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Rustle Of Spring
Saradoc burst into
the back drawing room of Brandy Hall with a distinctly frazzled look about the
eyes. Merry glanced up from the solitaire game in which he had been engrossed,
giving his father a puzzled stare.
“At Frodo’s, last Yule, did I mention visits of any sort?” the older hobbit
stammered in a surprisingly breathless manner.
“Erm, visits?” Merry had to ask, genuinely bewildered. “By who? To whom?”
“To me,” Saradoc clarified. “By anyone.”
“Well,” Merry scratched his ear thoughtfully. “I was rather in and out of the
room a good deal, so I really couldn’t say. Why do you ask?”
“Because apparently I did,” Saradoc fairly hissed, his agitation threatening to
make him incoherent. “Or why else would she be here?”
“She?” repeated Merry, rising to his feet, curiosity seizing hold of him.
“That Baggins creature! Or at least part Baggins,” his father nearly wailed,
noticeably wringing his hands. “Some relation of Bilbo’s, I think.”
“Lobelia Sackville-Baggins?” Merry asked in delight, a tickled grin breaking
across his face. “You invited her here?”
“Certainly not in one of my sober moments,” the Master of Buckland declared
grimly, grabbing his son by the arm and proceeding to haul him unceremoniously
from the room.
Fredegar Bolger, who, ignored by the two Brandybucks and calmly draped over a
nearby armchair rather like a lanky, scone-munching afghan, slowly rose to
follow. “Red Jack of Hearts would have won it,” he proclaimed laconically, to no
one in particular, and ambled down the hall after them.
“Good thing that mother’s not home,” Merry chuckled, following his father down
the wood paneled halls towards the front door. “She’d have a proper fit.”
“It’s always a good thing when your mother’s not home,” growled Saradoc, not
turning around, and also not bothering to hide his feelings under the mask of
polite pretense, as he normally did. “But she will be back in a couple of days,
and I’m sure that the presence of any relative of Bilbo’s, no matter how remote,
will not lighten her mood.”
Merry couldn’t help but silently agree to both sentiments. Esme Brandybuck was
paying another strategic visit to the Bolgers, the cause of Fatty’s appearance
at Brandy Hall. “Too many females,” he had announced frankly, showing up, as
usual, uninvited, and Merry and Saradoc had sympathetically taken him in, at
least temporarily. They both rather felt it was the least that they could do,
considering. Thus he now sauntered after the two Brandybucks, curious as to the
sort of hobbit who could rattle Saradoc Brandybuck so.
&&&&&
She had just been assisted down from the hired wagon, and, adjusting her
voluminous shawls and veils, shelter from the light early spring rain that had
just begun to fall, turned to greet her hosts. The wagon driver rapidly unloaded
an ominously high stack of baggage next to her, and without even waiting for any
sort of tip, was off in an instant, not even letting the ponies be watered
first. Merry, whose exposure to Frodo’s cousin had been brief the night of the
festivities, took this to be not a propitious sign. He had heard tales from
Frodo, however, and even more surprisingly, occasionally from Sam, so he studied
her carefully, from behind his father.
She was tall, and the section of her face that could be seen amidst the
wrappings bespoke a certain grim weathered dignity. She now stood imperiously in
the front courtyard, and her regal bearing, as she glanced haughtily about her
before spying Saradoc and his son, was alarmingly reminiscent to Merry of his
mother.
But upon catching sight of the Master, she theatrically threw back the coverings
from her face, advancing upon him, and managed to convey, entirely without a
smile, her satisfaction upon being able to bestow the rare pleasure of her visit
upon him and his household. Both Merry and Fatty, who had by now joined him at
the door, watched in awe. This was a level of impenetrable majesty to which Esme
Brandybuck could only aspire.
“Mistress Sackville-Baggins,” Saradoc proclaimed, advancing towards her with an
outstretched hand, and neatly managing to disguise his agitation. “What an
unexpected pleasure. A pity Esme is not here at the present; she’ll be so
disappointed to have missed you.”
“My dear Saradoc, it should not be that unexpected,” Lobelia responded with what
looked alarmingly like an archly raised eyebrow to the amazed onlookers. “And
even in the benighted hamlet of Hobbiton, we do receive some news, you know.”
Sweeping past the speechless Saradoc, she advanced upon the two younger
gentlehobbits, sheltered in the doorway from the rain that was now beginning to
come down in earnest. “Your dear son, I remember from that evening, and of
course, he looks so very much like you, the dear lad. And this would be?”
Stopping under the overhang, in front of Fatty, she surveyed him cautiously.
But Fatty was equal to the challenge. “Fredeger Bolger, my dear lady,” he
announced loftily, raising a competing eyebrow, and producing a finely
calibrated bow for the occasion. “And I can’t believe that Frodo managed to fail
to introduce such a lovely creature as yourself on any of my previous visits. I
shall have to speak severely to him, indeed, I must.”
Lobelia fixed him firmly with her gaze, but Fatty faced the threat with aplomb,
dispensing out a rather insouciant grin. However, by this time, Saradoc had
managed to get movement back into his limbs, and hastening toward her, escorted
the guest toward the front room, directing Merry to make sure that the best
guestroom was prepared, and that her things were delivered appropriately. A
quick desperate glance towards Fatty, as he passed him in the entryway, was
understood, and with an unseen smirk, Fatty followed the older pair of hobbits
into Brandy Hall’s best parlor.
&&&&&
Dinner had at last been maneuvered through, and the general boundaries of polite
conversation had been staked out, as the four gentlehobbits withdrew back to the
parlor for another bottle of wine, sweet this time, and the afters. No one
brought up Esme, and indeed, surmising from one or two stray remarks made by the
guest of honor, the fact that she would not be present was known to Lobelia when
she made her travel plans, a detail that caused Saradoc to mutter a quick
command to Merry, as he had passed him in the hall on the way to the parlor
after dinner, that he was not to be left alone with her under any circumstance.
Bilbo was also found to be a touchy subject, and was rapidly dropped, and even
the subject of Lotho was politely brought up exactly once, and subsequently left
alone, by surprisingly mutual silent consent from all those present. However,
Merry was finding the politesse of a conversation based on the weather, and the
likely outcome of this year’s crops, wearying in the extreme, and took a great
impish delight in Fatty’s sudden bland inquiry into Frodo’s health.
“I’m sure I wouldn’t know. I rarely see him,” Lobelia gave the speaker a
distasteful glance, as if he had brought up a topic eminently unsuited for
polite company.
“But if I understand all this properly, because you know, I do get so dreadfully
confused at times, you met these other two at some sort of festivities that
Frodo was putting on?” he pursued the topic artlessly, beaming a broad smile
beneficently in her direction.
“Well, yes,” Lobelia admitted reluctantly, dabbing at her lips daintily with a
linen napkin, “but that was only because he assured me that there would be some
hobbits of quality there, rather than the normal low sort he keeps about the
place. Of course, with the lack of a proper upbringing that he has had, one can
hardly expect…”
“Oh, now that’s curious,” Fatty was shaking his head in bewilderment. “Since he
was, after all, raised right here in Brandy Hall, one would think some of it
would have taken.”
“Well, of course he was certainly started off right,” Lobelia hastened to assure
Saradoc, with a swift murderous glance in the direction of the other guest.
“It’s just that all those years under Bilbo seemed to have had their effect.”
Sensing a certain resistance toward this hypothesis from the other three
present, she quickly added, “I’m afraid my dear cousin never had much of a sense
of responsibility, and left Frodo to more or less finish growing up on his own.
And then, Hobbiton society is so very limited, and there are just not enough
gentlehobbits for a young lad with whom to associate.”
“Oh, why then your Lotho and Frodo must have got on swimmingly,” Fatty brightly
interjected, “being such a small pool to choose from, and all.” He beamed
cheerfully as Lobelia obviously tried to calculate the possibility that this
young stranger was actually fully aware of the fact that Frodo and her son
loathed each other with a vibrant passion.
But with that, Saradoc stepped into the matter, determined to halt the
escalating tension in the room, much to Merry’s disappointment. “I am so sorry
to have to excuse myself,” he spoke firmly, rising to his feet, with only the
thinnest veneer of regret. “A matter of business, I’m afraid. Merry will be more
than glad to show you about the smial, and I have no doubt that you would
welcome an early evening after your travels.”
Merry swallowed, and rose with as much politeness as he could manage, wordlessly
coerced by a certain tone in his father’s voice. “It would give me great
pleasure, Miss Lobelia,” he bravely said, walking over to her and offering an
arm.
“Oh, please, just Lobelia,” she unmistakably giggled at his formality, rising
and sweeping back her rather elaborate frock with a flourish before taking the
arm Merry was offering her. “After all, we are cousins to a certain degree, are
we not?”
With that disturbing thought in his mind, Merry nearly didn’t hear Fatty’s low
chuckle, as he followed the others from the room.
&&&&&
Saradoc strode into the kitchen of Brandy Hall, where he customarily took a
quick first breakfast before making his initial rounds of the morning, and
nearly tripped over his feet in consternation. There, seated at the center of
the unusually empty long table, where the working folk of the Hall customarily
took their first breakfast, was an unexpected figure, hair elaborately curled,
and clad in something ruffled and beribboned in a brightish green velvet,
daintily sipping a cup of tea, smallest finger fully extended in the height of
current fashion. There was a plate of toast in front of her, pieces of which had
been liberally smeared with honey, and elegantly picked at. The rest of the
kitchen staff was warily watching her, while theoretically attending to their
chores, and Cook gave Saradoc a dark look immediately upon his entrance.
Saradoc gulped. His wife, in a foul mood, could be handled, but it really didn’t
do to upset Cook. “Why, Lobelia!” he proclaimed, with a somewhat forced
cheerfulness. “What an unanticipated pleasure, seeing you up so very early.”
Lobelia rose at his remark, and Saradoc did have to admit that, whatever her age
might be, a fact about which he dared not surmise, she had managed to remain a
fine figure. With a gracious tilt of her head, she indicated that she might be
entertained by a tour of the estate, and Saradoc, to his very great amazement,
found himself agreeing to precisely that. It was several hours later when they
returned to the Hall for elevensies, and Saradoc could not remember the last
time he had had quite such an entertaining conversation.
&&&&&
Merry was poking moodily at his cinnamon roll as Fatty, a large platter of cream
scones before him and in the process of vanishing, one by one, kept a close eye
out the round front parlor window.
“Ah. Your father and his illustrious guest,” he casually mentioned, his mouth
only somewhat obstructed by the pastry. “They’ve been gone all morning,” he
further observed pensively, washing down the scones with half a pot of tea as
Merry stood up and glared at the pair out the window from behind Fatty’s
shoulder. “What do you suppose she has in mind?” Fatty turned, glancing at
Merry.
“Why, she’s after him,” Merry observed scornfully, his eyes narrowing. “Any fool
can see that.”
“Well, yes,” Fatty nodded impatiently, “but, you see, my dear thing, the
question is why.” He continued to stare meditatively out into the drizzly
morning, pondering the question. “It can’t be the money, you know, for there’s
certainly no chance of that. Her son seems to be a bit of a catastrophe, from
what I’ve heard, but I really don’t see her taking you in instead, Merry. So
what could it be that lures this impressive creature here?”
Merry could not help but raise an eyebrow at that question. “She is also a very
ancient creature, Fatty. They have reasons the rest of us will never fathom.”
“Perhaps,” Fatty murmured thoughtfully, continuing to stare out of the window.
“Perhaps.”
&&&&&&
Luncheon was a decidedly more comfortable affair than the previous evening’s
dinner had been. Saradoc, heartened by the interest that his guest had shown in
the estate that morning, was in an expansive mood, and Lobelia, with the merest
hint of a smile, and the appropriate nod of her head from time to time, kept him
positively chattering throughout the meal. Merry watched his father with
undisguised interest. He had always considered him to be the sort of hobbit who
generally kept his thoughts and emotions closely guarded, but apparently, he had
been quite mistaken. He wasn’t at all sure how Lobelia was managing this
entrancement, for when her keen glance occasionally fell upon him, he felt as if
he was once again an awkward teen, mistakenly allowed in the room with his
elders, when he really should be having milk toast in the nursery. He gave a
quick glance towards Fatty for support, but as usual, Fatty’s expression was
serene and thoroughly inscrutable.
There was another matter preying upon Merry’s mind, however, in addition to his
father’s unanticipated transformation. Esme Brandybuck was due to return to
Brandy Hall on the following day, and by a very unfortunate turn of events,
Pippin had not been able to time his visit to coincide at all with her absence.
Merry suspected the hand of Aunt Lana in that, and even more likely, that of his
mother, but fortuitously enough, Pippin had finally managed to solve whatever
difficulties had been placed in his path, and was due to arrive at Brandy Hall
this very afternoon. Fatty was pleasant enough company in his own way, to be
sure, but Pippin’s companionship was incomparably more desirable. Merry suddenly
felt impatient beyond all bounds with the conversation and with every other
hobbit in the dining room, and heartily wished that his father might be enticed
to continue his tour of the Buckland estate for Lobelia’s entertainment, and
that, somehow, they could be persuaded to pack Fatty along besides. And much to
his amazement, and great delight, exactly that did happen.
In fact, as he lay in his bed with Pippin, precisely two and a quarter hours
later, Pippin was equally as puzzled by Fatty’s actions. The customary greetings
between the both of them had been immediate, spontaneous, and extremely
gratifying, involving, as it always did these days, all clothing being shed as
quickly as possible, just as soon as Merry had kicked the door of his bedroom
closed behind them. Sated for the moment, Pippin sat next to a sprawled-out
Merry, absently trailing his hand down Merry’s chest and across his pleasingly
lightly padded stomach.
“Why on earth did he want to go poking along after them?” Pippin mused, before
Merry sighed dramatically, unable, however, to stop the grin that Pippin’s
actions were causing.
“Pippin, really, you do need to give me a few moments here.”
“No, actually, I don’t think I do,” Pippin continued watching his hand descend
even further, as if it were entirely unrelated to him, and the truth of his
statement was instantly quite evident.
“I suppose not, you insatiable Took,” Merry laughed at that, and abruptly pulled
Pippin down for quite an extended kiss, wrapping both of his legs around
Pippin’s backside, as Pippin, with an only slightly muffled giggle of delight,
settled his hand strategically between the two of them, and soon had to break
his mouth away, passionately breathing Merry’s name. With an uncontrollable
thrust upward, and a shudder that flooded deliciously through his entire frame,
Merry gave a hearty cry of joy, followed by an answering echo from Pippin.
Before very long, the two figures were comfortably, if somewhat stickily,
tangled together, and asleep in the light of the reddish late afternoon sun as
it streamed in through the high round window, completely oblivious to the matter
of Fatty‘s motivations for now.
&&&&&
For the afternoon’s excursion, Saradoc had brought out the ponies, and he had
been delighted to discover that his guest was quite a competent rider. She rode
beside him, in the fine mist of the grey afternoon, and he could not help but
notice her straight back, and easy sway to the gait of the animal. Esme was a
fine rider, as well, one of the qualities that had originally attracted him to
her, but he had to admit that Bilbo’s cousin was every bit as proficient.
Catching a glimpse of her sharp profile, as he brought his pony up beside her,
he indicated the path that wound down from the spring pastures to the
Brandywine, and vainly tried to remember anything Bilbo might have mentioned
about her. Unfortunately, Bilbo had been rather fixated on her ambitions
regarding Bag End, and had said very little otherwise. He had mentioned
something as well about spoons, he recalled vaguely, but whether she collected
them, or disliked them, or gave them freely away, he really had no idea. But
certainly, Bilbo had never mentioned that she was quite handsome, in a stern
sort of way, and amazingly easy to talk to.
They turned down to path to the river, and Saradoc cast a casual glance behind
them. Fatty was still following along, affably silent as usual. Saradoc had been
perplexed all afternoon by his son’s young friend’s uncharacteristic desire to
bond with nature, and was a trifle disturbed and annoyed by it as well. Surely,
he needed no chaperone, but Fatty seemed to consider being the third of the
party to be his duty.
As it neared the river, the path suddenly dipped down through a wild tangle of
branches, and Lobelia gave a short exclamation of annoyance as one caught in her
hair. “You might want to clear this dead wood out, Saradoc,” she exclaimed, with
a light laugh, as Saradoc quickly came to her aid, reaching over from his mount,
and gently freeing the twisted and whitened branch from her grey curls.
“I do beg your pardon,” he smiled apologetically, holding up the branch to let
her pass before him. “I so seldom ride this way, I hadn’t realized how overgrown
this path had become.”
“It isn’t dead, you know,” came a quiet voice from behind them, and they both
watched, puzzled, as Fatty rode past them, and stopped his pony not far ahead.
“Forsythia,” he commented, nodding to another tangle of grey branches, closer to
the river. But unlike the others, these were covered in brilliant golden bloom,
shining like the sun itself through the mist rising above the river. “Spring
isn’t that far off, you see.” Turning toward Lobelia, he added, with a slight
smile, “You might not want to be too hasty in judging what might be lost.”
&&&&&
Saradoc poured himself another goblet of wine, and studied his dinner partners.
There were now five at the table, but his son and Pippin had long since given up
any pretense of involvement in the rest of the company, and he well knew that
they would probably be leaving before the afters could be served. He couldn’t
help but smile slightly as he watched his son, golden curls catching glints of
candlelight, but his eyes shining even more brightly as he exchanged stolen
glances with the hobbit seated next to him. It had been a very long time ago,
but Saradoc could still remember what that had felt like, the excitement of the
lightest of touches, the thrill knowing what was to come. He didn’t begrudge his
son a bit of the happiness that he knew he felt, and it was with great regret
that he had come to realize that he would never be able to persuade his wife to
feel the same. Duties and responsibilities would be inevitable in his son’s
life, but there should be some joy as well.
With a shrug, he turned his attention back to his guest of honor. She would be
leaving on the morrow, and quite considerately, had managed to arrange for the
wagon from Hobbiton to pick her up before Esme’s arrival later in the afternoon.
Not that he planned on hiding her visit from his wife, of course, but it just
seemed prudent to him, somehow, that their paths should actually not cross.
Certainly, Esme was not given to jealousy, especially when the thought of having
any cause to be jealous of anyone at least a full twenty years older than she
would never have occurred to her. Possibly more than twenty years. That was not
a speculation Saradoc was prepared to make.
He was beginning, however, to understand why Lobelia might have come to Brandy
Hall. He knew that her husband had died a few years back, and that her son had
been involved in some sort of trouble, and was currently not welcomed in
Hobbiton. Frodo seemed to have inherited Bilbo’s attitude towards her, with
absolute justification, he had no doubts, but that must have left her feeling,
at least in Hobbiton, quite isolated. And isolation was something Saradoc
understood all too well. With an effort, he dragged his thoughts away from a
cold foreboding regarding the morrow’s dinner, when he and Esme would sit alone
across from each other at this table, eating in silence.
And then there was Fatty. Characteristically, he seemed to not be noticing in
the least that he was, in a manner of speaking, the odd hobbit out. Occupied as
Fatty was with his meal (and Saradoc could only admire Cook’s skills when she
aspired to greater heights, as she generally did in Fatty’s presence and Esme’s
absence), he was still managing to inject the occasional comment into the
conversation. Indeed, to Saradoc’s way of thinking, he was taking an odd delight
in introducing subjects that very nearly crossed the boundaries of decorum,
given his fellow dining companions. He seemed absolutely incapable of keeping to
topics such as next summer’s Market, and the possibility of it being an
especially fine year for oats, and had, once again, brought up the especially
touchy subject of Frodo.
“You must forgive me, my dear lady,” he glanced in Lobelia’s direction directly
after a large bowl of creamed parsnips that had been in his vicinity quite
suddenly managed to empty itself, “but I find it quite curious that you and
Frodo don’t manage to see more of each other. These family connections do get me
so very confused, but aren’t the both of you the last of the Baggins in the
vicinity? Excepting your charming young son, I might add.”
Lobelia lifted her head with a frosty air, and even Merry and Pippin suddenly
directed their attention back towards her, since her response promised to be
interesting. “I’m afraid that he brings the name of Baggins no honor,” she said
briefly, engaging Fatty’s eye with no hesitation. Merry almost had to say
something at that remark, but caught his father’s eye at just the last moment
and subsided, squirming slightly in his seat. Pippin watched the exchange
guilelessly, his glance immediately reverting back to Fatty.
But Fatty nonchalantly picked up a piece of bread, and quite without shame,
began wiping up the gravy on his plate with it. “How very odd. I had always
thought he was rather well-respected in Hobbiton. But, of course, I go that way
so infrequently.”
“He would be thought of more highly,” Lobelia sniffed, “if he had had the
decency to live alone, as long as it seems he has chosen not to marry, rather
than moving that working class lad into his home.”
“Ah,” Fatty picked up a bit of mashed carrot along with the gravy on his bread.
“Of course, marrying is, I suppose, the ideal situation.” He shoveled the bread
into his mouth at that moment, leaving his audience to reflect upon the
astonishing possibility of Frodo’s choosing, at some point, to marry.
Some of the drawbacks to that proposal immediately presented themselves to at
least one member of the audience, and she hastened to interject, “Not that there
is anything wrong with him choosing not to marry, of course. Some hobbits are by
nature not meant to marry. It’s just that I find it so unsuitable for a hobbit
of his position to be so obviously infatuated with his gardener.”
“So, and do try to help me out here, because I get so horribly muddled,” Fatty,
with a puzzled air, pursued her relentlessly. “Then it’s the discrepancy in
their status that you believe is the issue? But my dear lady, I had always
understood that it’s precisely those differences that give the mystery of love
its power. The known, the expected, the commonplace? Why, what’s the charm in
that? Nay, I would claim it is the mysterious, the ambiguous, the sweet thrill
of connecting with the unknown and unknowable other, that allows love its
supremacy over all other emotions.”
Merry and Pippin sat mesmerized, staring at Fatty as if he had suddenly gone
green and sprouted leaves. Even Saradoc was taken aback by Fatty’s odd
eloquence. But Lobelia narrowed her eyes, and gave him a thoughtful look.
&&&&&
The room had remained unlit, by mutual consent, to keep the distraction of sight
from allowing them to maintain their focus on the other senses. There was a
certain concession in this, as much as the acknowledgement of the loss of
firmness and elasticity of flesh. And yet there were compensations as well.
There are skills that are not known to the young, and a stamina and sense of
pacing that are likewise a mystery, as well as a curious sense of joy in
undertaking such a gesture of trust, of reliance on another, at an age at which
the risks are fully understood.
No time had been wasted on kisses, nor indeed in leisurely disrobing, for there
was no question as to what was intended by either of them. Both were acutely
aware, however, of the ebb and flow of sensation, the natural rhythm of their
bodies, the laughing tease of coming to the edge, and then retreating,
seductively, from that moment.
It was late into the night as she lay, lulled into a delicious lassitude, glad
beyond all measure that she had taken this chance. But she could tell that her
partner was not in the mood for sleep either, as she felt those strong hands on
her again, stroking up her sides, molding themselves around her breasts. His
erection, strong once again, pushed into her backside as she stretched herself
tantalizingly back against him. Giving a throaty chuckle, she turned suddenly in
his arms and guided his hand down between her legs and grasped him
appreciatively. “Thrice before you sleep, my dear?” she murmured, serenely
delighted. “Well, that’s rare.”
&&&&&
The next morning, and a beautiful clear lovely morning it was, Lobelia
Sackville-Baggins departed with, what was for her, positively a grin on her
face. She had, after all, received what she had come for, if not entirely in the
manner she had expected. She was extremely pleasant to the apprehensive driver,
and had nothing but kind words for the Brandy Hall staff that helped bring out
her luggage. And as a matter of fact, as the scullery maid told the astonished
Cook, she was actually humming some antiquated tune, and gave Saradoc Brandybuck
a hearty kiss on the cheek on parting.
Saradoc, still full of regret over missed opportunities, was rather mystified as
well, but bade her good-bye with genuine reluctance, and sincerely insisted that
she would be most welcome to come at any time, even if the Mistress of Brandy
Hall should also be present.
Merry and Pippin, who had shown up just in time to wish her farewell, not being
present for either first or second breakfast, received each a cheerful parting
wave, and a sincere invitation to stop by anytime they happened to be in
Hobbiton, causing them to eye her warily, as if age had quite suddenly taken her
wits.
But at the very last moment before she left, Fatty sauntered out, bags in hand,
and giving his hosts a bow, tossed them lightly into the cart as well. “Think
I’ll be pottering on, old things,” he grinned complacently in their astonished
direction. “I understand the spring bloom is especially fine in Hobbiton this
year. I’ll drop you all a line.”
Lobelia gave him a cool glance as he joined her in the wagon. “Such an
impertinent young hobbit,” she murmured, and only Fatty could see the smile she
was hiding.
“I’m afraid I am that, my lady,” he answered, with a remarkably cheeky smile,
settling himself beside her. “But I’ve been told I have my good points, as
well.”
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