CHAPTER 42

The bench where Pimpernel chose to sit was in the shadows, away from the light of the room. It was nice, because it backed right up on a low wall, and she could lean back and relax and get a breath of cool air.

She had a feeling that this time was going to be a bit more difficult than Flora or Alyssum. Maybe that was a sign that she would have a lad. If she did, that would be nice. Sometimes Poppy could tell, but she was not always forthcoming with the information.

Just then she spotted a couple coming out. Oh, dear. Who was it? Maybe Merry and Estella? They were so cute together. She turned her head. Frodo and Angelica? Not good. If she got up and moved, she risked embarrassing them; if she stayed put, she risked eavesdropping.

But she was comfortable right now. Maybe they would not say anything that would embarrass *her*.

With Angelica on his arm, Frodo strolled over to one of the benches and they sat down, side by side, and not too close. He waited in patient silence. He knew if he didn’t say anything, she would have to.

“Frodo, I--” she stopped. What was she going to say? She had not really thought far enough ahead. Why had she thought she could do this to him? “Frodo, you--” she stopped again, glad that he could not see her flush in the darkness.

“You don’t really want to do this, do you, Cousin Angelica?” he asked gently. He was not sure what was motivating her, but it was clearly not infatuation.

She looked up at him in surprise. Had she been so obvious? “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I should never have tried to do this.”

“Why did you?”

“Papa. He’s worried.”

Frodo looked over at her, startled. What was Ponto about, putting his daughter up to this? “What on Middle-earth is he worried about?” This was unkind of the old hobbit, to say the least.

“He says I’ll be the last of the Bagginses,” she answered mournfully.

Ah, thought Frodo, so that was it. This was a grief he had come to terms with long ago, in Rivendell when he offered to take the Ring. Of course, then he had thought he’d not be coming back at all. He picked at the emotional scar a bit; it still stung, but he would have to deal with it.

“He’s right,” Frodo answered gently. “My travels did not use me well, and my health is not what it used to be. There will be no wife or children for me, Angelica. There will be no more Bagginses.”

She looked at him, appalled. “Ever? Oh, Frodo, I’m so sorry.” She felt the tears sting her eyes. He looked so fair and beautiful and utterly alone, yet even with that, she did not feel for him what she should have, to attempt what she did. He was remote and alien, almost like his friend the Elf. Suddenly she realized that she did love him, but it was a reverent love, a far away worshipful love for something high and far beyond her, like loving a star. It would never be the kind of love to build a life on, but it was something she could hold in her heart, to know someone like him, with so great a soul.

He looked at her with compassion. “I will have a word with Ponto. He must not continue to hope that I can carry on the family name.” He smiled at her. “You are a very attractive lass, you know. I think Freddy noticed,” he added slyly.

She looked at him in surprise. “Do you think so?”

“I would be surprised if you could not get him to dance with you more than once before the evening is over.”

“Thank you, Frodo.” She gave him a brief and cousinly hug, and made her way back to the ballroom with a lighter heart than she’d had all evening.

Pimpernel felt the tears run silently down her face. She had once seen the scars her brother bore from his travels. He had told her that Frodo had endured infinitely worse. Now she began to understand.

Frodo sat slumped and weary. “It’s all right, Pimmie. You can move now.”

She gasped. He had known she was there all along.

“My hearing and night vision are better than average, cousin. But you were here first.”

She moved over to sit by him, tentatively. What could she say to a grief like that. No chance ever at a family of his own? It was unspeakably sad. She looked at him through tear-filled eyes. Suddenly they both wept into one another’s arms. She rocked him as though he were a child. Why had she never before appreciated what kind of person he was? Merry and Pippin had always known his quality. To her he had always just been odd old Cousin Frodo, nice enough, but not very interesting; she had never known how much more there was to him.

The storm passed. Frodo sat up and wiped at his face. “I apologize, Pimmie. I should not have put you through that.”

“I am glad to be here for you.” She had an idea. “Frodo--this little one, if it is a lass, I should like to name her Primula, and if it is a lad, perhaps Drogo?”

A smile broke through his pale countenance. He studied her intently for a moment, and then laughed. “That is a lovely thought, dear, I think I should like that. And I do believe you will need *both* those names!”

She looked at him, startled. My goodness, how could he know? But he seemed quite certain.

He stood up and offered her his arm. “Shall we return to the ballroom now? I do not believe I have danced with you, yet.”

She smiled and stood. “Thank you, cousin. I would be honored.”

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