The Extraordinary Education of Nicholas Benedict

by Trenton Lee Stewart

  Nicholas was surprised by their winks and insincere manner—even a toddler would have been suspicious, he thought—but of course he pretended he hadn’t noticed. “The bathroom? But Mr. Collum is in the bathroom—that’s where he’s coming from!”

  Once again the Spiders looked stunned.

  The pale, lanky boy said, “The bathroom around the corner? Are you sure?”

  “But we just saw him in his office talking to John Cole!” put in the third boy, a handsome, muscular brute who seemed already to have a mustache, or at least the shadowy beginnings of one. “How did he get up here so fast? We’re fixed good if he catches us, Moray!” He looked anxiously to the belt buckle boy.

  “Shut up, both of you, and let me think!” Moray hissed, and the features of his face—round cheeks, dark, round eyes, a smallish snub nose—all bunched together into a circle of concentration so tiny that a coffee cup might have covered them entirely. He licked his chapped lips again. “I don’t see how old Collum could have got past us—”

  “He came up these stairs,” Nicholas interjected, “and then he told me to go back down and turn off the light while he paid a visit to the bathroom. He seemed to be in an awful hurry—I think it was an emergency.”

  “These stairs?” Moray said. Nicholas watched him working it out in his mind. “The servants’ stairs?”

  “That sounds like Collum, all right,” said the handsome, muscular boy. “Turning off the light, I mean.”

  “So he really could be here any second?” said the lanky boy. His tone was worried now, but he still looked simply peevish, as if he had mothballs in his mouth.

  “That’s what he said, isn’t it?” whispered the muscular one, shooting the peevish one a contemptuous look. The two of them fell at once into a heated, whispered argument, during which Nicholas learned that the muscular boy was called Breaker, and the other was called Iggy.

  Pretending to be alarmed, Nicholas urgently laid his finger against his lips, signaling them to be quiet. With a start, they remembered why they were arguing, and fell silent, glancing apprehensively toward the candle corner. Moray, meanwhile, had screwed his face up tight again, presumably trying extra hard to think.

  “I know!” Nicholas said, softly snapping his fingers. “You can sneak down these stairs, and we’ll do the initiation tomorrow. Should I bring cookies? I was given some when I left the last place. They’re right in here!” He took the suitcase from Moray, who released it without thinking (no doubt he was unused to having things snatched from him), and stepped aside to let them pass. “Don’t worry, I won’t say a word to Mr. Collum. Just tell me where to meet you!”

  Moray hesitated, perhaps wondering what kind of cookies Nicholas had. Then he nodded. “Bathroom around the corner. Right after breakfast. We’ll be waiting for you.”

  “Swell!” Nicholas said, flashing an eager grin. “Oh, that’s swell of you, Moray! Thank you!”

  Moray regarded him with affection, rather as a weasel might look upon an unguarded chicken. “Don’t mention it. Oh, and don’t mention it to anyone else, either. Not a word about initiation to anyone, got it? You don’t want to ruin the surprise.”

  Nicholas looked horrified. “Oh no! That’s the last thing I’d do!”

  “Good man,” Moray said, patting Nicholas’s shoulder. “And be sure to bring those cookies.”

  Nicholas put his hand over his heart. “I will, Moray! You can count on me! Good night, Moray! Good night, fellows!”

  Moray smirked and hurried down the stairs, followed by the other Spiders, looking equally smug. “Did you see the honker on that kid?” whispered Breaker when they were only halfway down the stairs.

  Nicholas heard him quite plainly, along with Iggy’s snickering reply: “How could I have missed that? It looked like something out of a root cellar!”

  All three were chuckling when Nicholas abruptly closed the door, shutting them into blackness. He heard them stumbling and cursing, which gave him some small satisfaction. He opened the door a crack and whispered down into the darkness, “Sorry! I heard someone coming!” then quickly closed it again. Moments later he heard the downstairs door rattle open and bang shut. The Spiders were much less cautious now that they weren’t sneaking up on him.

  Nicholas sank to the floor, his heart hammering like a woodpecker against his rib cage. It seemed a miracle that he hadn’t gone to sleep and fallen at the bullies’ feet. That was something, anyway. And he had managed not to get his head dunked in a toilet (he was sure that was what initiation involved), so all in all it was a successful escape—perhaps even one of his best.

  But Nicholas had made things far worse for himself in the long run, and he knew it. There is no fury greater than one born of humiliation, and when Nicholas didn’t show up the next morning, the Spiders would realize that he had indeed humiliated them. A nine-year-old duping them so easily? With no warning, no preparation at all? Oh yes, he had made the Spiders look like fools, and they would understand that all too soon. If it hadn’t been personal before, it most certainly would be now. The bullies would do everything in their power to get him back. They would do their worst—and from the look of them, their worst would be terrible indeed.

  Yet what else could Nicholas have done? Let them humiliate him? No, that never had been an option. Nicholas simply didn’t have it in him to give in to bullies. He never had. If they wanted to humiliate him, they were going to have to work for it.

  With a groan, Nicholas leaned back against the stairway door. This whole situation felt sadly familiar. But the Spiders were much bigger than any bullies he’d ever known, and this place was so large that there had to be countless shadowy corners in which to trap unsuspecting victims. Like actual spiders, he thought. He drew up his knees and rested his chin on them. Had he really been thinking, back at the train station, that this new place could hardly be worse than the last?

  So much for that.

  The Spiders had not been gone long (seventy-one drips of wax) when the candle flame sputtered violently and leaned sideways again. Nicholas sprang to his feet and put his hand on the doorknob. Perhaps they were coming back—perhaps they had already realized they’d been suckered. Then came the distant creak of a floorboard, followed by brisk, purposeful, heavy footsteps on carpet—a man’s footsteps—and Nicholas knew it was Mr. Collum.

  Nicholas also sensed that Mr. Collum was alone, a fact confirmed when the director rounded the candle corner. He looked slightly less official than before, having removed his suit coat, necktie, and hat, but he still had his ledger and still stood straight as a post. Absent his hat, Mr. Collum’s hair proved to be black, oiled, and meticulously combed, with a severe part down the middle that made Nicholas think of a path through a thicket. He was carrying a small lantern, its flame turned so low it was scarcely visible.

  “So you are still awake,” said Mr. Collum snappishly. “After what happened on our way here, I worried I would make the climb only to find you slumbering again.”

  Nicholas bowed. “Perfectly awake, Mr. Collum, and happy not to have inconvenienced you again.” He kept every trace of sarcasm out of his tone, but Mr. Collum searched his face nonetheless. Nicholas returned the gaze with a look of blank sincerity.

  “As for that,” Mr. Collum said, “it’s inconvenient enough with you awake.” Tucking the ledger under his arm, he reached into a trouser pocket and drew out a length of black ribbon tied to an antique-looking key. It would seem a simple enough procedure; yet he almost dropped the ledger, and then the lantern, and then was obliged to take the key ribbon in his teeth as he got them both resituated (he seemed unwilling to set anything down or to ask Nicholas for help), and in general gave the impression of a man needing more hands than he possessed.

  “I had intended to finish explaining the rules,” Mr. Collum said, speaking through his clenched teeth as he shifted his things, “but that will have to wait. It’s bedtime now, and you must follow your routine, the same as everyone. Here we are,” he said, unlocking the
door at last.

  Mr. Collum turned up the flame in his lantern, revealing a room that would have been comfortably spacious had it not been full of boxes. To the right, against the east wall, was a narrow strip of space in which a cot had been placed. Overhead dangled an ornate light fixture without bulbs. There appeared to be no windows, either, which seemed odd for a former guest room in a mansion. Then Nicholas detected a square patch of stone, just above the cot, that was a slightly different shade of gray from the rest of the wall. A window there would have looked onto the side yard.

  “I had Mr. Pileus close that in this afternoon,” said Mr. Collum when Nicholas walked over to inspect the square patch. “Do not touch it. The mortar may be damp yet.”

  Nicholas stared wistfully at the wall. To think he had almost had a window! “But what was the matter with it?”

  “With the window?” Mr. Collum said. “Nothing at all. It was an ordinary window. But your peculiar sleeping arrangements call for unusual measures, Nicholas. Naturally, we cannot leave you unsupervised without taking precautions. A boy your age is much tempted to mischief. Thus it occurred to me this morning that we must remove the window. We can’t have you sneaking out at night, perhaps falling and breaking your neck in the process. And obviously we shall keep your door locked.”

  “Locked?” Nicholas spun to face him, aghast. “I’m to be locked into this room, alone, every night?”

  “There’s no help for it,” Mr. Collum said briskly. “Assigning you a personal chaperone would be impossible—we simply haven’t the staff. Come now!” he said when Nicholas began taking deep breaths to calm himself. “Buck up! It isn’t as bad as all that.” He gestured into the corner, where a once-elegant braided cloth rope hung from the ceiling. “If you have an emergency—I mean a true emergency, Nicholas, not just a nightmare or a little thirst—you may tug on that rope. A bell will sound below in the old butler’s room, where Mr. Pileus sleeps, and he will come up to check on you.”

  “I see, sir,” Nicholas said, recovering enough to sound polite. “I do hate to bother Mr. Pileus, though. Perhaps we could try it awhile with the door unlocked? I’m not the least bit interested in mischief, I can promise you.” He rounded his eyes, dipped his chin, and otherwise did his best to look unmischievous.

  Mr. Collum sighed. “Out of the question, I’m afraid, Nicholas. One must always start strictly. In time I might consider easing restrictions, but this will depend upon your behavior. If you were John Cole, for instance, I would probably grant your request. In fact, you would do well to model yourself after John—makes himself useful, excellent deportment, never a nuisance. Indeed, much of the time one would not even know he’s here.” Mr. Collum said this last part with special emphasis, as if there were no greater virtue in a child than appearing to be absent.

  Nicholas lowered his eyes. He could see it was pointless to argue further. You have to find another way to fix this, he told himself, and his mind went probing frantically in every direction, searching for a solution.

  “You may keep your suitcase beneath the cot,” Mr. Collum was saying. “Come along now and wash up in the bathroom. Do you have pajamas? A toothbrush and paste?”

  “Yes, sir,” Nicholas replied. He knelt to his suitcase, his mind still racing. “Will I have a lamp, Mr. Collum?”

  Mr. Collum seemed not to have considered this. He was slow to reply, and when he did so, his tone was reluctant. “You may have a candle. Take one from that box,” he said, pointing, “and I shall light it before I leave you.”

  Nicholas hurried to the box in relief. He rifled through the candles inside, looking for the biggest one. And all the time his mind was working, working.

  Out in the passage again, Mr. Collum repeated his awkward ritual, rearranging the things in his hands and under his arms in order to bring out his key and lock the door.

  Nicholas wondered at this. “Aren’t we coming right back, Mr. Collum?”

  Mr. Collum’s cheeks flushed, and he looked at Nicholas disapprovingly. “You ask far too many questions, young man. Yes, we’re coming back. But I keep things properly secured. My predecessor was a scoundrel. I am a responsible businessman. Your bedroom also happens to be a storage room, and as such it is kept locked at all times. Now follow me, and no more questions. It has been an insufferably long day, and I am much too weary. Tomorrow you will be shown about and told all you need to know.”

  Mr. Collum did seem weary. In fact, Nicholas suspected that he was so tired he had locked the door without thinking, then covered up his mistake with that business about keeping things secured. All the briskness had gone out of him—even his reprimand had lacked force—and he yawned several times as he led the way to the bathroom.

  They turned left at the candle corner, then right at the end of the south-running passage. In the distance a half-open doorway revealed a sort of gallery, a lofty space in which Nicholas spied the upper railing of a grand staircase, its polished wood reflecting the light of an unseen candle. But they stopped well short of the gallery, and Mr. Collum gestured with his ledger to a door on the right.

  “Be quick,” said Mr. Collum through a yawn. He did not offer the use of his lantern.

  Nicholas hurried into the bathroom, wondering what he was to do about light. As it happened, the bathroom had a wall lamp with an actual bulb in it. He turned it on (half expecting Mr. Collum to scold him), then closed the door and bent to the keyhole. He watched Mr. Collum lean back against the wall and shut his eyes.

  Nicholas stared at Mr. Collum, not out of anger or bitterness but because he was concentrating. Now that he was alone, he could turn his full attention to his problem. His mind began reeling in its many strands of thought like so many fishing lines, checking each hook for solutions. He stared at the trouser pocket in which Mr. Collum carried the key to his room. Then he straightened and stared intently at the keyhole in the bathroom door. Then he closed his eyes and stared at every detail his mind had registered since he arrived.

  And then he had his answer.

  Hiding his toothbrush and toothpaste inside his shirt, Nicholas swung the door open again, talking fast: “I’m so sorry, Mr. Collum, but I seem to have left my toothbrush and toothpaste in the bedroom! I must have set them down when I took the candle from the box, and forgot to pick them up again!”

  Mr. Collum opened his eyes, looking bewildered. “You didn’t—but didn’t I see—why, what on earth were you thinking, Nicholas? This is a bad start,” he said, his voice growing angrier, “a very bad start indeed!”

  “I really am sorry, Mr. Collum!” Nicholas said, and pressed on quickly. “I’ll just dash back for them! You needn’t budge! I’ll be quick as a wink!” He held out his hand for the key, as urgently as he could without seeming demanding, and composed his face into an expression of anxious embarrassment.

  Mr. Collum scowled and began shifting his things. “Forty-five seconds,” he said. “One second longer and you’ll regret it. Do you understand me, Nicholas?” He held out the key on its black ribbon.

  “Absolutely, sir!” Nicholas cried, snatching the key. “Forty-five seconds it is!”

  He flew back the way they had come, but he did not go straight to his room. Instead, he ran past the first candle corner and on to the one he’d spotted farther down, the dark one with the empty sconce and the unused bowl. Grabbing that bowl, he ran back to the first candle corner and switched it with the other bowl—the one containing a fresh layer of warm, soft wax. This one he carried to his room. He was perspiring now, his fingers clammy against the key as he shoved it into the lock.

  In the privacy of his room, Nicholas knelt over the bowl. He pressed the key into the cooling wax. Slowly and carefully, he tugged it out again by the ribbon, then buffed it with his shirt. He tucked the key into his pocket, hid the bowl behind a stack of boxes, and hurried out again.

  “Forty-three seconds,” Mr. Collum said when Nicholas came running up. He put away his pocket watch almost regretfully, but at least he hadn’t lied. (N
icholas knew the time was accurate, for he’d been counting the seconds in his head.)

  “Thanks for your patience, Mr. Collum,” said Nicholas, and he handed over the key.

  Soon afterward Nicholas stood in his bedroom alone, listening, as the same key locked him in for the night. Mr. Collum had left him with his solitary flickering candle, along with a warning to use it safely, and had informed Nicholas that Mrs. Brindle, the housekeeper, would be up early in the morning to fetch him. Mr. Collum had neglected to leave any matches should the candle need to be lit again later, but Nicholas had chosen not to mention this. Instead, he had hurriedly expressed his gratitude, promised to go to sleep at once, and bidden the director a good night.

  Nicholas put his ear against the door and listened to Mr. Collum tramp away. Then he reached inside his pajama top and took out the lightbulb he’d removed from the bathroom lamp. It was still warm to the touch. Nicholas smiled and tossed it onto his cot. Later he would climb a stack of boxes and screw the bulb into the light fixture. For now, he eagerly carried his candle over to where he had hidden the bowl, and with a rush of relief and delight, he inspected the result of his efforts: The key had left a perfect impression in the wax. So he had his mold, and tomorrow, according to Mr. Collum, he had metalwork.

  By tomorrow night, then, Nicholas would have his own key.

  The orphanage housekeeper, a widow named Mrs. Brindle, had a variety of minor ailments that troubled her. Chief among them was an itchy eye, at which she was always rubbing furiously with one knuckle, but she also suffered from aches and pains that migrated, unpredictably, from one part of her body to another. No sooner would she learn to favor one elbow or knee—adjusting her movements, applying hot-water bottles and ointments—than its pain would disappear and pop up elsewhere. And so she would cry out or groan whenever she moved, not because the pain was unbearable but because it always surprised her. This morning, for instance, it had been her shoulder that bothered her when she rose from bed; yet when she dropped her ring of keys trying to unlock Nicholas’s door and bent to retrieve it, the pain sneaked down to her back.