2. Kissing Cousins

The dinner party went off better than it had any right to, considering the host’s lack of enthusiasm. That was Sam’s doing, of course: Sam’s expert management, with his sister and a couple of her friends helping in the kitchen and Nibs Cotton keeping the fires fed. Sam’s glorious flowers filling the dining room with color and fragrance, Sam’s prized chrysanthemums overflowing the garden. It was Sam’s party, though he did his best, decked out in his good coat, to play the proper servitor, hovering in the background save when he and the giggling lasses carried in one savory dish after another.

Frodo had planned a simple meal, three courses only, but “Not less than five courses, Mr. Frodo! Mr. Bilbo’s memory would be shamed, us being mingy with the food, like. And then the brandy, o’course.” Frodo had smiled ruefully and given in. He was standing firm on not bringing Sam along on his autumn excursion; he could afford to yield on the party menu.

And it turned into a wonderful evening, jolly with good friends and good food, ending with a fine singing-contest in the garden, the masses of chrysanthemums still glowing dimly in the light of party lanterns scattered along the paths and dangling from the branches of the plum trees bordering the south side of the hill.

Pippin Took was the youngest hobbit present, but he carried off the prize for singing. He had a lilting, angelic voice, but his song was naughty in the extreme, and Frodo stared at his little cousin in consternation while the other guests howled with mirth.

“Where did you learn that – revolting – song, Peregrin Took?” he demanded when he could be heard. Sternly he repressed his own laughter; he was the elder here, he thought, he was responsible for this little cousin. “Merry? Did you -?”

“I?” Merry was all righteous indignation. “I’m away off in Buckland, Frodo, running my fuzzy feet off for the Master of the Hall! You’d best look a little closer for Pip’s music teacher – Great Smials has enough jolly young blades to tutor him. In any event, it’s no worse than I’ve heard any number of times at The Dragon. Maybe your gardener taught it to him.”

“He did not.” Pippin all but gurgled with mischief. “If you must know, my cousin Glori taught me, down in the riverhouse this summer – and she taught me to kiss, too!”

“Pippin!” Frodo wasn’t pretending now; he was genuinely shocked. “Your cousin!”

“Third cousin,” Merry said drily. “Gloriosa Hornblower, and she’s a baggage, sure enough. Come on down from the rafters, Frodo, it isn’t incest. They’re “kissing cousins”. Quite literally, it would seem.”

“And you’re not a hermit yourself, are you?” Fatty Bolger was reclining comfortably on an overstuffed garden chaise, his hands folded contentedly across his stomach. “I hear a few things now and then, you know. That nice little redhead, now – what’s her name again? Pansy?”

“Oh really! Not Pansy, I don’t think – let me see, I know I’ve heard the name, now you mention it –“

“Never mind, Folco!” Frodo said hastily. “If you know her name, have the kindness to forget it, will you? She’s a nice little lass, and it would be an ill turn to bandy her name about.”

“Oh-ho, Cousin Frodo! Better not be scolding me, had you? Glori taught me kissing and that’s as far as it went – what have you been up to, eh, to make you so edgy about the lass’s name?”

Pippin flung himself at Frodo, knocking him off-balance so he nearly went sprawling. With difficulty he kept on his feet and tried to catch Pip’s flailing hands. “No tickling! Peregrine Took, behave yourself, you son of a sea-cook!”

“Son of – what?” Merry caught Frodo from behind, holding him. “Go on, Pip, give it to him good! He picked up that expression from Bilbo, where else? and I’m quite sure it isn’t decent. So much for our arbiter of proper behavior here – you’re exposed now, Master Baggins, for a wicked hypocrite!” Frodo turned suddenly in Merry’s grip, an elbow in his cousin’s middle, and Merry gave a surprised “Ooof!” and let go.

“Come on, Folco, Fatty, give us a hand here! He’s slippery as an eel, next thing you know he’ll vanish in thin air like his illustrious uncle – “

Frodo was nearly helpless with laughter; he hadn’t even thought of using the Ring to escape. Should he -? No, that wouldn’t be fair, it would spoil the fun - He stretched out both arms and grabbed the nearest two hobbits to his chest, then threw himself backwards into the grass, dragging them down. They thrashed back and forth, a struggling knot of tousled heads and hairy feet, and someone else landed on top of them with a shout – there was a sharp, astringent odor in Frodo’s nostrils –

“Mr. Frodo!” Light shone suddenly from above, and Sam’s voice was sharp with concern, or was it outrage? “Mr. Frodo? What’s going on here? You’re in the flowerbeds, Mr. Frodo; you’re squashing them flat, all them mums, begging your pardon, sir –“

The hobbits on the ground disentangled themselves and got up – it was Pippin and Folco he had taken down, Frodo noticed; Merry was off to one side, pouring himself another brandy. Fatty was sitting up in his chaise, sniffing appreciatively at his own refilled glass.

“Sorry, Samwise. Just a bit of tomfoolery that got out of hand. Did we do very much damage?”

Sam had set his lantern down on the ground and was bent over his trampled flowerbed, propping up the flattened chrysanthemums, snapping off broken stems. “Didn’t do them no good, sir, but they’ll be all right. Next year, anyhow; won’t look like much the rest of the season, this bed won’t. Just so long as you’re all right, Mr. Frodo. Gave me a turn, all that commotion out here in the dark.”

And it was dark, Frodo realized for the first time. Most of the lanterns had burned out, and there was only a sliver of moon. It must be well past midnight.

“Getting late,” Fatty confirmed his thought. “You throw a good party, Frodo – good food, good brandy, exciting entertainment – think it’s time you let your company go to bed now, what? I’m ready for a bit of shut-eye, speaking for myself.”