by Sally Gardens
Chapter Fourteen: Merry
Rose and Sam prepared a grand dinner in honor of Merry's visit, and Molly, who had dropped by for a visit in the afternoon, joined them at everyone's insistence. After the children had gone to bed for the night, and Molly set out for home, Rose retired to her room and Sam, Frodo, and Merry retired to the study.
"Will you be staying for Yule?" asked Sam, pulling a chair over to join the two that already sat by the hearth.
"I can't, Sam." Merry's tone was regretful. "I have to be home to oversee the Grand Yule Party of Brandy Hall."
"Ah." Sam nodded sympathetically. "And how is your father?"
"Doing well, doing well," answered Merry around the pipe clenched in his mouth. He lit it and puffed a few times. "But the old fellow is nearing ninety, after all, and the Yule party is an enormous undertaking—as you know, Frodo."
"Oh, yes." Frodo shifted in his chair, settling into a comfortable position. "Though all the same, it is a pity you cannot stay to celebrate Yule with us."
"Well, I have the week," said Merry, brightening. "I am content to have at last got here at all and to have seen for myself that you truly have come home."
"I have," Frodo said thoughtfully. "Though I still don't understand why."
"Come now, Frodo!" cut in Sam, lofting his mug of ale. "You're here, and that's all as matters now."
"Hear, hear!" Merry raised his own mug, and Frodo, smiling, joined them in the toast.
"Well." Leaning forward, Merry grinned at Sam and Frodo. "Here is an amusing matter: My father has been dropping rather broad hints that it is time for me to take a wife."
"And how is that amusing?" asked Sam, drinking. "Having a wife is a very fine thing—take it from me." He grinned and set down his mug, taking up his pipe.
"Oh, no, no," laughed Merry. "I've no objection to having a wife; I mean only that till now I've never given much thought to the actual acquiring of one."
"You won't have much luck if you treat her like a thing to be acquired."
"Oh, Sam. It was only a figure of speech; the woman I marry shall always and ever know that she is held by me in only the highest esteem. Respected. Cherished. Dare I say—" His eye gleamed wickedly as he glanced toward Frodo. "Precious?"
"Only if you wish to have that mug of ale tipped over your head," retorted Frodo, but with just enough humor to let Merry know it was all right.
Merry grinned and sipped his ale. "All right, Sam. You're Mayor; you get about a fair bit. Can you recommend any eligible lasses?"
"Hm." Sam pondered. "Well, there's Miss Molly; near as I can see she's not being courted by no one."
"Oh, really, Sam!" exclaimed Frodo, laughing. "I can't think of anyone less interested in courtship—"
"Unless it's you."
"Sam!" Frodo's face went crimson. Sam shrugged innocently and blew a smoke ring.
"I have to agree with you, Frodo," Merry quickly interjected. "She seems to be as confirmed a spinster as you are a bachelor."
"She's not a spinster," countered Frodo, hiding behind his mug of ale. "She's a button and bead maker." Merry and Sam groaned in unison.
"In fact," added Frodo, dodging a throw pillow that had been in Sam's chair, "I bought these very buttons from her."
Merry leaned in for a closer look at Frodo's waistcoat. "Very nice," he said. "One could almost mistake the pattern for the Baggins seal."
Frodo bounced the pillow off his grinning face. "It's custom work, you old ass, as well you can guess." Merry laughed and settled back in his chair.
"An old ass I may be," Merry agreed, "but, for the moment, an unburdened ass."
"If that's your take on marriage, maybe it's as well you're still a bachelor," Sam dryly cut in. "Think I'll be having myself a talk with Mr. Saradoc before he saddles some hapless lass with you."
Merry laughed. "I assure you, Sam, he'll not 'saddle' any poor lass against her will or mine. He's only hinting, though rather strongly; but however much he'd like to see me wed, he'd never rope this old ass into an arranged marriage, as poor Pippin's father did to him."
"What?" sputtered Frodo. He blinked, gaping at Merry. "Pardon me, but did I hear you correctly?"
"Well...not exactly arranged," admitted Merry. "The way I heard the tale, his father had been having many meetings with the northern Tooks to bring the northern and southern clans together in closer alliance—"
"Pippin married a Northfarthing Took," interjected Sam for Frodo's benefit.
"Diamond, of Long Cleeve," Merry added. "She and Pippin got along well enough before, mind you; and given time, they likely would have chosen the same outcome of their own accord. Unfortunately, Uncle Paladin took notice of their friendship, and instead of taking Pippin aside and asking if he might be considering a marriage, he announced—deep in his cups, so the story goes—he announced at a huge gathering of Tooks north and south that Pippin and Diamond were planning to be wed, in a grand alliance of the Northfarthing and the Tookland."
"Oh, no," gasped Frodo. "Poor Pippin."
"Indeed." Merry's mouth twisted. "And with an entire hall full of Tooks north and south pressing around him and congratulating him, what could he do?"
"But what about Diamond?" asked Frodo incredulously. "Surely she was upset, as well?"
"You'd think she would have been, but as it turned out, she thought Pippin had put Uncle Paladin up to the whole thing, to surprise her—a very Pippin way of proposing, you might say—had, of course, it been Pippin's proposal, and not Paladin's gaffe."
"I see." Frodo contemplated the contents of his mug. "And so Pippin, being Pippin, resigned himself, out of duty—"
"And pride."
"And pride," agreed Frodo. He nodded. "But he wasn't truly ready to settle down, yet, and so he wanders from tavern to inn, clinging desperately to the old life that's been pulled out from under him." He sighed. "And trying to forget the War."
Merry looked to Sam. Sam drew a deep breath.
"Now, Frodo," admonished Sam. "Don't go feeling too sorry for Master Took. He weren't feeling none too sorry for you when he lit into you like he did."
"You and Pippin had a tiff?" asked Merry before Frodo could answer Sam.
Frodo sighed. "It's my fault, really. I chided Pippin for—for using an expression not generally heard outside of a barnyard. It hardly bears repeating."
Merry laughed. "It wasn't that wicked—" he began, then, catching himself, went very red.
"What!" exclaimed Frodo, casting a hard look at him.
"Sam told me." Merry quickly distracted himself with a swig of ale.
"Indeed?" Frodo glanced back at Sam.
Sam sipped his ale. "I might've mentioned it in a letter."
"Might?"
"Come, now, Frodo," Sam cheerfully appeased. "Surely you don't fault me for keeping up with my letters to a dear friend?"
Frodo regarded Sam searchingly, eyebrows raised. "I don't; but I shall never again believe you when you claim to be doing 'mayoral business' at your desk."
"Oh, that's hard, Mr. Frodo, it is," sighed Sam, fluttering a hand over his heart and rolling his eyes.
"Go on!" groaned Merry, tossing the small pillow at Sam.
"'Sides," drawled Sam, reaching up to catch the pillow. "I don't see what the fuss is. You've heard barnyard talk, and worse, from me, but I never heard you take me to task for it."
"You're not my little cousin," retorted Frodo.
Merry and Sam both laughed. "Neither is Pippin," said Merry.
Frodo had to laugh. "Yes, I see he's grown even more since I left. How tall is he?"
"Four and eight, last I was told," answered Sam.
"Good heavens." Frodo shook his head, and took a drink from his mug of ale. "He could almost pass for one of the Bree Men."
"Perhaps," agreed Merry, eyes twinkling. "If he keeps his hair over the tips of his ears and shaves his feet."
Frodo snorted, spraying ale all over Merry. Sam roared with laughter, and Merry threw his hands up in the air—spilling more ale upon his waistcoat and shirt—and joined in.
"Oh—oh—" gasped Frodo, shaking so hard he could barely keep himself sitting upright. "Oh—Meriadoc, do not—ever—" He collapsed in mirth, provoking another wave of laughter from Sam and Merry. Frodo gulped, and tried again. "The picture, the very picture—"
"Shave his feet," chortled Sam, doubling over and slapping his knee; and Frodo threw back his head and let out another round of loud, wide-mouthed cackling.
"Sam, Sam," choked Merry. "Enough! Poor Frodo can hardly breathe—" he snorted "—and I'm not faring too well, myself." He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "Oh. My."
Sam looked at Merry with round-eyed innocence. "You're the one as started it, Mr. Merry, sir."
"Sam! Enough!" pleaded Frodo, struggling valiantly to regain his composure. "'Mr. Merry, sir,' indeed—" and he was lost again in sputtering, snorting, and snickering.
Grinning, Sam lofted his mug. "Yes, sir, Mr. Frodo, sir," he drolly recited, and tipped his head back to gulp down the rest of his half-pint. "Be needing more ale," he said to Merry, pushing himself out of the chair.
"Bring a pitcher, Sam," called Frodo between bursts of mirth.
"I think you've had quite enough," chided Merry, clicking his tongue.
Frodo rolled his eyes pitifully at Merry. "Oh, that's hard, Mr. Merry, sir, it is."
When Sam got back from the cellar, he found both Frodo and Merry sprawled on the floor, laughing hysterically. He shook his head and poured himself a fresh half-pint.
"Oh, Frodo," gasped Merry. He grabbed the pillow from where it had fallen and lobbed it half-heartedly at his cousin. "It's good to have you back."
Frodo batted the pillow back to Merry, his eyes shining. "It's good to be back," he said, and in that moment, at least, he meant it.