4. Letters

  Two letters came by post that morning and Estella had quietly slipped out to the back garden with hers.  She sat among her rosemary bushes by the fence and stared at her name, written in dark ink in bold elegant strokes on the expensive parchment.  She opened the envelope and smiled, quickly reading the short verse on the single page.

"In the garden my love is the fairest of flowers

The Sun shines in her eye and lays soft on her hair

Though I watch from afar in the morning’s first hour

My heart lies evermore in the rosemary there."

   She felt soft lips press a kiss against her neck and heard Merry’s deep voice whisper “Good morning, love…” in her ear.

  She turned and kissed his cheek with a grin.  “Should you really be lurking in my garden uninvited?  Somehow, I don’t think my father would approve.”

  “I’ve written to ask permission to call on you, but I simply could not wait for the answer…” he replied, catching up her hand and pressing each fingertip to his lips.

  “This week has dragged on for years…  I thought you might have forgotten me again,” she teased, tugging on a honey-brown curl.

  “But I never did,” he murmured, reaching into his shirt.  He unfolded a thin square of parchment, worn and lined, to reveal a small sprig of rosemary twined about a dark curl of her hair.  “Two years ago, we sat here together.  I knew I would soon be leaving and I couldn’t tell you, not even to ask you to wait for me.  But I did ask for a token.”

  “And I teased you about reading too many old tales.  I thought you were just being romantic and silly….”

  “Well, I kept it close to my heart, to Minas Tirith and back…  And that is where I will keep you,” he finished, pulling her close.

  Their tender kiss was interrupted by her father’s call from within the house.

  With a last brush of his lips on hers, Merry slipped back through the rosemary and was gone.  Heart racing, Estella walked slowly back into the kitchen, nervously smoothing her skirts.

  Her father was sitting at the table, second breakfast half finished, and he waved her to the seat across from him.  Everyone else had already left to tend to their own occupations, though she could hear her mother rummaging through the pantry next door.  She poured herself a cup of tea, trying in vain to steady her breathing.

  “Do you know about this?” he said, one finger tapping the letter by his plate.

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Is that all?  Just ‘Yes, Father’ and no more?”

  Estella looked up into her father’s face, hoping to read from it the question she needed to answer and the answer she needed to give.  Curiosity and irritation were mingled in his gaze, so she dared a few words into the waiting silence.

  “We spoke at the festival last week…”

  “Yes, he mentioned that here…  I remember he used to visit rather often before the Troubles started.”

  She nodded in agreement and smiled into her teacup.

  “Well, he seemed a bright enough lad until he ran off so suddenly.  I don’t know, Estella.  For all that he’s a Brandybuck, he’s more than half Took, and once they start wandering, they rarely stop for long.  Who knows how long till he goes haring off again on some adventure, him and that ridiculous young Peregrin Took.”

  “He didn’t run off, he was helping his cousin Frodo.”

  “Association with those Bagginses of Bag End does not recommend him to anyone interested in securing a future for you, my dear daughter, and if you think I’m impressed by all that fine dress and talk, you couldn’t be more wrong.  Let him settle down and turn his hand to something useful first.”  His voice softened in response to his daughter’s distress.  “It isn’t as if you lack for young hobbits calling for your hand, Estella.  You’re the only daughter of a wealthy and well-respected family, you can pick and choose from the best the Shire has to offer.”

  “Please Father,” she said quietly, “At least give him a chance to prove himself.” 

  She waited anxiously as he fussed with the food on his plate.

  “Oh, alright, have him to tea next week.  But hear me now,” he warned, “I’ll not pronounce myself officially on this until I see some real sign he’d make a decent husband for you.  Besides,” he muttered into his teacup, “I’ll need time to word a proper refusal for the unlucky soul who fails in this endeavor.”