He opened his eyes and looked at her. She leaped back out of sight.
“I saw you!” the boy’s voice rang out.
Mary’s thoughts raced. Who was he? He couldn’t be a servant—the bedroom was far too grand. It was bigger and far more beautifully decorated than her own.
He spoke again. “I can’t say I saw you enough to positively identify you, but I’m sure if I told them that I’d seen a little servant girl, they’d know who I meant and you’d be in firm trouble, wouldn’t you?”
Servant girl? Well, whoever he was, Mary wasn’t going to be called a servant. She marched into the bedroom, intending to give him a piece of her mind. There was a solid carved wooden bed with curtains draped at the back of it, two bedside tables, a reading stand, and a table and chairs. The boy lying in bed was wearing a vest and was propped up against some pillows. He looked just a little older than her. His brown hair fell across his forehead and his skin was very pale, as if he hadn’t seen sunlight for a long time. Mary’s attention was particularly caught by his dark eyes. They didn’t look like a child’s eyes—they were intense and wary.
“I’m no servant!” Mary exclaimed indignantly. “My name is Mary Lennox. My mother was twin sister to the mistress of this house and my uncle by marriage owns it still and you’ll do well to give me the respect I’m due!”
“I’ll give you none!” the boy declared just as haughtily. “I am Colin Craven. The uncle you speak of is my father, and if I were to live, this place would one day belong to me.”
Mary felt a rush of shock. Whatever she had been expecting, it wasn’t this.
“We’re . . . cousins?” she said, not quite able to believe it.
The boy’s eyes flicked back to hers. He studied her for a moment, and then a half smile pulled at his lips and he gave a brief nod.
“But I’ve never heard of you!” Mary said in astonishment.
“Nor I you,” said the boy.
Mary had a feeling her cousin was as surprised as she was, but he was trying to be grown up and hide it.
“You’re very thin,” he said judgmentally.
“You’re very white,” responded Mary.
“You smile with no teeth,” Colin challenged her.
“You don’t smile at all!” retorted Mary.
“Why are you here?” demanded Colin.
“Why shouldn’t I be?” said Mary defiantly.
Colin gave her a warning look. “I don’t want a friend.”
“Good. I’ve plenty already,” said Mary, shrugging.
She took a breath, and then a laugh burst out of her. She couldn’t help it. This new cousin might be rather strange and very prickly, but it felt miraculous to be talking properly to someone her own age! Colin’s lips twitched into a brief smile too, and she had a feeling he was enjoying their conversation as much as she was.
“So you’re the one who cries out at night,” said Mary, drawing closer. “I thought it was a ghost, that this house was cursed—”
“You think this house is cursed?” interrupted Colin.
Mary nodded. “Yes, by all the soldiers who died here.”
“No,” said Colin, shaking his head. “It is cursed but not by the soldiers. The curse came before the war. The reason people say this house is cursed is because it killed my mother and now it intends to kill me as well.”
“My mother’s dead too.” The guilty secret Mary had been carrying around inside her, the secret she couldn’t even let herself think about, suddenly burst out of her. “I killed her!”
Mary knew this was true. She had wished her mother dead, and her wish had come true. She stared at Colin, wondering how he would react.
He looked at her doubtfully. “Did you really?”
Mary nodded.
Colin sighed and then spoke in a strangely grown-up voice. “Well then, we both know tragedy, don’t we?”
Feeling relieved that he hadn’t judged her or said she was awful, Mary edged a step closer.
“What did you mean—this house intends to kill you?” she asked.
Colin’s face closed like a clam. “I do not wish to speak about it,” he said curtly, turning his head away from her. “You may go now.”
Mary was taken aback at the sudden change in him, but if this strange new cousin thought she was going to beg and plead to be allowed to stay with him, he could think again. She lifted her chin. “Very well.” She walked to the door and looked back over her shoulder. “I suppose you may see me again,” she said airily. “Or you may not.”
“But . . .” Colin began.
“Good night,” said Mary, and she left the room.
“Come back!” she heard Colin exclaim indignantly.
Mary smiled to herself. So it was just as she’d thought: he hadn’t really wanted her to leave. Well, good. He needed to learn he couldn’t order her around. Not if they were going to be friends. Friends! With an excited spring in her step at the thought, she hurried back to her own bedroom.
That night, Mary dreamed of India again. This time she was giggling as her father chased her, pretending to be a tiger. “I’m going to get you!” he growled. “Where are you, little monkey?”
Mary dived into her mother’s bedroom. Her mother wasn’t there. Where to hide? She pulled the wardrobe open, but it was too full of beautiful dresses. She looked under the bed, but there wasn’t enough space and so she jumped under the covers and lay as still as she could.
She heard someone enter the room. She tensed in delight. Daddy was going to find her! Footsteps came over to the bed, and the covers were raised. Mary opened her mouth to squeal, but it wasn’t her father who was staring at her—it was her mother and her eyes were harsh and cold. Mary scrambled out of the bed and fled. . . .
Mary was woken up by Martha shaking her by the shoulder. “Wake up, girl!”
Mary sat up, her hair tousled. As she opened her eyes, she remembered the events of the night before, but before she could ask Martha about the cousin everyone had been keeping secret from her, the maid handed her a new dress—a navy one with smocking on the front. It was the smartest in Mary’s wardrobe.
“There’s no time to waste. The master wants to see you.”
Mary stretched and got up slowly. Martha helped her into her clothes. “Now eat your porridge before Mrs. Medlock comes.”
Mary played with her spoon in the porridge as Martha tidied away her nightclothes.
“Come on, girl. You can eat faster than that,” Martha urged, picking up a hairbrush. “My mother would say you’re doing as little as fast as you can.”
Mary began to eat more quickly as Martha pulled the brush through her hair, parting it at the side. “I’ve decided I like your mother,” Mary said.
Martha gave her an exasperated look. “You’ve never met her. Now eat.”
Mary ate another few spoonfuls. “I have decided I like your brother, Dickon, too.” She thought about the boy she had seen in the mist. “And I have met him. Or at least I would have done, but he ran off. I’d like to meet him properly.” She sighed glumly. “Though I imagine he wouldn’t like me. No one does. Well, almost no one,” she added, thinking about Colin. She decided she would keep him secret for a while, at least until she found out why no one at Misselthwaite had told her about him.
“You say no one likes you, but how do you like yourself, girl?” Martha asked.
Mary frowned. “What do you mean?”
Martha put the brush down. “Mother said it to me once when I was in a bad temper. She turned on me and said, ‘There you stand, saying you don’t like this and you don’t like that, but how do you like yourself right now, lass?’”
The door suddenly opened, and Mrs. Medlock marched in. Mary saw Martha’s eyes widen in alarm.
“Not that I want to interrupt this little reminiscence,” the housekeeper said, fixing Martha with a withering look, “but there are those who are waiting on us.”
“Mrs. Medlock, I . . . I’m sorry,” Martha stammered. “I—”
“It’s not Martha’s fault,” Mary interrupted, not wanting Martha to get into trouble. “I was being tardy. She was scolding me for it.”
Martha shot Mary a surprised but grateful look.
Mrs. Medlock sniffed sourly. “It doesn’t matter whose fault it is. What matters is that you’re late. Now come along, child.” She strode out of the room. “The master is waiting.”
8
Mr. Craven
“Now, when the master speaks to you, you are to answer back with a ‘sir,’ you understand?” Mrs. Medlock instructed.
“Yes, Mrs. Medlock,” said Mary, trying to keep up with her as she marched down the corridor.
The housekeeper stopped outside a heavy wooden door. “And say nothing fanciful. He has enough concerns. And do not stare.” She knocked and a bell rang from the inside. Mrs. Medlock gave Mary a warning nod and then opened the study door.
Mary walked in bravely. The gloomy room was large and dark, heavy curtains partly pulled across the windows, shutting out the daylight. There was a huge desk at one end with a reading light on it, and the wall behind was completely covered with pictures and display cases containing stuffed animals and birds. Mary’s uncle was sitting at the desk.
“Come here, girl,” he commanded. “Into the light where I can see you.”
She stepped forward, her attention caught by his hunchback. She looked away quickly, her eyes falling on a photo on his desk in a silver frame. It was a picture of Aunt Grace and Colin when he was a little boy. Her uncle saw her looking at it and quickly turned it facedown.
He spoke gruffly. “Mrs. Medlock tells me you’re cluttering up the place. She would have me send you to school.”
Mary had never been to school, but she hated the thought of being surrounded by other children day and night. She spoke firmly. “I would not like that, sir. I like it here.”
Her uncle studied her. “Then we will find you a governess.”
“No, I have no need for a governess,” Mary said quickly. “I have too much to learn at Misselthwaite.” She paused and then added, “Sir.”
Her uncle frowned. “This house has nothing to teach a child.”
Mary knew she had to convince him not to send her away to school or to get a governess. “But I want to play out of doors and explore the grounds. It was too hot to do that in India.”
He tapped a pen on the desk. “Mary, I’m obliged by law to have you taught.”
Mary met his eyes. “Then we need to break the law, wouldn’t you say?”
Her uncle’s eyebrows rose slightly as their gazes locked. “Mrs. Medlock says she can see Alice—your mother—in you.”
“Did she like my mother?” Mary asked curiously. “For she doesn’t seem to like me.”
Her uncle didn’t answer her question. “It is not your mother I see,” he said finally, looking away quietly.
Mary frowned but then understood. “Do you mean I remind you of my aunt—your wife? My mother once told me that I was like my aunt, Grace, too.”
It was an extremely hazy memory. She had been very young and chasing a large butterfly, giggling and laughing. She could remember her mother scooping her up in her arms. “You are so like Grace, little Mary,” she had said, laughing. “I cannot wait for her to meet you!” It was the only time Mary could remember her mother hugging her.
Her uncle studied her and then nodded. “Very well. I’ve reached a decision. You do not have to go to school. But if you cause me any trouble, I will send you away in an instant, do you understand?”
Mary nodded calmly although inside she felt like she was jumping with excitement at having gotten her own way. “Yes, sir,” she said politely.
“You won’t be here long anyway,” her uncle sighed. “All women are destined to leave Misselthwaite, one way or another.” He turned away and waved a hand at her. “Go on. Off you go.”
When Mary left the study, Mrs. Medlock was waiting outside. Mary walked straight past her. “I am not to be sent to school,” she said over her shoulder. “And I’m not to have a governess.” She bit back her grin.
Mrs. Medlock hurried after her. “Are you not?” she said in surprise.
“No,” Mary said. “Mr. Craven’s orders. He doesn’t want me to leave this house like all the other womenfolk.”
“What?” Mrs. Medlock threw an astonished glance back at the study door.
“Please be sure to have Mrs. Pitcher supply me with my special sandwiches,” Mary said firmly. “I need extra meat because I need to grow.”
Mrs. Medlock gaped, and unable to hide her smile, Mary dashed away to her room.
Later that morning, Mary returned to the fallen tree trunk where she had first met Jemima the dog. It was a bright day and the sky had hints of blue, although thick white clouds still scudded across it. Mary peeled apart the sandwiches that Cook had given her and took out one of the pieces of Spam. “I know you’re there!” she called, looking at the bushes, but the branches didn’t move.
“If you think I’m throwing any of the pieces today, you’re wrong. You’ll come out and eat like a polite animal—from my hand,” Mary said.
The dog poked her brown head out from behind a tree stump.
Mary smiled and held out the meat. The dog came over, slowly at first, but breaking into a trot as she got closer. Wagging her shaggy tail, she ate the Spam from Mary’s hand, licking her fingers as she did so. Mary giggled as she felt Jemima’s rough tongue. She fed her more of the slices, and then Jemima let her stroke her ears and face.
“You are a very nice dog, Jemima. Where have you come from?”
Jemima backed away. Cocking her head to one side, she looked at Mary and barked.
“Do you want to play again? Come on, then!” said Mary eagerly. Shoving the remains of the sandwich in her leather bag, she raced away with the dog at her heels. They charged through the gardens and down the grassy paths toward the moors.
As they reached the end of the avenue, Jemima raced into the mist. “Wait, Jemima! We shouldn’t go on the moors!” Mary cried.
CRACK!
There was a shrill howl, and Mary’s heart skipped a beat. She ran toward the noise and saw Jemima had her leg caught in a horrible metal trap—the type poachers used to catch rabbits and hares.
“No!” gasped Mary.
Jemima’s yelps of pain stabbed through Mary like a knife. The metal jaws of the trap were crushing the poor dog’s leg, and her eyes looked wild. As Mary crouched down, Jemima snapped at her, mad with pain. Mary jumped back in alarm.
Jemima struggled, hurting her leg even more as she did so.
“No, don’t, please don’t!” Mary begged, tears welling in her eyes.
She knelt down again but more slowly this time. She murmured soothingly, trying to keep her voice from shaking. “It’s all right, Jemima. I’m going to help you. I promise. Please let me.”
The dog stopped struggling, standing still now, but shivering in pain. Her dark eyes looked pleadingly up at Mary.
“That’s it,” Mary said cautiously. “Stay still.”
Her eyes darted over Jemima’s horribly wounded leg. The blood made her feel queasy, but she had to help. Swallowing hard, she leaned forward and took hold of the jaws of the trap. Using all her strength, she forced them apart, loosening their grip on Jemima’s leg. With a yelp, the dog pulled her leg free.
As she did so, the jaws of the trap sprang back together. Mary let go just in time. She gulped—her hand had almost gotten trapped—but she’d done it. She had freed Jemima!
Jemima was licking at her wound. She stood up, but she couldn’t put any weight on her damaged leg.
“Come here. Let me help you,” Mary said, but Jemima hobbled away from her. Mary ran after her, but although the dog could only use three legs, she could still move faster than Mary and seemed determined not to be caught. She raced through the grounds to the hole under the wall and disappeared.
I can’t leave her, Mary thought. She’s injured. She needs help.<
br />
She looked up at the ivy and at the tree growing next to the high wall, then she made a decision. Ignoring the twigs that scratched at her legs through her stockings and tore at her hands, she scrambled up into the tree and started to climb. Up and up she went, finding footholds for her feet and heaving herself until she reached the very top of the wall. With a final wriggle, she pulled herself onto it and straddled it as if she was riding a horse.
Triumph rushed through her. She was so high up! Now all she had to do was climb down the other side of the wall. There were tree branches and creepers on that side too. Mary swung her leg over and started to clamber down, again finding footholds for her feet. But as she let go of the top of the wall, the branch she had just put her weight on snapped.
With a shriek, Mary felt herself start to fall!
9
The Secret Garden
The creepers grabbed at Mary, slowing her descent as she crashed down through a tunnel of foliage. She landed with a bump at the top of a steep slope and then tumbled all the way down it, rolling over and over through the dead leaves and bracken. She thumped to a stop and lay there for a moment, wondering if she had broken anything. Feeling dazed, she blinked her eyes. A faint, ghostly, dark-haired woman in a long dress was leaning over her, looking worried.
“Mother!” gasped Mary in shock. She sat bolt upright, and the figure dissolved into sunlight.
Mary drew in a trembling breath. She must have bumped her head in the fall. For a moment, she had really thought her mother was there, but of course she couldn’t be.
Where am I? she wondered, looking around. Trees surrounded her, their branches meeting overhead. Through a gap in the leafy canopy, the sun shone down between the leaves, casting dappled light on the ground around her.
Mary got slowly to her feet. She had cuts and grazes, and her new coat was covered with moss and leaves, but nothing hurt too badly. She set off down a path. “Jemima!” she called, wondering where her friend was.
The trees were ancient—almost prehistoric—and their trunks seemed to have exploded in all directions. Their twisted branches were covered with a layer of soft green moss that seemed to glow in the sunlight. Leaves lay in a thick, dry carpet, and Mary’s feet crunched through them as she clambered over fallen tree trunks and skirted around the knobbly roots that had grown up through the ground. Her skin tingled. It’s like a place from a fairy tale, she thought.
The Secret Garden Page 4
