Uncle Harold awoke, smelling something funny. Well, not funny exactly. Strange

Foreign.

Delicious.

He shook his head, blinking. Delicious?

Pulling on his trousers and securing them with suspenders, he ambled out into the hallway. He peered into the kitchen/living room/entryway, but what he saw stopped him. He stared.

A huge, steaming plate of eggs, oven-toasted bread, and a bowl of porridge had been laid out on the small table, all steaming enticingly. It was a beautiful spread, on an ugly table graced by a small bunch of heather in an oddly-shaped jug in the center. The scent Harold Burke had smelled was a hot breakfast— something he hadn't had in a long time.

Paisley turned from stirring the porridge on the small stove to see her uncle gaping from the hall entrance. "Good morning, Uncle Harold. Breakfast is ready and I have more porridge here, in case you'd like seconds."

He sat down in his chair silently, still staring at the meal. She bit her lip, worried. "Is something wrong?"

He shook his head, trying to appear unperturbed. "Are ye going to join me?"

"I've already eaten, Uncle. I've also fed the chickens, gathered eggs, let the sheep out to graze, fed the cow, milked her, mucked out her stall, as well as the sheep's. Is there anything else I can do? I took the liberty of trimming back some of the bushes in the front yard. They were a bit hazardous."

He thought a while, and Paisley thought he might give her the rest of the day, but he came up with something else to do. "I need ye to go into the village to pick up some more oats. John Quimby'll have 'em."

"Ah, yes. I see. When shall I go?"

Uncle dug into his breakfast with a hardy appetite. "Now."

"Now?"

"I just said that…"

"Alright. I'll be back as soon as I can. As I said, there's more porridge on the stove."

Her uncle didn't respond other than a jerk of his head which she took to be a nod. She took her shawl from the hat rack, wrapping it around her as she headed out the door. She paused, sticking her head back in to ask, "Which way to the village, Uncle?"

"Up yon hill and keep going."

"Ah, thank you."

With that, Paisley stepped into her Wellingtons and set off out on the moors.

xxxXXXxxx

Dickon scuffed the dirt angrily. Stupid farmer, sending him to do woman's work. Well, at least he was getting paid, which is more than he could say for the last farmer, who had stiffed him. As he neared the village, a black, scruffy-looking dog who was tied up in the yard of one of the small houses barked at him. Intruder! Intruder! Stranger! Bad! Not to be trusted! Go away, hermit!

Dickon laughed at the dog, throwing it a bit of dried meat. "Go on then, Gail! Ye know it's me. Why do ye always bark at everyone? And always the same warning. Except that bit about me bein' a hermit. I am not, ye great silly beast."

The dog snatched up the meat, barking gratefully. Because I am the protector! It is my job to bark the warning at everyone who comes into the village.

"Oh, aye? Well, then, what about the folks who come in from the other side of the village, eh?"

Uhhhh…

Mmm… Purr, that big oaf couldn't protect grain from a bird. He's all muscle and bark, but no brain…

Dickon stopped, watching amusedly as Franny the cat swished her tail under Gail's nose. "'Allo, Franny. 'ave ye been in the cream again?"

Franny purred smugly. Of course. I never get caught. But how did you guess, clever boy?

"You've got a little mustache of white there, Franny. Not hard to guess where you've been."

Franny immediately sat down to wash herself with her paws right in front of the big black dog. Gail growled. Stupid cat! Get away from me with your catty smelling fur!

Franny practically rolled her eyes as she started on her ears. Well, of course it smells like cat, you big dope. I'm a cat.

Cream-stealer!

Lame-brain.

Smelly tramp!

Loud-mouth.

Er, uh… BARK, BARK!

Franny smiled smugly. I win.

Do not!

Face it Gail. I'm smarter. I'll always win.

Hey, where'd the hermit go?

I don't know, you must have scared him off with your stupidity.

Dickon had grown tired of the argument and had wandered off to find the farming supply shop. It had been established by a young city-man, hoping to capitalize on the farmers of the surrounding area's need for repairs and supplies. He was a smart business man, because it worked. His was one of the most active businesses in the village, second only to the local pub.

Dickon didn't like him, though. He seemed too slick, like an eel, darting in at profitable opportunities and seeming always on the up and up. Never trust an eel.

Dickon ambled along the market street, taking his time, not really wanting to have to deal with the eel. He stopped to talk to a few more village dogs who knew him and were friendly, but he soon found himself at the right shop all too soon. He grimaced, bracing himself as he went in.

The shelves and racks were stacked neatly and the room smelled of leather and feed. It was a good smell, but it was laced with a heavy cologne, emanating from the black-haired man at the counter with a suit that was too fancy for such a humble village.

Dickon fought back the urge to scowl at the smiling man, who clasped his hands in what he thought was a warm welcome. "Ah, Mr. Dickon, welcome back! Something for the family farm? Or personal?"

Dickon gritted his answer out. "I'm on an… errand for Mr. Shorner. I need to pick up his repaired hoe and a new bridle for his working horse. He's already paid for the repairs and I've got the money here for the bridle."

John Quimby nodded and smiled as if he knew exactly what to do. "Very good, very good! Over her we have some new bridles, just in from a big company in the city! Guaranteed to keep your horse under perfect control without chafing the muzzle—."

"Mr. Quimby. I'm not here for your fancy-talking slick business. I'll take a regular bridle, one without all the fancy trimmings and trappings like those ones that cost an arm and a leg."

"Ah, I see you get right to the point. Very well, these bridles next to the more… expensive ones will do nicely, I think. Very sturdy and made of strong leather."

"And how much will it cost, then?"

"Ah, you see— Ah! Good morning, madam! I'll be with you in a moment."

A clear, refined voice rang out behind Dickon. "Please don't hurry on my behalf, sir. Please, finish your business at leisure. I'll just browse a bit."

Dickon recognized the voice and turned to the young woman from the moors yesterday.

Paisley blanched as the young man turned. Gracious mercy and crivens! It was that rude young man from the day before. She had expected to see him in the village eventually, but she hadn't expected their meeting to be so soon.

She tried to recover her composure, but she couldn't conceal an embarrassed blush. "…" Her brain wouldn't work to make her mouth say anything intelligent, so instead she turned to look at some of the feed they had, running into a barrel of dried meat in the process. "Oh, I'm terribly sorry! Oh, thank goodness it didn't tip over."

Dickon wanted to smile at her clumsiness, thinking that light dusting of pink made her look especially pretty. He shook his head remembering the way she had told him off. After how strongly she had expressed her aversion to him, he doubted she would appreciate any attention. He also wondered at her lack of an accent. He had heard it quite clearly the day before, but now it was absent from her speech. In fact, she sounded like a refined aristocrat from the city. Like John Quimby, without the silky undertones.

Speaking of the devil… He remembered that he had been in the middle of a conversation with the eel and turned back to him.

Quimby had a dreamy look on his face as her stared at the young woman, who now had her back to them. Dickon wanted to strangle him, because he could guess what thoughts were going through his oily mind as his eyes went over the woman's figure. "AHEM."

Quimby blinked, turning back to Dickon. "Eh? Oh, ah, yes. The bridles." He rattled off a list of prices for each of the bridles. Dickon knew what was in the price range Shorner had given him and chose accordingly, though he still wanted to strangle Quimby with one of the bridles.

Paying the eel and taking the bridle, he waited as the slippery salesman went into the back to get the hoe. His eyes wandered over to the pretty girl frowning at the feed. Her hair was wispy-brown, with hints of red highlights beneath the exterior, pulled up into a loose bun which looked in danger of falling apart at any moment. Her skin was tanned lightly, even more so than the girls around-a-bouts, but it wasn't rough. It was quite smooth looking, as if she were a lady who used rose-water. His sister Martha had told him all ladies used rose-water.

As far as he could tell, her eyes were plain brown, but brown eyes always meant sincerity, or so his mother said. Dickon felt as if he were looking at a familiar face from someone he had known long ago. It wasn't until he was thinking about the secret garden that he realized who she looked like.

Miss Mary.

Or, Lady Mary as she'll soon be, he thought bitterly. Her face, her hair, her shape… Everything about her reminded him of Mary.

She peered at him curiously, and he realized he was staring. One slender eyebrow went up on her pretty face. "What? Have I got something on my face? Or are you just having a stare at the toff?"

Dickon looked down at his shoes. "Well, ye're obviously not a toff. Ye said as much yesterday."

"I said a lot more than that yesterday, not all of it called for, either."

He looked up at her quizzically. "Is that an apology?"

She shrugged. "In a way. You weren't at all innocent yourself, though."

"Right, well, I'm sorry I called ye a toff."

"And?"

"'And' what? I don't think I called ye anything else."

"You called the sheep 'little fluffy pets'. That's not entirely civilized, don't you think?"

"They're sheep! They don't give a— I mean, they don't care! And what's it to ye anyways? How come ye care so much about sheep, then?"

Paisley straightened, holding herself high at his impertinent question. "I happen to have grown up with sheep my whole life, and I can tell you, if you don't treat your sheep with respect, you'll no sooner find a herd that's as stubborn as billy-goats."

"They weren't even my sheep! I was just herding them for pay!"

"All the more reason to be kind to the animals. Suppose the real owner were to find that his docile sheep had been transformed into an impossible group, after a certain shepherd had been herding them? You can bet he wouldn't be hiring you again."

Dickon threw up his hands in consternation. "This is ridiculous, woman! It's not like they care if ye call 'em a name!" He instantly realized this was untrue. Among the animals that told him their secrets, sheep were the most defensive, if not the least brainy. There had been something in the herd, a general feeling of hurt or distrust. He hadn't taken much heed because of his mood.

Paisley stiffened. "How dare you call me 'woman'! You're not even a man!"

"Aye, ye told me I was a 'wee babbie', if I remember correctly."

"Well, you act like one."

Quimby came out of the back, lugging along a hoe. Paisley glared frostily as he gave it to the uncouth young man, who took it and stomped out the door. She stared out the window at his receding back.

Quimby rubbed his hands together. "Now, madam. What may I do for you?"

She turned to him, but as she hadn't really noticed his appearance before, she was a little surprised. He was a tall, thin man in a very fine suit, whose black hair had been slicked to be perfectly smoothed back, with a greasy curl or two in the front. For some odd reason he made her nervous.

"Yes, I'm here to pick up the order my Uncle placed. His name is Harold Burke and he ordered some oats."

"Yes, of course, I'll be right back." He disappeared into the back, reappearing quickly with a large sack that looked quite heavy. He wheeled it out on a sort of small, flat wagon. "Here we are. I'll just take it out to your wagon and—."

"Oh, dear," Paisley broke in. "I'm afraid I haven't brought a wagon. You see, I walked here."

"My dear lady, that is quite a problem. I must assist you by taking you home in my own wagon."

"Oh, no, no, don't trouble yourself." She did not want to spend another moment alone with him, not to mention out on the moors in a buggy with him. "I'll be able to manage."

He looked concerned. "But, it is quite heavy, my dear lady."

She didn't like the way he kept calling her 'dear lady', so she smiled firmly, saying, "I'll be alright. Good day, Mr. Quimby."

"Good day…"

Paisley left him looking confused as she lugged the large sack in her arms. A small grin of triumph danced across her lips, but the sack was extremely heavy, and she realized it was going to be a long, arduous walk home. "Och, crivens, Paisley. What've ye got yerself intoo?"

"So your name's Paisley, is it?"

Paisley swung around, catching Dickon in the stomach with her sack of oats. He gasped, clutching his middle. Paisley gasped too, concerned. "Oh, I'm terribly sorry! I didn't see you there, and, well, you startled me…" She trailed of watching him get his wind back.

He smiled ruefully. "That'll teach me to sneak up on people."

"Are you sure you're alright?"

"Fine, fine. Maybe a few broken ribs, lots of bruises…"

She scowled at his grin. "That is no joking matter. I would feel absolutely terrible if I had injured you with my carelessness. You're fine, as far as I can see. A blow from a soft bag of oats will do you no real harm."

"Ye're right there, ye are."

"Now, if you're sure you're alright, I'll bid you good day."

Paisley made to leave, but the young man stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. "Wait a minute. Where d'ye think ye're goin' wi' that giant bag of oats?"

"Home, of course."

"Walking?"

"Yes."

"How far away is that, then?"

"Several miles."

He stared at her hard, making her blush. "Ye canae carry a big bag like that over several miles."

"I don't have any other choice."

"Oh, yes ye do. Ye'll come with me. My family has a wagon that'll get ye there. I'll drive ye."

Paisley tried to put her hands on her hips, then remembered the large sack in her arms. "Hang on, I can't let you do that."

"So ye'll just walk?"

"…"

"Alright, that's what I thought. Stay here, my house is just a little ways away. I'll come back to fetch ye."

Paisley wanted to tell him that she didn't want to be fetched, but she held her tongue and nodded. "Thank you."

While she was waiting for him, Paisley had a grand argument with herself about riding alone in a wagon with this stranger.

So you're really just going to accept a ride from this strange and not to mention insulting boy, just so you won't have to lug a sack around the moors?

Well, why not? He offered.

Well, you don't have to accept! You don't even know his name!

He can't be that bad. He seemed worried about me carrying such a heavy thing.

So did Mr. Quimby…

Well, he's not like Mr. Quimby.

How do you know?

I don't! He just feels safer than Mr. Quimby.

Oh, he feels safe—that's a good reason.

Oh, shut up.

Your logic say don't.

It also says do.

Logic says don't talk to strangers or get in their wagons.

It also says sane people don't argue with themselves.

…Touché.

And what about that other gentleman yesterday? You got in his carriage.

He was a gentleman…This man is not.

He offered you a ride, how much more gentlemanly can he be?

Hmm, let's see, a lot? He's already insulted you, and called you 'woman'.

Father called mother 'woman'.

Exactly. He likes you. Is it really safe to get into a wagon with someone like that?

Paisley had no time to answer herself, because the young man was back with a wagon. "Are ye ready? I'll load the sack into the back."

Paisley nodded with out answering; instead, she gave him the oats and pulled herself up onto the seat.

He threw them into the back, trying not to think about how close he was going to sit to the pretty girl named Paisley. He dusted off his hands and climbed up next to Paisley. He slapped the reins once. "Let's be off, then."

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A/N: blanket disclaimer that i forgot to put in at the beginning: i do not own Secret Garden (book or movies) or the characters within! they belong to their respective owner(s). all i own is this plot and Paisley, Uncle Harold, and Mr. Quimby (unfortunately).