much v for the headmaster’s liking?

СКАЧАТЬ