The Headmaster (7 page)

Her attraction to Headmaster Yorke had been instantaneous, overwhelming and irrepressible. She’d never seen a more attractive man in her life. Even his rudeness endeared her to him. The more he pretended to dislike her, the more she adored him. She sensed the good heart in him and knew he pushed away his own attraction to her out of an overdeveloped sense of propriety. He was the headmaster. She, a teacher. Just because the students wanted them together didn’t mean they should hop into bed.

Not yet anyway.

She’d wait until she got the job first.

By evening she’d mostly forgotten about the mysterious bride. She trusted Headmaster Yorke. If he said The Bride, or whoever she/it was, wasn’t a threat to the school, she would believe him. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t going to try to figure out who she was or what she was doing skulking around the school at night.

Gwen slept like the dead that night, and she woke up refreshed and invigorated Monday morning. A bell rang—the start of the school day. She dressed in her best grey skirt and blouse and her 1940s-style heels. She’d never figured out what they were called. She just liked the little ankle strap.

She put all her notes into a portfolio, put her portfolio into her messenger bag and strode with more confidence than she felt to her classroom. The boys, every last one of them, were on time and sitting in their seats.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” she greeted them.

They all stared at her in silence.

“You all can talk,” she said. “I mean, one at a time.”

They remained silent, but she saw them giving each other the side-eye, daring someone, anyone to speak first.

“He has you all too well trained. Laird, how are you?”

“Fine and dandy, Miss Ashby,” he answered and then gave her a jaunty little salute.

“Wonderful. Christopher? How are you?”

“Fine, Miss Ashby,” he said, his voice squeaking a little.

“Very good. I’m going to try to learn everyone’s names. I may need you all to help me out a little.”

The boys each took a piece of paper out of a notebook and scribbled something across it. Gwen watched with curiosity as they all folded the papers in half and set them up on the edge of their wooden desks. Nameplates. They’d all created nameplates.

“Well,” she said as she now had all their names in front of her. “That’s handy. Thank you.”

“We had to do that for Miss Muir,” Christopher, who was sitting next to Laird, said.

“Smart lady. I hope I can fill her shoes.”

“You can,” Laird said. “Your feet are bigger than hers.”

The whole class tittered with laughter.

“Boys,” came a male voice from the door. “Let’s give Miss Ashby our attention and respect.”

Gwen saw Headmaster Yorke now standing in the doorway, his hands in his jacket pockets. It seemed to be his best attempt at looking casual and relaxed. It was, to say the least, a total failure.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“I’m Headmaster. I’m observing. Carry on. Pretend I’m not here.”

“All right everyone, get under your desks. It’s nap time.”

The class burst into laughter. Laird was already under his desk.

“Miss Ashby?” Headmaster Yorke intoned.

“What? You said to pretend you weren’t here.”

She smiled at him, a smile he didn’t return.

“Just kidding. No napping. Let’s get started. I thought we’d read
Great Expectations
this week. Charles Dickens. Any Dickens fans here?”

All the boys raised their hands.

“I refuse to believe you all are Dickens fans.”

“We read
A Tale of Two Cities
last term,” Laird said. “It was a ripping good yarn.”

“A Tale of Two Cities?”
she repeated. “That’s pretty impressive. We didn’t read that until college.”

“Marshal Students,” Headmaster Yorke began, “are given a university-level education here at the pre-university level. You can challenge them, Miss Ashby. I assure you they can keep up.”

“Really?” Gwen drummed her fingers on her desk.

“He means it,” Christopher said. “Try us.”

Well, that was a challenge she couldn’t quite resist.

“Try you? This should be fun.” Gwen glanced at Headmaster Yorke, who waved his hand at the class. He seemed to be daring her as much as the boys were.

“What’s the significance of the year 1623 in English literature?“ she asked. “Anyone?”

Christopher raised his hand. “First Folio,” he said when she pointed at him. “That was the year thirty-six of Shakespeare’s work were collected and printed. If that hadn’t happened, Shakespeare’s plays might have been lost to the world.”

“They’d been printed before,” Laird said.

“Yes, but the First Folio has the only definitive text of about twenty of the plays. People would sit in the audience and take dictation. The texts were a mess.”

“A veritable Shakespearean tragedy,” she agreed. “Why is Dante’s greatest work known as ‘The Divine Comedy’ when it’s not at all a comedy?”

“I don’t know about that,” Laird said. “I laughed at the scene where the man carrying his severed head like a lantern. He raises his head up in his hand to see better.”

“I wouldn’t quite call poor Bertran de Born a laugh riot,” she said. “Although it is a striking image.”

A young man raised his hand and Gwen called on him. His nameplate read “Samuel” and he was, regrettably, the only black student in the class.

“All works of literature,” Samuel said, “were divided into the two classic genres of comedy and tragedy. A tragedy ended in a death. A comedy ended in a marriage. Since no one dies at the end and Dante the Pilgrim is closer to God at the end, Dante the Writer considered it a comedy.”

“Correct,” Miss Ashby said. “Who can tell me the year the first Bible was produced in English?”

A boy named Steven answered that question. 1526 by William Tyndale. Another student—Jefferson, who had a deep Georgia accent—recited the entire Gettysburg Address for them and put the speech into its historical context. Ten more questions—all of them things she’d learned in either college or while working on her Master’s degree—the boys answered without hesitation.

“Okay,” she said, nodding her head. “I’m convinced. There’s not a young man in this room who couldn’t go off to any college in the country tomorrow and excel there.”

“You’ve barely even scratched the surface, Miss Ashby,” Headmaster Yorke said. “Watch this. Gentlemen,
virescit vulnere virtus.”

“Courage flourishes beyond from a wound,” the boys translated.

“
Quoniam diu vixesse denegatur, aliquid faciamus quo possimus ostendere nos vixisse,”
Headmaster Yorke said.

“As length of life is denied to us, we should at least do something to show that we have lived,” the boys answered.

“And who are we quoting? Laird?”

“Cicero,” Laird answered.

“
Homines, dum docent, discunt.
Alan?”

“Men learn while they teach. Seneca.”

Headmaster Yorke gave her a pointed look.

“Women too,” she said.

“I don’t know the Latin for that,” Alan said. Gwen forgave him.

“Deficit omne quod nasciture,”
Headmaster Yorke said.

“Everything that is born passes away. Quintilian,” a blond boy named Stanley translated.

“And one final one in French,” Headmaster Yorke said. “
Tous pour un, un pour tous.”

“All for one and one for all!” the boys shouted with gusto.

Gwen applauded. “Great job. That’s wonderful.”

“This school was found on the classical principles of virtue, wisdom and duty,” Headmaster Yorke said. “Faithfulness, loyalty, striving through hardship and brotherhood are what Marshal students embody. An educated populace raises up an entire community, an entire country. Learning is a civic duty. One of these young gentlemen might be the next Dr. Salk discovering the next vaccine for the next polio. They understand that they aren’t learning to merely uplift themselves or to impress a teacher, but learning to change and improve the world that gave them life.”

“Although…” Jefferson with the Georgia accent said, “we do like impressing the teachers.”

“I’m beyond impressed,” she said. “I’m honored to have a chance to teach you.”

“Then carry on,” Headmaster Yorke said, beaming like a proud father at his boys.

“With pleasure,” Gwen said. She took the copies of
Great Expectations
off the shelf and started to pass them out. “I think you’ll all like this book. Christopher, will you read the first page for us?”

And so it began. Christopher started to read and the class listened with rapt attention. She gave them a short biographical sketch of Charles Dickens, his wife and many, many children. A prolific man in many respects—ten children, fifteen books.

The first day of class went better than she’d dreamed. The students asked interesting questions about Dickens and the story they were about to read. What did the title mean? Dickens wrote many young characters. Did he write the books for his children to read? Why did he give Pip the worst name in literary history? Gwen reminded the boys that in the nineteenth century the word
pip
was a common synonym for the seeds found inside fruit. She could almost see the little light bulbs switching on over their heads, the name Pip suddenly holding new significance for them.

At the end of class, Gwen assigned the first five chapters of the book to the boys to read that night. The last time she taught
Great Expectations,
she’d only assigned the first three chapters. But the Marshal students seemed to thrive on a challenge.

The boys filed out of her class at the sound of the bell. They were loud but orderly. She kept waiting to hear profanities but the boys kept a civil tongue. Once the classroom was empty of students, Headmaster Yorke came to her desk.

“A good first day,” he said. “You kept their attention. And mine.”

“Thank you. I love the book. I think that helps.”

“You won’t always be able to teach books you love.”

“I don’t know. I love to read. I’m sure I can find something to love in almost any work of literature. Except maybe
Crime and Punishment.
Hate that book.”

“It’s a bit grim,” Headmaster Yorke agreed. “Most of Russian literature is.”

“I promise I won’t foist
Anna Karenina
on the boys.”

“I shall thank you on behalf of the students for that act of mercy.”

“You’re welcome. I’ll teach them
War and Peace
instead,” she said with a wink.

“They would read all fourteen-hundred pages of it if you asked them to, Miss Ashby.”

“I doubt that. They’d do it for you, though.”

“Nonsense,” the headmaster said.

“I saw them trying to impress you today. You’re their hero,” she said.

“Hero? Me? Hardly. Shakespeare is their hero. Cicero. Sir William Marshal, who this school is named after, are their heroes.”

“They adore you. I’ve never seen this sort of hero worship. They weren’t trying to impress me today. They wanted to make you proud.”

“They did make me proud. They always make me proud.”

“I hope I can make you proud, too,” she said.

“Keep up the good work and perhaps you will.”

He gave her a slight smile, enough of a smile to make her blush.

“I should get ready for my next class. It’s nice that this is such a small school. I can give the students so much more attention.”

“They thrive with personal attention. Russell has a little trouble with reading comprehension. You should make him read aloud. If he reads aloud he remembers nearly everything he reads. But if he reads silently to himself, he retains very little of it.”

“That’s good to know. Is there anything else I need to know about the students?”

“A great deal.”

“Maybe we should talk about them in depth. Tonight. Over dinner,” she said.

Headmaster Yorke stared down at her. Gwen pasted on a bright smile in an attempt to look innocent.

“You are merciless,” he said. “And stubborn.”

“I’m not asking you for anything inappropriate—like tea.”

“No tea?”

“No tea and no concupiscence. I promise. Just dinner and discussing matters relevant to the students.”

“Well…as long as we discuss only matters relevant to the students…”

“I’m sure you have dinner with Mr. Price and Mr. Reynolds on occasion, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Then wouldn’t it be odd if you and I didn’t have dinner together? Wouldn’t it be as if you were giving me special treatment in the form of neglect?”

“We can’t have anyone thinking I’m singling you out.”

“No, we can’t.” Gwen nearly batted her eyelashes at him but thought that would be overdoing it. “In all seriousness,” she continued, forcing herself back onto the topic, “I really want to be the teacher these boys need. It’s a work dinner. That’s all. We don’t even have to look at each other. We’ll sit back-to-back and talk.”

“Very well,” he said. He pointed his finger at her. “Work talk only. And I’m only allowing you to have dinner with me because I want my students to have the best possible education. It isn’t because I like you and enjoy your company.”

“Of course not.”

“Although I do.”

Gwen smiled up at him.

“Dinner at eight?” she asked.

“That would be fine. But no tea.”

“No tea at all,” she promised.

“Good.”

“I’ll bring wine instead.”

The headmaster only shook his head and walked away.

Gwen would have liked to stay and watch him walk away. He looked almost as good from the back as she did from the front.

But she had things to do.

Teach a class.

Plan a lecture.

Eat some lunch.

Get ready for dinner with the headmaster. She didn’t care what he said about only discussing students. That was all smoke and mirrors. She knew it. He knew it. They both knew it. This wasn’t a work dinner.

This was a date.

Chapter Seven

Gwen’s second class went as well as her first, and her third class even better. With such a small student body every class was like an intimate conversation instead of herding class like her old teaching job had been. These kids had manners, real manners, old-fashioned manners. Someone—the headmaster most likely—had drilled good behavior into them. She’d be sure to thank him for that unexpected gift tonight.