14. A Brief Conversation

It was raining when Frodo awoke early next morning. He could hear the slow drizzling patter of raindrops striking the window pane. With a groan the hobbit considered throwing the blankets back up over his head and pretending that he was back in Bag End, but then the pounding on the door began again. Grumbling to himself he forced himself out of bed and snatched up his robe, donning it as he went to answer the door.

On the other side of it stood a rather sleepy looking Danic Turnbarrel who begged his pardon for having slept so late and neglecting to get them up. At first Frodo just blinked stupidly at him, wondering what the silly creature was blathering on about, and then his sluggish mind finally caught up to him.

"Oh." He put a hand to his head, already feeling a headache developing. "What's the time?"

"Just after four, sir," Mr Turnbarrel admitted. "Fear as I slept in a bit late. I'll 'ave Mr Took up in a minute an' breakfas' ready in ten. The missus is a-makin' it right now."

"If you can raise Mr Took in less than ten minutes I'll be surprised," Frodo frowned, the events of last night coming back to him with clarity. "I expect that he has a terrible hangover this morning."

"I reckon thet's true, sir," the innkeeper agreed. "I'll pop in an' wake him proper-like, an' then I'll go get some o' my cure. We'll have him right as rain in twelve minutes."

Frodo arched an eyebrow at him. "That sounds as if it would rival the Gaffer's cure," he said with some surprise. "Well, I'll get ready and then check on Mr Took myself. Thank you, Mr Turnbarrel."

"Anytime, Mr Baggins, an' I've already got one o' th' lads carin' for your ponies." With that Mr Turnbarrel moved further down the passage and Frodo retreated to his room and began to prepare for a long day.

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The two cousins were already long gone before Belle awoke the next morning. The innkeeper informed her however that they hadn't actually left until half-past five, due to the drunken stupor that they'd needed to rouse Reginard from. Belle almost wished that she could have seen it.

Largo didn't get up until well past nine, and even that was only because Belle had finally asked the innkeeper to go wake her brother. As a result Largo was grumpy, surly, and nearly fell asleep in his porridge. As soon as they entered the carriage (just past ten) he curled up in the corner and went to sleep, leaving Belle to amuse herself. She did this by stewing about her brother's aggravating ways, working on her pillow, and planning out what she intended to say the minute that he decided to finally wake up.

By the time that they finally stopped for a late luncheon at two (to make up the lost time) Belle was exasperated. Even before they began to eat she told Largo, "We need to talk."

"Not yet," Largo growled.

The meal was very quiet, and uneventful (unless one counted the rather colourful yelling that occurred when Largo finally drank the bottle of hangover cure that Belle had thoughtfully purchased from Master Turnbarrel before they left), and Belle found herself almost missing the incessant chatter between Elmas and Frodo the day before, even if she had been jealous of it at the time. Upon returning to the carriage she seated herself across from Largo and glared at him until he sat up and barked, "What?"

She smiled sweetly. "We need to talk."

Largo groaned and pulled himself a little more upright. "Can it wait?"

"No, we need to do it now."

Her brother heaved a deep sigh and sat up completely. "All right, what about?"

"Several things," Belle smiled tightly. "Like what happened last night. And all during the carriage ride. And the night before. Well," she added, remembering her promise, "maybe not the night before."

"Baggins," Largo groaned.

"That's right," she smiled. "Mr Baggins."

"All right," Largo said. "Shall we start with the fact that: I don't like him."

"That's growing obvious," Belle retorted. "The question is: why?"

"He's proud," came the quick answer. "He's an arrogant, lazy, selfish little prig who plies his charm around others to get them to do what he wants, and then dumps them when they need him the most. He ran away when his people needed him to stay in the Shire, and dawdling around having 'adventures' in the outside world for a year and two months while we suffered here at home, and then he returned, and suddenly he expects everyone to treat him like he's the king returned or something? That isn't right."

Belle scowled. "Proud, I'll give you. Lazy, I won't. You of all people ought to know better after the ride that you've put him through this week. You're lucky that he kept up with you the way that he did."

Largo shook his head. "Belle, the only reason that he kept up with me is because he wanted to get home as quickly as possible. That's why I set the pace that I did. I figured that if he really wanted to stay longer he'd say something about it. Then we could slow down and maybe enjoy each other's company a little more. But you saw the fireworks that happened when we got near each other at night. I'm telling you, Belle, it's no good." He sighed. "He and I don't get along."

"I know," Belle returned, "but how hard were you trying? You seemed to get along fine when you were trying. And as for being treated like a king, if that were true he wouldn't have stayed in the linen cupboard, would he?"

"He doesn't like people to look at him," Largo continued, almost to himself. "Seems to prefer being in the background and letting others be the focus of attention. Like that blasted gardener."

"Language, please," his sister returned primly. "And I would say that's a sign that he isn't arrogant. He's proud, yes. Dignified, definitely. But arrogant, no. Except for the adventure thing I would say that you described Lotho, not Frodo."

"You asked the question," Largo growled.

"But really," Belle returned. "You have to give me some real answers, things that he really is."

"Well, I really don't like the adventure bit," Largo muttered. He thought hard for a moment, and then shrugged. "Maybe he just rubs me the wrong way. A hobbit like that. He has the entire world going for him, Belle. He's the mayor, he's wealthy, he has all the good looks and charm that a hobbit can have, he has more influence and family connections than you and I could possibly dream of. Why, he even has you, and Aunt Belia who always swore that she hated him, falling at his feet. But what does he do with it? He fritters it away on books, and adventures, and that gardener of his. Do you know that he was able to sweet-talk old Sheaves into making the landlord share a full twenty percent? Twenty percent!" He fell back, shaking his head in astonishment. "That hobbit has a silver tongue, Belle. He's going to be the next mayor. He could probably talk his way into any position in the Shire. I mean it," he added, noticing her scepticism. "And yet all he wants to do every evendim is write in his book," he ended with a growl. "It galls me. To. No. End."

"Clearly," Belle sighed. She had asked the question. Maybe though, she hadn't wanted to hear the real answer. "I still want him though," she admitted.

"You can want him all you like," Largo muttered. "I doubt you'll get him."

"He invited me along."

"Personal request from me," he admitted. "I told him that I didn't want you alone at night."

Belle's jaw dropped. "He what? You what?!" she exclaimed.

"I was trying to help things along," he explained hastily. "I think though that you're only coming now because he already made the invitation."

Belle was devastated, but she tried not to show it. "Well, he seemed to be warming up to me yesterday," she returned hopefully.

"Maybe." Largo's answer was non-committal. "And who knows. Maybe he was warming up to you. I do think that I'd like him a lot better if I could just see that."

Belle sighed again. This discussion wasn't going the way that she wanted it to at all. She decided to change the subject. "What about that gardener?"

That brought Largo back around with a snap. "What about him?" he growled.

"What are we going to do about him? You heard Frodo yesterday, I'm sure. It was 'Sam this', and 'Sam that', and Merry and Pippin, and then Sam again, and then the king, and then Sam again-"

"He's rubbing that gardener in our faces," Largo muttered.

"How can such a respectable, influential hobbit like Frodo be so...entwined with a gardener?" Belle lowered her voice as if ashamed to even admit such a shameful thing. "It isn't right."

"It goes against everything that hobbits learn from birth," Largo agreed. "But you have to remember, Belle, he did grow up in the Wilds of Buckland, and then after that with Mad Baggins. Maybe he never learned about that proper distance that a gentlehobbit should keep between himself and servants. After all, he does make rather freely with young Elmas."

"True," Belle agreed in her turn. "And that's another thing that bothers me. Why can he converse so freely with a servant, but we of the gentlefolk are held at arm's length?"

"Well, don't forget that he played at being one on Highday," Largo added. He shook his head. "I really have no idea, Belle. And I have no idea what I will do when we get to Bag End, and that servant is there. Every day." He was growing tense again. "I don't understand why that foolish servant doesn't understand propriety better. Frodo, perhaps I can understand, but a gardener is a working-class hobbit, and he really should have been trained properly from birth."

"Maybe Frodo's a bad influence on him," Belle suggested. "After all, it's Frodo insisting that they're brothers."

"Brothers," Largo groaned. "Brothers with a working-class hobbit." He buried his face in his hands and glanced up at his sister. "Someone needs to get away from somebody else," he muttered.

"Agreed, but how?" Belle asked.

Largo shook his head, his fingers creeping over his face to tug at his curls. "You can't do anything until he says that he loves you," he muttered into his hands. "Otherwise you'll just drive him away."

"Which means that we have to be polite to the servant," Belle groaned.

"And his lovely bride," Largo added.

The gardener's bride. The realisation hit Belle like a bucket of ice water. "Lovely," she sneered. "As if it wasn't going to be difficult enough as it is. I forgot about the other lass. I wonder how much she knows."

"We can't know until we get there," Largo returned. "Likely though, since she lives with 'Sam' he's told her everything."

Belle huffed at this. "And we know nothing."

Largo nodded reluctantly. "Long and the short of it, I'm afraid."

"It's not fair," Belle complained. "I hate love."

Some would have said that what Belle was feeling wasn't love at all, but merely selfish desire for what she couldn't have (unfortunate trait of the Bracegirdles). Largo, however, was not one of those foolish people. He simply shook his head at her apologetically.

"I'm sorry, sis," he muttered.

Belle gave him a tiny smile of gratitude and then sighed. "So what are we going to do?"

Largo shrugged. "I don't think that there's much we can do," he returned. "Just - stick with the same plan that we had all along, that's all. We just have to be polite to the gardener now too," he growled.

"That's hardly a plan," Belle moaned.

Largo shrugged. "Best that I can come up with."

With another sigh Belle decided to let the conversation go and turned to watch the trees going by outside, feeling more miserable and discouraged now than she had been before lunch. After a few minutes she found herself singing softly,

"Just beyond the far horizon
Lies a waiting world unknown
Like the dawn its beauty beckons
With a wonder all its own."

Largo groaned. "Belle, I know that you love him, but please, if you love me, don't sing that song!"