Page 2 of The Headmistress

“Okay, okay, you’re right, Sam, she deserves all the rest and recuperation she can get. We all do. I have to say that I’m quite envious of how flirty she is tonight, and it feels like she really doesn’t care who is watching. Perhaps the end of the school term is affecting her much more strongly this year?”

Of relatively small height, with astute blue eyes and a pale complexion, Orla Fenway’s appearance was a proud reflection of her Irish ancestry. A champion brooder with the ability to drink anyone under the table, she was also a well-established published poet in her own right, which seemed par for the course for her countrymen.

Headmistress Fenway had taken over the helm of the once prestigious and exclusive Three Dragons Academy for Girls twenty years ago and had kept the school from falling apart around her with the sheer force of her will, a firm hand, and probably a prayer or two. She walked the very thin line of dwindling funding and outrageous demands from a fickle and tightfisted Board of Trustees, and it took its toll on her. Joanne was right, she looked tired, worn around the edges, and something in Sam clenched at the thought of her mentor and good friend not projecting her usual air of confidence and infallibility.

As if sensing her unease, Joanne placed a hand on Sam’s shoulder with surprising gentleness after pretty much teasing her the whole evening.

“It’s the end of the year, we are all tired, it’s to be expected.”

Sam gave her a lopsided smile, grateful for Jo’s attempts to assuage her anxiety. But they both knew something was off. Yes, Orla was a notorious flirt and went through men faster than anyone else in Sam’s acquaintance, but her behavior was still rather unusual, for she was normally discreet when discretion was called for.

Orla wasn’t just a Headmistress and an educator. Her formidable style of teaching had inspired Sam to pursue pedagogical studies herself. She was also a dear friend, and when Sam graduated with honors from Boston College, the Headmistress extended the most coveted invitation of them all - to take over the Math Chair at Three Dragons Academy.

They enjoyed a relationship of vivacious camaraderie and quiet, leisurely evenings spent sipping tea on the deck of the small cottage located next to the sprawling school building.

Seeing her friend looking as gaunt and as worn out as she did, and to observe her behave—while not entirely out-of-character—decidedly in poor judgment, made Sam uncomfortable. Despite Joanne’s quiet assurance, she kept watching Orla circulate from one group of guests to the next, often returning to continue her overt flirtation with the young, handsome man from town.

Under Sam’s watchful scrutiny, the Headmistress, as if sensing that she was the subject of discussion, approached in a cloud of her signature scent. Roses. Initially, when Orla had started at Dragons, Sam found the scent cloying and distracting. With time and familiarity, she had grown to appreciate the strength and reliability of the flower. You could always count on a rose to be what it was meant to be, no more no less, the centerpiece and attention-grabber of any room. Roses did not pretend, did not hide or obfuscate. Roses reigned. And so did Orla.

As she approached, Joanne removed her arm from around Sam’s shoulders and stood just a bit straighter. Despite her friendliness with the staff, Orla still projected an air of forceful authority, even in the midst of a party.

“Oh, do stop hoarding our dear Ms. Threadneedle, Joanne! Other people, such as, for example, our dear History Chair over there on the other side of the room, are damn near pining themself out of their turtlenecks, observing how you are monopolizing this one’s time.”

It made Sam a touch uncomfortable to be the center of attention, so she tried to deflect it as soon as possible.

“You better be joking about David Uttley, Headmistress. I assure you, he has not been pining over me in the slightest.” Sam gave both her colleagues a quick glare before grabbing another glass of whiskey from the passing server. “Your jokes need work, Headmistress, but you always throw one hell of a party, I’ll give you that.”

“You were always a cheeky one, Sam. I saw you and Jo here keeping an eye on me tonight. I assure you, I’m going to behave. Or as much as I know how to behave.”

Sam snickered and earned herself a light smack on her bicep.

“Stop giggling, missy. And ouch.” Joanne rubbed at her knuckles. “When did you become skin and bones? All this running up and down and around the island, I never understood it, Sam. You run and you run and you get nowhere, cupcake. It’s still an island and you end where you begin.”

“It’s not about getting somewhere, it relaxes me!” Even to her own ears, the defense of her preferred way to exercise sounded weak. She ran to escape her thoughts, even though lately her thoughts chased her and overwhelmed her no matter where she found herself.

“Oh, we are all in agreement that you need some relaxing, hence the delectable Mister David over there may not be such a bad option.” It seemed that Joanne wasn’t the only one who made it her mission tonight to tease her, as Orla smirked and gestured again toward David Uttley who was lounging by the far wall, ever the removed observer, watching the three women from behind his horn-rimmed glasses.

Before Sam could roll her eyes or protest at another gauche attempt at matchmaking, Joanne elbowed her in jest, clearly amused at Sam’s predicament, and Orla raised her hands at their roughhousing.

“Children, children. Please, this is a party, not a sandbox at recess. I enjoy your jokes as much as the next gal, but for the love of god, keep it more or less civil before you scare all the handsome boys away.”

Orla rubbed her forehead, and Sam’s look turned to concern. Her own sparring with Joanne was par for the course, and in fact, they were notorious for their silly banter—something that was enjoyed by the entire school as it livened up their monotonous days. But Orla looked like she had a nasty headache that was giving her a lot of trouble.

“Before you go all mother hen on me, Sam Threadneedle, it’s just a headache. I will leave you and your partner in crime to your shenanigans since you’re bound to make it worse. You two keep each other in line enough to remember the teachers’ staff meeting tomorrow at the Mess Hall. And before y’all give me more of a headache over the unusual choice of venue for an official gathering, I just want to have coffee and eat a muffin in peace with my friends and colleagues before the end of the year. I don’t want to be surrounded by the townies and the racket of the pub. And I will have to clean my cottage for a week after you all depart later tonight. So the Mess Hall it is! Now, allow me to enjoy the company of someone who is hopefully much more fun than the two of you, dears. Sláinte!”

They watched her swan away and exchanged a puzzled look. Sam knew Joanne was just as surprised by the behavior on display from their normally unflappable leader tonight. Come to think of it, Sam tried to remember the last time she’d seen and interacted with Orla. Not in the past two weeks. The Headmistress had been in Boston in consultations with the Board of Trustees, a select group of people entrusted to steer Three Dragons Academy and its students, as their school motto suggested, along theViis Novis, the Latin term forNew Ways.

Sam often wondered what had stood behind choosing a radical motto like that in 1810. It must have taken considerable testicular fortitude on behalf of the founders to decide to go with it, especially for a newly established private boarding school for Protestant girls. Or it was yet another thing about Dragons that wasn’t quite what it seemed. Its first charter was overwhelmingly conservative even for the time of its inception.

Still, the motto had been so apt because women desperately needed new avenues back then. Not that a lot of women couldn’t still use all the help they could get to pursue new paths towards knowledge, education, and fulfillment today, Sam mused. And despite the charter’s conservatism, the school had always had the heart of a rebel.

* * *

Since Joanne had been pulled aside by an acquaintance whom Sam only vaguely remembered, she looked at the assembled group of friends and colleagues, trying to determine what her next course of action should be. The party was still in full swing. She could hear the PE teacher, Jen Rovington, attempting to convince her husband to do a jig with her, and several other teachers were already having a blast on the dance floor.

But despite the joy and camaraderie around her, Sam felt the walls slowly closing in on her and the air getting sparser and sparser. What she needed was solitude, if only because she kept retreating into her own thoughts and finding them in disarray. She felt uneasy, and not just about how out-of-character Orla was acting. Premonitions weren’t something she believed in, she was a scientist, a math nerd, and gut feelings were distinctly unscientific. And yet, she felt discomposed and out of sorts for no particular reason at all.

She wasn’t entirely sure it was such a good idea, all things considered, but when in doubt Sam Threadneedle oftentimes chose to play turtle, disappearing into the safety and peace and quiet of her imagination. It happened a lot these days, especially since she’d returned from her trip to New York and had seemingly left her sanity in the small hotel in the heart of Manhattan.

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