Chapter Ten: Change Partners

At breakfast the next morning tension charged the air like an approaching storm. Hyacinth, her face very pale save for two small spots of color on her cheeks, sat toying with her food and ignoring all solicitous inquiries from her admirers.

Frodo did not even make a pretence of eating, but only stared down at his plate.

Esmeralda started to chide him, then thought better of it.

Merry sat kicking the leg of his chair and very pointedly not looking at Frodo. After spilling his second cup of milk and pulling his cousin Berry’s hair, he was unceremoniously hauled out of the room by Saradoc, struggling and squalling.

Only Coronel seemed reasonably cheerful, or at least put up a good front despite his black eye. But his banter with the lasses seemed a bit distracted, and he ate quickly and left while the others were still at table.

"What’s wrong with everyone this morning?" grumbled Rory. "The weather must be changing!" Shrugging, he turned back to Hamilcar to resume their discussion of pipeweed prices in Bree when suddenly, struck by the significance of his own words, he broke off and hurried outside for a sniff of the air and a tour of the pipeweed fields.

Hyacinth rose to leave.

Hortensia looked at her with concern. "Are you feeling all right, dear?"

"Yes mother," she replied tersely.

As she passed Frodo’s chair something fluttered into his lap. He waited until she had gone out, then surreptitiously looked down and saw it was a note. Hyacinth, writing to him! He hurried back to his room, and unfolded it with trembling hands. As he did so a faint scent of lavender wafted up from the sheet. Her writing was just what he’d imagined, elegant and feminine, though her words were strictly no-nonsense.

Frodo,
I must speak with you. Meet me in the rose garden, by the sundial, in half an hour.
Hyacinth
p.s. – Wait outside the gate until you see Coronel leave.
H.

This brief message was enough to unnerve Frodo completely. Half an hour! Should he change his clothes? No, he didn’t want to risk being late. He glanced anxiously in the mirror; his hair looked as disheveled as usual. He ran his fingers through it, which only made it worse. With a frustrated groan, he gave it up and ran out the door.

The next twenty minutes seemed endless. The garden was in riotous bloom—not only roses but nasturtians, delphiniums, and sunflowers as well—but Frodo took no pleasure in them this morning. He paced just outside the gate, agonizing over what he imagined Hyacinth would say to him. What a boorish lout she must think him, unable to resolve his problems in any other way than with his fists…

However to convince her that he, too, had been tricked by Coronel…unaware that his cousin was brazenly passing the poems off as his own? How could he plead innocence when he had assumed a false identity and enlisted another to carry out what he had not the courage to do himself? He had to allow that the evidence was against him.

Just when he thought he could bear it no longer, he heard footsteps crunching on the gravel path and dove behind a bush. Here came Coronel, hands jammed in his pockets and a look of utter dejection on his face. If he were a dog he’d have his tail between his legs, thought Frodo with grim satisfaction. Then with a sudden sinking feeling he wondered what he himself would look like a short while hence. For a moment his courage deserted him and he considered fleeing. Then he took a deep breath, steeling himself for the worst, and opened the garden gate.

* * *

Sitting on a mossy stone bench by the sundial, Hyacinth was growing impatient. Had Frodo lost his nerve?

At the slight creak of a hinge, she looked up. Frodo was standing just inside the gate, looking for all the world like an awkward, skittish colt, ready to bolt at any moment. Hyacinth decided a matter-of-fact tone was called for.

"Ah, there you are, Frodo, won’t you sit down."

Obediently Frodo slid onto the nearest bench.

"No, you silly, over here by me!"

Blushing furiously, Frodo rose again and started toward her, only to veer off suddenly into some shrubbery.

"The little goose! Where is he off to now?"

Frodo reemerged from the flowerbeds and finally arrived at her side, offering a sprig of white flowers and a shy smile. The flowers were hyacinths.

"Oh Frodo—how sweet of you! They’re lovely."

For the first time Frodo met her eyes. She smiled at him and he felt as if his heart would burst.

"Here, be a dear and fasten it in my hair for me, won’t you? Just tuck it behind that ribbon."

Hardly daring to breathe, Frodo leaned in to carry out Hyacinth’s request, his face only inches from hers. It was the closest he’d ever been to her, closer than when they had danced, closer even than on that first day when he’d caught her by the arm. So close that the delicate scent of the flowers enveloped him as he carefully secured them just above her ear. So close that his hand brushed against her hair, and it was even softer than in his dream… His head began to swim with intoxicating, unfamiliar sensations.

"Well? How does it look?" she asked, cocking her head charmingly—at just the angle he had sketched—and bestowing another smile upon him.

It was the first thing she’d said so far that actually required an answer, and Frodo realized with a jolt of panic that he was going to have to find his voice and somehow manage to speak. "Beautiful," he whispered at last. "More beautiful than words could ever tell!"

Hyacinth looked a bit startled, as if unprepared for the raw intensity of his reply. "Frodo," she began, but now that his tongue was loosed, the torrent of words was not so quickly stopped.

"Hyacinth, about yesterday—I’m so sorry! You always seem to catch me fighting, please forgive—"

One gentle finger pressed to his lips was enough to strike him dumb again. "Hush, Frodo! Now that I’ve dragged the story out of Coronel I don’t blame you; in fact I’d say your actions were more than justified. I just…" she paused, choosing her words carefully. "I just wanted to stop it before you hurt him too badly." She was pleased to see the hoped-for response: a slight but unmistakable look of pride that crept over his face. He drew himself up a little straighter. "But Frodo"—she touched his hand, and he trembled at the touch—"What I wish to do now is thank you properly for your lovely poems. The one you gave to Horrie yesterday quite took my breath away."

On hearing this Frodo couldn’t help but feel a certain measure of vindication, but it quickly vanished at her next words.

"And yet, it troubled me as well. To write of death so, of a willingness to die for my sake… I don’t know how I could possibly have earned such devotion. In fact I feel quite unworthy!"

"Unworthy—never!" exclaimed Frodo, gazing at her with heart-wrenching faith.

"Ah, my dear," she said, smiling a little sadly. "Please don’t make of me something that I’m not. I’m afraid I shall disappoint you."

"You can do no wrong in my eyes, Princess, and never shall!" Frodo protested.

"What I shall do remains to be seen, but right now there is still the matter of thanking you."

"But you don’t—that is, just to sit by your side and hear your voice is all the thanks I need," stammered Frodo.

"I daresay, but I had something more…direct in mind."

After fastening the flowers, Frodo had retreated a safe distance along the bench.

She now eyed him seductively from under her long lashes. "Come Frodo, you needn’t look so frightened, I’m not going to bite! At least," she added with a wicked smile, "not yet."

Already nervous, Frodo now broke out in a cold sweat. What did she mean, not yet?

Hyacinth had sidled down the bench toward him as she spoke and was once again so close that the heady fragrance of the flowers made Frodo’s senses reel. "You have such nice hair," she murmured, running her fingers through his wayward curls. "And such lovely eyes," she continued, holding his gaze with her own. "And oh, those lips!" She lightly traced them with a fingertip.

Even as Frodo felt himself slipping over the edge of blissful oblivion, a last vestige of rational thought surfaced: Shouldn’t I be saying such things to her? He opened his mouth to try but before he could get a word out, soft lips had captured his in a tender yet determined kiss…

For a moment out of time Frodo sat transfixed by her touch, unable to move or even breathe. Then, slowly, he reached up, fingers tangling themselves in her silky hair, and pulled her closer. He was returning her kiss now—gently at first, but growing ever more insistent with the stirrings of desire. Hyacinth gave an eager little moan against his mouth.

As if in answer, a strident female voice rang out, accompanied by frenetic yipping, which made Frodo jump as suddenly as if Hyacinth had bitten him after all. "Hyacinth? Where are you, Coronel said you wanted to…Oh!"

Fluffy dashed up, then ran excitedly back and forth between her rapidly approaching mistress and the startled tweens. Too late, they pulled away from each other.

"Hyacinth Hornblower!" shrieked Hortensia. "WHAT in the Four Farthings is going on here, young lady? And who is that rascal with you…not Dodo?!"

"His name is Frodo, mother," said Hyacinth with as much dignity as she could muster, trying to smooth her disarrayed hair.

"Don’t change the subject, missy!" retorted Hortensia. "Frodo, Dodo, what does it matter…the real question is, just what do the two of you think you’re playing at?"

"We’re not playing! We were just having a serious—"

"Sneaking out without a chaperone again!" railed Hortensia, without heeding her daughter’s attempted reply. "And in this queer, uncivilized land, where any sort of unscrupulous rogues could be lurking about waiting to prey on weak, defenseless young lasses like you! Whatever will your father say? Surely you’ve not forgotten his threat to lock you in your room until you come of age, if you continue to show such flagrant disregard for your family’s good name and your own reputation?"

"And as for you!" she continued, turning her wrath now on Frodo. "I thought you showed a sense of propriety at the ball, but now I see you’re no better than the rest…" She broke off abruptly as she marked his somewhat glazed expression. "Oh, why am I wasting my breath—you haven’t heard a word I’ve said, have you!" she snapped. It was as well that she did not seem to expect Frodo to reply, as he could not have spoken at that moment if his life depended on it. "Come along, Hyacinth."

She whirled about and marched off, dragging her daughter behind her. "But just wait until the Master hears about this!" she called over her shoulder as a parting shot. Hyacinth turned and managed to give Frodo a wink and a sultry smile.

After they had gone Frodo sat there still, suffused with a delicious, tingling warmth and a sense of astonished rapture. He could not even find it within himself to be angry with Coronel, who had clearly intended for Hortensia to discover him alone with her daughter.

Slowly he arose from the bench and, half in a daze, began to wander through garden and orchard…for how long or how far he could not have said. He had no thought or care for his surroundings nor for what would happen next, knowing only that he must preserve this precious moment, must keep it jealously to himself, for as long as possible. But finally his reproachful stomach—he had eaten nothing since midday prior—demanded that he turn back.

* * *

Try as he might, Frodo could not afterwards recall in any detail what he had felt when kissing Hyacinth. All he knew was that, for a little while, he had been happy.

Next week:
Chapter Eleven: The Letter

Author’s note:

Re: "nasturtians," that’s how Tolkien spelled it, and he was quite insistent on it.