The Headmaster. Tiffany Reisz

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.”