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.