It was not rare for the Prancing Pony to be crowded long before nightfall. Indeed, some visitors came to the inn as early as midday for a sneaky pint or two before they went back to work. Not that the Butterburs minded; more customers meant more money, after all. Hence why Bridie found it so strange to find the place empty upon opening the front door. All the chairs and tables sat vacant in the silent common room that was once filled with the lively chatter and laughter of men. To the unfamiliar eye, the place might have seemed abandoned. It had become common Barliman – the landlord and Bridie's father – had made the decision to temporarily close the inn until Bertha recovered, in order for him and Bridie to devote their full time and attention to caring for her. Also, they did not want to risk Bertha's illness infecting the guests and the rest of the village.
"I'm home!" Bridie called out.
"Back here!" came Barliman's reply.
Bridie took off her shawl and left it hanging by the front door with her basket, then followed her father's voice behind the bar and into the kitchen. Upon entering, her first impression was that it had been deliberately ransacked as part of a burglary. Every available space on the table and counters was taken up by used bowls, dishes, mugs and utensils, and the pantry and cupboard doors hung wide open. Barliman stood in the midst of all the disorder, frantically sweeping up what looked like at least half an ounce of flour from the floor.
"Should I inform somebody?" Bridie asked, gazing at the scene before her with wide eyes.
Barliman looked up at his daughter. He was visibly flustered and red in the face. "Beg pardon?"
"Well, this place looks like it was robbed."
"Remind me never to let your ma get sick again. Everything seems to have gone to pot around here since she became ill." He sighed. "A word of advice, my girl: don't marry an innkeeper."
Bridie laughed.
"I mean it! You stay well away from any lad whose family owns an inn. You'll just end up exhausted and slaving away in a kitchen or behind a bar for the rest of your life! Find yourself a nice rich man with lots of servants."
"I doubt there's many of them in Bree, Papa," Bridie replied, pulling on her apron. "But thank you for the advi—" She paused and sniffed the air. "Papa…were you cooking something?"
All the colour left Barliman's face and his broom clattered to the floor as he sprinted towards the range at the back of the room. Hastily, Bridie cleared a space on the kitchen table and covered it with a discarded towel. Barliman came over carrying a large copper pot in his apron and set it down on the table. The mouth-watering smell of freshly cooked meat and vegetables in a warm broth poured forth from the pot with a cloud of smoke as he removed the lid.
"Is that what I think it is?" Bridie asked.
Her father smiled and nodded. "Beef stew with dumplings; your favourite." Taking up a spoon, Barliman gently stirred the mixture, relieved to find that it wasn't ruined, then offered some to Bridie. "Would you care to do the honours?"
Bridie accepted the spoon and raised it to her mouth. As soon as the mixture passed her lips, her eyes lit up brighter than a firework at the rich, savoury taste. "Mmm! That is beautiful!" She downed the rest of her portion eagerly and even licked the spoon, savouring every last drop.
Barliman chuckled. "I'm glad to hear it. I daresay you need something warm and filling after your trip to the forest."
"You could say that" Bridie replied. "But first we'd better get this place cleaned up."
"Ah," Barliman gazed around at the carnage sheepishly. "Yes, I'd forgotten about that."
Bridie shook her head at her father's forgetfulness. The two of them rolled up their sleeves, filled a basin with water and washed up. When the kitchen was once again clean and tidy, they peeled off their aprons, set places for themselves at the table and filled a bowl each with the stew.
"Is Ma not joining us?" Bridie asked as they sat down.
Barliman shook his head sadly. "I did go up earlier to see if she wanted something to eat, but she said she wasn't hungry. She's been asleep most of the day."
Bridie sighed, picking at her food. Her mother seemed to be growing weaker by the day. She wouldn't admit this to anyone, but she was beginning to lose hope of her recovering. "Do you think she'll ever get better?"
"Why do you say that?" asked Barliman, raising an eyebrow.
The girl shrugged. "It's just…we've tried everything we can to help her get better, but, so far, nothing seems to have worked."
The landlord gave his daughter a sympathetic smile and patted her arm. "Don't worry, lass. She'll get better, I know she will. Your ma is a tough lady. She's been through a lot worse."
Bridie frowned and looked up at her father. "What do you mean by that?"
"Uh…nothing. Nothing," Barliman quickly deflected, shaking his head. "Come on now, let's not let our stew go cold. After all, I've worked hard on this."
"So I just saw," Bridie murmured with a grin.
Her mood was improved somewhat by the meal, even going in for a second helping. This was a relief to her father who firmly believed, along with every other parent in the village, that a large appetite was the result of a healthy child. When the meal was finished, Bridie helped her father clear the table.
"You go and get some rest, lass," Barliman told her. "I'll take care of the washing up."
"Very well, Papa," Bridie said and wandered out into the common room. She noticed her basket sitting by the door. The book Mildred had given her rested at the bottom, beside a little cinnamon bun wrapped in paper which Bridie had purchased from the bakery on her way home. She was certain her mother would adore the treat.
She had almost forgotten about Mildred's book. Fishing out of the basket, she sat down at a nearby table and began leafing through it, admiring the highly detailed drawings of all the various plants and berried, and reading all the recipes for medicines. Then one in particular caught her eye. It was a treatment for coughing and a very simple one at that. The recipe required only honey stirred into a cup of herbal tea or warm water and lemon. It was worth a try.
A few minutes later, Bridie climbed the stairs to her mother's room carrying a tray laden with a bowl of her father's stew, the cinnamon bun still in its package and a cup of tea with honey. She knocked gently on the door and tiptoed inside. Even in the dim light, it was clear how badly Bertha had been affected by her illness. Her once robust form was now little more than a skeleton and her hair was limp and matted to her head with sweat. Bridie could even make out her mother's cheekbones protruding from her thin face. She carefully set the tray down on the table beside the bed and patted her mother on the shoulder to wake her.
"Come on, Mam, up you get."
Bertha shifted under the covers and her eyes slowly opened. She smiled at the sight of her daughter standing over her. "Oh, hello Bridie," she said hoarsely and yawned. "What time is it?"
"Time you had something to eat," Bridie said. "Papa's made his famous beef stew. It'll do you good."
She helped Bertha to sit up, then sat on the bed in front of her, the bowl in one hand and a spoon in the other. With gentle prompts she began serving the stew to Bertha, lifting the spoon to her lips and helping her to chew and swallow it. Bertha managed five mouthfuls before she broke out into a fit of coughing, and she had to stop.
"Ah, come now, Mam," Bridie said once the coughing had subsided. "Papa's cooking isn't that bad, is it?"
Bertha gave her a small smile. "A word of advice, Bridie: don't get sick; it's no fun at all."
"You might have told me that sooner," Bridie joked, recalling one winter, several years ago, when she had caught a particularly bad cold and had been forced to stay in bed for a full three days. "That reminds me, I have something that might help you feel better," she added, offering the cup to her mother.
"What's that?" Bertha asked.
"Tea with honey. I found the recipe in a book Mildred gave to me. Apparently this is very good for coughs."
"Oh, blessed Mildred!" Bertha sighed. "What would we do without her?" With Bridie's help, she managed to down all of the drink and it did indeed seem to relieve her cough, if only slightly.
Bridie nodded approvingly. "Very good, Mam. You wait; we'll have you back on your feet in no time. Now, just for that, I think you deserve this," and she unwrapped the cinnamon bun and showed it to her mother.
Bertha stared at the treat longingly but, to Bridie's surprise, said "Perhaps later."
"But you love cinnamon buns!" Bridie almost exclaimed. Her mother's illness must be really bad for her to turn down her favourite treat. Nonetheless, she did not press the matter and placed it back on the tray.
Bertha sighed again. She was deeply grateful for what her husband and daughter did for her, she really was, but she couldn't help feeling guilty. Neither Barliman nor Bridie should have to sacrifice their free time for her sake, she thought. Especially not Bridie, who was only seventeen, with her full life ahead of her. The girl shouldn't have to spend what remained of her youth caring for an invalid. The woman took her daughter's hand in her own and ran a thumb over her fingers.
"You're such a good girl, Bridie. You're always so helpful. How you're able to spend all this time helping to care for me, I'll never know."
"It's only fair," Bridie said. "After all, you and Papa took care of me when I was ill. It's only right that I return the favour."
Bertha smiled and patted her daughter's hand. "You're a little star, Bridie. You really are. Do you remember that song I used to sing to you?"
Bridie nodded. "Let's sing it now."
"Well, I'll try," Bertha promised.
Although she had not sung them in years, Bertha had never forgotten the words. It was an old elvish song she had heard once long ago. She often sung it to Bridie as a little girl in times of illness or grief or if she merely had trouble getting to sleep. For a brief moment it brought back memories of peaceful nights resting beneath the stars, and of the small moments of warm intimacy while cuddling her baby daughter in her arms or cradling her to sleep.
"O môr henion i dhû,
Ely siriar, êl síla.
Tiro! Él eria e môr, I 'lîr en êl luitha 'úren."
(From darkness I understand the night,
Dreams flow, a star shines,
Look! A star rises out of the darkness,
The song of the star enchants my heart.)
"Such a beautiful song," Bertha said. "Do you remember I used to call you a little star when you were a child?"
"Oh, yes!" Bridie giggled.
"I called you that when you were born. My little star. When I was young, I always loved to look at the stars. At night, I would sneak out of the house and find a quiet spot in the garden, and I would lay on the grass and just stare at the night sky. I used to think nothing on earth could be as beautiful as the stars. But the moment I saw you, I realised how wrong I had been."
The woman paused to admire her daughter, taking in all features. The sheen of her eyes in the candlelight, the way her round face was framed perfectly by her long curls, the slight pout of her lips, her smooth creamy skin, her adorable little snub nose. Bertha reached up to brush a lock of Bridie's hair behind her ear.
"You're so beautiful, Bridie. Just like an elf maiden, with the merriness of a young hobbit-girl. Would that I had taken you to see elves when I had the chance. You would have loved them, I think, and I do not doubt they would have loved you. And your eyes, oh, your eyes! Such a beautiful shade of blue, like a calm sea, or the sky on a clear day. Whenever I look at your eyes, I'm reminded of your father, for they are so alike."
Bridie's smile faded. "But Mam, Papa has brown eyes," she pointed out. Perhaps her mother was merely confused in her illness. Although now that she thought about it, her mother's eyes weren't blue either, but a bright shade of green.
Bertha shook her head. "No, not Barliman. Your other father. Your real father."
The words caught Bridie off-guard. "Wha-what do you mean?"
Bertha opened her mouth to speak but instead there came a cough, followed by another and another and another. Bridie handed her mother a handkerchief and sat beside her, rubbing her back in an effort to soothe her. The feeling of her mother's ribs beneath the material her nightgown was unnerving, but she did her best to concentrate on comforting her mother. Once Bertha had calmed down, she lay back down and groaned, exhausted. Bridie paled at the red spots that stood out against the whiteness of the handkerchief.
"Mam…is that…blood?"
"It's nothing," Bertha insisted, stuffing the handkerchief under her pillow.
"That doesn't look like nothing. Look, I'll fetch Mildred; she might be able to help."
"No! No, don't bother her. I daresay she has enough to do without fretting over me. I'll be alright, don't worry."
But Bridie was not convinced. "All the same, I don't think this is something to be ignored."
Bertha chuckled feebly and rolled her eyes. "Oh Bridie, you worry too much. It's nothing to worry about, I swear. I've just gotten too excited, that's all. I'll be alright once I've rested a little, and I daresay you would benefit from some sleep as well. Now don't you worry about me anymore today."
Bridie was about to protest but realised it would do no good and accepted defeat. "Very well, Mam."
For the rest of that day, however, she couldn't stop thinking about that small remark her mother had made. What had she meant by her real father? Had she unwittingly revealed something that was not meant to be revealed? Had her mother…No! It wasn't true! It couldn't be! Bertha was not that sort of woman. She would never do such a thing, and Bridie cursed herself for having entertained such a thought. Even so, she couldn't get the idea out of her head, no matter how hard she tried. That there was a tiny possibility that Bridie was, in fact, illegitimate.