Authors: Keira Michelle Telford

Tags: #Fiction, #Lesbian

The Housemistress (26 page)

“Rylie!” A familiar voice calls her name, tapping her cheeks.

It’s Carriveau.

She helps Rylie out of the tub and sits with her on the floor, wrapping a towel around her shoulders, moving wet hair away from her face, ensuring that she can breathe unobstructed.

Blood is pouring over her nightdress, over her thighs, and pooling on the floor.

So much blood.

“Oh, darling!” Carriveau tugs the silk scarf off her neck and ties it around Rylie’s wrist, somewhat stemming the flow of blood. “The police are on their way. An ambulance, too.” She pulls Rylie to her chest, raising the gashed wrist up above the level of Rylie’s heart.

“How did you know?” Rylie croaks, sinking into Carriveau’s breast.

“Edwards sent an e-mail from your student account to every teacher at Larkhill, revealing intimate and explicit details of our …” Carriveau scrolls through a mental list of choices.

Affair.

Fling.

Indiscretions.

“… Relationship.” She holds Rylie in her arms, kissing and squeezing her. “When I realized she hadn’t left on the sixth form trip, I was afraid she might try to hurt you again.”

“She needs help,” Rylie murmurs hoarsely. “She’s a fucking nutcase.”

“
Je sais
.” Carriveau cries into Rylie’s wet hair, translating herself out of habit. “I know.”

“No, you don’t.” Rylie coughs, finding it difficult to breathe, her chest in chronic pain. “Kaitlyn didn’t kill herself—it was Adel.”

“What?” Carriveau’s tears stem, her concern for Rylie momentarily overridden by the recurring pain of this old, festering wound.

“Kaitlyn’s death wasn’t your fault,” Rylie asserts with conviction. “Adel got rid of her because she wanted you for herself.” Her breaths grow shallower by the second, her body limper and limper. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Carriveau breaks down, the release of her guilt dwarfed by the fear of losing another lover. “I love you, Rylie.” She tries to hold up the teen’s head. “I love you so much.”

“I know.” Rylie smiles, blacking out in her arms.

EPILOGUE

Several weeks later …

Carriveau pulls up outside a large, red brick country house in Kent, her tires crunching on the gravel driveway. A gardener waves politely to her and carries about his business, tending to the flowerbeds on either side of an ornate front door that’s framed by even more ornate marble pillars.

Taking a steadying breath, she glances down at the passenger seat and scoops up a fresh bouquet of purple orchids and white lilies, then steps out of the car.

Her long hair is unrestrained, bouncing over her shoulders, framing her face. Her tight black dress is slightly creased from the drive, but there’s nothing she can do about that now. Walking carefully over the gravel in her black patent stilettos, she approaches the front door and rings the bell, hoping her nerves aren’t too apparent.

Missus Harcourt—a surprisingly young blonde woman, yet to hit forty—answers, wearing pearls and a floral print garden dress.

“
Bonjour, Madame
.” Carriveau beams. “My name is Vivienne Carriveau. If you remember, we met briefly at the hospital after … well, some weeks ago. I was your daughter’s Housemistress at Larkhill.”

Missus Harcourt nods, casting her eyes over the French woman on her doorstep, her expression sour. “I know who you are.”

“These are for you.” Carriveau presents her with the flowers. “May I come in?”

“I suppose you’re here to talk about what happened? Now that it’s all over with.” The standoffish woman accepts the flowers and leads Carriveau into the front room, offering her a seat on an antique chaise. “I appreciate you coming all this way, but there was really no need.”

“
Madame
?” Carriveau questions her, looking around the room.

Everything is floral: the wallpaper, the furniture coverings, the rugs, and the lampshades. An older man, whom Carriveau recognizes as Mister Harcourt, is standing beside the fireplace, smoking a cigar, dressed in something he would probably describe as casual attire: trousers and a dress shirt, sans tie.

“We’re not going to take any action against the school,” Missus Harcourt explains, as if money could be the only logical reason for Carriveau’s visit.

“Oh, I—” Carriveau doesn’t get any further.

“You again,” Mister Harcourt mumbles, looking Carriveau over in much the same way as his wife had done, but with an added pinch of suspicion. “Why did Larkhill send you? We already agreed not to go to the press about this rotten business.”

“Actually, I’m no longer employed at Larkhill,” Carriveau sets them straight. “I’ve recently taken up a position at Grange Road Secondary School. That’s where Rylie studied for her GCSEs, no? I’m their new Head of Modern Languages.”

“Your point?” Missus Harcourt sighs.

“I wasn’t sent here,” Carriveau explains. “I came of my own accord.” She hesitates to add more. “The nature of my visit is … personal.”

A brief silence hugs the air.

Missus Harcourt clicks her jaw. “Hmm, well, what can I say? If you’re worried about the news of your sordid behavior with our daughter being made public, then you may sleep easier knowing that your reckless indiscretion is as much an embarrassment to us as I’m certain it must be to you.”

“With respect”—Carriveau remains outwardly calm, her nerves racked—“I’m not embarrassed about my conduct with your daughter. I fell in love with her, and for that, I feel no regret.”

“She was your student!” Missus Harcourt gears up for a verbal assault. “You’re lucky that awful child who attacked Rylie and took that other poor girl’s life is stark raving mad and no-one believed a word she said against you. Now she’s locked up in a loony bin and you’re here, in my house. Why? If not to apologize for taking advantage of a seventeen-year-old girl.”

Lost for words, Carriveau flaps her jaw, no sound escaping. Fortunately, she’s saved by the sound of socked feet rushing down a carpeted staircase.

Thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk …

Rylie appears in the doorway.

She’s wearing stonewash jeans, a white shirt, and a black waistcoat. Her hair’s down—and brushed, for once—her wrists adorned with leather wristbands, charity bracelets, and of course, her rainbow beads.

“Hi.” She grins at Carriveau.

“
Bonjour
,” Carriveau stands, patting the folds out of her dress.

Still grinning, Rylie dashes to her and pulls her into an embrace. “I’ve missed you so much.”

She buries her face in Carriveau’s hair, breathing her in deep, marinating in the comfortingly familiar scent of her perfume. Then, she pulls back to admire her outfit, holding her firmly by the hips.

“I feel underdressed.”

“Nonsense.” Carriveau fingers her long blonde locks. “You look perfect.”

“Perfect for what?” Mister Harcourt asks, killing the last of his cigar in an ashtray.

“We’re going out to dinner,” Rylie exclaims proudly, taking Carriveau by the hand, an angry red scar on her wrist peeking out from her shirt cuff.

“You most certainly are not!” Rylie’s mother gets to her feet, ready to physically restrain her child if necessary. “This woman is—”

“My girlfriend,” Rylie cuts her off. “This woman is my girlfriend, mum.”

“But she’s—”

“Amazing,” Rylie shoves words in her mother’s mouth. “And I love her, and I’m not giving her up for anything.” She tugs Carriveau toward the door. “Come on, let’s go.”

“Wait.” Rylie’s father stops them in the entrance hall while Rylie zips on a pair of ankle boots, his eyes flitting down to the entwined fingers of his daughter and her former teacher. “How do you think Grange Road Secondary would feel about this?” Carriveau is the focus of his words. “One of their teachers taking a sixth former out to dinner.”

“I shouldn’t think they’d have a great deal to say on the matter, since Rylie isn’t a student of theirs,” Carriveau answers boldly. “She attends the neighboring Grange Road Sixth Form College, which is an entirely separate educational institution.”

“We’re not doing anything wrong, dad.” Rylie sighs, grabbing her house keys. “So just let it go, yeah? I’ll see you later.” She rethinks that. “Maybe tomorrow, if my date goes well! But don’t worry, I promise I won’t let Vivienne get me pregnant.”

In fits of laughter, she pulls Carriveau out of the house and helps her across the gravel driveway back to the car, then pushes her up against it and lays a deep kiss on her.

“So you still want me?” Carriveau captures her lips again. “Even though I’m no longer your teacher? Or your Housemistress?”

“
J’ai envie de toi, Vivienne
.” Rylie holds her close. “
J’ai envie de toi
.”

About The Author

Keira Michelle Telford is the award-winning author of a dystopian science fiction series (The SILVER Series), its upcoming sequel trilogy (The SILVER Legacy), and a lesbian romance trilogy (The Prisonworld Trilogy), set in neo-Victorian London.

Website: www.keiramichelle.com

Twitter: @mylostanddamned

Facebook: www.facebook.com/keiramichelletelford

Goodreads: www.goodreads.com/keiramichelle

Amazon: www.amazon.com/author/keiramichelle

Works by this author:

The SILVER Series

The Amaranthe Chronicles

The Outlier Trilogy

www.ellacross.com

www.facebook.com/thesilverseries

The SILVER Legacy