The Housemistress (13 page)

“There was an accident here last year,” Carriveau answers vaguely, herding Rylie back toward the door they both crept in through.

“What kind of accident?”

“A girl lost her life.” Carriveau ushers her out into the corridor, avoiding eye contact. “It was very tragic.”

“Did you know her well?” Rylie pries, unaware that the nerve she’s picking at is still incredibly raw.

Fortunately, thanks to a well-timed school bell, Carriveau is released from answering.

CHAPTER NINE

Rylie, the last student to arrive, rushes into her English Language class and slinks into the seat beside Gabby.

“This oughta be fun,” Gabby grumbles, doodling daisies in her notebook. “I heard Miss Carriveau’s been in a foul mood all day.”

Rylie shrugs. “I was just with her. She seems fine now.”

“Yeah? Is that ‘cause she was giving you some more”—Gabby waggles her fiery eyebrows—“private lessons?” Grinning, she scooches back in her chair, parts her legs, and gyrates her hips, uttering a short burst of sex noises.

“Stop that!” Rylie slaps her arm. “Those private lessons were to help me catch up with this term’s French syllabus,” she lies. “I’m not having sex with Miss Carriveau!”

In the midst of that declaration, the noise level in the room drastically drops.

Cringing, Rylie swivels to face the door, knowing instinctively that Carriveau’s standing there, having heard every outspoken word.

“No, you’re not,” the seemingly unflappable Housemistress confirms for the class as she closes the door behind her. “No matter how much you might want to.”

The class erupts in laughter—entirely at Rylie’s expense—but Carriveau takes it in her stride, letting them get a few good guffaws out before she restores order and forges on with the lesson.

Much to Rylie’s relief, the incident soon seems forgotten. The sporadic muffled snickering dies down—stamped out by Carriveau’s tight rein—and minds turn to coursework instead of gossip. That is, until Rylie puts her hand up to answer a question and is rewarded with a “
Très bien, ma chérie
” instead of a “Well done, Harcourt.”

Carriveau corrects herself without pause, but the retraction doesn’t stop a wave of jeering ooooohs from rippling around the room, completely drowning out whatever it is she says next. Of course, Adel doesn’t join in; she’s too busy fuming in the back row.

Then, the bell rings.

Forgetting their manners in the wake of such hilarity, the students rise from their chairs, gathering up books and bags, chattering amongst themselves without waiting to be dismissed.

“Ahem.” Carriveau clears her throat, making them stop in their tracks. “Did I pause for breath and give you all the impression I was done speaking?”

Bums rapidly plunk back into seats.

“
Merci
.” She begins again. “I have your marked assignments from last week, so collect them from me on your way out, and don’t forget that your creative narratives are due in on Monday.” She rises from her desk with a stack of papers in her arms, opens the classroom door, and prepares to release her ill-mannered pupils. “Now, you may leave as I call your names.” She shuffles the assignments, holding out the one on top. “Adamson.”

A girl in the back row gets up, collects her paper, and leaves, and Carriveau works her way down the stack, offering feedback where appropriate. It’s no surprise to Rylie that she’s the last student called, and she has no objection to waiting a few extra minutes for freedom if it means a few extra seconds alone with Carriveau.

“Pay special attention to my notes on the last page,” Carriveau says, handing her a very respectable A-minus. “And I’ll see you later,
ma chérie
.” She winks, making light of her slip-up.

Out in the corridor, Rylie flicks through Carriveau’s red pen notations, seeing that she’s been caught on two misuses of a semi-colon, a typing error, and a few poor vocabulary choices. She flips to the back. Beneath a short commentary about her writing style, and possible improvements she could make, there’s the most important thing of all: an invitation.

Around the corner from the classroom, Rylie stops in her tracks, unable to take her eyes off the page. In fact, she’s so focused on Carriveau’s words, and the promises they might hold, that Adel’s able to completely blindside her.

She’s shoved up against the wall before she can register the hostility in Adel’s actions, and the air’s knocked out of her lungs. She tries to draw breath, but can’t. An intense, crushing pressure at her lower right side causes her to double over, wheezing.

Her first ever punch in the ribs.

Then, Adel’s hand is on her throat, forcing her upright, pinning her to the wall.

“Stay away from Vivienne,
ma chérie
,” she snarls, promptly storming off.

In over two weeks, those are the first words Adel’s said to her.

Rylie lingers in the students’ bathroom outside the refectory, staring at her reflection in the mirror. It’s almost six o’clock, and Carriveau is probably already back at the house, making dinner for them both, expecting her arrival imminently.

She dithers, suddenly unsure of herself.

Every time she takes a breath, her chest hurts, and when she lifts her shirt to expose her ribs, she’s not in the least bit surprised to find a large purple bruise forming in the spot where Adel thumped her. Is Carriveau worth that?

Duh.

Adel can suck it.

She snatches up her backpack and hightails it back to the house, hoping that her last minute arrival won’t give away her momentary uncertainty. Stepping into the house without making any noise, she drops her backpack by the staircase and listens.

The house is quiet, except for the occasional clink of plates and cutlery, and there’s an intoxicating smell drifting from the kitchen. Sneaking down the hallway, she peeks in on Carriveau, finding her standing by the stove, sautéing something in a shallow pan, her jacket slung over the back of a chair.

Looking pensive, a slight frown creasing her brow, the French woman checks her watch for the umpteenth time, the furrows of tension dissolving when she spies Rylie loitering in the doorway.

“
Bonsoir
.” She smiles. “I was afraid perhaps you weren’t coming.”

“You thought I’d stand you up?” Rylie cuts through the room and plants a firm kiss on Carriveau’s cheek, broadening the older woman’s smile, bringing on a flush of color.

“Well, you’re just in time.” The blushing Housemistress holds up two fingers. “This many minutes, then we eat.”

“How did you know we’d have the house to ourselves tonight?” Rylie stays close, running a hand down Carriveau’s back, tracing the curve of her spine.

“You know what day it is? Everybody loves the cook’s cottage pie.” Carriveau stirs and tosses the sizzling veggies. “Even Miss Ansell, and she’s notoriously difficult to please.”

“You didn’t fancy it?” Rylie slips her hand lower, onto Carriveau’s bum.

“Let’s just say I can think of at least one thing in this house that I fancy a lot more.” The Housemistress’s blush intensifies, but she shows no desire to remove Rylie’s hand from her posterior. “Anyway, I can only take so much of your English food.”

At
least
one thing? Cynically, Rylie finds herself wondering how many other girls have ever been invited to dine with Carriveau alone.

Banishing that thought to the back of her mind, she nibbles on Carriveau’s shoulder, continuing to fondle her bum. “What’re you making?”

“
Ratatouille niçoise
. It’s an Occitan dish from my home in
Provence, la Côte d’Azur
.”

“Sounds romantic.”

“It’s meant to be.” Carriveau nuzzles her hair. “I want to apologize for being so hostile toward you in class. My personal feelings for you, no matter how complicated, should never be allowed to compromise my teaching.”

“So you really do like me, then?”

“You can’t tell?” Carriveau pushes her
derrière
into Rylie’s hand.

“No, I mean … more than the others?” Rylie gives her a squeeze. “More than Adel Edwards?”

“Why?” Carriveau takes the pan off the heat and dishes up their dinner, her expression giving nothing away. “Has she said something to you?”

Deciding it best not to mention their little spat in the corridor, Rylie shakes her head.

“She has an infatuation, that’s all.” Carriveau kisses Rylie’s cheek, handing her a plate. “It’s nothing for you to concern yourself with.”

Rylie takes a seat next to Carriveau at one of the smaller tables, not sure if her ribs would agree that the matter is none of her concern. Still, she lets the subject go, satisfied enough to know that she’s the one here with Carriveau while Adel eats with the masses in the refectory.

Indeed, now that she’s here—feeling foolish for nearly chickening out—she’s keen to make the most of this time alone, and so launches headlong into flattery and flirtation. “You have lovely hair. Why do you always wear it up so tight?”

“It makes me look stern.” Carriveau bites into a chunk of green pepper. “It helps to compensate for the fact that I’m actually a bit of a soft touch.”

“Fair enough.” Rylie would give anything to have a better knowledge of her ‘soft touch’, but thinks better of verbalizing something so overt and cringe worthy. “I guess I really shouldn’t complain anyway.” She loads food onto her fork. “I’ve seen pictures of you with your hair down, and I reckon I’d have too much competition for your extracurricular affections if you walked around like that all the time.”

“No, you wouldn’t.” Carriveau chuckles. “Lesbianism isn’t contagious just because there aren’t any boys around.” She spears a piece of zucchini with her fork. “For most of the girls here, I’m merely an outlet for their adolescent hormones. I’m a convenient entity for them to thrust their attentions upon. By projecting their unfulfilled desires onto me, they feel less … frustrated. I’m a pressure valve.”

“So you don’t mind everyone gawping at you all the time?”

Carriveau chases an evasive chunk of eggplant around her plate. “I sympathize. It’s difficult to be cooped up in this place without the freedom to express yourself—particularly sexually—and I consider myself a surrogate for the girls here in many ways: a mother for most, a sexual object for some.”