The Headmaster

He opened the door with one hand and with the other hand he covered his eyes.

“I have your things from your car,” Laird said, his hand still shielding his eyes.

“No, you don’t,” she said. “You have nothing with you.”

“I couldn’t carry the bags, open the door and cover my eyes all at the same time.”

Gwen smiled. Not that Laird could see that smile what with his eyes covered. He looked about seventeen or eighteen with dark red hair and a sweet face—what she could see of it.

“If you can handle seeing a woman in a bathrobe, you can uncover your eyes,” she said. “If you can’t, just back away slowly and I’ll get my own things.”

“I can handle it,” he said and lowered his hand. He stared at her through narrowed eyes. “Are you married?”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m not asking for me,” he said.

“No, I’m not married.”

“Good. You’re hired,” Laird said. At that an arm reached into the room, clapped down on Laird’s shoulder and dragged him bodily back out the door.

In his place her suitcase appeared.

“It was nice to meet you,” Laird called out from behind the door. “Please stay forever.”

“Nice to meet you, too, Laird.” She walked over to her suitcase and bent over to pick it up. It was then she realized Headmaster Yorke was still standing outside the bedroom door and had likely seen straight down the bathrobe. She flushed crimson and he merely looked past her.

“Dinner is in half an hour,” he said, his voice cold and strained. “You’ll dine here in my quarters. I won’t subject you to any further scrutiny by students. Yet.”

“I’ll get dressed,” she said.

“That would be an excellent idea.” He placed meaningful emphasis on the world excellent.

She dressed in the best clothes she owned—a pencil skirt and white blouse—and in half an hour she went looking for the headmaster. What she found was an elegant mahogany dining table laden with food (whitefish in sauce, celery hearts, chilled honeydew melon) and wine (red and blush). It was a feast for a king, but the king never showed. When the headmaster said she’d be dining in his quarters, she’d assumed it would be with him. She didn’t want to think about why his absence disappointed her. She wanted to talk about a job—that was why. Of course.

Disappointed or not, she still ate every bite on her plate and then some. When was the last time she’d eaten so well? Living on a TA’s income had meant living on student rations. Now sated, Gwen left the table and wandered the headmaster’s quarters.

From the window by the dining room she saw she was on a high floor of a building. She must have been five stories up. How had she gotten here? Someone must have carried her up the stairs to this place. Had it been a student? Had it been the headmaster himself?

Gwen walked from window to window as she tried to get her bearings. From her high vantage point, she could see a square stone wall outlined the perimeter of the grounds. Outside the wall the forest loomed dark and wild. Inside the wall she saw nothing but manicured lawns, walking paths and several other buildings. Gwen was clearly in the tallest of the buildings. To the left and right of her, she saw two smaller buildings of wood and stone. Another building peeked out from the back. Cobblestone walkways connected all the buildings to each other. A turret of sorts rose up from each corner of the wall. Turrets? Stone walls? Ivy? The school was far more evocative of a medieval French fortress or an old Ivy League college than a Southern high school.

What it was, if she had to pick only word, was beautiful. Breathtakingly, heart-stoppingly, daydream-inducingly beautiful. Already she sensed herself falling under the spell of the school. She could hear the heels of her shoes clicking on the cobblestones, books under her arms. She could see herself sitting on the stone bench under the overhanging oak tree grading papers. She could imagine herself here, teaching, happy.

She’d never let herself hope or dream that she’d be happy—really happy, not just not miserable—someday. Maybe when she was a kid she had assumed happiness had been possible for the likes of her. But that was before her mother had died of cancer when she was little and her father of a heart attack when Gwen had been a freshman in college. She’d found stability if not grand passion with Cary. But then she’d lost him, too, when he’d gone to follow his dreams. Safety and stability was her definition of happy.

But…

What if she was a teacher here? What if she did stroll those paths, sit under that tree, teach a student like Laird and take orders from someone like Headmaster Yorke? Then…maybe…just maybe…she could have safety and stability and happiness.

Or maybe that was just another dream?

Gwen left the headmaster’s quarters and found the steps that led downstairs. She wanted to see her car and assess the damage. But once she reached the second-floor landing she heard the sound of voices in a faraway room. Talking and laughter. She followed it to the source.

She walked past closed doors that led to empty classrooms. It was evening. Of course no one was in class. But something was happening, something behind the door at the end of the hall.

Gwen opened the door and stepped into a magic forest.

Chapter Three (#ulink_f6727fd8-97bf-5fc7-bf59-8fb99e62dbe9)

The magic forest was made of paper and Christmas lights. Once she stepped through the door, she felt a hand on her elbow. Headmaster Yorke pulled her by his side and raised a finger to his lips to silence her. He nodded, and she looked ahead at the play in progress.

A boy with dark hair and a slight stammer stood in the center of the paper forest and looked around as if lost.

“Do I entice you?” the boy asked. “Do I speak you fair? Or, rather, do I not in plainest truth, tell you I do not, nor I cannot, love you?”

“Christopher Hayes.” Headmaster Yorke whispered the name into her ear, and Gwen shivered at the feel of his breath on her neck. “He could barely get a full sentence out when he started here at Marshal.”

“Born with a stammer?” she asked.

The headmaster nodded.

“And now he’s acting in plays?” Gwen was incredulous. Not only because Christopher acted in a school play with a stammer, but also because none of the students teased him when his voice stalled.

Again the headmaster nodded, but this time she could see the gleam of pride in his eyes and the smile that threatened to take over the severe lines of his face.

Laird she recognized at once with his red hair. He wore a tablecloth like a skirt over his school uniform. The boys in the audience whistled and he rolled his eyes.

“Shut it,” he yelled at the crowd. “I’m trying to Shakespeare over here.”

That only incited more whistling and laughter.

“I forgot my lines. Line?” Laird called out.

“And even for that do I love you the more,” Gwen called out the next line. “I am your spaniel. And, Demetrius, the more you beat me, I will fawn on you.”

The room fell silent. Every pair of eyes had turned to study her.

“Use me but as your spaniel,” Laird continued the scene. He looked into Christopher’s eyes and spoke again. “Spurn me. Strike me. Neglect me. Lose me. Only give me leave, unworthy as I am, to follow you.”

Gwen stepped back into the shadows and the play continued. Side-by-side with the headmaster she watched until the intermission at the end of the second act. As the boys in their costumes and uniforms rearranged scenery, Headmaster Yorke lead her out into the hallway.

“You have A Midsummer Night’s Dream memorized?” he asked her.

“Yes, and Hamlet, Richard III, Henry V, and most of the comedies—the good ones.”

“You’re not an actress, are you?”

She laughed at the disdain in his voice. Why were the English so good at disdain?