Chapter 3

(3/14)

Hmmm. That's better, Sam," Pippin said between two spoonfuls of soup. "Could use a little more salt, though."

Sam Gamgee tried hard to ignore the young Took's constant meddling. He had managed to save the soup – mostly. With Mr. Pippin's gracious assistance, he had remembered not to make the meal perfect. After all, Mr. Frodo would be rather suspicious should everything be flawless.

"What about the bird, Sam?" Pippin's voice sounded from the other side of the table. "Are you sure everything is set? Nothing's missing?"

Sam heaved a sigh. How could Mr. Merry stand to be around Master Pippin for days without having a break? As charming as the young Took could be, he could also be wearing to one's nerves.

"Yes, Master Pippin, I am fairly sure nothing's missing." Sam managed to keep his pleasant tone from sounding forced.

"Well, what about the pastry? It needs a filling, doesn't it?" To Sam's profound horror, Pippin stuck his finger into the bowl with the freshly prepared custard and removed a large dollop of it. He licked his finger clean and rolled his eyes in delight. "Oh, but bless you, that is the best custard I have ever tasted, Sam. How did you do that?"

He needed to get Frodo's youngest cousin out of the kitchen, or there simply wouldn't be enough food left by the time Mr. Frodo came home. "It's an old recipe from the gaffer's gaffer. Or was it the gaffer's gaffer's grandmother? I can't rightly say. Now, if you could ..."

"Oh, so it was Old Gammidgy's grandmother?"

Oh, no. That had been the wrong way. Pippin's – like all good hobbits' – interest in family history was quite remarkable, and before Sam could do so much as blink, Peregrin Took had sat down comfortably before the open fireplace in the kitchen, reached for the pot and poured himself a cup of tea.

Sam's hand clenched tightly around the handle of his frying pan. Decent folk shouldn't talk as much as Master Pippin did. Mr. Frodo was a nice gentlehobbit, and he never talked that much. Mr. Merry didn't talk that much, the rare times Sam had seen him without Pippin; and when he was with his younger cousin, Pippin naturally was the one who did the most chattering. Usually Sam found the young Took amusing, but this time he was coming between Sam's duty as a cook and his cooking-gear. This was no laughing matter anymore. And Mr. Frodo could be back any minute now.

***

A high-pitched scream suddenly sounded from somewhere down the hill, and with a large grin, a surprised Frodo saw Lobelia hitching up her skirts and running as though all the dark powers of Middle Earth combined were after her. The lush green field could barely swallow the flurry of colourful skirts.

Frodo also beheld a small hobbit-lass, staring after the hysterical woman, who was still screaming in the oddest tone of voice. It looked strange, Frodo noticed. Lobelia was almost stomping, and it looked as though she had never worn a skirt before – it was a most disgraceful sight.

By the time he had stopped grinning, the lass had walked up the hill and now stood before him, looking at him with curious green eyes. Frodo also noticed a flowerpot in her hand – Sam's precious purple rose.

He couldn't believe that Lobelia had actually let go of her "present."

"How did you come by that pretty flower?" Frodo crouched next to the lass so that they could look each other in the eyes without the lass getting a stiff neck.

"Mistress Lobelia dropped it."

"She ... dropped it?" Frodo asked, incredulously.

The lass nodded. Was it only his imagination, or was a there a twinkle in the lass' eyes?

"Yes. She was stomping down the hill, and she looked quite happy – sort of. Still, she was stomping so much, making a lot of noise. When I asked her not to scare the mouse I had been playing with, she just looked at me, and her eyes went big and round and then she started screaming and ran away. She dropped everything she had with her, even her handkerchief." The lass smiled mischievously. "She didn't come back for the flower, nor ought else."

Frodo bit down on his lip. Hard. The picture of Lobelia running through the field, her skirts hitched up and ... stomping away in panic of a wee mouse ... It was almost too good to be true. And on top of things, he had managed to recover Sam's beloved rose.

"Do you know whose rose that it, lassie?"

A smile lit up the lass' face. The warm wind of the September afternoon moved her flaming red curls. "Of course I know. It's mine."

Oh no. Frodo raised his eyes to the heaven. What had he done? What had he done to deserve this?

***

Merry was immensely proud of himself. After uncounted successful pranks in his long career he was familiar with the sweet taste of triumph, but today he had surely excelled himself. With sweeping strides he marched down the path, his bright blue eyes sparkling with delight. He couldn't wait to tell Pippin of the little extra touch of spice he had added to their plan and how finely it had worked. This conspiracy was going to be their masterpiece! After this day, Pippin and he were clearly on a higher level of mischief-making. So many new doors were opening, so many possibilities. In his high spirits Merry was no longer bothered by the hindering skirts. He didn't mind the sparkling white bonnet or the fine apron tied to his waist. His thoughts were already back at Bag End and he relished in the imagining of telling his tale -- until it was too late.

"Meriadoc Brandybuck!"

The sharp voice sounded like a whiplash to his ears. Merry froze to the spot, turning as white as one of Frodo's coverlets. A dismayed "No" escaped his lips, but it was too late to wish the inevitable away. He thought his knees would abandon him and felt his heart stop. Slowly, oh, so very slowly he turned around, looking down into a pair of glaring brown eyes. A hard lump rose in his throat.

"Rosie . . ." he said weakly, remembering his manners despite his embarrassment. The hobbit maiden stood in the middle of the path, her hands planted on her hips and her fair cheeks flushed with anger. The very sight of her made the formerly triumphant Merry desperately wish the ground would swallow him up. Rosie Cotton usually was a cheerful hobbit lass, her liveliness charming many a lad's heart, Sam Gamgee's not the least. But she also was known for her fiery temper and it appeared Merry was going to experience it now first-hand.

"What is going on in that foolish head of yours?" she thundered, her rich locks jiggling over her ears. "Taking my clothes from the line! It took me all morning to do my laundry and you, you mischievous scoundrel, have the nerve to steal them and . . ." Suddenly she stopped and only now did she seem to really see him. Her eyes narrowed and her hands slowly dropped to her sides. 'Swallow,' Merry thought, 'swallow me now.'

". . . and put them on," she muttered, more to herself. "Why did you put my clothes on?"

Merry quickly looked down at his toes, but they peeked out at his eyes from under the hem of a lass' frilly skirt, and that didn't make him feel any better.

"I . . . er . . . well, it's . . . you know . . ." he mumbled helplessly. His poor mind, meanwhile, created a whole range of horrible scenarios. If news of Meriadoc Brandybuck wearing lasses' clothing were passed round . . . in the inn, the town, maybe getting back to the Hall . . . What if his father found out? The thought iced the young hobbit's very heart. He didn't even dare to imagine Saradoc's reaction. Why in the Shire hadn't he thought of that possibility before? For the life of him Merry couldn't find a word to say, so he risked a sheepish glance at the lass on the path. What he saw assured him that his fate was sealed.

A broad grin was spreading over Rosie Cotton's face and in her eyes Merry saw a sparkling that topped any mischievous, devilish glint he had ever seen on Pippin Took, and that was saying something.

" Rosie . . . I can explain . . ." Merry said, trying to rescue whatever was possible of this ridiculous situation.

"Oh, I'll just bet you can," she said, her grin widening. "Well, do then. I'm waiting."

Merry opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again and came up with the most plausible silence he could manage.

Rosie shook her head and laughed. Merry again stared at his feet, and slowly a defiant anger started to build up inside him. Taking a deep breath, he squared his shoulders and stood tall, determined to keep what was left of his dignity. Her next words, though, made his newfound strength quickly falter, and he knew he was truly doomed.

"You know, dearest Meriadoc," Rosie said, trying hard to stifle her laughter, "even as a lad you have a tendency to spoil every handsome aspect on you by wearing dirty clothes and apparently avoiding any use of a comb. I didn't think one could beat that." She looked at him intently and Merry felt like his face was set aflame. "But now I really must say -- you're the most unsightly lass I've ever seen."

That was the moment Merry thought he would turn into a spotty toad and hop away to eke out a miserable existence in some muddy duck pond. Rosie didn't mind, though. She obviously enjoyed the whole situation.

"I wonder what your cousins will say to that new fashion of yours," she chuckled.

"No!" Merry cried out and suddenly his voice was back. "Don't tell them! Sam and Pippin know . . . we're only helping because of the birthday cooking, because otherwise it will all be messed up and he will be disappointed and . . . please, don't tell Frodo." He stopped, fearfully waiting for her reaction.

Rosie looked at him for a moment, then her smile grew more friendly and less mocking. "All right, I won't let Frodo hear of it," she said at last. "He's got no ear for gossip, anyways. Always has his nose in the books and other stupidities." She shook her head in disapproval. "Bagginses." And with a well-placed pause she added: "Brandybucks."

"Thank you, Rosie," Merry said, feeling truly grateful. "Uhm. Sorry, I took . . . well, borrowed, your clothes."

"Never mind." She shook her head and winked at him. "And, Merry -- please never, ever tell me what this is all about."

"I won't," he promised, actually feeling able to smile back at her. Rosie was a nice lass, he thought. No wonder Sam liked her. At that point things looked much better and Merry began to think he would get off quite lightly, after all.

"But do you know what I think?" the nice lass said, and as Merry looked up at her, his breath once more caught in his throat. A thin smile tugged at the corners of her mouth and there was that certain glint again. "My friends will be eager to hear of your journey into womanhood. Maybe we can think of some reasons you might have had for this." Rosie cocked her head slightly aside and Merry's blood grew cold. "Oh, and don't worry. We can keep secrets."

Once more she winked at him, but this time it seemed to Merry like a gesture of pure evil.

"I think I'll go now," Rosie decided, "so you can do . . . well, whatever you've planned to do."

"Yes," Merry said, feeling very, very small.

With a last look at him, Rosie chuckled lightly, then she turned to walk away. "Goodbye, Merry. Tell Sam I said hello. And please do come to one of our afternoon teas. I'm sure my friends will have a lot to ask you."

Merry's shoulders slumped forward and as if to mock him further, the apron loosened around his waist and slid to the ground, abandoning him. Despondently, he bit his lip. He knew when he had lost. And Rosie would cherish her victory, he was sure of that. He lifted his head and saw the lass walk away, her steps spurred by her unrestrained mirth.

"Don't you want your bonnet back at least?" he called after her.

"No, keep it," she returned over her shoulder, "it looks rather good on you."

'Gracious heavens,' Merry thought, feeling as helpless as a mouse in a trap.

TBC