“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 backward. 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 anymore. Chin jutting with determination, Mary managed to get dressed, pulled on the vest and undergarments and the woolen 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 lumpy now, and she began to wish she’d eaten some of it when it was still warm. She looked around 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-gray 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 onto its back. Holding the reins, she started to make it rock backward and forward, slowly at first, but getting higher every time, and as she did so, she shut her eyes and her imagination, which 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 who 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. . . .

5

Exploring Misselthwaite