The Extraordinary Education of Nicholas Benedict

For Ben and Sam Hudson





The train station at Pebbleton, dark and sooty though it was, glistened in the mist. Electric lamps above the platform cast their light upon a thousand reflecting surfaces: the puddles along the tracks, the streaked windows of the station house, the umbrellas hoisted over huddled, indistinct figures on the platform. To a person of whimsical mind, the scene might resemble something from a tale, a magical gathering in a dark wood, the umbrellas looming like toadstools over fairy folk.

There was, in fact, such a person watching from the window of the approaching train, a boy of whimsical mind, to be sure (though whimsy was not the half of it, nor even the beginning), and the fairy-tale qualities of the scene occurred to him at once. So too did a great many other things, including the sentence “It glistened in the mist; the train hissed, and I listened,” a poetic train of thought that sounded rather like a train itself, which pleased him. But foremost in the boy’s mind was the awareness that Pebbleton station was his stop—the end of his train journey, the beginning of a new unknown.

He turned to his chaperone, a plump old woman with spectacles so large the brim of her hat rested upon their frames. “What shall we call this, Mrs. Ferrier—an arrival or a departure?”

Mrs. Ferrier was putting away her knitting needles. “I suppose both, Nicholas. Or however you like.” She clasped her bag and peered out the grimy window. “It’s a miserable night for either.”

“Shall I tell you what I’m thinking, Mrs. Ferrier?”

“Heavens no, Nicholas! That would take hours, and we have only moments. There, we’ve stopped.”

The old woman turned from the window to appraise his appearance, despite having already done so before they boarded the train. Nicholas doubted he had changed much in the course of their half day’s journey, and his reflection, easily seen in Mrs. Ferrier’s enormous spectacles, proved him right: He was still a skinny, towheaded nine-year-old with threadbare clothes and an unfortunate nose. Indeed, his nose was so long and lumpy that it drew attention away from his one good feature—his bright and impish green eyes—though Mrs. Ferrier had often remarked that someday, should Nicholas come to require spectacles, his nose would do an admirable job holding them in place. It was always best to be positive, she told him.

“Well?” he asked as she studied him. “Do you think they’ll take me? Or will they send me back and keep the money for their trouble?”

Mrs. Ferrier pursed her lips. “Please don’t be saucy, Nicholas. I say this for your sake. It’s nothing to me now, is it? Remember your manners, and make yourself useful around the orphanage. Start off on the right foot, and you’ll be happier for it.”

Nicholas feigned surprise. “Oh! You want me to be happy, Mrs. Ferrier?”

“Of course I do,” puffed the old woman as she struggled to her feet. “I want everyone to be happy, don’t I? Now follow me, and mind you don’t step on the backs of my shoes.”

Mrs. Ferrier and Nicholas were the only passengers to disembark the train. Several were boarding, however, and they crowded the aisles most inconveniently as they closed their umbrellas and removed their overcoats. By the time the old woman and her charge managed to descend the steps, the platform was empty save for one man in a somber gray suit and hat, standing rigidly beneath his umbrella. At the sight of them, he strode forward to shield Mrs. Ferrier with it. He was so tall that when he stood over Nicholas his face appeared mostly as a sharp, jutting chin and cavernous nostrils. His suit carried a faintly pleasant odor of pipe tobacco, which Nicholas liked, and the boy’s initial impression was neutral until Mr. Collum, which was the man’s name, introduced himself to Mrs. Ferrier and told Nicholas to run and fetch his trunk.

“There’s no trunk to fetch, sir,” said Nicholas, blinking in the mist (for he stood outside the umbrella’s protection). “Only this suitcase. I’m Nicholas, sir. Nicholas Benedict.” He held out his hand.

“No trunk?” said Mr. Collum, frowning. “Well, I daresay that’s common enough, though I hadn’t expected it. I haven’t met a child at the station before, you see.” He was speaking directly to Mrs. Ferrier and appeared not to have noticed Nicholas’s outstretched hand. “I assumed directorship of the Manor only this spring, as I’m sure Mr. Cuckieu told you.”

“The Manor?” said Mrs. Ferrier with a confused look.

“Forgive me,” Mr. Collum said. “You must know the orphanage as Rothschild’s End—or ’Child’s End, as it is often abbreviated. In these parts, however, it is quite common to shorten the name still further, for ease of speaking, and to refer to the place simply as the Manor. The residence at ’Child’s End is the only manor in the area, you see, so this leads to no confusion.”