The Headmaster

“I didn’t see any statues in the courtyard.”

“That’s because the experiment succeeded.”

“Oh, my.” She almost said something about the movie Real Genius and how it could have been worse—the headmaster could have ended up with a building full of popcorn or an indoor ice rink. But she kept that reference to herself.

“Indeed. It would be unfair of me to ask such a young and lovely woman to give up her life to teach here. I must insist you return to where you came from.”

Gwen might have agreed with him. She might have left. She might have packed things up and packed it in and packed off to Chicago like she’d originally planned.

But he’d called her lovely now. Twice.

She wasn’t going anywhere.

“I think I’d like to stay if you’ll have me.”

The headmaster raised his eyebrow and Gwen blushed.

“Have me as a teacher here,” she continued. “I’ve never met students who were that excited about Shakespeare. Please let me teach them.”

The headmaster stared at her. He seemed to be weighing something in his mind. Her merits? Her virtues? The pros and cons? Maybe he was just imagining throwing her down on his massive desk and having his way with her? Probably the former.

“You may stay,” he said, and Gwen opened her mouth to thank him. He raised his hand to silence her again. “For a one-week trial period. It will take a few days for you to get things sorted out, and I wouldn’t want you to leave until we were sure you’re completely healed anyway.”

“One week. I can handle that.”

“There’s something you must understand about this school before stepping into a classroom. The William Marshal Academy is not a normal school. It’s not an average school. It’s not a typical school by any means. Other schools say they want to train students and make them leaders. A leader is nothing. A leader is simply one who leads, and a bad leader can lead an army into Hell. I want these boys to be heroic, brave and wise. Like our namesake Sir William Marshal, the greatest knight in history.”

“I think that’s a very noble purpose,” she said, admiring Headmaster Yorke’s vision for the school and his passion for improving not only the minds but also the characters of his students. “And I promise I’ll do what I can to help.”

“I’ll simply be relieved if a week passes and you’ve not done them irreparable harm,” he said and pointed at his desk. “This is my office. Do not bother me when I’m working in it.”

“Can I bother you when you’re not working in it?”

“No.” He stood up and snapped his fingers. Obediently she rose to her feet. Hero or leader or simply handsome headmaster, she was ready and willing to follow him anywhere. Or at least into the hallway. “The other teachers have their offices in this hallway, as well. Mr. Price teaches math and science. Mr. Reynolds teaches history and philosophy. I’ve taken over the teaching of literature as Miss Muir has left us.” He pointed out various classrooms, offices and the supply room.

“Where did Miss Muir go?”

“I can’t say.” A shadow of something crossed his eyes.

“Can’t say or won’t say?”

“Both and neither. Miss Muir is none of your concern. Your work will be your only concern. This is your office you may use during the week you’re here.” He took a key ring out and opened the door. She loved the quaintness of the keys. These weren’t cut at Home Depot on a machine. They looked like skeleton keys, a jailer’s keys from a Wild West sheriff’s office or keys to a castle gate. He opened the door and she peeked into the office. 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?”