Written for Marigold's Challenges #17

Edited by Marigold

How Does Your Garden Grow?

“There now, Bell m’dearest. Don’t ya go startin’ up ag’in on yer weepin’.” Birdsong Goodchild hugged her daughter tightly. “Solves naught, cures naught. Only gives us both red faces ‘n puffy eyes. This be what must be, lass.” She felt Bell’s head nod against her shoulder. “Yer Da be ailin’ too much. We’ve Gammer and Gaffer Deepburrows with us. Yer brother . . .” there was a pause and a hitching in the older hobbitess’ breathing, “yer brother be gone from this life. There just isn’t the means . . .”

They were sending her away.

It wasn’t an unheard of thing, not even an uncommon thing but Bell had never imagined it would happen to her. She had always thought she would marry a lad from a neighboring farm, be near enough to her kin and watch them play with her children. Now, three days after saying farewell to her mother, she stood on the green in Hobbiton alone in the crowd and frightened. Bell had never seen so many hobbits all in one place as she was seeing this noontime in Hobbiton. Her own hamlet was hardly a hamlet. A Post office, an apothecary, and the Morning Mist Inn. Even the larger village nearby was not as big as Hobbiton. She stood, clutching her small bag tightly with both hands; it was all she had in the wide world.

Hamfast Gamgee walked down the road toward Hobbiton with a peppy step and his cap set at a jaunty angle. He finally was no longer an apprentice. Cousin Holman Greenhand had come down with the gout so badly that he could no longer do the work. His wife had been doing the house keeping for Mr. Baggins, but now she had to be home with Hol. All that meant he, Hamfast Gamgee, was the gardener to Mr. Bilbo Baggins. And a good solid position in life it was! Old cousin Holman had his own hole in Overhill and while apprenticing Ham had lived there with Hol and Gardenia. But now, well now he had his very own cozy hole right near to Bag End, provided by Mr. Baggins himself as part of Ham’s salary. Ham smiled at that thought, he had a salary! Yes, at thirty-four years of age, Hamfast Gamgee was doing right well. Now all he had to do was find the new housekeeper that Mr. Baggins had hired.

She wasn’t hard to find after all.

There she was, standing in the middle of the noontime bustle, trembling, clutching a small travel bag as though it were trying to jump out of her arms like a faunt. She turned her head about like a terrified rabbit trying to catch the scent of a predator, slowly, carefully, hardly daring to breathe. Ham shook his head, then took off his cap and scratched his head. However could he approach her without scaring the life right out of her? Best, he decided, not to come up on her from behind nor beside or she would swoon straight away from the startling it would cause. He kept straight in front of her and slowly moved closer. Closer. Closer. Four feet away, maybe five.

“Miss?”

Ham received no response. Her gaze had moved past him, perhaps through him was the better description, several times but without any show of noticing he was coming toward her.

“Miss Goodchild?”

“Goodchild?” Despite his best efforts she jumped badly and dropped her bag into the dust of the road. “Goodchild?” she repeated.

“Ya be Miss Goodchild, don’t ya? The one as has come ta do for Mr. Baggins of Bag End?”

“Ah . . . ah . . . Baggins, eh, Mr. Baggins. Ah . . . yes.”

Ham wished she would quit trembling so badly, it was troubling to him - like watching an animal that was caught in a trap. Ham didn’t like trapping.

“Yes,” he said as softly as he could. “Yes, ‘tis good then. I’m Hamfast Gamgee. I’m Mr. Baggins’ gardener.” That sounded so wonderful when said out loud. “He sent me along to fetch ya up ta the Hill.”

“Ah . . . yes, yes of course. The Hill,” the lass said as though not hearing what she was saying. She was looking about her in an increasingly frantic manner. “My bag,” she finally muttered to herself more than to Ham. “Where’s my . . .”

He had stooped to snatch it from the dust and now held it out to her. He noticed it was rather light in weight. For the first time since he had spotted her from the edge of the green she was no longer trembling. She looked at him as though finally seeing the person she had been speaking with for the last few moments. Her face was pale but with a simple, plain prettiness to it. She had a kerchief on and a few stray wisps of brown hair waved about her face on the breeze.

“Oh!” She blushed and dropped her gaze. “Oh . . . my. I’m ‘fraid I didn’t . . .” She made a small curtsy. “I’m Bell Goodchild, and I’m ‘fraid I didn’t hear yer name, if ya said it.”

Ham grinned broadly as he tipped his head in reply to her curtsy. “No trouble ta be sayin’ it again. I be Hamfast Gamgee, gardener at Bag End. It’s only a short bit o’ a walk, yonder,” he said, handing her the small bag. “Do ya feel up ta walkin’, Miss Goodchild?”

She smiled. Mind you, it was a smile that was only a hint at what her full smile might be, but it was a smile. “Bell. Ya can be callin’ me Bell.” She chuckled ever so lightly. “Callin’ by my family name makes it sound like yer talkin’ ta my Mum.”

Ham offered her his arm and to his great surprise she took it. “Then ya must be callin’ me Ham.”

She nodded. “Ham,” she said softly as they walked away from the Hobbiton town green.

Ham hadn’t pushed her to talk much on their walk that day. Something told him she would do better with time to gather her thoughts. She had seemed calmer when she was finally introduced to Mr. Baggins.

“I’ve prepared our luncheon, Miss Goodchild,” the old hobbit had said. “I thought perhaps you could prepare our dinner and I will do afternoon tea. That will give you some time to get settled and look over the kitchen.”

And prepare dinner she did, and supper as well. Wonderful meals. Good farm fare and plenty of it. Ham made sure to let her know he’d never had better before bidding her and Mr. Baggins a good night.

That was three weeks ago now. Ham was very surprised when he got to Bag End’s garden one morning to find the lass with her face buried in her apron, obviously in tears.

“Bell? Bell, what be troublin’ ya?” He sat down beside her on the bench.

“This ‘tisn’t proper, Ham.”

“What? Me sittin’ here up next ta ya on this bench?”

“No,” she replied, looking over at him while lowering her voice. “No. My livin’ here.” Bell gestured to the smial behind them. “I aughtn’t be livin’ in there.”

Ham was rather confused. “Livin’ in where? In the smial?”

She nodded as she began crying once again.

“Where else are ya ta be livin’? There don’t be no other place for ya.”

“But,” Bell choked out, “there isn’t any Mrs. Baggins. ‘Tisn’t proper for me ta be in his smial . . . in the night. Me a lass and he a gentlehobbit and there bein’ no one else about. Even though his room be at one end and mine at ta other.”

Ham thought for a few minutes. The lass did have a point to her thinking. Folk often made up all sorts of talk, especially about Old Mad Baggins. He didn’t know of anyone taking in boarders just now. “Ya could put up at the Green Dragon, though it’s a fair walk to get here and then back each day.”

She shook her head while looking down at her lap. “I’ve no money for it. I don’t keep much more than a few pennies for my own. I have ta send it home. I’m . . . I’m all ma . . . folks have.” Bell had started to weep again.

Ham gathered her into a hug and to his surprise, she snuggled up tight to him instead of pulling away. He held her as she wept. He had left home, younger than she had, for similar reasons. But he had gone to apprentice with a family member. He had gone knowing the people he would be living with. Suddenly it didn’t seem so strange that she had looked so much like a little scared bunny that noontime in Hobbiton.

They sat a while. She made no move to pull away from him. He held fast to her. Bell was thinking of a frightening future. She couldn’t go home, but how could she stay? Ham was thinking of his new position in life. He was thinking of his cozy, but lonely, hole at #3 Bagshot Row. He was thinking about Cousin Hol and Gardenia.

“Would ya give thought to marryin’?”

Bell’s head came up off his chest. Her pretty-plain face was tear streaked, her gentle eyes were puffy and red, her soft brown hair a mess. “Marryin?”

“Aye. Did ya have a special fellow back home, someone ya had yer eye on?”

“No.” Bell’s eyes grew warmer. She reached out her forefinger and gently traced Ham’s jawline. “But I’d marry you, if ya be askin’.”

The jaw she so gently touched dropped down, Ham’s thoughts were racing. Could it really be that simple? Could it really be this fast? Had she known that he thought of little else but her for the past three weeks? “I be askin’,” he said as he dropped down on one knee. “Would ya be willin’ ta marry me, Miss Bell Goodchild?”

“Aye, I would, Mr. Hamfast Gamgee.” Bell’s smile was brighter, to Ham, than the morning sun on the daisies in Bag End’s garden.

Mr. Baggins put Bell up at the Green Dragon with a pony trap for her to drive back and forth to Bag End. Gardenia Greenhand had a frequent young guest and a local seamstress was kept busy. A missive arrived for Birdsong Goodchild and her family, telling them a proper carriage would be coming to fetch them all, and that rooms were being held for them at the inns on the way to Hobbiton, and at the Green Dragon in Bywater. A fortnight later, after as fine a wedding as Bell had ever hoped for, a most happy couple crossed the threshold of #3 Bagshot Row.