A Night to Forget

Frodo and Posy are both 25, Merry is 12 (about 16 and 7 ½ in Man years)
12 Thrimidge, 1394 SR
 

Posy Goold.

Prim and proper, or so she will have everyone believe, standing there as she is, seemingly so nervous and shy, next to Esmeralda. Her dress is conservative, plain and yellow, with white lace around the hem and collar lines. Her brown curls are combed smooth and fall down her back and over her shoulders, a yellow ribbon to match her dress holding back two thin strands of curls. She smiles sweetly and blushes when Frodo dares a speculative glance at her.

Esmeralda is talking quickly. She’s explaining that Posy’s older brother was supposed to have escorted her to the party tonight, but his hay fever had flared up and the poor lad is now laid up in bed. He didn’t want Posy to miss Merry’s birthday party on his account but the poor lass still needs an adequate chaperone.

Esmeralda pats Frodo’s hand and cups his face briefly. “You remember Posy, don’t you? You wouldn’t mind playing escort for tonight, would you Frodo-dear?” Esmeralda asks and doesn’t give Frodo time to answer or even react before continuing. “You’re the only one I trust with her. You’re such a good lad. I’ve let Bilbo know.” She leaves before Frodo can open his mouth to object or accept.

Frodo eyes Posy again. She has grown since the last time he really paid her any heed but he cannot recall ever having spoken to her before. He is not certain at all what to do with the lass or what she is expecting.

This is obviously a set up. There are plenty of lads about, many of them much more trustworthy than Frodo, as far as most of the revelers in the pavilion are concerned anyhow. In a way, this is all Bilbo’s fault, for molding Frodo into such a responsible tween. Frodo will have to speak with Bilbo about that later, when time permits.

Posy smiles bashfully and rocks nervously on the balls of her feet, her hands playing absently with the folds of her dress. She waits for Frodo to make the first move, but Frodo still doesn’t know what to do, though he feels close to panicking for finding himself in this unexpected situation. He looks around the pavilion, trying to find Bilbo or Merry, Merimac or Saradoc, Hilda, Uncle Dino. Anyone.

Unable to spot any kind of help or mercy, he glances back at Posy, who’s still watching him expectantly. “Would you like something to drink?” he ventures at last, picking the safest topic of conversation he can think of.

“Oh yes please,” Posy answers, her voice soft and warm as a summer breeze.

Frodo gratefully takes his escape and lingers at the punch table as long as decorum will allow. He gathers his nerves, tells himself this will be no different than spending a night with his friends Angelica Baggins or Delia Bunce. He brings the drinks back to where Posy is waiting and hands her a cup. They sip their punch, an awkward silence stretching taunt between them. On a raised platform, the band is warming up and Frodo knows Posy will be expecting to dance. His hands begin to sweat, but Posy rescues him again.

“It’s such a lovely night,” she says and loops her arm through Frodo’s as she sets her cup upon a nearby table. She then takes Frodo’s cup and sets it next to hers. “Let’s go for a stroll.”

They leave the pavilion behind. As they reach the edge of the summit of Buck Hill, the band strikes a fast-paced song and the revelers applaud with cheer. The night is warm, the wind brisk, carrying upon it the fragrance of wisteria and hyacinth. The stars shine brightly in the absence of the moon, and except for a few scattered groups of hobbits, they are completely alone.

They wander aimlessly at first, paying little attention to where they are going, and speaking little. Eventually, they make their way down the summit and past the warren of Brandy Hall. Beyond the South Door, on the far side of the Hall, they come to the vast and elegant gardens, and Posy gently guides them into the blossom-filled labyrinth.

There are no other gardens in Buckland or the Shire-proper that can rival those of Brandy Hall. Hedges of honeysuckle and morning glory grow in wide and winding walls of brush, creating a maze of sorts from one end of the garden to the other, with numerous subsections of smaller gardens. Shrubs of lavender, camellias and azaleas are now in full bloom, adding their sweet fragrances to the heady night air. Large beds of pansies, calendulas, fuchsias, geraniums, chrysanthemums, bearded iris and goldenrod create a rainbow of color throughout the maze. Under the starlight, the various flowers add their muted hues to the darkened landscape, a hinted promise of their daylight glory. Plentiful trees of flowering cherry and purple-leafed mimosa add their colors to the spectacle, and vines of ivy scale the rock walls that enclose the gardens’ outer edges to add the finishing touch.

They stroll through the gardens leisurely. Posy seems content to simply enjoy the flowers and the silence between them, and Frodo allows himself to relax somewhat. Many years have passed since the last time Frodo walked through the gardens simply to enjoy them. He glances about raptly now, taking everything in with new eyes. He knows a lot more about gardening now than he did before and he can appreciate all the hard work a garden of this size requires. Someday, somehow, he is going to get Sam here. He can see the Gaffer’s youngest son in these gardens, stunned and delighted and thrilled beyond words. He smiles at the image of Sam’s imagined reaction and hums low with contentment.

Posy notices Frodo’s ease and is emboldened. A shy smile graces her lips and she breathes a deep, steadying breath. “I love it here,” Posy says now, her voice soft and gentle, breaking into Frodo’s thoughts. She lets go of Frodo’s arm and wanders to a cherry tree. She reaches up and rests her hand against one of its pink, fragrant flowers. “It’s quiet here, like you. So quiet. … I like you, Frodo.”

She turns then and looks at him, but in the shade of the tree, he cannot see her face. She sounds sincere, but he can’t help but wonder if she is joking with him in some way. It wouldn’t be the first time a lass has pretended interest in him just for the chance to see the insides of Bag End. Then again, they are a long way from Bag End and Frodo can’t imagine that the smial under The Hill will hold any interest to Posy, accustomed as she is to Brandy Hall.

Posy shifts her weight to one foot and fingers her dress nervously again, and Frodo realizes he has been quiet too long. “I like you too, Posy,” he says, for lack of anything better to say. He realizes immediately that is not the wisest thing for him to say, as Posy leaves the shade of the trees and approaches him, her shy smile turned sly.

“You do?” she asks. She stops mere inches away from him and studies him intently. “You’re not like the other lads, Frodo. You’re more grown up somehow. You’re more serious than they are for starters; you don’t play about or play games, not anymore. You listen and you understand. And those eyes… you must see things the rest of us don’t with eyes like those, so bright and clear.”

“I see the same as everyone else,” Frodo says with a shrug, dropping his gaze self-consciously. Her words hit closer to the mark than she can possibly suspect. Frodo doubts that if she knew some of the things he sees in his dreams, or even during his waking hours, that she will still find him so fascinating. Strange and odd more like it, frightening even, and why not? He sometimes scares himself with the things he sees.

Posy shakes her head and takes a step closer. “You see everything. You saw little Ana tonight, trying to get another drink of punch. No one else was paying her any mind, but you saw and you helped her.”

“Someone else would have seen eventually,” Frodo says, taking a small step back, his eyes still lowered.

“But you saw first, like always,” Posy says. Then she laughs lightly and takes a step back. She motions to another part of the garden and starts strolling forward again. “It’s absolutely lovely tonight.”

“Yes, it is,” Frodo agrees, relieved to be released from the lass’s scrutiny.

They pass many sections of garden and find that they are not the only party revelers to have left the pavilion for the tranquil solitude of the gardens. A handful of other couples are sprinkled about, tucked away in dark corners, whispering intimately to each other and kissing to their hearts’ content. It crosses Frodo’s mind that it will do neither of them any favors to be caught here by patrolling adults, but when he opens his mouth to say so, Posy steps close to him again and slips her arm once more through his.

Frodo looks closely at her again. She really is quite a lovely lass, and he would be lying if he said he had not watched her throughout the night, since he first saw her come into the pavilion by herself. He cannot deny that some small part of him was pleasantly shocked to see Esmeralda leading her in his direction, even if the thought of actually having to speak with the lass scared him near to death. So far though, it has been pleasant, and Frodo finds himself wishing they did not have to return to the party just yet. He wants to talk to her more, find out more about her. He does remember her from his days living in Brandy Hall, but she had been a bit of a snob back then and never seemed to notice him. She has clearly grown out of that stage and she now, for some odd reason, has taken a liking to him.

They find a section of garden that is unoccupied and Frodo leads them to a bench. They sit down upon it and Posy loosens her hold on Frodo’s arm, only to slide her hand into his. She holds their clasped hands between them on the bench. Frodo’s gaze shoots down to their joined hands and an excited warmth spreads through him. He is holding a lass’s hand, a lass who genuinely seems to like him. He risks a glance up at Posy’s pretty face and finds her smiling softly at him. He smiles back and relaxes.

“You’re not like very many lasses yourself, you know,” Frodo says. “Your brother isn’t really sick, is he?”

“No, he just decided to go with some of the other lads to that old bell tower and have some ale,” Posy says. “Are you disappointed that I tricked Esmeralda?”

“A little,” Frodo admits. “I’m a little flattered also.”

Posy smiles at this and shifts position ever so slightly, so she is facing Frodo more directly. “I’m pleased that you’re flattered,” she says and leans in slightly. Frodo takes the cue and leans in also, meeting her halfway, and their first kiss is shy and tender. It lasts but a second before they pull away, shy still, blushing brightly for all the darkness that surrounds them. Several more such kisses follow, until Frodo can no longer keep count. Then the kisses deepen and they scoot closer together on the bench to make themselves more comfortable as they linger over a kiss, until they must pull away to catch their breath.

They laugh shyly and giddily. Frodo distracts himself by glancing around at the garden, enjoying the way Posy presses his hand gently in hers. He presses back and she does not pull away. Instead, she pecks him on the cheek and he turns to kiss her once more. She winds her left hand into his hair, and soon Frodo’s free hand mimics hers and finds its way into her silky curls.

Many long moments pass before they part for breath, their shyness still not completely forgotten. They remain silent and still for many minutes, and as Frodo’s mind begins to clear, he realizes how horribly indecent they are being. He does not wish to sully the lass’s reputation, nor start rumors about his own reputation again either. Besides, this is no way to let a lass know of one’s intentions to court her, if that is indeed what he even wishes to do. He has never given much thought about Posy before tonight and he hardly knows the lass. She is certainly interesting to say the least. Maybe a little too interesting. He needs to think about this before he carries it any further, but he won’t have any opportunity to think if he stays here much longer. He casts about for an excuse to leave that will not hurt Posy’s feelings.

“We should go back to the party,” he says. “Merry will be looking for me.”

Posy hums, coming out of her own thoughts, and then laughs. She tilts her head back to look at him skeptically. “Am I scaring you away?” she asks, smirking kindly.

“You’re not,” Frodo says honestly. He is enjoying himself quite a lot actually, but he knows what Bilbo will say if he sees him acting like this. For the second time in less than an hour, he curses Bilbo for turning him into such a responsible tween. He sighs and continues, “But I must insist we go back now. Merry won’t be the only one looking for me. Bilbo will be as well, and Esmeralda. She trusted me to take care of you.”

“Then take care of me,” Posy says slyly and leans in to kiss him again.

As she leans in, Frodo pulls back, determined to keep himself thinking clearly. Their combined momentums cause them to tumble off the bench to the soft grassy floor in a tangled clump. They laugh, unable to do anything else to cure the situation, and Posy lifts herself on her hands and leans over Frodo. “Are you all right?” she asks through her snickers.

“I am,” Frodo says. “And you?”

“Quite well,” she answers. “I had a cushion.”

“Lucky you,” Frodo says and they laugh again.

Posy sits back and offers Frodo her hands. They attempt to stand, but Frodo’s foot catches on the hem of her dress and they trip, falling forward this time, Frodo landing on top of Posy, their legs tangled and his hands in her hair. Posy giggles but Frodo finds this new position uncomfortable and awkward at worst, gloriously enticing at best. Posy has no holdbacks about the way they landed and she pulls Frodo down for another kiss, but Frodo resists as best he can.

“I really do think we should get back to the party now,” Frodo insists one last time, his resolve quickly fading as Posy plays with the curls at his neck, tickling him in the most tantalizing way.

“Oh Frodo, don’t be so worrisome,” she laughs. “Now kiss me, just one more time, or I’ll keep you here all night.”

Frodo attempts one last time to get up but Posy holds on tight, not about to let the dashing Baggins get away from her so easily. “Posy, please,” Frodo says, desperate, though for what he isn’t sure. They kiss again and he attempts one last time to protest for chivalry’s sake, an unfortunate decision on his part, for the muffled protest sounds more like a moan, and it is just at this scandalous moment that they are found.

“Frodo Baggins!” a stunned shout cuts through the air.

Frodo jerks his head up and looks into the glowering face of Saradoc Brandybuck. Behind him are none other than Bilbo and Rorimac, equally stunned by what they have just seen and heard. “Sara! Bilbo! Uncle!” Frodo exclaims, unable to move or think from the horror of being found in such a compromising position. Then he feels Posy struggling to get up. He jumps up as fast as he can and helps Posy to her feet, then stands as far away from the lass as he can get. “What are you doing here?” he attempts to ask innocently.

“What are we doing here?” Rorimac asks, scandalized. “The question, boy, is what are you doing here? And you Posy. Shameless, the both of you.”

“But Uncle, please, it isn’t what you think,” Frodo starts, but Rorimac cuts him off.

“No Frodo, it very well is what I think, and everything that I feared. Just get inside,” the Master orders. “Posy, Saradoc will escort you back to your parents.”

“My parents!” Posy says in dismay, then clamps her mouth shut at the stringent look the Master gives her. 

“Please, is that really necessary?” Frodo asks. “We fell, that’s all. It was completely innocent.”

“I thought you were past the point of telling lies, Frodo,” Rorimac says, and the disappointment in his voice is obvious for all to hear. “For all that you’ve improved your looks and speech, you’re still the same braggart that ran wild through the Halls.”

“Now that is quite enough,” Bilbo cuts in now, anger creeping into his own voice. “Frodo is not a braggart, not then and certainly not now. Let the lad speak before you rip apart his character, and I’m sure you’ll find there will be no need to do so. If he says it was innocent, then it was innocent.”

“That is yet to be seen, and if this is the best your influence has been able to accomplish then I must say that I am greatly disappointed in you as well, my friend,” Rorimac says before turning back to Frodo. “Go to your room, Frodo, and stay there. Bilbo, you and I need to talk.”

The last Frodo sees of Posy, Saradoc is sternly leading her back to the North Door of Brandy Hall. Saradoc will be as discreet as possible, but there will be no hiding the fact that he is escorting Posy away from the gardens, nor the fact that she left the party with Frodo. It will not take long for everyone to piece together this puzzle, and oh, how the rumors will be flying come morning. Worst of all, Bilbo is now in trouble because of his actions. Frodo hangs his head and walks back to the Hall, his hands stuffed deeply into his pockets, feeling more miserable than he has in years.  

After much discussion and debate, it is decided that Bilbo will speak with Frodo first. He enters the lad’s room and finds Frodo sitting dismally on his bed. “It really wasn’t what it looked like,” Frodo mutters miserably.

Bilbo laughs, surprising the tween. “Don’t look so surprised. I meant what I said earlier, lad. I do believe that it was innocent enough as you say, but let’s allow old Rory his moment of scandal, shall we? He gets too little excitement in his life anymore since you moved out,” Bilbo says, his voice kind and jovial, though it doesn’t help to make Frodo feel any less miserable or embarrassed. He sits next to Frodo and pats the lad’s shoulder. “You’ve a lot to learn about lasses, Frodo, and let this be your first lesson. And what did you learn?”

Frodo looks at Bilbo quizzically, stumped by the question. What did he learn? “Never go strolling through a starlit garden at a party with a lass,” he says before he can think.

Bilbo chuckles softly, not insulted or taken aback by the quip in the slightest. “That will do you well, lad,” he says. “That will do you well. Now, what exactly did happen?”

So Frodo is obliged to tell him what had transpired, leaving out as much as he can under Bilbo’s scrutiny, which isn’t much. He winds up telling Bilbo nearly everything.

“Ah, to be young again,” Bilbo says when Frodo finishes and winks conspiratorially before growing serious. “But it was very close to becoming exactly what it looked like. Posy is a pretty lass, but she’s a bit too forthcoming for you, my lad. Rory let it slip that this isn’t the first time she’s been caught in those gardens. The lass is quickly gaining a reputation, and she’ll only get you into trouble.”

“And just how much trouble am I in?” Frodo asks, feeling, if possible, even more miserable than before. So this is a habit with Posy and Frodo hadn’t really meant anything to her at all. He should have guessed.

“You’re restricted to your room for the rest of our stay,” Bilbo says gently, reading his cousin’s mood and knowing it is best not to comment on it. They will talk later, once they are home and can speak privately, and once Frodo has had a chance to brood.

And brooding he is, for it takes a while for Frodo to realize what Bilbo had said about his punishment. “But we’re leaving in the morning,” Frodo says at last.

“Exactly,” Bilbo replies cheerily. “Just don’t let something like this happen again, Frodo, or I will have to punish you properly, and you know how I hate to do that.”

“I won’t Bilbo, but…” Frodo starts, then hesitates.

“Yes, my lad?”

“Why did Esmeralda want me to escort her then?” Frodo asks.

“No doubt she thought you’d be able to resist the lass’s charms,” Bilbo says. “Not a worry. It won’t happen again. We’ll find you a less brazen, more grounded, lass for you to set your sights upon, and then Esmeralda will have to settle for playing matchmaker elsewhere.”

Frodo only nods gloomily at this. Bilbo pats his knee supportively, then gets up to leave Frodo alone. As he exits the room, however, Merry slips inside, quick and unnoticed. He waits for the door to click closed, then jumps onto the bed and stares at Frodo expectantly. Why the youngster isn’t at his party and how he knew to find Frodo here, Frodo cannot begin to guess, but maybe the lad can help cheer him up a bit.

“Frodo, do you know why Father and Grandfather are arguing about you?” he asks at last. “Grandfather said you’re just like Posy, acting like a tramp and all that. What does that mean? Is that like being a scamp, because Father said you aren’t like that at all, but he’s always calling you a scamp.”

Frodo groans and flings himself down on his bed, hiding his face in the pillow.

“Frodo?” Merry taps on his cousin’s shoulder. “Can I call you a tramp too?”

Frodo doesn’t answer and he’s grateful for the soft candlelight that hides most of his blush. Maybe if he tries hard enough, he’ll be able to forget all about tonight.
 
 
 

The End.
 

GF 5/27/05