KNIGHTLEY ACADEMY

by Violet Haberdasher

  Henry shook his head slightly, trying to clear it. Surely he’d misunderstood …

  “Wait, so that means you’ll be—”

  “—putting my diplomas to good use teaching a fifteen-year-old girl how to conjugate French verbs and recite poetry?”

  “—coming with me to Knightley?”

  “Oh, that? Unfortunately.” The professor rolled his eyes and shrugged, but a telltale corner of his lip twitched as he held back a smile. “Isn’t it quite the tragedy? I knew you’d be disappointed.”

  Henry couldn’t help grinning. Professor Stratford was going to be there, at Knightley. Henry wouldn’t be alone after all. Everything would turn out all right.

  And as if the professor could read Henry’s mind, he said, “It’s a curious thing, change. You never get used to it, and you’re never sure where it comes from, but you better learn to expect it.”

  “I don’t recognize the quotation.” Henry frowned, trying to place it.

  “That’s because it isn’t one. It is simply advice, and advice you’d be well advised to take, especially now.”

  “So that means you’ve heard? About Knightley admitting two more common students?” Henry asked.

  “Oh, that.” The professor was suddenly fascinated by his dented old pocket watch. “I seem to recall reading something about that in today’s paper. Terribly boring article, wouldn’t you say? Absolutely nothing at all to do with the two of us.”

  “I could barely force myself to skim it,” Henry said, playing along.

  “Bet you’re glad they didn’t mention your name, though,” the professor said, suddenly serious.

  Henry sighed, flopping back in his chair. “Because then it would have been more embarrassing, you mean? Why did they single me out like that?”

  “Rags-to-riches stories, my boy. That’s what everyone wants to read. It gives them hope.”

  “If you ask me, it’s no better than those silly gossip magazines, planting seeds of ideas in people’s heads that sprout into awful rumors.”

  “Better to know where the rumors start than believe those who tell them to you,” the professor said with a wink, holding up his magazine. “But as to your newfound fame”—the professor smiled as Henry pulled a face—“at least now everything’s out in the open. The other students at Knightley know your background. There’s nothing to hide. And you’ll have two other boys in a similar situation. Not a bad bargain.”

  “Everything’s a bad bargain if you never meant to gamble in the first place,” Henry mock grumbled, and then he rolled his eyes. “Oh, Lord. Now you have me doing it too.”

  But the professor was right. Henry wouldn’t have to pretend or explain himself to the other students at Knightley. Everything did seem to be working out for the best, which was a new sensation for Henry.

  But for reasons he couldn’t explain, the back of his neck still prickled when he thought of the whispers he sometimes overheard during his walks through the City. Perhaps, even though he did not recognize it, he knew, deep down, that a man as learned as Professor Stratford could not be reading those inane gossip magazines purely for amusement, and that it was no error how his lessons now centered on history, particularly that of the last hundred years. No, everyone was hungry for news, and not of the rags-to-riches variety. But in that moment, news of Knightley’s new policy was all they had, and it would have to suffice.

  THE CODE OF CHIVALRY

  It is a truth universally acknowledged that the problem with new shoes is that they are never as comfortable as the ones they are meant to replace. But Henry hadn’t known this. After all, he’d never had a pair of new shoes before.

  Trying not to wince as the backs of his new boots chafed against his open blisters, Henry hobbled through Hammersmith Cross Station. His new suitcase banged against the leg of his new trousers, and his new haircut felt too short, leaving the back of his neck exposed.

  Professor Stratford had left three days earlier to get settled in with his latest pupil, and so Henry had locked up their flat, returned the key, and found his own way to the station on a crowded omnibus.

  “Look at you!” old Mrs. Alabaster had clucked over Henry not fifteen minutes earlier. She’d exclaimed over his pressed gray trousers with the first-year yellow piping down the sides, his crisp white shirt, his yellow-and-white-striped tie, and his navy blue formal jacket, done in a military cut, with brass buttons, a white braid at the left shoulder, and the school crest sewn over the right breast pocket, bearing the silhouette of an old-fashioned knight with a lance, seated upon a prancing horse. Henry carried the boxy, stiff-brimmed ceremonial school cap under one arm, as it was possibly the most unflattering piece of clothing he’d ever owned—and that was saying something.

  When Henry looked in the mirror that morning, he’d hardly recognized himself. As per the admittance letter Sir Frederick had given him, Henry was to arrive at Hammersmith Cross Station on the fifteenth of August to take the ten o’clock train to Knightley Academy, and to arrive in formal school uniform (which could be purchased, along with a regulation blazer and scarf, from a specialty shop on Bond Street), unless he desired to arrange private transportation to the school, in which case he should telegram in advance.

  And so, there he was, at a quarter to ten, receiving the strangest looks from the other people in the station who scurried past, some of their faces downright fearful—no doubt they had all read that week’s Tattleteller.

  But because of his new uniform, the crowds parted for Henry—almost respectfully, he thought—and a little boy holding his mother’s hand had paused for a moment to stare. Oddest of all, when Henry stopped to ask a police knight where he might find platform three, he was met with a salute.

  “Oh, er,” Henry said, raising his left hand to his eyebrow in an awkward approximation.

  The police knight chuckled. “Yellow tie, of course! You’ll be a first year, then, am I right?”

  “Yes, sir,” Henry said.

  “Well, good luck. You’ll want the platform just past that newsstand there.” The police knight pointed. “Perhaps best to buy something to eat on the train. Nerves always made me hungry when I was your age.”

  “Thank you, sir. I think I will.”

  “And next time I see you, you’d better have learned a proper salute,” the police knight called after him.

  With the dregs of his money, Henry bought a few apples from the newsstand and couldn’t help glancing at the Tattleteller’s headline. Only yesterday, the gossip rag had taunted the city with another unconfirmed rumor: chancellor mors declares education “for males only!” Of course it couldn’t be true. Girls had to be allowed in schools. How else would they learn the skills they needed to attract prospects for marriage, or how to manage households once they had married? Henry didn’t believe it, and he stared sourly at the front-page headline as he took his change from the vendor. As Henry searched for a place to stow his apples (eventually using his hat as a basket), he noticed that a lot of the shabbier passengers in the station, the ones who looked so jittery and fearful, carried copies of the tabloid tucked under their arms.

  For pity’s sake! Henry thought, clutching his hatful of apples. Some people will believe anything. Finally, at five minutes until ten, Henry took a deep breath, tightened his grip on his suitcase, and walked through the archway that led to platform three.

  “All aboard,” the conductor yelled, clanging a handbell. “Ten o’clock express to Knightley Academy, Avel-on-t’Hems.”

  The platform bustled with students and their families, all saying stiff, last-minute good-byes. Henry hurried past the happy families and bland butlers (none of whom carried that silly magazine, he noticed), pretending he didn’t care that he was on his own, as always. Finally, Henry found an open door and presented himself to the conductor.

  “Yellows’re in the last two cars,” the conductor grumbled, jerking his thumb in the proper direction.

  Henry nodded and ducked into the last car, hoping for an empty
compartment. He stuck his head into one just as the whistle blew and the train lurched out of the station.

  “Hello,” Henry said, as there were two boys already seated inside.

  “Hallo there,” the tall blond boy said, grinning amiably. “I daresay we’re a bit full already, but nonetheless, a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  The blond boy stuck out his hand, which glinted with the delicate gold of a signet ring.

  “I’m Henry Grim,” Henry said, giving the boy’s hand a firm shake.

  “Theobold Archer IV.” Theobold pompously returned Henry’s handshake. “You’ve got an interesting surname there. Any relation to the Brothers Grimm?”

  “I’m not really sure,” Henry said truthfully, surveying the overhead rack only to find it already crammed with both boys’ bags. Stowing his suitcase at his feet, Henry sat down next to the other boy.

  “Edmund Merrill,” the boy mumbled without looking up from the magazine he was reading.

  “His brother’s in third year with mine,” Theobold said, as though storklike Edmund needed explaining. “So, Grim, you must tell me, I’m terribly interested to know, what school are you coming from?”

  “Er, Midsummer,” Henry said. “But—”

  “Midsummer? But that’s brilliant! You lot never make it into the academy. Or, at least, that’s what I’ve heard.” Theobold leaned in and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “So, Grim, what do you make of the school letting in commoners this year? I gather it’s some sort of stunt from the new headmaster, but no matter; we should be able to spot them easily, eh?”

  “How do you figure that?” Henry asked, watching the outer reaches of the city fly past outside the large window. It was just his luck to have picked this compartment, he thought glumly.

  “’Ent you never ’eard a com’nor talk?” Theobold mocked. “Or something like that. At least, that’s how the staff at the Easton School sounded.”

  Easton. Henry was impressed in spite of himself. And he hardly needed more clues to piece together Theobold’s background. The family ring, the toff accent, the brother already at Knightley, and now Easton School; Theobold was practically royalty.

  At that moment, a knock sounded on the compartment door.

  “Come in,” Henry called, thankful for the interruption.

  The door opened to reveal a boy with a thin, pale face topped by a cloud of brown curls.

  “Oh, great, even here’s full,” the boy complained, offering an apologetic grin.

  “Listen, chap, the rear compartments are bound to be empty,” Theobold said, his gaze lingering on an unusual necklace charm that glittered beneath the boy’s tie.

  “What a party for me, an empty compartment,” the boy said, his smile wavering.

  “I say, what’s that on your head?” Theobold asked, narrowing his eyes.

  The boy clapped his hand to the top of his head as if embarrassed.

  Henry stood up.

  “There’s no room for my suitcase in this compartment anyway. I’ll join you in the rear,” Henry said.

  “Really, Grim, you should stay,” Theobold said. “There’s no need to keep Mr.—I’m sorry, I’ve not caught your name—company.”

  “Beckerman,” the boy said, sliding his hand back down to his side.

  Theobold’s eyes narrowed into even smaller slits.

  “Right guv’nor, I’ll be takin’ my leave ’bout now,” Henry said in his best impression of a city cabdriver. Hefting his suitcase, Henry followed the boy called Beckerman out into the narrow hallway.

  “What was that about?” the boy asked.

  “I’ll tell you later. I’m Henry, by the way. Henry Grim.”

  “Adam Beckerman. Do you really think it’s empty in the back?”

  “Possibly,” Henry said, following Adam, who had some kind of small, flat circular hat on top of his head.

  “Well, that wasn’t the most polite greeting I’ve ever received,” Adam said wryly, stumbling a little as the train lurched forward.

  “Unfortunately, he took to me quite well.” Henry rolled his eyes. “Probably would’ve booted me from the compartment once he realized I was one of those ‘ghastly common students,’ ” he finished, performing an impression of Theobold’s uppity accent.

  Adam chuckled. “That’s not bad, Grim. So you’re the servant boy from the newspaper?”

  “That would be me.”

  “I’m, well, obviously I’m one of the students who were admitted late. The other boy looked a decent sort as well. Indian bloke.”

  They reached the back of the car, and Adam flung open the door to the right rear compartment.

  “Ahh, glorious space,” Adam said, heaving his two bags inside and onto the luggage rack. “Here, Grim, hand me yours. … Cripes it’s heavy.”

  “Books,” Henry admitted sheepishly.

  “No kidding? Which ones?”

  “Mostly classics, but a few detective stories. I worked in a bookshop all summer.”

  Adam hauled Henry’s bag onto the rack, and then collapsed onto the bench. “Your summer sounds loads better than mine,” he said. “I had to do accounting for my father.”

  Henry looked up in surprise. “Your father’s a banker?”

  Adam smiled. “Of course. What’d you think, I come from a family of costermongers down at the wharf ?”

  “I hadn’t really thought about it at all, to tell the truth,” Henry admitted. “I don’t actually know anyone who’s . . .”

  “Jewish?” Adam supplied.

  Henry reddened. Was he so obvious?

  “Don’t worry about it,” Adam said with a chuckle. “You’re not from the City, I take it.”

  Henry shook his head. “The Midl’lands. Midsummer.”

  “I’ve heard of it. They have that awful school there, the one full of snobbish boys who never get into Knightley.”

  “That’s where I worked.”

  “Didn’t you go to school?”

  “Not really, no,” Henry said, grabbing two apples out of his hat and tossing one to Adam.

  Adam smiled his thanks, shined the apple on his sleeve, and then took a bite. “But you passed the exam.” Crunch. “Whatcha mean, ‘no’?”

  And so Henry explained. He told Adam about his life at the orphanage, the job at the Midsummer School, Professor Stratford, the exam, and getting fired. While Henry talked, the boys polished off an apple apiece. Then it was Adam’s turn. He told Henry about his father and brother being bankers, and how he’d secretly switched his extra math lesson at school for the fencing elective. Adam hated mathematics. He hated numbers and ledgers and everything about banking. He’d taken the Knightley Exam without telling his parents, and when he got in, they’d had no choice but to let him go.

  “The way I see it, Grim,” Adam said cheerfully, “is that you’re at Knightley to find your life, and I’m here to run away from mine.”

  Henry didn’t deny it. And when the train pulled into the Avel-on-t’Hems station an hour later, the boys had become fast friends.

  Knightley Academy didn’t look like an elite school for young aristocrats. In fact, it rather reminded Henry of a ramshackle country estate built by a slightly eccentric duke. The buildings were a mishmash of styles: flying buttresses topped with thatch, turrets on innocent-looking wooden cottages, mansard roofs, and ivy-covered brick, all connected by a series of cobblestone paths that threaded through a grassy quadrangle complete with an absurd hedge maze that came only waist high.

  Henry and the other first years were crowded together in an echoing, tapestry-hung chamber outside the doors to the Great Hall. Servants wearing Knightley school livery had met them at the station and taken their bags, and Henry had felt disoriented playing the role of the student for the first time in his life. The disorientation, Henry noted, staring nervously at a bleak battle scene depicted on one of the centuries-old tapestries, still hadn’t fully left.

  “Hey, Grim,” Adam said, nudging Henry in the side. “What do
you think is going on?”

  “Haven’t a clue,” Henry whispered nervously, and at that moment, the vast carved doors were flung open.

  A tall, pallid gentleman in an impeccable tweed suit surveyed Henry and the other first years, his enormously bushy eyebrows knitted together in a frown. The man wore a master’s cap and gown, and his jaw was peppered with dark stubble. This was a man, Henry thought, who wouldn’t be caught dead believing anything printed in a tabloid magazine.

  “I am Lord Havelock,” the man barked, his voice stern and deep, as if daring any of the boys to whisper. “I am master of military history, and head of your year. If there are any problems, you will be dealing with me. I trust you boys won’t be too much trouble, but then again, I am often accused of being an overly optimistic man.”

  Lord Havelock clasped his hands behind his back and once again glowered at the first years in what Henry was already starting to think of as the Havelook of Doom.

  “Now,” Lord Havelock continued, “I am about to ask you to step into the Great Hall and sign the school’s Code of Chivalry. This is a code of honor that you must not break without expecting to suffer great consequences. If you do not wish to sign, simply hand me your pen and you will be sent home on the next train. If you do wish to sign, your signature is a solemn vow to live your life here at Knightley according to the Code. Stealing, lying, cheating, wandering the corridors after curfew, and dishonoring schoolmasters are grounds for instant expulsion. As first years, you are also restricted from having female visitors other than members of your direct family, especially in your rooms. Do not test me, gentlemen. I have excellent powers of deduction.”

  With a final Havelook of Doom, Lord Havelock snapped for the boys to follow, and turned on his heel, gown billowing behind him as he strode away.

  Henry shuffled along with the crowd of students, his stomach a reservoir of nerves. Lord Havelock was not a man whose bad side Henry ever wanted to see. And yet, something told him it was inevitable.