Smoky Mountain Reunion. Lynnette Kent
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demands on her time and energy from people who always wanted more. She could escape at Hawkridge as well as anywhere else, maybe even better.
Long walks in the mountains, good books to read, easy math to teach—those were her goals for the next few months. If she could help some of the students at Hawkridge, then she’d feel her time well spent.
She didn’t need Mason’s friendship anymore, or his advice. He’d dismissed her when she was eighteen, and she would return the favor now.
Stepping through the garden gate, Nola saw her path was about to merge with that of a young woman approaching with strong, athletic strides. Her hand lifted in greeting as she drew close.
“You’re Nola Shannon, right? I’m Ruth Ann Blakely, the riding instructor. Welcome to Hawkridge.”
“Thank you.” Nola fell into step with Ruth Ann on the cobblestone walk. “It’s good to be here. The mountains are so gorgeous this time of year.”
Ruth Ann glanced at the hills surrounding them and drew in a deep, appreciative breath. “We’re having a really nice spring. I still think fall is my favorite, though. I love the richness of the colors.”
“Do you live in one of the cottages?”
The trainer nodded. “Barrett’s. It’s nearest the stable, done in blues. I hate pink. Are you sitting at the head table tonight?” When Nola nodded, Ruth Ann gave a low whistle. “It’s a little unnerving, sitting up there above the rest of the dining hall, knowing everybody’s watching and waiting for you to choke on your food.”
Nola grimaced. “I hadn’t thought about it quite that way.”
“Or you could dribble gravy down your front.”
“Thanks so much for the suggestion.”
Ruth Ann looked her over. “I’m thinking you don’t suffer from accidents of that kind, though. Me, I always seem to leave the table with something on my shirt. Last year, the first time I sat at the head table, I dribbled raspberry sauce on my white blouse.”
“So you’re fairly new to Hawkridge yourself?” They’d reached the paved service road leading to the Manor.
“Yes and no. I only started full-time teaching last fall. But I grew up at Hawkridge, more or less. My dad was the trainer until I took over. My grandfather managed the stable for Howard Ridgely.”
“I liked riding,” Nola said as they climbed the steps of the east entrance to the house. “Though I wasn’t devoted the way some girls were. Still, shouldn’t I remember you?”
Ruth Ann opened the heavy mahogany door for Nola to enter. “I groomed and tacked up the horses in the barn and Dad would lead them out for the students to mount. You wouldn’t have seen me too often.”
She shrugged as she came into the hallway. “But I run my program differently. If you want to ride, you need to know how to take care of the animal. I don’t treat these girls like princesses. They may be rich, but they’re still human.”
Nola winced. “Ouch.”
The other woman stopped, thunked the heel of her hand against her forehead and groaned. “Sorry. Tact is not my strong suit. I didn’t mean to insult you. I’m just saying—”
Smiling again, Nola shook her head. “It’s okay. Hawkridge has always been criticized for being too exclusive and costing too much. I’m surprised they haven’t made some changes by now.”
“There are scholarships available nowadays, a few more each year. Miss Agatha was a real snob, though. She’s probably turning over in her grave to see the ‘lower classes’ getting a chance to attend her school.”
“It’s about time.” The paneled doors along this hallway opened into the math and science classrooms. Nola wondered which one would be hers when classes started on Monday. Which one was Mason’s?
At the end of the hall they pushed through double doors into the main entry hall and turned right, following a group of girls into the dining hall, once the mansion’s ballroom, which occupied the north wing underneath the literature department and the library. Nola caught sight of the students in front of her, dressed in jeans, T-shirts and flip-flops, and leaned close to Ruth Ann.
“No uniforms? They come to dinner in jeans?”
“On weekends,” Ruth Ann whispered back. “During the week they have to wear slacks or skirts, nice shirts and proper shoes. Uniforms are for classes only these days.”
That would take some getting used to. Nola’s Hawkridge uniform hung in one of the closets in her Boston house—a pleated skirt in the sky-blue plaid of the Saint Andrew’s clan, to which the Ridgely family was distantly related, along with a white shirt, black sweater and black kneesocks. Maybe she would give away those clothes when she returned home—a personal declaration of freedom.
“I’m sitting with the students,” Ruth Ann said as girls filed past them and found their places at the long tables. “I’m advising the girls on Third West this year—all sixth and seventh graders.” The dormitory wings at Hawkridge ran east to west, three floors on each side, with twenty-four tenants on each hall. Advisers sat with their students at each meal, rather than at the faculty tables.
“They must give you some trouble, since they’re new to the school.”
“Oh, they do.” The light of battle shone in Ruth Ann’s eyes. “But there are twenty horses in my stable, each of them producing fifty pounds of manure a day. Mess with me, I tell them, you’ll be moving half a ton of poop before breakfast every morning. Most of the time, they listen.” With a wave of her hand, she headed toward the Third West table.
Nola swallowed hard, squared her shoulders and made her way down the long center aisle to the head table. On either side, she felt the curious gazes of the girls, heard whispers running along the tables. There was surveillance, as well, from the dining-hall staff setting out food, and from those teachers already seated on the dais. She couldn’t see them clearly, and although she kept walking, the head table seemed to recede with each step, until she began to think she would never arrive. By the time she reached it, she wondered if trial by fire wouldn’t have been easier.
Jayne Thomas was waiting for her. “Thanks for coming.” She put one hand on Nola’s back and motioned her forward with the other one. “I know that’s a tough walk, but it is a Hawkridge tradition. I’ve put you on my right, with Mason Reed on your other side. You can relax now.”
Hah, Nola said to herself. That’s what you think.
Mason stood up as she approached, and pulled out the chair she would sit in. Tonight, he wore a navy blazer and tan slacks, with a white shirt and the Hawkridge tie—burgundy with a golden hawk’s head pattern. His smile seemed stiff, even distant, and his dark eyes somehow missed connecting with hers.
Still, a peculiar kind of vibration hummed through her body at the sight of him. Nola didn’t know whether she was going to faint or be sick. She was pretty sure she wouldn’t be able to eat a bite.
But she managed some kind of smile. “Hello, again.”
“Welcome to dinner.” He slid the chair in behind her as she sat down, catching her behind the knees at just the right moment. Then he took his seat beside her. “You handled that quite well.”
She reached for the water goblet at her place and took a much-needed drink. “I wish I’d been warned. I didn’t remember it as such an ordeal.”
Mason shook out his napkin. “The girls never do realize. But it’s basically the final test before you get the job.”
Nola surveyed the crowd rather than look into his face. “Has anyone ever failed?”
“I once saw a prospective teacher break down and run out,” he said. “A couple of years after you left, I’d guess that was. He never returned.”
“He?”