The Hidden Garden
a retelling of The Secret Garden
edited by Jane Mouttet
Chapter 3 – Across the Moor
Mary slept for a long time. When she finally woke, Mary found that Mrs. Medlock had bought a lunch basket filled with chicken, cold beef, bread, butter, and hot tea. It was still raining, and it seemed even heavier than before. Everyone at the train station wore raincoats that glistened with water. The train guard lit the lamps in their carriage, making it cozy, and Mrs. Medlock, cheered by the food, ate a lot and then dozed off herself. Mary sat quietly, watching Mrs. Medlock’s bonnet slowly tilt to one side, until she too fell asleep again, the sound of rain splashing against the window lulling her.
When Mary woke up next, the train had stopped, and it was dark outside. Mrs. Medlock shook her awake, saying, “Time to open your eyes! We’re at Thwaite Station and have a long drive ahead.”
Mary stood up and rubbed her sleepy eyes. Mrs. Medlock was gathering all her parcels. Mary didn’t offer to help; back in India, the servants always did everything for her, and she thought it was only natural that people should wait on her.
The station was small, and it looked like no one else was getting off the train. The station master greeted Mrs. Medlock in a friendly but rough voice, using a funny accent Mary hadn’t heard before. She would later learn it was Yorkshire.
“Back again, I see,” he said. “And you’ve brought the young one with you.”
“That’s right,” Mrs. Medlock replied, nodding her head toward Mary. “How’s your wife?”
“Doing well. The carriage is outside waiting for you.”
They left the station and climbed into a fancy carriage, where a smartly dressed footman helped Mary in. His raincoat and hat were wet and shiny from the rain, just like everything else around them.
Mary found herself in a soft, cushioned seat as the footman closed the door and took his place up front with the coachman. She wasn’t tired anymore and felt wide awake, eager to see where they were going. She wasn’t scared, but she did feel curious and uneasy about what kind of house they were going to—a house with a hundred mostly locked rooms.
“What is a moor?” Mary suddenly asked Mrs. Medlock.
“You’ll see soon enough,” Mrs. Medlock replied. “Look out the window in about ten minutes. We’ve got to drive across Missel Moor before we reach the manor.”
Mary didn’t ask any more questions. She sat quietly in the darkness, staring out the window, waiting. The carriage lamps cast a faint light ahead of them, showing bits of the road as they passed. They drove through a tiny village first, where Mary saw cottages, the lights of a little pub, a church, and a shop window with toys and sweets. But soon, they left the village, and the road became dark and lonely.
After what felt like a long time, the carriage slowed down, and Mary noticed there were no more trees or hedges—just thick darkness on either side of the road.
“We’re on the moor now,” Mrs. Medlock said as the carriage jolted over the rough road.
Mary pressed her face against the window and saw the dim glow of the carriage lamps lighting up a wild, untamed landscape. The road was bumpy, and the wind outside made a strange, rushing sound.
“It sounds like the sea,” Mary whispered.
“It’s not the sea,” Mrs. Medlock said. “It’s just miles of wild land where nothing much grows except heather, gorse, and broom. Wild ponies and sheep live out here, but that’s about it.”
“It feels like the sea, though,” Mary said, still looking out the window. “Like I’m crossing a dark ocean.”
“That’s just the wind,” Mrs. Medlock replied. “It’s blowing through the bushes. The moor’s a dreary place, but some people like it, especially when the heather’s blooming.”
They continued driving through the dark, empty moor, the wind howling and the road winding up and down. Every now and then, they passed over a small bridge where the water rushed loudly beneath them. Mary felt like the moor stretched forever like an endless black sea.
“I don’t like it,” she thought, frowning.
The carriage was climbing up a hill when Mary noticed a small light ahead. Mrs. Medlock saw it too and sighed in relief.
“That’s the lodge light,” she said. “We’re almost there now. We’ll have a nice cup of tea soon.”
But even after they passed through the gate, they still had to drive down a long avenue lined with trees, their branches almost touching overhead, making it feel like they were going through a dark tunnel. Finally, they entered a clearing, and the carriage stopped in front of a massive, low-built house. At first, Mary thought there were no lights in the house, but then she noticed a faint glow coming from an upstairs window.
The house’s front door was huge and made of heavy oak with iron studs and big iron bars. Mary stepped into a large, dimly lit hall when the door opened. The shadows cast by the few lights made the old portraits on the walls and the suits of armor seem eerie and ghostly. Mary stood in the middle of the stone floor, feeling small and lost in the vast, shadowy space.
A thin, old man with a husky voice approached them. “You’re to take her to her room,” he said. “He doesn’t want to see her. He’s leaving for London in the morning.”
“All right, Mr. Pitcher,” Mrs. Medlock replied. “As long as I know what’s expected, I can manage.”
Mr. Pitcher nodded. “Make sure she doesn’t disturb him,” he added.
Mary was led up a broad staircase, down long corridors, and through several doors until they reached her room. A fire was burning in the fireplace, and a meal was laid out on the table.
Mrs. Medlock spoke briskly. “This is your room. The next one is your sitting room. You’ll stay in these two rooms and not go wandering about. Don’t forget that!”
And with that, Mary Lennox found herself alone at Misselthwaite Manor. She had never felt more contrary in her entire life.
Chapter 4 – Maid Martha
When Mary woke up the next morning, a young housemaid was in her room, noisily tending to the fireplace. The maid was on her knees, cleaning out the ashes, and Mary watched her silently from the bed. The room was strange to her—it felt dark and gloomy. The walls were covered with a thick tapestry that showed a forest scene with people dressed in old-fashioned clothes. There were hunters, horses, and ladies, and far in the distance, a castle. Mary felt like she was inside that forest with them.
Looking out the window, she saw a vast stretch of land that seemed to go on forever without a single tree. It looked like a dull, endless sea of purplish-gray.
“What is that?” Mary asked, pointing to the view outside.
The young maid, Martha, glanced out the window, too. “That there?” she said with a friendly grin. That’s the moor.”
“I don’t like it,” Mary said bluntly. “I hate it.”
“That’s because you’re not used to it,” Martha replied, going back to her work. “It’s big and bare now, but you’ll grow to like it. The heather and gorse bloom in spring and summer, and the air smells sweet. It’s lovely then. I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else.”
Mary listened, puzzled. She had never met a servant like Martha before. In India, the servants were quiet and obedient. They always did as they were told and called her “Miss Sahib” or “Little Mistress.” No one ever talked to her like they were equals. She was used to being waited on, and if a servant upset her, she might even slap them. But Martha’s strong, friendly way made Mary wonder what would happen if she tried to slap this girl. Would she slap her back?
“You’re a strange servant,” Mary said from her pillows, her tone haughty.
Martha sat up and laughed good-naturedly, without a hint of anger. “Aye, I know it. If a proper mistress were here, I’d be a scullery maid or worse. But this is a strange house. Mr. Craven is hardly ever here, and Mrs. Medlock runs everything. She gave me this job out of kindness.”
“Are you going to be my servant?” Mary asked.
“I’m Mrs. Medlock’s servant, and she works for Mr. Craven,” Martha said matter-of-factly. “I’m here to clean and do some housework. But you won’t need much looking after.”
“Who’s going to dress me?” Mary demanded.
Martha stopped what she was doing and stared at Mary, surprised. “Can’t you dress yourself?” she asked.
“No,” Mary said firmly. “My Ayah dressed me.”
“Well, it’s time you learned,” Martha said, still sounding surprised but not unkind. “It’ll do you good to take care of yourself. My mum always said grand people’s children don’t know how to do anything because they have servants for everything.”
“It’s different in India,” Mary said coldly.
“Aye, I imagine so,” Martha replied, not at all offended. “I’ve heard many black folks are there to do all the work. When I heard you were from India, I thought you’d be a black girl too.”
Mary sat up in bed, shocked. “What?! You thought I was a native?”
Martha looked a little embarrassed. “I’ve never seen a black person, but when you hear about them in books, they’re always religious. I wasn’t being rude. But when I peeked at you this morning, I saw you weren’t black—just yellow!”
Mary was furious. “You thought I was a native! How dare you!” she shouted, feeling both insulted and terribly alone. Without thinking, she burst into tears, sobbing face down on her pillow.
Seeing how upset she’d made Mary, Martha came over and tried to comfort her. “Don’t cry like that! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. Please don’t cry.”
Martha’s voice was warm and kind, and Mary slowly began to calm down. Once she stopped crying, Martha helped her get out of bed and offered to help her dress, though she firmly encouraged Mary to try doing some things for herself.
When it was time to get dressed, Martha handed Mary some clothes that were different from the black clothes she had worn when she arrived at Misselthwaite Manor. They were made of thick, soft wool in cheerful colors.
“These aren’t mine,” Mary said, inspecting the clothes.
“They are now,” Martha explained. “Mr. Craven ordered Mrs. Medlock to buy you new clothes in London. He said he didn’t want you wandering around in black, making the house feel even sadder than it already is.”
Mary liked the new clothes. They were much nicer than her old ones. She noticed that Martha expected her to do some things for herself, like putting on her shoes, which was new for Mary. In India, she never had to do anything for herself.
As they finished dressing, Martha chatted away. “There are twelve of us at home, and my mum says we eat like wild animals. My brother Dickon is always out on the moor with animals. He’s got a little pony he found when it was a foal.”
“Where did he get it?” Mary asked.
“He made friends with it on the moor,” Martha said. “Dickon’s good with animals. They trust him.”
Mary, who had never had a pet, was interested in this boy who could make friends with wild animals. Curiosity about someone other than herself was a new feeling for her.
When breakfast was ready, Martha brought Mary to a room set up as a nursery. The breakfast looked good, but Mary wasn’t very hungry.
“I don’t want it,” she said when Martha put a bowl of porridge before her.
“You don’t want your porridge?!” Martha exclaimed. “You’ve got to eat something! Put some sugar on it.”
Mary shook her head. “I don’t want it.”
Martha was shocked. “Well, if you were at my house, there wouldn’t be a crumb left! My brothers and sisters are always hungry.”
“I don’t know what it feels like to be hungry,” Mary said.
Martha sighed. “Well, maybe it would be good for you to find out!”
Mary ate a little toast and tea but wasn’t interested in the porridge. After breakfast, Martha encouraged her to go outside and explore the gardens, even though it was cold.
“Who’s going to go with me?” Mary asked.
“No one,” Martha replied. “You can go by yourself. Our Dickon plays outside by himself all the time. He’s got sheep and birds that come to him because he’s kind to them.”
Thinking about the birds and animals outside made Mary decide to explore. Martha helped her put on her coat and showed her the way to the gardens. Before she left, Martha mentioned something that piqued Mary’s curiosity even more.
“One of the gardens is locked up,” Martha said. “No one’s been in it for ten years.”
“Why?” Mary asked.
“Mr. Craven had it locked up when his wife died,” Martha explained. “It was her garden.”
With that, Martha hurried off, leaving Mary alone to think about the mysterious locked garden. She wandered around the estate, passing by bare flowerbeds and clipped hedges. Everything looked cold and wintry, and she wondered where the secret garden might be.
Eventually, she found herself near a tall wall covered in ivy. There was a door, but it was open, leading to a vegetable garden. Mary stepped inside and saw more walls and doors leading to other gardens. She wandered through them, thinking about the locked garden. What was it like inside? Were there still flowers growing there? And why had Mr. Craven locked it away?
As she was thinking, an old man with a spade walked by. He looked grumpy, but Mary decided to talk to him.
“What’s this place?” she asked.
“One of the kitchen gardens,” he grunted.
“Can I go in the other gardens?” Mary asked.
“If you like,” he said. “But there’s nothing to see.”
Mary wandered further, wondering if she’d find the secret garden. She noticed a bird with a bright red chest sitting on a branch, singing. The bird’s cheerful song made her feel less lonely for just a moment.
As the bird flew away, she whispered, “I think that bird knows something about the secret garden.”
And so, even though she didn’t fully realize it, Mary Lennox was no longer just thinking about herself. Something had changed inside her, and it all started with a bird’s song.
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