Paisley chewed her lip as the wagon began rolling. She was so deep in thought, she almost didn't hear the young man's question. "… house?"

She jerked out of her reverie. "What? I'm terribly sorry, do you mind repeating that?"

"I just asked where your house would be."

"Oh," She tried to get her bearings. "Well, all I know is that it's several miles from the village, in… that direction? East, I believe."

He blinked, looking at her peculiarly. "What?" she asked, confused.

"Ye wouldn't 'appen to be related to Harold Burke, would ye?"

"Yes. Why do you ask?"

He shrugged, settling back down. "Just that you're too pretty to be a relative of Harold Burke."

Paisley was about to reply with an indignant remark, when she decided to reign in her annoyance. After all, he was giving her a ride. "He's not that bad-looking, is he?"

"I won't say anything against him, seeing as you're a relative. Anyroad, how are you related to the old codger? Can't be a daughter— he never married and didn't have any children."

She shifted uncomfortably. "I'm his niece. On my mother's side."

"I didn't know he had a sister."

"She left when she was fairly young."

"She'd have to be pretty old to be any sister of Burke's."

"Actually," Paisley stifled a laugh. "I think he may be going white early. Perhaps from my arrival. I daresay he's not used to women or cleanliness."

"Aye, you'd turn any man's head white."

Paisley scowled at him, but saw the playful smile on his face and relaxed. They traveled a bit more before Paisley sat up, exclaiming, "Oh!"

The young man prepared to halt the horse if necessary. "What? What is it?"

"I apologize if I alarmed you, but I just remembered that I don't know your name."

He laughed. "It's alright. Me name's Dickon. Dickon Sowerby. And what about ye? I know your first name is Paisley, but I don't know your family name."

She smiled, the first time she had done so in his presence. "McBurl. My mother was Martha Burke until she married my father."

Dickon laughed again. "My elder sister's name is Martha."

"Martha is a lovely name, isn't it? It makes me think of a queen for some reason."

"Martha's no queen, I can tell ye that. Although, she has worked in a giant mansion, like some queens live in."

"Really?"

"Aye, Misselthwaite Manor." A pang went through his chest as he thought of the manor and its occupants. "Lord Craven lives there with his son and… niece."

Thankfully, Paisley didn't notice his hesitation. "How wonderful. I didn't know there were any manors still about here. Someday I'll just have to go up on a hill and look at it. After all, looking is about all I'll ever get to do."

"Would ye like to see it up close?" The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.

Paisley turned to him, astonished. "How? They wouldn't know me, and I'm just a commoner."

Dickon decided that he might as well fill in the hole he'd dug himself. "I'm good… friends with Lord Craven's son and niece. We grew up together when we were still young. His niece is… she came here from India when her parents died. She's English through and through though." He couldn't believe he was telling her so much about Mary— Miss Mary. He never talked about Miss Mary, not even to Martha. "She's… engaged to her cousin, Colin Craven."

She looked at him worriedly. "But are you sure they'd allow a perfect stranger to come to the manor?"

"They've been asking me to visit for a while now. I've been meaning to, and I'm sure they'd be happy. How about tomorrow?"

She was silent a moment, and he thought she was going to refuse, until she said, "Thank you. I'd be delighted."

He smiled wryly at her. "Miss Mary's going to be fair pleased to have the company of a refined lady her age. Not many around here."

"What? Who, me? What makes you think I'm refined?"

"Ye talk like a well-bred person, without the Yorkshire accent most people have hereabouts. Though, I did happen to overhear a 'wee bit o' Scotch' coming out when ye were dressing me down."

Paisley frowned at him. "Scotch is an alcoholic drink— the proper term is Scottish. And yes, I'm afraid I did let loose a little with my mother-tongue. But you must understand, you made me very, very mad."

"So why do ye do it?"

"Do what?" she asked in annoyance.

"Talk like you're a fancy toff, when you're not."

She shrugged. "I'm not sure. Mother made sure she spoke in very concise and refined tones, and I suppose I picked it up there. Besides," She grinned. "No one here would be able to understand me."

He arched an eyebrow, glancing sideways at her. "I understood ye pretty well, up there on the moor yesterday…"

She scowled. "Will you please desist in reminding me of my dreadful behavior? I've already apologized once."

"Well," He scratched his head in mock thoughtfulness. "As I remember, ye didn't actually apologize. Ye just sort of… weaseled your way out of it."

Paisley sat up indignantly. "I never weasel out of anything. When I am at fault I admit it graciously. Mr. Sowerby, please accept my most humble apologies for my extremely rude behavior to you yesterday. It was uncalled for and I regret my terrible actions and words deeply. If there is anything I can do to make it up to you, I encourage you, please do not hesitate to ask."

Dickon stared at her. "…"

She nodded politely. "I never weasel my out of anything."

He pushed his cap back in amazement. "Ye certainly don't at that. Oak wood and ash tree, ye sounded like a bonnie grand poet then! Where did ye learn such great apologizing?"

She smiled demurely. "Spur of the moment, Mr. Sowerby."

"My name's not Mr. Sowerby, Paisley. It's Dickon."

Paisley turned, smiling politely, but her tone was flat. "And my name is Miss McBurl."

"Oh. I see." He turned back to the road moodily.

She nudged him and he turned to see her grinning. "But, tomorrow, I think I might be Paisley. But only between you and I, alright?"

Dickon could not help smiling back. "Alright, Miss McBurl."

They were drawing near a little side road that Paisley saw eventually led to he uncle's small farm. Unfortunately, it was to skinny for the wagon, and Dickon was forced to halt at its entrance. Another wagon sat near them, its horse idly eating the grass along the dirt road. Paisley's brow furrowed in confusion. "Uncle has a guest…?"

Dickon helped her down from the wagon. "I'll walk you to the door."

"Oh, that's not necessary"

He laughed. "How do ye expect to get the oats there?"

"Oh. A very good point. Thank you. For everything. I wouldn't have made it here until nightfall if it weren't for you."

He shouldered the bag as they set off down the small lane. "Oh, I don't know about that. Ye look pretty strong to me."

"Go on, you." She fluttered her eyelashes mockingly. "I'm just a delicate butterfly who would be lost without you."

"You're no more a delicate butterfly than I am a caterpillar."

"Mmm, I don't know— you look pretty fuzzy to me."

"I haven't shaved since yesterday, but I doubt I'm that hairy."

"Hmm, you haven't looked in a mirror lately, have you?"

His hand immediately went to his chin and he almost dropped the oats. Paisley laughed. "I was only joking."

"I can't tell wi' ye."

"And that's just how I want it." Paisley blushed inwardly. I can't believe I just said that!

They reached the gate and Paisley opened it, saying, "I'm sure Uncle would be pleased to have you for tea—."

"I'm not sure he can be pleased about anything—." He noticed her staring. "What's wrong, Paisl— I mean, Miss McBurl?" He followed the direction her eyes went. He clenched his jaw.

John Quimby stood talking to Mr. Burke, who seemed nonplussed, while Quimby was growing red. Paisley heard him say, "Fine! Have it your way, old man! If you can't…" His voice lowered and she wasn't able to hear the rest.

He left her uncle, stomping towards the gate. When he saw the two people there, his expression changed from the stormy demeanor to an oily smile. "My dear lady. Good afternoon."

As he walked past, Dickon stepped closer to Paisley, protectively, glaring at the eel as he slithered out. Paisley grimaced at his back before running worriedly to the figure still standing in the yard. "Uncle Harold! What ever did he want? I told him you'd already paid for the oats."

Her uncle shrugged, pulling out a pipe and lighting it, speaking out of the side of his mouth so he wouldn't lose the pipe. "Wanted to court ye, Patches, er, P... er, pa…"

Dickon spoke up defensively. "Her name is Paisley, Harold."

Burke glanced at him briefly. "'Afternoon, Sowerby. Right. He wanted to court ye, Paisley. Wanted my permission."

Paisley was aghast. "You didn't… you didn't say yes, did you?"

Her uncle looked up. "Of course not. Should I 'ave?"

"No, no! Not at all! What was he yelling about though?"

He shrugged again. "Said if I didn't let him court you he'd seize my property and evict me."

Dickon broke in. "He can't do that unless…" His eyes darkened. "Burke, what have you done?"

Paisley looked from one to the other. "What? What does it mean?"

Dickon ground his teeth. "You didn't, Burke…"

Mr. Burke sighed. "Had no choice, really. Couldn't afford to keep the farm otherwise."

"What is he talking about?"

Dickon turned to Paisley. "A few months ago, Quimby was going round the farms— the ones that were especially poor— talking to the farmers about buying their farms."

"Why would he want to buy small farms?"

"Because, once he owns them, he can have power over the farmers by threatening to evict them. The farmers pay monthly fees until they finally buy back the house, but he raises the price from what he bought it for, so it'll take a long time to pay it off."

Paisley stared at her uncle, ashen-faced, who shifted uncomfortably. "Uncle, did you…?"

Dickon nodded grimly. "Aye, he did. He's sold himself to the devil."

Paisley shot him a disapproving look. "Mr. Sowerby…" To her uncle, she said, "Was he threatening to evict you?"

Burke nodded glumly. "I'm not at all rich, and times were hard a few months back. It seemed like a good idea, but I suppose that was panic setting in."

Paisley stared at the ground blankly. "Good Lord, have mercy… Uncle Harold, how much do you owe?"

He told her.

"Oh, dear. That is quite a lot. Well, there's only one thing to do."

Dickon looked suspiciously at her. "What's that?"

"I'll just have to court… Mr. Quimby…"