First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2020

Published in this ebook edition in 2020

HarperCollins Children’s Books is a division of

HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd,

HarperCollins Publishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

The HarperCollins Children’s Books website address is

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Written by Linda Chapman

Based on the screenplay by Jack Thorne,

and based on the original novel by Frances Hodgson Burnett

© 2020 STUDIOCANAL S.A.S., All rights reserved.

Cover design copyright © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

All rights reserved.

Linda Chapman asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of the work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008340070

Ebook Edition © March 2020 ISBN: 9780008340087

Version: 2020-02-04

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter One: Noises in the Night

Chapter Two: A Long Journey

Chapter Three: Misselthwaite Manor

Chapter Four: The House at Night

Chapter Five: Exploring Misselthwaite

Chapter Six: Making Friends

Chapter Seven: Colin

Chapter Eight: Mr Craven

Chapter Nine: The Secret Garden

Chapter Ten: Cousins

Chapter Eleven: Dreams and Memories

Chapter Twelve: Dickon

Chapter Thirteen: The Hidden Room

Chapter Fourteen: The Robin’s Secret

Chapter Fifteen: Taking Risks

Chapter Sixteen: New Friends

Chapter Seventeen: Caught

Chapter Eighteen: Prisoner

Chapter Nineteen: Unlocking the Past

Chapter Twenty: A Way Out

Chapter Twenty-One: The Fire

Chapter Twenty-Two: Believe in Magic

Chapter Twenty-Three: Four Months Later …

About the Publisher

Noises in the Night

ary Lennox couldn’t sleep. A large ceiling fan spun slowly round and round, but it was too warm to get comfortable. Outside, in the dark Indian night, the sound of insects chirping and whirring was drowned out by people shouting. The servants are being very noisy tonight, Mary thought. Why doesn’t Daddy tell them to be quiet? Sitting up in bed, she pushed her chin-length hair back behind her ears and picked up her rag doll.

‘Jemima, can you sleep?’ she whispered. Jemima stared back at her.

Mary liked to pretend that Jemima could understand everything she said because talking to Jemima and telling her stories helped Mary feel less lonely and bored. She didn’t have any brothers or sisters, and the servants – apart from her ayah, her Indian nanny – kept their distance. She wasn’t allowed to play outside much because the sun was very strong. Her father was too busy with his work to play games with her as much as she’d like and her mother … Mary chewed her lower lip. She knew her mother didn’t like her. At times, Mary even suspected that she hated her.

Well, I hate her too, Mary thought, scowling.

There was a scream from somewhere in the villa and then the sound of a crash and a door slamming. A wisp of fear curled in Mary’s tummy as she glanced at her bedroom door. What was going on?

She’d heard her father talking to his friends about how there was a lot of fighting in India at the moment. Mary didn’t really understand, but it sounded like the Indian people didn’t want the English to be in India any more and wanted them to leave. Daddy and his friends had talked about fighting in the streets. But surely those streets were a long way away, in distant cities. The Indian servants who worked for the Lennox family did whatever they were told so Mary couldn’t imagine them fighting. No, she was safe here. Nothing bad would happen to her.

Trying not to listen to the muffled bangs and crashes and shouts from outside her room, she stroked Jemima’s woollen hair. ‘Are you scared, Jemima?’ she whispered. ‘Well, don’t be. It’s just grown-ups being grown-ups. Shall I tell you a story to make you feel better?’

Lighting a lantern, she got out of bed and took Jemima to a den she had made out of cushions and throws in the middle of her room. She began to recite one of her favourite stories, using shadow puppets to act it out as she spoke. It was a story her ayah had told her about a boy called Rama and a girl called Sita who loved each other, but then one day a demon kidnapped Sita and took her away. Ayah’s stories were always filled with gods and demons, magic and excitement.

By the time Mary was nearing the end, the noises outside had quietened down, and her eyelids were starting to feel heavy. ‘Rama was just about to catch up with Sita and the demon, but then the demon threw down fire and imprisoned him in flames,’ she said, yawning. ‘Luckily, the fire god, Agni, was watching and he parted the flames and carried Rama up into the clouds. After that, the two of them set off, looking – ever looking – for Rama’s love,’ she finished.

Blowing out the lantern, she sank back on the cushions with Jemima in her arms. Her eyelashes fluttered and a few seconds later she was asleep.

A damp green lawn … flowerbeds filled with pink, lilac and blue flowers … trees with branches bursting with blossom … Mary ran down a path past statues … A grown-up was holding her hand. She was laughing, trying not to fall over, and she felt happy, wonderfully and completely happy …

Slowly, Mary began to wake up. For a moment, she tried to hold on to the familiar dream, but it faded just like it always did. The dream garden looked so different to any garden she had ever known, but it seemed so real to her when she was there and she always felt truly happy in it. With a sigh, she rubbed her eyes. The first thing she noticed was that the shutters were still open and it was very bright outside. Sunlight was flooding in through the window. Mary’s tummy rumbled. Where was her ayah? Why hadn’t she brought her breakfast?

Feeling hungry and cross, she sat up in her den. ‘Ayah!’ she called loudly. To her surprise, the door didn’t open to reveal her ayah’s kindly face. Feeling even crosser, Mary raised her voice. ‘Ayah! I’m calling you! It’s late and I’m not even dressed!’ Her voice reached shouting pitch. ‘AYAH!’

Mary waited. Still no one came. What was going on? The house was very quiet. That was peculiar, she realised. Usually, she could hear the servants bustling around. Unease flickered through her as she remembered the strange noises in the night.

‘Should … should we go and look around and see if we can find anyone, Jemima?’ She tried to sound brave but her voice trembled slightly. ‘Yes, I think that’s a very good idea,’ she went on. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll look after you. We’ll go and find Daddy and he shall get Ayah for us.’

Opening the door of her bedroom, she paused. The corridor outside her room was in chaos. Pictures had been pulled from the walls and were now lying on the floor without their gold frames. Heart beating fast, she started to hurry through the villa. Every room was the same – curtains had been torn down, ornaments lay smashed on the floor, much of the furniture had disappeared and, in the kitchen, the cupboards were open and the shelves bare. Everything of any value had vanished and, worst of all, there was no one there at all.

‘Father? Daddy? Ayah?’ Mary’s voice rose anxiously. She pushed the doors to the veranda open. The sun shone down brightly, but the garden was as deserted as the house. Mary clutched Jemima.

‘Where have they all gone?’ she whispered.

A Long Journey

ary sat on a wooden bench on the deck of an enormous ship as it chugged across the vast ocean, leaving India and heading towards England. Her back was straight and she stared silently up at the sky, holding Jemima in her arms. Nearby, a group of children were playing noisily on the deck, but Mary didn’t join in with them. It had been several weeks since she had woken up and found her home had been ransacked, but it felt like a lifetime ago.

No one had come to the house for two days until two English officers turned up. They had been astonished to find her there – dirty, thirsty, hungry – and had taken her to the hospital. She had asked them where her father and mother were, but they had just told her to be a good girl and not to worry. At the hospital, a nurse gave her something to eat and drink, and helped Mary bathe and change into clean clothes. Then Mary was seen by a doctor. Neither the nurse nor the doctor would answer her questions about her parents either.

As she waited in a small room, wondering when Daddy was going to come and take her home and what he would say when he found out that all the servants had vanished, she heard the two officers talking in a room next door.

‘This is a frightful mess,’ said one gravely. ‘Poor child. If only we had evacuated the family before the trouble broke out. The cholera epidemic couldn’t have come at a worse time for them.’

Mary pricked her ears. She knew that cholera was a disease that killed lots of people, but what did it have to do with her family?

‘The doctor tells me her mother was struck down with cholera very suddenly. Her father rushed her here in the night, but it was too late,’ the first officer continued.

Mary froze, foreboding running down her spine. Too late for what?

‘The mother died that night and then the father died the next morning.’

Mary’s heart started to pound so fast she thought it was going to burst out of her chest. Mother and Daddy … both dead? She drew in a sharp breath. No, they couldn’t be dead. They couldn’t be! But even as the thought formed she knew, with a horrible, crashing certainty, that it must be true. The officers wouldn’t make a mistake about something like that. A sob ripped up through her, half whimper, half choking cry.

There was the sound of feet and one of the officers looked in through the door. ‘Oh, Lord. She’s here.’ He cleared his throat awkwardly, clearly having no idea how to comfort a ten-year-old girl.

His companion joined him. ‘What in heaven’s name are we going to do with her? She can’t stay here,’ he said.

Mary looked up through her tears to see the first officer consulting his notes.

‘She has a widowed uncle in England,’ he said. ‘We’ll send her back on the boat with the other children.’

From then on, Mary was passed around like an unwanted parcel. On leaving the hospital, she was sent to stay with a clergyman called Mr Crawford who had a wife and five children of his own. She heard the adults around her saying it would be better for her to be with other children, but she didn’t understand why. She didn’t want to play with the Crawford children. They were younger than her and they wanted to know all about her parents and how they had died. She felt miserable and wouldn’t answer their questions. Finally, she lost her temper, ripping up a drawing that the youngest had done for her and screaming at them all to leave her alone. After that, they stayed away from her, watching her as if she was a strange, wild animal. Mary didn’t care. She didn’t feel like she would care about anything ever again.

She had heard the clergyman and his stout, well-meaning wife talking about her in whispers: ‘Poor child … Word has been sent to England … He’s her uncle by marriage, you know … He was married to her mother’s twin sister who died years ago … Such a tragedy, poor man … but he’s her only living relative … He’ll have to take her, whether he likes it or not …’

Finally, a telegram had arrived. ‘The ship that will take you to England leaves tomorrow,’ Mrs Crawford informed Mary. ‘Your uncle – Mr Craven – who was married to your Aunt Grace, has agreed to take you in. He lives in Yorkshire at a place called Misselthwaite Manor. You’re a lucky girl, Mary. Your uncle is a rich man.’

Mary swallowed. How could Mrs Crawford possibly say she was lucky? Her parents were dead and she was going to live with some old uncle in a horrible house in a strange country! Tears pricked her eyes, but she wouldn’t cry in front of the Crawfords – she wouldn’t!

Pressing her lips tightly together, she nodded and then walked up the stairs. Reaching her bedroom, she shut the door behind her and then threw herself down on the bed, sobbing into the pillow to muffle her bitter tears.

The ship that carried Mary from Bombay to England was crowded and noisy. There were many families on board, all returning to England because of the unrest in India. Mary had to eat with the other children and do what she was told. She hated it – the food was horrible and the other children were rough and loud. On the first day, she had pushed her plate of food away. ‘This is disgusting!’ she said.

A scruffy boy sitting next to her grabbed her plate and emptied the food on to his own plate.

Mary stared at him, outraged. ‘I didn’t say you could do that!’

‘You didn’t say I couldn’t,’ the boy replied. ‘If you aren’t going to eat it, I am.’

‘You don’t understand,’ Mary exclaimed. ‘I need better food than this. My parents are dead.’

He shrugged. ‘We’ve all lost, girl.’

Mary watched as he gobbled up her food. She didn’t like him much, but he was the only person who had spoken to her so far. ‘Would … would you like to hear a story?’ she asked tentatively.

He gave her a scornful look. ‘No, I’m not a child.’ He got up and moved away to sit by someone else, leaving Mary on her own. Since then, she had barely spoken a word to anyone.

Standing up, Mary now walked to the side of the ship. A railing ran round the deck and the deep blue ocean swelled below. She lifted up Jemima. Maybe she could tell her one of Ayah’s tales and escape into it, forgetting everything else. Telling stories had always been her way of coping when Mother didn’t want to see her or when Daddy was too busy to play.

‘I’ll tell you a story, Jemima,’ she said. ‘Just like I used to do at home. There once was a Lord of the Seas. His name was Varuna and he … and he …’

The words seemed to dry up in her head. She tried again. ‘Varuna was very powerful. He …’ She faltered. But it was no use. All Mary could think about was home.

‘I don’t have a home, do I, Jemima?’ she whispered. ‘I don’t belong anywhere or to anyone now.’

Mary felt a sudden stab of pain as she looked into Jemima’s blank face. Jemima was just a doll, not a friend. Only children played with dolls and children had to eat what they were given and keep quiet. Children were passed from place to place; children had to do what grown-ups wanted. She suddenly made up her mind.

‘I’m not a child,’ she said fiercely. ‘Not any more.’

She let Jemima go. As the doll hit the water far below, shock filled Mary. What had she just done? Jemima floated on the surface for a moment. She stared up at Mary one last time and then the waves dragged her under.

A lump swelled painfully in Mary’s throat, but she swallowed it back. No more tears, she told herself. She lifted her chin, her eyes defiant. She wasn’t going to cry again – not now, not ever.

Crossing her arms, she turned away from the railings, a lock snapping shut on her broken heart.

Misselthwaite Manor

hen the ship arrived in England, Mary was met by a stern-looking woman with grey hair. She wore a buttoned-up blue woollen overcoat, with just the hint of a scarf at the neck, and had a leather handbag over her arm. She looked Mary up and down and, from the way her forehead crinkled, Mary had a feeling she didn’t approve of what she saw. ‘My name is Mrs Medlock,’ she announced. ‘I am Mr Craven’s housekeeper and you are to come with me.’

Mary was reminded of a word her father had once used to describe the elderly aunt of a colleague. Formidable, he had called her. Yes, formidable is just what Mrs Medlock is, thought Mary. But she reminded herself that Mrs Medlock was just the housekeeper – a servant – and so had to do what the family told her to do.

Remembering her decision not to be a child any more, Mary met Mrs Medlock’s gaze. ‘Very well,’ she said coldly.

Head held high, Mary followed Mrs Medlock to the train that was to take them to Yorkshire. As the whistle went and it started to puff along the rails, clouds of steam shooting out from its funnel, Mary became aware that Mrs Medlock was studying her.

‘Well, you’re a plain little piece of goods, aren’t you?’ Mrs Medlock said in her Yorkshire accent.

Mary puzzled over the words, trying to work out what they meant. I think it’s her way of saying I’m not very pretty, she decided. Mary didn’t mind the comment because she didn’t consider herself particularly pretty either. She didn’t have the long golden hair of a princess in a storybook or the jet-black hair and enchanting brown eyes of the Indian girls in her ayah’s tales. She was small and skinny with hair the colour of a conker. Her skin was pale, her inquisitive hazel eyes almost too large for her face. Her words are true, Mary thought, but what a strange thing for a servant to say.

She turned and stared out of the window.

Opposite her, Mrs Medlock settled herself more firmly in her seat. ‘Now I don’t know what you’ve been told, girl,’ she began with a warning note in her voice, ‘but don’t be expecting luxury at Misselthwaite. It’s not the house it was.’

Her eyes grew distant and for a moment Mary had a feeling she was reliving the past.

‘When the young mistress was alive, there was a full household staff, a stable of horses, grand balls, but that’s all changed now.’ She tutted indignantly. ‘Those army savages! They turned the house into a hospital during the war. Brought the wounded, the dead and the dying. They set up camp in the garden and kept their sick in the ballroom. Quite took over the place and now there’s no knowing what to do with the house. They left it a wreck!’

Mary didn’t say anything.

Mrs Medlock clearly expected more of a response. ‘Well? Don’t you even care?’

‘Does it matter whether I care or not?’ said Mary bluntly.

Mrs Medlock’s eyes narrowed. She gazed at her for a long moment. ‘Well, you are an odd duck, aren’t you?’

Mary’s initial dislike of the housekeeper intensified and she turned to look out of the window again, not wanting to talk to her any more. Mrs Medlock sniffed and got out a book to read.

As the train headed north, Mary continued to gaze out. England was so grey! Rain slanted against the train window. Sodden fields stretched in all directions, cows and sheep hanging their heads in the downpour. It was so different from the bright sunshine of India. There the rain was as welcomed as a longed-for guest, making flowers burst into life and fresh green buds push their way up through the parched soil.

On and on the train went until they pulled into a station and transferred to a car driven by an unsmiling, gruff man. As they drove away from the station, Mary fell asleep. When she woke up, she saw an endless expanse of grey on either side of the car. She had never seen anything like it. ‘Is that the sea?’ she asked as she looked at the clouds swirling across the top.

‘The sea! What a foolish thing to say, girl. Out there are the moors,’ snorted Mrs Medlock. ‘Be sure to stay inside when the mist is rolling or you may not find your way home.’

From her tone of voice, it sounded as if she didn’t think that would be a bad thing. Mary’s lips tightened. She had the strong feeling that Mrs Medlock didn’t want her at Misselthwaite any more than she wanted to be there. Well, she can stay out of my way and I’ll stay out of hers, she thought fiercely. All I want is to be left alone.

They drove on and on along the narrow strip of road that cut across the moors, past heather, sheep and wild ponies. Occasionally, through the shroud of mist, Mary thought she saw the glow of orange and red flames flickering weakly and once she was sure she caught sight of a group of raggedly dressed people trudging beside a pony and cart, but, as she looked more closely, the mist closed in and the shadowy figures vanished from sight.

It seemed as if the journey would never end, but finally they turned down a long drive. Parkland stretched away on either side until it merged with the moors. At the end of the drive was an enormous stone manor house with sharp turrets silhouetted against the twilight sky. A single weak light shone out of an upstairs window.

‘There it is,’ Mrs Medlock announced with a touch of pride in her voice as she looked at the dark, forbidding fortress of a house. ‘Misselthwaite.’

As the car swept through the gates, Mary noticed a robin perched on one of the pillars. For a moment, it seemed to look straight at Mary and then it flew away.

The car stopped. Mary gazed up at the vast house and felt a shiver run through her. It looked like the kind of place where ghosts and phantoms walked at night.

‘This is your home now,’ said Mrs Medlock. ‘Thanks to your uncle’s kindness.’ She fixed Mary with a stern look. ‘Now, when you see him, you’re not to stare, girl. Do you understand?’

Mary was puzzled. Why ever did Mrs Medlock think she would stare at her uncle?

Mrs Medlock went on. ‘He’s suffered enough, poor man. And now to see you, looking the way you do … No.’ She shook her head as if that would be too much. ‘A shadow, that’s what you’ll have to be at Misselthwaite, girl. Just a shadow.’

Mary had no idea why the way she looked might upset her uncle, but, before she could ask, Mrs Medlock was already leading the way up the stone steps to the iron-bound, oak front door. Mary followed her into the huge entrance hall. Portraits of stern-looking ladies and men frowned down from the walls and a wide central staircase led up to a landing with a huge window. It couldn’t have been more unlike the bright, airy villa she had lived in in India.

‘First things first,’ said Mrs Medlock, marching over to a brass light switch on the wall. ‘We’re fully electric.’ She pulled the switch down. The huge glass chandelier in the centre of the hall lit up briefly, but then there was a fizzling sound and the lights went out again. Mrs Medlock raised her eyebrows. ‘But that doesn’t mean it always works. So, if you’re needing the facilities in the night, take a lamp. Secondly, the master is a widower and on his own. He has promised you will have someone to look after you soon enough, but in the meantime don’t you be expecting there’ll be people to talk to you because there won’t.’

Standing in the cavernous hall, Mary refused to be daunted. She lifted her chin. ‘I need no entertaining. I am not a child.’

She felt a stab of satisfaction as she saw the housekeeper blink in surprise. Mrs Medlock turned and led the way up the grand staircase. On the first landing the staircase split, heading off in opposite directions. Mary followed her down a long, gloomy corridor.

‘This house is six hundred years old,’ said Mrs Medlock as the corridor twisted and turned past endless closed doors. ‘There are near a hundred rooms. You’ll be told which ones you can go into and those you’re to keep out of, but until then you’re to stick to your rooms and your rooms only. Is that understood?’ Mary nodded. ‘You may play in the grounds outside, but no exploring the house.’ Mrs Medlock gave her a warning look. ‘No poking about.’

Mary met her gaze. ‘I assure you, Mrs Medlock, that I have no interest in “poking about”.’

‘Hmm,’ Mrs Medlock sniffed and stopped beside a door. ‘This is you,’ she said, opening a door to a bedroom. Mary went inside and Mrs Medlock quickly shut the door behind her. She heard the housekeeper walking away, her boots tapping on the floorboards.

Looking round the vast room, Mary felt very small. There was an iron bed with a thin cover and one thin pillow. Next to it was a bedside cabinet with a single lamp. The floor was just bare wooden boards with a couple of threadbare rugs, and the walls were covered with fading wallpaper painted with trees and birds. There was a huge window with long, heavy curtains on either side, a small fire burning in the grate, and an old rocking horse and a battered toy chest.

So this is my new bedroom, Mary thought, looking round at the shabby, old-fashioned things. No, I will not cry, she thought fiercely as she felt her throat tighten. She wondered about her uncle. She had thought she would be introduced to him when she arrived, but maybe he didn’t want to see her. Mrs Medlock’s words had certainly given her the impression that he hadn’t wanted her to come to Misselthwaite.

No one wants me, she thought, her heart swelling with a desperate loneliness. No one likes me. Everyone probably wishes I had died in India.

She took off her boots and coat and got under the thin embroidered coverlet of the bed, drawing her knees up to her chest. She thought of India – the sunshine, the bright red and yellow orchids that bloomed after the rain, the monkeys in the trees, the ripe mangoes; Daddy swinging her round in his arms and calling her his little monkey; her ayah smiling fondly at her, happy to bring the little Miss Sahib whatever she wanted.

I want to go back, Mary thought longingly. To my home, to the sunshine and the flowers. I want to wake up and see Daddy and Ayah and for this all to be a terrible nightmare.

A little voice piped up inside her. But it isn’t a nightmare. It’s real and it all happened because of the wish you made …

No! She didn’t want to think about that.

Staring hard at the embroidered flowers on the coverlet, Mary made herself imagine they were real flowers, vibrant and sweet-smelling. As her imagination began to work its magic, they seemed to brighten and grow in front of her eyes, moving, bending, sweeping her far, far away …

Mary was back in her garden in India. It was part dream, part memory from a year ago. She ran towards the palm tree, her legs pounding. She’d climbed it the day before. For the first time, she’d got up it by herself and now she wanted her mother to see. She wanted her to be proud of her! Glancing back at the villa, she saw her mother walking along the veranda, one hand on her forehead, her head bowed.

‘Mother! Look, I’m climbing!’ Mary shouted, starting to climb up. Higher and higher she went. ‘Mother? Look, please!’ Her voice rose as she glanced round, hoping her mother had seen her triumphant climb. But her mother was walking back into the house. She hadn’t even glanced in Mary’s direction …

Mary woke up in the dark, feeling unhappy and cold. Her eyes darted around. Where was she? As she spotted the shadowy rocking horse and the enormous stone window, it all came back to her. Of course. She was at Misselthwaite Manor. Someone had been into her room, taken away her coat and boots and shut the curtains while she’d been asleep – Mrs Medlock maybe or a maid?

Mary shivered, wanting more blankets. In India she had always had a bell by her bed and, whenever she had rung it, her ayah had appeared. But here there was no bell. ‘Hello?’ she tried calling. She raised her voice. ‘Hello?’ But her words just rang out in the eerie silence.

A high wail from somewhere in the house made her jump. It sounded like a child, but there were no other children here in the manor house. Was it a bird or an animal maybe? Mary heard the noise again. Swinging her legs out of bed, she padded inquisitively to the bedroom door. The sound seemed to be coming from a floor above the one she was on. Perhaps it was her uncle. She listened, head on one side. It didn’t sound like a grown man. A worrying thought struck her. Could … could it be a ghost?

A shiver passed over her skin and for a moment Mary wondered if she should just stay in her room and ignore it. But her curiosity got the better of her. She had to find out what was making such a dreadful noise.

Gathering her courage, she left her room and set off along the gloomy corridor.

The House at Night

ary reached a spiral staircase that looked as if it was a way for servants to move between floors. The sound still seemed to be coming from up above her. As she started up the steps, the cries stopped. ‘Hello? Is someone there?’ she called softly.

No one replied and so she continued up the dark, twisty staircase. The wails started again and then stopped. Quickening her pace, Mary reached a landing lit by a shaft of moonlight filtering in through a window at the end. She hurried along the dark, narrow corridor and turned the corner.

There was a ghost! Mary stopped with a gasp as she saw a girl standing at the far end of the corridor. It took her a few seconds to realise that she was looking at an enormous mirror and the phantom girl was just her own reflection. She let out a relieved breath and felt her racing heart start to slow down.

There was a sudden noisy clatter overhead and Mary’s nerve failed her. Turning, she sprinted back along the corridor as if a whole army of phantoms were after her. She dived into her bedroom and slammed the door shut, leaning against it and gasping for breath. As her breathing calmed, she hurried to her bed and, pulling the coverlet over her head, she shut her eyes. She didn’t open them again until morning.

When Mary woke next, she saw that light was shining round the edges of the heavy curtains. Had her night-time adventure really happened?

Getting out of bed, she pulled open the curtains and saw that her room looked out on to the sweeping driveway and, beyond the driveway, out on to the misty moors. As Mary watched, a man came out of the house, dragging an old iron bedframe behind him. He flung it on to the gravel. He was about as old as her father and was wearing dark trousers and a waistcoat over a shirt with rolled-up sleeves. His face was craggy and sad, etched with deep wrinkles, and his hair was messy.

That must be my uncle, Mary thought.

There was something odd about him. It was his back, she realised. He had a hump on his shoulders that made him bend over slightly at the waist. Mrs Medlock’s strange words – don’t you go staring at him – suddenly made sense. Mary peered down with interest, wondering why no one had ever told her that her uncle was a hunchback. She wouldn’t have minded. She had once read a story about a man with a crooked back who had married a beautiful princess whom he had loved very much.

He hurried back into the house and reappeared a minute later, dragging another bed. This time Mrs Medlock was with him.

‘Sir!’ she exclaimed. ‘Please leave the beds. The army will come and collect them. You don’t need to do this.’

‘It needs sorting out,’ he said stubbornly.

‘I know but not like this. You’ll do yourself an injury. Please, sir, come back inside.’ Mrs Medlock gave him a pleading look. Mary saw her uncle run a hand through his hair and then give in. As he started to follow Mrs Medlock back into the house, he glanced up towards Mary’s window. Mary ducked down, not wanting him to see she had been spying on him. She retreated back into her room, thinking about the lines etched in her uncle’s face. He wasn’t very old, but he looked like someone who had suffered.

Just then, the bedroom door opened and a maid came in. She was neatly dressed in a grey dress buttoned up to the neck and looked about twenty. Her thick dark hair was tied back tidily in a low bun and she was carrying a tray with a bowl of porridge on it.

Mary wondered why the maid hadn’t knocked before entering. ‘Who are you?’

‘What’s that for a greeting?’ said the maid with a smile.

Mary blinked at her impudence.

‘You’ll call me Martha. You’re Mary, I hear,’ the maid went on. Putting the tray down, she went over to the fireplace.

Mary stared at her. She was used to Indian servants who never spoke unless they were spoken to. They would answer her if she asked a question, but otherwise they bowed and stayed silent.

Martha began to rake out the cinders. ‘There’s a fine chill in the air today, isn’t there?’ she went on chattily as she spread paper on top of the ash. ‘But spring is on its way. That’s what my brother Dickon says. He’s always out on the moors and knows more about nature and animals than anyone.’

Mary frowned. She wasn’t sure she liked this talkative servant. ‘I was cold in the night,’ she said accusingly. ‘No one heard when I called.’

‘I’m guessing that’s because we were all in our beds too,’ the maid said. ‘There’s a second blanket under your bed if you’re cold tonight.’

‘And I heard noises too,’ Mary went on. ‘Wailing, screaming.’

‘No,’ Martha said firmly, adding a layer of coal to the fire. ‘You heard the wind, that’s all. It blows right bad around the house.’

Mary considered this. Maybe Martha was right and she’d got scared over nothing. Not wanting to seem foolish, she changed the subject.

‘Well, I needed someone. You should sleep outside my room. My ayah did and she would always come if I called her.’

To her astonishment, Martha just raised her eyebrows. ‘Well, whoever Ayah is, she’s sure as not here, is she?’ she said, lighting the fire. ‘And I won’t be sleeping outside your room tonight or any other night. I’ll be sleeping in my own bed, thank you very much.’

‘But aren’t you going to be my servant?’ said Mary, surprised.

‘Your servant?’ Martha’s smile widened. ‘No, girl. I’m just here to check the fire’s lit, the room’s shipshape and you’ve food in you. Nothing more. I’ve got countless other jobs to do around the house. Now eat your porridge. It’s getting cold.’

Mary inspected the porridge. It was lumpy and had a skin forming on top of it. She didn’t like the look of it all. ‘I don’t eat porridge,’ she informed Martha, lifting her chin. ‘For my breakfast, I like bacon and eggs.’ She waited for Martha to take the tray away and fetch her something else, but Martha just grinned.

‘I like them too but you’ve got porridge. Now come on, time to get yourself dressed,’ Martha said, opening the wardrobe. Mary saw it was filled with clothes for her. Martha handed her a dress, some undergarments, stockings and a cardigan.

‘You want me to dress myself?’ said Mary, astounded. ‘But aren’t you going to do that?’ Her ayah had always dressed her.

‘Dress you?’ echoed Martha. ‘Whatever for? You’ve got hands and arms, haven’t you?’ She shook her head. ‘Goodness, Mother always said she couldn’t see why grand people’s children didn’t turn out to be fools. What with needing help with washing and dressing and being took out to walk as if they were puppies.’ She chuckled. ‘I see what she means now.’

Mary’s temper snapped. How dare this rude maid laugh at her! With an angry exclamation, she stamped her foot, her fists scrunching up at her sides.

Martha took a startled step backwards. For a moment, there was a long pause, then she shook her head. ‘And to think I was excited to have a young’un in the house,’ she said ruefully as she turned and left the room.

Mary stared after her. Martha had seemed hurt. I don’t understand, Mary thought. She rubbed her forehead. Things were so different in England.

She looked at the clothes in her arms. If children dressed themselves in England, then that’s what she would do. She certainly didn’t want to give that maid a chance to laugh at her any more. Chin jutting with determination, she managed to get undressed, pulled on the vest and bloomers and the woollen stockings. Then she put the dress over the top. It was an old-fashioned pinafore style, loose fitting with long sleeves and a hem that reached her knees, but Mary didn’t care. Clothes were clothes and at least this dress was easy to put on.

When she was dressed, she took a few mouthfuls of porridge. It was cold and claggy now and she began to wish she’d eaten some of it when it was still warm. She looked round the room. What should she do? Her eyes fell on the large rocking horse.

It was old but beautiful. It had a leather saddle and bridle and a dapple-grey coat. Its dark eyes were large and its mane and tail – made from real horsehair – were long and thick. Its legs were positioned as if it was moving. Wondering who it had belonged to, Mary scrambled on to its back. Holding the reins, she started to make it rock backwards and forwards, slowly at first, but getting higher every time and, as she did so, she shut her eyes and her imagination that had been lying dormant, like a bulb in the winter soil, suddenly put out a green shoot. For a few precious, fleeting minutes, she forgot everything she hated about her new life and let her imagination transport her away. She wasn’t Mary Lennox – the orphan from India whom no one wanted or liked – she was beautiful Sita, escaping from an evil demon, carried by a winged horse across the bright blue Indian sky …

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.