You Don't Mean That
(Corresponds to Chapter 9 of Book 6)
She had almost forgotten the exchange by mid afternoon. Estella was sitting on a bench, nibbling a jam tart and listening while Frodo, several seats away, told a story about Sam and his adventures beyond the Boundaries. If it was even half true - and she suspected it had all really happened - Sam was braver and stronger and more faithful a friend than she had ever given him credit for. The poor Gamgee flushed in embarrassment and kept ducking his head as if he would like to hide under the table. But Rosie drew him out again and kissed him on the slightest provocation and any time Frodo mentioned something peculiarly brave. What lad would have hidden after that?
"They're lovely together," she sighed as she nearly tried to drink from the salt cellar instead of her glass.
Fatty, who sat next to her and to whom the remark was mostly addressed, snorted. "They're silly, that's what. All that kissing in public ain't decent."
Estella sat up straight and hissed, "Fredegar Bolger, you sound more and more like Cousin Azalea. Is that who you want to be for the rest of your life?"
His eyes widened at the awful impression. "Heavens, no, Essie!"
"Then stop trying to stick your nose up and admit you're jealous because Sam's got a pretty girl who stares at him with stars in her eyes and you've none," his sister said firmly.
He wilted and crammed a buttered roll in his mouth. "Awight, 'm jewous."
She smiled victoriously. "Better. Now, if you want a girl, don't sit with the old men and puff your pipe; go dance! Find some young and foolish beauty to sigh over the lad who endured the Lockholes."
He swallowed hastily. "You know, Essie, for a sister you're not half bad."
She snorted. "Thanks for that glowing commendation. I suggest Snowdrop Hornblower, while you're taking advice. She's sweet and she won't titter."
There was still dancing going on at the far end of the circle away from Frodo's tale. Fatty took a last fortifying swig of ale and trotted over to the merry whirl of feet and twirling skirts and Estella turned her focus back to the story. She almost failed to notice when someone slipped into the spot her brother had vacated, but his mail shirt jingled so loudly she could hardly ignore it.
"Is it my turn yet?"
She kept her face toward Frodo, but her hands, buried in the lap of her dress, clenched for some reason. "Not yet; I'd rather listen than dance just now."
Merry shifted, making the bench creak. "Come on, Essie; I only want to talk to you for five minutes. You were happy enough to see me last week at Budgeford."
"Do I give you the impression I don't want to see you now?" she inquired, with an almost perfect impression of Aunt Tulip's snooty tone. She heard it, winced, and hated herself for it, but she couldn't seem to stop.
"Very clearly, Stella," he whispered, and she heard rather than saw the frown that disfigured his mouth. "I thought we were friends."
It was the use of the dear nickname that did it; she might not have softened so soon otherwise. But the elegant little sobriquet which she thought he had forgotten made her stomach flip with uneasy pleasure. She turned to face him, looking up penitently through her lashes. "I'm sorry; we are friends and I… that is, if you want to talk, let's get away from the table where it's quiet."
A slow smile dawned on his face and he offered her his hand to help her up as he sprang to his own feet. She let him help her up and he seemed satisfied as he tucked her arm into his own, rather as if he meant to keep it. Merry lead her a bit away from the main celebration, heading up toward the top of the Hill. They had not got quite to the front door of Bag End when she cleared her throat. "Alright, what did you want to talk about?"
"You," he replied simply, keeping up a slow but steady pace as they ambled. "I want to ask you to walk out with me."
Estella pulled back and away to free her arm. "That's not funny," she said sharply. Her mouth twisted into a frown as her pretty colour bled away.
"Of course it isn't; I'm serious," he replied, frowning in his own turn. "I've already talked to your parents."
"Merry Brandybuck, these low pranks are below you now that you're out of your tweens," she sniffed. She had never been so outraged and hurt and humiliated in her life, and she wanted to cry but she would never give him the satisfaction.
"Essie, what do I have to do to show you I'm in earnest?" he demanded, reaching for her hand again.
Oh, that horrid baby-name. As if she needed further proof! Pippin was probably hiding somewhere nearby to share in the joke and snicker at her when she fell for it! She stepped out of reach and scrambled over a little stone wall that marked the path to Bag End. "You can drop the joke, that's what. It's in bad taste, anyway."
"Essie, do you have someone you're… fond of?" he asked in a very small voice.
"No!" It came out a little stronger than she meant it to, and his eyes lit up again. "Not you nor anyone," she added, ducking away as he leaped the wall and tried to corner her. "Now, if we are friends, you will drop this, this pretense at once!"
He was larger and stronger and faster than she was, so perhaps it was inevitable that he caught her hand again. "Tell me how I can prove it. I'm serious as Shire-talk, Essie," he demanded again, resisting her attempts to squirm free. "Please."
"First, let go of my hand," she commanded coldly. He did so. "Second, ask me again in six months."
Merry blinked. "Why six months?"
"Because you'll have forgotten the joke by then and I'll have the satisfaction of pointing it out to you," she snipped. "And then maybe you'll see that it's not very nice to call a girl your friend and then pretend to like her."
He tensed and for a moment she wondered if he would admit the whole thing was an awful prank and ask her forgiveness. Then his face cleared. "Alright. Six months from now, I'll ask you again. And when I do, you promise, remember, to take it seriously."
"I always take my word seriously." Estella nodded crisply and turned back to the party. He would never remember such a silly little thing in half a year. But she would. And it would likely still hurt then too. For she had realized all in a moment that there was no one in Middle-Earth she would rather walk out with than Meriadoc Brandybuck.