It had grown too dark for Mr. Collum to study his ledger, and yet he had remained silent, apparently deep in thought, his eyes resting on a page it was no longer possible for him to read. Finally, however, he sighed, put away his ledger and loupe, and began to speak. He didn’t turn in his seat but simply lifted his head so that his voice would carry. “Are you awake, Nicholas?”
“Wide awake, Mr. Collum! And I’m eager to—”
“Very good,” said the orphanage director. “I was wondering, of course, because of your condition. I would not wish to waste time speaking if my words were not being attended. Tell me, Nicholas, how often do you sail off to sleep? Tomorrow the boys begin metalworking—during the summer we have a different skills activity each week—and naturally it would not do for you to fall asleep with some sharp implement in hand.”
The silent Mr. Pileus shuddered, evidently horrified at the thought, and cast a fleeting, reproachful glance at Nicholas in the rearview mirror, as if Nicholas had already wounded himself, and furthermore had done so on purpose.
“That would be unfortunate, sir,” said Nicholas, “but it’s easy enough to avoid. When I have a drowsy spell—which is only every few hours or so—I can feel it coming on in time to lie down. And usually I wake up in a matter of minutes.”
“Is that all?” Mr. Collum asked. “I got the impression from your Mr. Cuckieu that you often dropped off without warning—just fell to the floor as though your string had been clipped.”
“Oh no, sir!” Nicholas protested. “Well, I suppose I did have a few spells like that when the symptoms were first setting in, but that was over a year ago. It never happens anymore.”
“I am heartily glad to hear it,” said Mr. Collum, and he did sound relieved. “Every member of our small staff has multiple duties, you see. The less bandaging and stitching our nurse is compelled to do, the more she is able to attend to other tasks. I’m sure you understand that. In fact”—here Mr. Collum turned in his seat to look back at Nicholas—your chaperone, Mrs. Ferrier, seemed eager to convince me that there is little you do not understand. She thought I might find a boy of unusual intelligence to be especially useful at the Manor. Do you consider yourself unusually intelligent, Nicholas?”
Mr. Collum was studying him with narrowed eyes, clearly ready to judge his reply. Nicholas thought fast. A truthful answer would make him sound conceited. Also, Mr. Collum seemed irritated with Mrs. Ferrier, and Nicholas realized it would be wise to distance himself from her. “I’m sure I’m not the best judge of that, Mr. Collum, though I’ve been told that I’m bright.”
“By Mrs. Ferrier, no doubt,” said Mr. Collum with a slight shake of his head. “My own impression, Nicholas, was that she wished to give you an advantage. Under such circumstances, crafty matrons like Mrs. Ferrier will make all kinds of unsupported claims. They cannot be blamed, I’m sure, though it does try one’s patience.”
“I’m sure it must, sir,” said Nicholas with an uncomfortable flutter in his belly, as if the Studebaker had just topped a hill at high speed. They were moving along a flat stretch of road, though, and quite slowly at that.
“However…” Mr. Collum scratched his sharp chin. “She was most adamant, your Mrs. Ferrier. She insisted you were the most intelligent person—by far—whom she had ever known in her many long years of life. ‘More intelligent than yourself, madam?’ I asked her, and I’m sorry to say, Nicholas, that she readily confirmed this, which did nothing to add credibility to her claim. I mean to say that if Mrs. Ferrier truly believes that a nine-year-old boy is more intelligent than she is, perhaps that is indeed the case. But if it is the case, you can see why I’m disinclined to trust Mrs. Ferrier’s general opinion about intelligence. Do you follow my reasoning, Nicholas?”
“I think so, sir,” Nicholas replied quietly.
“You think so,” said Mr. Collum in a satisfied tone, as if Nicholas’s reply had offered some proof of his suspicions. He turned to face forward again. “Exactly.”
In the brief silence that followed, as Nicholas struggled to master his disappointment, the uncomfortable flutter in his belly worsened to a disagreeable churning, as if he had been forced to swallow something repulsive. His disappointment was awfully bitter. Nicholas had hoped to impress this new director—to amaze him, even, and win his favor. Though it had never exactly worked out that way before, this time Nicholas was older and had intended to benefit from his experience. He had never counted on Mrs. Ferrier trying to look out for him, if indeed that was what she’d been doing. Now Mr. Collum had formed his opinion and would resent having it changed. Nicholas had seen that happen before, with unpleasant results.
How should he proceed, then? He had plotted any number of different strategies (plotting strategies was the sort of thing Nicholas did when other children were playing jacks or Old Maid), but none seemed right under the circumstances, and he felt beset by uncertainties.
Only one thing was certain. No matter what, Nicholas would guard his secret—the awful secret, the one he had lied to Mr. Collum about—with every measure of wit he possessed: those unpredictable sleeping episodes, the attacks that struck without warning, dropping him from consciousness like a trapdoor into a black dungeon—oh no, Nicholas would never let on about those. For if ever word got out that strong emotions could do such a thing to him, that all it took to topple him was a too-hot flash of anger, a too-boisterous peal of laughter… well, after that there would be no end to the persecution.
Nicholas knew this from experience, unfortunately. At Littleview his condition had tempted even the mildest, most good-natured children to make sport of him, to make a regular game of upsetting him or getting him to laugh. (And those pranks, though horrible enough, were nothing compared to what the more vicious children had done.) Having endured such torments, he would have to be a fool to reveal his greatest weakness to anyone at ’Child’s End—and Nicholas Benedict was no fool.
You only have to pretend to be one for Mr. Collum, he thought grimly. And keep your emotions in check.
“I understand you’ve lived in several different orphanages, Nicholas,” said Mr. Collum, breaking the silence. He turned his head slightly, so that Nicholas saw the director’s face in dark profile. So pronounced and angular were his features—the heavy brow, the straight nose, the jutting chin—they might have been chiseled from stone. “I assume you’re accustomed to chores, therefore, but you must be prepared for an extra share at the Manor. In difficult times, we must all of us pull our own weight and then some.”
“Absolutely, Mr. Collum. Are these difficult times, then?”
Mr. Collum snorted violently. Or perhaps he sneezed. Nicholas wasn’t entirely sure. At any rate, he made a loud, abrupt sound with his nose. “My predecessor, Nicholas—the previous, so-called director of Rothschild’s End—took a respectable institution and single-handedly dragged it into disrepute. Spent it to the brink of ruin! Reckless, criminal, indecent behavior! And now the task has fallen to me to raise it up again. Oh, these are indeed difficult times at the Manor, young man. I can vouchsafe you that. But we must rise to the challenge! Do you hear me, Nicholas? Are you awake back there?”
“Yes, sir! ‘We must rise to the challenge,’ sir!” Nicholas repeated.
“That is correct,” Mr. Collum said. “And to do so, every staff member and every child must dutifully carry out his several responsibilities. You will get on well if only you remember this, Nicholas: Perform your duties and be mindful of the rules.”
Nicholas was about to assure Mr. Collum that no child was more dutiful or mindful of rules than he was, when the Studebaker stopped at a deserted intersection. Stretching his neck, Nicholas peered left and right. As far as he could tell, they were still in the middle of empty farmland—the middle of nowhere—and the intersection was nothing more than a country crossroads.
Mr. Collum groaned. “Must you, Mr. Pileus? It’s quite late, you know.”
Mr. Pileus set his hat carefully on the dashboard and climbed out of th
e automobile. In the beam of the Studebaker’s headlamps, he edged closer to the crossroads, where he stood in an attitude of attention, shielding his eyes from the mist, looking down the road to the left. Then he turned and looked right.
Mr. Collum gave a hiss of exasperation. “What does the man expect to see?”
When at last Mr. Pileus was satisfied that no automobiles were hurtling along the road without headlamps—at least not in the immediate vicinity—he hurried back to the Studebaker, jumped in, and roared forward to get through the intersection before the traffic circumstances changed.
“Mr. Pileus!” said Mr. Collum, speaking up to be heard over the horn, which Mr. Pileus was vigorously sounding as they crossed. “I appreciate your caution, truly I do, but have you ever seen any other automobile on this road at night?”
Mr. Pileus let off the horn—they had made it safely across—and mumbled something about poor visibility.
Mr. Collum sighed heavily through his nose and turned halfway toward Nicholas again. “As I was saying, Nicholas, you shall get on well enough at the Manor if only you observe the rules. And if you are conscientious—I truly hope you are conscientious, Nicholas; otherwise you shall have a tough time of it with me—if you are conscientious, I say, the rules should present no problem to you. They are few and simple. First, you must—”
Just then Nicholas felt his eyelids grow heavy.
Oh no! he thought. Oh no, oh no! And though he knew better, he rubbed his eyes desperately, as if he could press down the sleepiness, bottle it up with his fists. Hadn’t Mr. Collum already been annoyed? And now this? Falling asleep during his speech about the rules? Oh, he would positively resent Nicholas for this! But it could not be avoided. No matter how he rubbed at them, his eyelids only grew heavier; they might as well have been sandbags.
“Pardon me, sir,” Nicholas said, interrupting while he still could speak. “Mr. Collum? I’m extremely sorry, but I’m afraid I’m about to drop off….”
At this, Mr. Collum turned fully around in his seat, the right side of his scowling face weirdly lit by the glow from the dashboard instruments. In unmistakable annoyance he sputtered, “What do you mean, you’re about to—? But this is very bad timing, young man! Was I not—? And we are almost to the Manor! Are you entirely sure?”
But Nicholas did not—indeed, could not—reply. He scarcely even noticed that Mr. Collum had spoken. It was so strange, he thought dreamily, the way one side of Mr. Collum’s face was lit. In that glow his skin seemed greenish, like a goblin’s. Was he a goblin? Nicholas shivered at the thought. His eyelids drooped to a close, opened for an instant, closed again. Mr. Collum was asking him something, and this time Nicholas tried to answer, but it was too late, too late. He was off and dreaming.
When Nicholas awoke, he listened a while before opening his eyes, to determine whether his circumstances had changed. Doing so was an established habit with him and had often served him well. On this occasion, he could tell he was still slumped in the back seat of the Studebaker, though the automobile was no longer moving. He could hear the tick and ping of its cooling engine, the faint whisper of windblown drizzle against the windows. Somehow he knew he was alone in the automobile, but he felt sure he’d sensed another presence. Had his sleeping ears detected a shuffling of feet in the grass outside? A cough or murmur?
Nicholas opened one eye. Through the window he saw an older boy leaning against the Studebaker, his elbows on the hood, gazing off into the distance. The men must have gone ahead with their evening, he realized, and this unlucky orphan had been dispatched to show him inside. With a twinge of dread, Nicholas wondered how long the boy had been waiting in the damp and whether he was missing some enjoyable activity.
Opening his other eye, Nicholas followed the older boy’s gaze. To his surprise, he saw that the boy was looking across a wide lawn toward—well, toward nothing, really. Toward a lane, and the trees along either side of it, and general darkness. Nicholas turned his head. Here was the Manor, a two-story gray stone mansion that stretched out impressively in both directions. In a city it would have occupied half a block. There were enough windows to keep a glass factory in business for years. A few of them betrayed the faint, flickering reflections of interior candlelight. Most were dark.
The Studebaker was parked just at the bottom of the Manor’s stone porch steps. Why was the boy not waiting up on the porch, where it was dry? Nicholas leaned forward to get a better look at him. The many droplets of water on the windshield distorted the boy’s features somewhat, but he appeared to be about twelve, with an oval, freckled face and a dark brown crew cut. As Nicholas watched, the boy absently ran a hand over his bristly hair; a fine spray of water rose from it. He must have been out there awhile—getting wet on Nicholas’s account. Swell. Taking a deep breath, Nicholas opened the door, hauling his suitcase after him.
The boy quickly stepped over and extended his hand. “Nicholas, right? I’m John.”
John didn’t look happy, exactly, but neither did he seem resentful. Relieved, Nicholas was about to shake his hand when something made him hesitate. Now that he could see John’s face up close, he realized that what he’d thought were freckles were actually numerous pitted scars. It occurred to him that the other boy might have some contagious disease.
Evidently, John could tell what Nicholas was thinking. “They’re only old chicken pox scars,” he said. “I’m not contagious anymore—it’s been over a year. They just didn’t go away like they usually do.”
Nicholas could have kicked himself. If John hadn’t felt resentful before, he had reason to now. With an apologetic smile, Nicholas shook his hand. John had a strong grip—strong enough to make Nicholas wonder whether he was squeezing extra hard on purpose. But his expression was perfectly civil, and when Nicholas asked if he’d been waiting long, John shrugged good-naturedly and said it was no trouble.
“Mr. Collum sent me out a few minutes ago,” he said, gesturing for Nicholas to follow him up the porch steps. “He told me to show you inside when you woke up.”
Nicholas lugged his suitcase up the steps, at the top of which, on either side, towering gray columns rose into darkness, supporting a porch roof so high its features could scarcely be seen. The porch itself was almost as large as the cramped dormitory at Littleview that had been his home for more than a year. “Why weren’t you waiting up here, where it’s dry?” he asked.
“Oh, I don’t know.” John glanced around as if he, too, were seeing the porch for the first time. “I checked on you, and then I just stayed down there. The hood was warm and the mist was cool, and—well, I guess it felt more interesting. Also, I…” He paused, looking at Nicholas sidelong, then went on. “I heard about your condition. You might as well know that right off. Everyone says that’s why you’re getting a room to yourself. They say you have horrible nightmares, that you scream in your sleep. You weren’t screaming just now, though.”
“The naps aren’t so bad,” Nicholas said. “It’s at night that things get really fun. The director at Littleview couldn’t bear it anymore—I kept everyone awake and terrified the toddlers—so he worked it out with Mr. Collum that I could come here, since here I can sleep apart from everyone else. At Littleview there was no room for that.”
“Will you grow out of it?”
“No known cure,” Nicholas intoned in a deliberately gloomy voice. Then he grinned and waved a hand to dismiss the subject. “It’s fine, really; it just makes some people nervous. But what does this have to do with why you stayed down there?”
“What?” John looked surprised, perhaps even embarrassed. “Oh, I just thought that if you screamed or thrashed around, I ought to wake you right away. It seemed the decent thing.”
Nicholas glanced down at the Studebaker. From up here, its interior was almost impossible to see in the murky night. Had John really gone down to keep a closer eye on him—to wake him if he had a nightmare? It seemed unlikely. They didn’t even know each other. Then again, Nicholas could always tell
when someone was lying, and John had sounded sincere. Nicholas turned back to study John’s face for a clue, but the other boy was already moving away.
“Like I said, it was more interesting, anyway,” John was saying, as if he didn’t want Nicholas to think him overly decent. “Come on, I’ll take you to your room.” He walked to the front entrance—a huge double oak door with a black iron latch—only to pause, twist his lips as if considering something, and move along without opening it.
At the end of the porch, John jumped down behind a row of azalea bushes that lined the front of the Manor. Nicholas climbed cautiously down after him, fearing for his shoes. He had been beaten once for tracking mud into an orphanage and did not care to repeat the experience. Fortunately, the narrow path was kept dry, more or less, by the azalea bushes and the Manor’s protruding eaves.
“Are we taking a shortcut?” Nicholas asked.
“Not really,” said John, creeping along the path. “But it occurred to me that the Spiders will be looking for you, so we’re going to take the old servants’ stairs. The side door should be open—that one’s rarely locked.”
Nicholas had stopped walking, a too-familiar dread rising in him. “Did you say the spiders are looking for me?”
Seeing that Nicholas had stopped, John turned and came back. “Right, I should explain. I didn’t mean actual spiders, of course, but a gang of bullies. A few of the older boys, quite nasty.”
Nicholas stood silently, weighing John’s tone. Was it possible he’d been joking? No, it was the truth, and Nicholas knew it. He had known it the moment John spoke. It was the truth, and no amount of wishing would make it otherwise.
“I see,” Nicholas said. And then he laughed. He couldn’t help it. His dread was raging at full force now, but at the same time how could he not laugh at this astonishingly quick arrival of misfortune, this instantaneous destruction of his hopes—hopes that had been so modest to begin with? It was far too absurd not to be funny. A horrible gang of bullies was already looking for him? Of course! Why not!
The Extraordinary Education of Nicholas Benedict Page 2