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 color of a chestnut. 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.”

Mrs. Medlock’s 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 anymore. Mrs. Medlock sniffed and got out a book to read.

As the train headed north, Mary continued to gaze out. England was so gray! 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.