Unwelcome visitors
No more sleep had come to Estella, the rest of the night had been spent tossing upon her bed, turning over and over Merry's every word and look, and she did not rise for breakfast. Food would have choked her even if she had been hungry. The task of trying to force down food whilst making polite conversation with her brother and Pippin seemed insurmountable that morning, so she kept to her bedchamber.
An hour or so after her first knock of the day, which had announced breakfast, Dandy called quietly to Estella that the guests were about to leave. Estella made no reply, but waited silently. When a small child, she'd sometimes retreated from the world like this, hiding in her room under the bed, or out in the great waving fields of wheat and barley of her father's lands, believing that if she could only be alone and quiet enough whatever troubled her would simply go away. How absurdly trivial those troubles now seemed! A party missed, or a broken toy, and the world was awry – one embrace from Mama and it was immediately set to rights. What could ever remedy this ill? To love one who looked with eyes of ridicule upon that love? It wasn't her mother's comforting arms she needed...
She waited until Dandy went away, listening to what sounded like two sets of footsteps recede, then slid from the bed and moved to her silent watching place at the window. A huge wisteria grew about the front of Budgeford, and now it blazed with golden autumn leaves, hiding her from view as she stood by the casement. Outside, Fredegar held the bridle of the nut-brown pony Merry habitually rode, whilst Pippin sat shifting impatiently on the back of his mount, a sturdy roan.
"What kept you?" Pippin called as Merry appeared on the porch. Fredegar handed him the reins and Merry swung easily into his saddle, making some comment which Estella could not hear, but which evidently amused the other two hobbits, for they laughed, Pippin's sweetly mad chuckle marrying well with Fredegar's chesty rumble. With a light tap of their heels, Merry and Pippin spurred their ponies on toward Brandy Hall, lifting a hand in farewell to Fredegar.
Estella ran her fingertip over a bubble in the thick glass mullion, biting her lip. That was that then. Whatever had been between them – whatever it was – it seemed to be over now. But why – Estella shook her head, angrily fighting more tears – why had he kissed her at her coming of age party? Had he been making fun of her, or did he really not know how much she...?
She turned away from the window and called out to Dandy, her voice cracking, " Dandy!" A suspiciously short moment later, the servant looked into the room, her kindly face lined with concern. Somehow, Estella managed a smile, "would you get a bath ready for me? And lay out my writing things, I must answer Pervinca's letter..."
Dandy clasped her hands together anxiously. "Mister Brandybuck wanted a word before he left."
Estella silenced her with a look. "A bath would be the purest bliss, dear Dandy."
Nodding, the older woman paused, then began again, "Those Sackville- Bagginses are expected later this morning, Miss Estella," she saw the involuntary twist of her young mistresses' lips and knew that Estella had not only forgotten the appointment but that she far from relished the thought of it, "never you mind Miss, I can put 'em off, say you're indisposed, like." It was what she'd told young Mister Brandybuck, explaining that her lady sometimes "took on bad in the night with a headache". She hadn't liked fobbing him off like that, he'd looked so very downcast, but the idea of doing the same to the odious Lobelia Sackville-Baggins and her equally revolting son Lotho was altogether sweet. Dandy had been subjected to what she considered much ill bred rudeness by these supposedly grand people. Truly gentle folk, like the family she served, or, indeed the Tooks or Brandybucks, were always polite to servants.
Estella smiled and shook her head regretfully, "A good plan Penny, but I must receive them. Mister Sackville-Baggins' portrait is almost done and the sooner that is off my hands the better!" Her mind went to the canvas up in her studio, or "garret" as Fredegar delighted in terming it, "I'll just have to grit my teeth and get on with it."
Bath postponed, for Lobelia and Lotho were notorious early callers, she dressed in a gown of forget-me-not blue, old but of good quality, and slipped a rough linen apron over it. She made the barest effort with her appearance, dragging a comb through her curls and splashing her face with icy water from the ewer near her dressing table. Before all was quite done, the report of Lobelia Sackville-Baggins' imperious rap at the door echoed throughout Budgeford. "Odious people," Estella muttered aloud. Then, having allowed herself the luxury of venting her true opinion of the visitors, she went out to meet them with an artificial smile of welcome pasted on her rosebud lips.
Mother and son, equally unprepossessing specimens of hobbithood, stood by the fireplace in the parlour, but Fredegar was nowhere to be seen. Inwardly cursing her brother, Estella made a sketchy curtsey to Lobelia. Both Sackville-Bagginses were staring at the basket by the hearth, still brimful of broken shards of walnut table and pottery vase. Lobelia lifted a quizzical eyebrow and looked from the basket to Estella, "Has there been some accident here Miss Bolger?"
By her tone, Estella could almost believe that Lobelia knew full well about the revels of the preceding night, but of course that was impossible. She clearly expected an explanation. Estella glanced at the basket as at a thing of no consequence, "An accident, yes, just so," she forced herself to keep smiling, "good day Mistress Sackville-Baggins, good day Lotho."
Lotho came forward and took her hand, pressing it between his own meaty, sweaty palms. "Estella, I am most anxious to begin," Estella extracted her hand and surreptitiously wiped it on her skirt, while Lotho turned his pale pebble eyes to meet those of his mother, "we are so very near completion, mother."
"Yes indeed," Estella turned eagerly to the door, "yes, the light is quite brilliant in the studio today, we should make a start..." Nothing could have suited Estella better, it was common for Lobelia to spend the best part of half an hour in a monologue that would brook no interruption, or to issue contradiction after contradiction even if others were able to have some part of the conversation. Lotho was not her choice of subject, but painting him was preferable to entertaining his mother.
Lobelia, alas, was undaunted. Her pale grey eyes were almost reptilian as they followed Estella's movements. She knew perfectly why her son hoped for more time alone with the Bolger girl, but he was a fool. What was it Ordovacar Bolger had said the last time? "She's an obedient girl...a good girl...she'll do what's best for the family." Another fool, she thought with an inward snort of derision. The man simply didn't know his daughter. There was no sense of duty in young hobbits today, they were all silly, selfish, romantic little fools, and Estella Bolger was just like the rest. For whatever reason, however, her Lotho, her only son and heir, had set his heart upon her.
"Not so quickly young miss," she forestalled them, "I wish to see how it progresses," the girl turned and met her stare with eyes that betrayed a flash of irritation, "if it is a good likeness."
Estella inclined her head, something almost akin to amusement passing across her features, "I think you'll agree that it is," and thought, but did not add, "and a thing of ugliness in consequence."
She led the way to the back stairs of Budgeford, past the servants' bedrooms, to what had once, in the days of larger Bolger broods, been a nursery and now served for her workroom. Most of Budgeford, old as Brandy Hall, had been burrowed out of the base of Budge Hill, but her garret was a later excavation into the crest of the hill, a spacious chamber with three large round windows looking south and letting in glorious sunlight. Her paintings were neatly arrayed about the room, and a huge old table was laden with bowls of pigment, brushes and a grinding and mixing mortar. An old, high backed leather chair, another of Bilbo's castoffs was placed where the light was best, and draped with faded red velvet. Before it stood an easel, and on that was the almost completed portrait of Lotho.
Lobelia made a great show of stepping over imaginary obstacles to get to the picture and then spent a long while peering at it. A good likeness it most certainly was, that could not be argued. Lotho sat on the chair, the velvet creating a sumptuous backdrop, and stared a challenge out of the canvas, his eyes narrowed, chin jutting. Yes, anyone who saw it would know the subject to be Lotho Sackville-Baggins...but Lobelia could not escape the suspicion that there was some element of ridicule behind the painting. She frowned, unable for once to put into words the criticism she felt warranted – glancing across at Lotho, she saw he was staring hungrily at Estella, who was in her turn oblivious to his scrutiny, setting about her paints and brushes. If Lotho really thought that the girl was coming around then he was even more of a fool than she already surmised.
With a sigh, Lobelia made a small nod in Estella's direction and swept from the room.
"Alone at last!" Lotho hazarded, laughing loudly. He sounded not unlike a braying ass.
Estella frowned distractedly, still bent upon her tools. "Would you take up the same position?"
His good humour faltered a little. He sat down on the chair and re-arranged his jacket so that the long coat tails hung in perfect symmetry either side of his legs, then set his expression...
All the while she painted, he chatted, explaining at one point the ins and outs of his recent purchase of Bag End, quite unconscious of her lack of attention. For her part, Estella might as well have been working in total silence, so little did she attend him. With brush in hand he ceased to be Pimple, a plain, nay, an ugly hobbit. Estella saw him almost as an inanimate object, a series of interconnecting shapes, an exercise in light and shade. To paint him she didn't have to think about Lotho Sackville-Baggins at all...
She stepped back from the canvas and eyed it critically. "I think we can dispense with further sittings," she looked over at her subject and wiped her brush on a rag, "it is finished."
Lotho came over to examine his painted self. A hot flush of pleasure crimsoned his spotty face and he clasped his hands together in delight. "I shall hang it in the hall at Bag End when we move there!" He seemed enraptured, looking at his own image whilst she quietly tidied her work things. "You have made me look so distinguished and so... well, not handsome, but..." He moved closer to her, dragging his attention from the painting to the sweet, white curve of her neck where her curls swung forward as she bent over the workbench, "there is flattery there, Estella, do you really see me so?"
"I have painted what I saw," she answered neutrally, beginning to remove her apron, "I..."He grabbed her hands as she tried to untie the apron strings, holding them hard. Estella cried out with combined surprise and pain, her hands automatically twisting to extricate themselves. "Lotho! What are you doing? Let me go!" "Go?" With an odd laugh he swung her about, the momentum throwing her hip hard against the table, but her cry of pain only seemed to excite him further, "What am I doing? You know perfectly well what, little Miss Estella..." His face loomed over her, the pale eyes bulging, "Come here..."
Her mind was spinning as she tried to twist from his grasp. How had this happened? How had she not seen the meaning behind his simpering anxiety to shake off his mother when she visited, or her family if they were at home? Sickeningly, she then remembered how easily everyone seemed to melt away in such situations – it could only mean that her parents and Lobelia, and, yes, even Fatty understood the real reason for Lotho's visits. But she had not.
Thanks to her attempts to twist away from him, Lotho's lips landed only at the edge of her mouth, and then skated on a trail of their own spittle to her cheek. He seemed momentarily satisfied and released his grip on her hands. Estella sprang sideways, stumbling in her haste to put space and the comforting bulk of the old table between them. "There has..." she wiped at her cheek, "there has been some misunderstanding."
He smiled contentedly. "Not on my part."
She was shaking but managed to stand up straight, her chin tilting proudly. "I have never for a moment..." "Come Estella," impatience had now crept into his voice, "you cannot have been ignorant of my intentions. I had no need of a portrait of myself, fine though it is, it was merely a pretext..."
"No," she rasped. Her mother and father had talked her into painting Lotho – she had refused at first, but they had insisted and she was obligated by their promise, no argument swaying them. Cold sickness filled the pit of her stomach; she had to swallow down hard upon it, her voice sinking to little more than a whisper, "no..."
Her repeated denial angered him, popping the bubble of confidence he'd been floating in all morning. "Yes," he said through gritted teeth, "it is all arranged Estella. Your precious mother and brother can keep living here. You will live at Bag End as my wife."
Vehemently shaking her head, Estella backed away from his advancing form. "No! I could not! I don't love you – I don't even like you!"
His hand shot out and caught her cheek with a stinging blow. Estella was speechless with shock, powerless to move – never in her life had she been struck.
Lotho pressed his advantage, and his stone coloured eyes had taken on a lizard-like coldness as he loomed over her, grabbing her upper arm and almost instantly bruising the tender flesh beneath strong fingers. "Is that so? Well," he chuckled nastily, tightening his grip with each word, "your ale-sot of a father likes me and my money well enough for the both of you..."
"Fredegar!" Estella called out for her brother. He couldn't – he wouldn't let Lotho hurt her...
Lotho laughed again, twisting her arm, "It's no good calling him Estella, we passed him on the road to Hobbiton before we got here..." he dragged her away from the table, panting slightly, and began to fumble with the lacing of his britches...
Author's note: More to come! Let me know what you think (pretty please!)
No more sleep had come to Estella, the rest of the night had been spent tossing upon her bed, turning over and over Merry's every word and look, and she did not rise for breakfast. Food would have choked her even if she had been hungry. The task of trying to force down food whilst making polite conversation with her brother and Pippin seemed insurmountable that morning, so she kept to her bedchamber.
An hour or so after her first knock of the day, which had announced breakfast, Dandy called quietly to Estella that the guests were about to leave. Estella made no reply, but waited silently. When a small child, she'd sometimes retreated from the world like this, hiding in her room under the bed, or out in the great waving fields of wheat and barley of her father's lands, believing that if she could only be alone and quiet enough whatever troubled her would simply go away. How absurdly trivial those troubles now seemed! A party missed, or a broken toy, and the world was awry – one embrace from Mama and it was immediately set to rights. What could ever remedy this ill? To love one who looked with eyes of ridicule upon that love? It wasn't her mother's comforting arms she needed...
She waited until Dandy went away, listening to what sounded like two sets of footsteps recede, then slid from the bed and moved to her silent watching place at the window. A huge wisteria grew about the front of Budgeford, and now it blazed with golden autumn leaves, hiding her from view as she stood by the casement. Outside, Fredegar held the bridle of the nut-brown pony Merry habitually rode, whilst Pippin sat shifting impatiently on the back of his mount, a sturdy roan.
"What kept you?" Pippin called as Merry appeared on the porch. Fredegar handed him the reins and Merry swung easily into his saddle, making some comment which Estella could not hear, but which evidently amused the other two hobbits, for they laughed, Pippin's sweetly mad chuckle marrying well with Fredegar's chesty rumble. With a light tap of their heels, Merry and Pippin spurred their ponies on toward Brandy Hall, lifting a hand in farewell to Fredegar.
Estella ran her fingertip over a bubble in the thick glass mullion, biting her lip. That was that then. Whatever had been between them – whatever it was – it seemed to be over now. But why – Estella shook her head, angrily fighting more tears – why had he kissed her at her coming of age party? Had he been making fun of her, or did he really not know how much she...?
She turned away from the window and called out to Dandy, her voice cracking, " Dandy!" A suspiciously short moment later, the servant looked into the room, her kindly face lined with concern. Somehow, Estella managed a smile, "would you get a bath ready for me? And lay out my writing things, I must answer Pervinca's letter..."
Dandy clasped her hands together anxiously. "Mister Brandybuck wanted a word before he left."
Estella silenced her with a look. "A bath would be the purest bliss, dear Dandy."
Nodding, the older woman paused, then began again, "Those Sackville- Bagginses are expected later this morning, Miss Estella," she saw the involuntary twist of her young mistresses' lips and knew that Estella had not only forgotten the appointment but that she far from relished the thought of it, "never you mind Miss, I can put 'em off, say you're indisposed, like." It was what she'd told young Mister Brandybuck, explaining that her lady sometimes "took on bad in the night with a headache". She hadn't liked fobbing him off like that, he'd looked so very downcast, but the idea of doing the same to the odious Lobelia Sackville-Baggins and her equally revolting son Lotho was altogether sweet. Dandy had been subjected to what she considered much ill bred rudeness by these supposedly grand people. Truly gentle folk, like the family she served, or, indeed the Tooks or Brandybucks, were always polite to servants.
Estella smiled and shook her head regretfully, "A good plan Penny, but I must receive them. Mister Sackville-Baggins' portrait is almost done and the sooner that is off my hands the better!" Her mind went to the canvas up in her studio, or "garret" as Fredegar delighted in terming it, "I'll just have to grit my teeth and get on with it."
Bath postponed, for Lobelia and Lotho were notorious early callers, she dressed in a gown of forget-me-not blue, old but of good quality, and slipped a rough linen apron over it. She made the barest effort with her appearance, dragging a comb through her curls and splashing her face with icy water from the ewer near her dressing table. Before all was quite done, the report of Lobelia Sackville-Baggins' imperious rap at the door echoed throughout Budgeford. "Odious people," Estella muttered aloud. Then, having allowed herself the luxury of venting her true opinion of the visitors, she went out to meet them with an artificial smile of welcome pasted on her rosebud lips.
Mother and son, equally unprepossessing specimens of hobbithood, stood by the fireplace in the parlour, but Fredegar was nowhere to be seen. Inwardly cursing her brother, Estella made a sketchy curtsey to Lobelia. Both Sackville-Bagginses were staring at the basket by the hearth, still brimful of broken shards of walnut table and pottery vase. Lobelia lifted a quizzical eyebrow and looked from the basket to Estella, "Has there been some accident here Miss Bolger?"
By her tone, Estella could almost believe that Lobelia knew full well about the revels of the preceding night, but of course that was impossible. She clearly expected an explanation. Estella glanced at the basket as at a thing of no consequence, "An accident, yes, just so," she forced herself to keep smiling, "good day Mistress Sackville-Baggins, good day Lotho."
Lotho came forward and took her hand, pressing it between his own meaty, sweaty palms. "Estella, I am most anxious to begin," Estella extracted her hand and surreptitiously wiped it on her skirt, while Lotho turned his pale pebble eyes to meet those of his mother, "we are so very near completion, mother."
"Yes indeed," Estella turned eagerly to the door, "yes, the light is quite brilliant in the studio today, we should make a start..." Nothing could have suited Estella better, it was common for Lobelia to spend the best part of half an hour in a monologue that would brook no interruption, or to issue contradiction after contradiction even if others were able to have some part of the conversation. Lotho was not her choice of subject, but painting him was preferable to entertaining his mother.
Lobelia, alas, was undaunted. Her pale grey eyes were almost reptilian as they followed Estella's movements. She knew perfectly why her son hoped for more time alone with the Bolger girl, but he was a fool. What was it Ordovacar Bolger had said the last time? "She's an obedient girl...a good girl...she'll do what's best for the family." Another fool, she thought with an inward snort of derision. The man simply didn't know his daughter. There was no sense of duty in young hobbits today, they were all silly, selfish, romantic little fools, and Estella Bolger was just like the rest. For whatever reason, however, her Lotho, her only son and heir, had set his heart upon her.
"Not so quickly young miss," she forestalled them, "I wish to see how it progresses," the girl turned and met her stare with eyes that betrayed a flash of irritation, "if it is a good likeness."
Estella inclined her head, something almost akin to amusement passing across her features, "I think you'll agree that it is," and thought, but did not add, "and a thing of ugliness in consequence."
She led the way to the back stairs of Budgeford, past the servants' bedrooms, to what had once, in the days of larger Bolger broods, been a nursery and now served for her workroom. Most of Budgeford, old as Brandy Hall, had been burrowed out of the base of Budge Hill, but her garret was a later excavation into the crest of the hill, a spacious chamber with three large round windows looking south and letting in glorious sunlight. Her paintings were neatly arrayed about the room, and a huge old table was laden with bowls of pigment, brushes and a grinding and mixing mortar. An old, high backed leather chair, another of Bilbo's castoffs was placed where the light was best, and draped with faded red velvet. Before it stood an easel, and on that was the almost completed portrait of Lotho.
Lobelia made a great show of stepping over imaginary obstacles to get to the picture and then spent a long while peering at it. A good likeness it most certainly was, that could not be argued. Lotho sat on the chair, the velvet creating a sumptuous backdrop, and stared a challenge out of the canvas, his eyes narrowed, chin jutting. Yes, anyone who saw it would know the subject to be Lotho Sackville-Baggins...but Lobelia could not escape the suspicion that there was some element of ridicule behind the painting. She frowned, unable for once to put into words the criticism she felt warranted – glancing across at Lotho, she saw he was staring hungrily at Estella, who was in her turn oblivious to his scrutiny, setting about her paints and brushes. If Lotho really thought that the girl was coming around then he was even more of a fool than she already surmised.
With a sigh, Lobelia made a small nod in Estella's direction and swept from the room.
"Alone at last!" Lotho hazarded, laughing loudly. He sounded not unlike a braying ass.
Estella frowned distractedly, still bent upon her tools. "Would you take up the same position?"
His good humour faltered a little. He sat down on the chair and re-arranged his jacket so that the long coat tails hung in perfect symmetry either side of his legs, then set his expression...
All the while she painted, he chatted, explaining at one point the ins and outs of his recent purchase of Bag End, quite unconscious of her lack of attention. For her part, Estella might as well have been working in total silence, so little did she attend him. With brush in hand he ceased to be Pimple, a plain, nay, an ugly hobbit. Estella saw him almost as an inanimate object, a series of interconnecting shapes, an exercise in light and shade. To paint him she didn't have to think about Lotho Sackville-Baggins at all...
She stepped back from the canvas and eyed it critically. "I think we can dispense with further sittings," she looked over at her subject and wiped her brush on a rag, "it is finished."
Lotho came over to examine his painted self. A hot flush of pleasure crimsoned his spotty face and he clasped his hands together in delight. "I shall hang it in the hall at Bag End when we move there!" He seemed enraptured, looking at his own image whilst she quietly tidied her work things. "You have made me look so distinguished and so... well, not handsome, but..." He moved closer to her, dragging his attention from the painting to the sweet, white curve of her neck where her curls swung forward as she bent over the workbench, "there is flattery there, Estella, do you really see me so?"
"I have painted what I saw," she answered neutrally, beginning to remove her apron, "I..."He grabbed her hands as she tried to untie the apron strings, holding them hard. Estella cried out with combined surprise and pain, her hands automatically twisting to extricate themselves. "Lotho! What are you doing? Let me go!" "Go?" With an odd laugh he swung her about, the momentum throwing her hip hard against the table, but her cry of pain only seemed to excite him further, "What am I doing? You know perfectly well what, little Miss Estella..." His face loomed over her, the pale eyes bulging, "Come here..."
Her mind was spinning as she tried to twist from his grasp. How had this happened? How had she not seen the meaning behind his simpering anxiety to shake off his mother when she visited, or her family if they were at home? Sickeningly, she then remembered how easily everyone seemed to melt away in such situations – it could only mean that her parents and Lobelia, and, yes, even Fatty understood the real reason for Lotho's visits. But she had not.
Thanks to her attempts to twist away from him, Lotho's lips landed only at the edge of her mouth, and then skated on a trail of their own spittle to her cheek. He seemed momentarily satisfied and released his grip on her hands. Estella sprang sideways, stumbling in her haste to put space and the comforting bulk of the old table between them. "There has..." she wiped at her cheek, "there has been some misunderstanding."
He smiled contentedly. "Not on my part."
She was shaking but managed to stand up straight, her chin tilting proudly. "I have never for a moment..." "Come Estella," impatience had now crept into his voice, "you cannot have been ignorant of my intentions. I had no need of a portrait of myself, fine though it is, it was merely a pretext..."
"No," she rasped. Her mother and father had talked her into painting Lotho – she had refused at first, but they had insisted and she was obligated by their promise, no argument swaying them. Cold sickness filled the pit of her stomach; she had to swallow down hard upon it, her voice sinking to little more than a whisper, "no..."
Her repeated denial angered him, popping the bubble of confidence he'd been floating in all morning. "Yes," he said through gritted teeth, "it is all arranged Estella. Your precious mother and brother can keep living here. You will live at Bag End as my wife."
Vehemently shaking her head, Estella backed away from his advancing form. "No! I could not! I don't love you – I don't even like you!"
His hand shot out and caught her cheek with a stinging blow. Estella was speechless with shock, powerless to move – never in her life had she been struck.
Lotho pressed his advantage, and his stone coloured eyes had taken on a lizard-like coldness as he loomed over her, grabbing her upper arm and almost instantly bruising the tender flesh beneath strong fingers. "Is that so? Well," he chuckled nastily, tightening his grip with each word, "your ale-sot of a father likes me and my money well enough for the both of you..."
"Fredegar!" Estella called out for her brother. He couldn't – he wouldn't let Lotho hurt her...
Lotho laughed again, twisting her arm, "It's no good calling him Estella, we passed him on the road to Hobbiton before we got here..." he dragged her away from the table, panting slightly, and began to fumble with the lacing of his britches...
Author's note: More to come! Let me know what you think (pretty please!)