It had been raining for three days straight—or close enough by anyone’s count, and Britomartis Puddlefoot was bored. She’d been unable to go on her accustomed evening walks, the market was almost empty, and well, what other choice did a hobbit have?
She put on her very large hat, (certainly better than anything that Mullein Underhill could boast of,) grabbed her umbrella, and made her way to the Prancing Pony. She was positively starved for decent conversation, though sadly, no one was likely to have gotten up to anything too terribly scandalous in the dismal downpour.
The common room was rather more crowded than usual—apparently Brito was not the only one taking refuge from the tedium within its walls. She ordered her usual, at which Butterbur had the gall to look at her in confusion. With growing consternation she spelled out exactly what her usual was.
But drink obtained, if somewhat unsatisfactorily, Brito went to find a seat, looking around for friends or strangers alike. She paused for a moment, spotting Mullein Underhill in front of the fire. Just then she saw a strange, tall woman take a bowl of stew, and make to escape to the back rooms. Well not on my watch! Strangers avoiding conversation, well, there can only be nefarious intentions behind that!
The woman looked innocent enough, in a plain brown dress, and black hair spilling in messy curls out of a bun, almost pretty, but on the gaunt side. To an ordinary observer, the woman might look harmless, but Brito’s senses were too finely tuned, and something seemed mighty queer about the whole thing.
Despite the woman’s reluctance to make conversation, Brito eventually learned that her target was a rather sweet girl in her 30s, widowed, and (Brito was able to tell with her keen insight,) had gotten mixed up with those rangery brigandly types. Despite this, and despite her unfortunate deficiencies being a big person and all, not to mention not living in sensible towns, (of which Bree itself barely qualified), she seemed a decent sort.
Well, Brito thought in a burst of charitable beneficence, if she didn’t help the poor young thing, who would?
The first order of business was to find the girl a husband. Some steady Breelander would be just the thing!
..........................................
Gwetheril nearly laughed as the hobbit led her over to a table with a local farmer, and told her, in rather a pointed tone that, “wasn’t it so sad how he’d lost his wife and was all alone in that farm, and that he was such a nice fellow once you got to know him, and that his gardening skill could almost rival the Shire.”
To the farmer, a rather unremarkable fellow in his sixties with a greying beard the hobbit was even more pointed. “A few months in a proper Breeland farm and she’d make someone quite the decent wife, don’t you think?”
The hapless farmer turned as red as the beets he reportedly grew and mumbled something into his ale. Gwetheril very much hoped she did not look the same.
“Well I’ll be back with a pint. You two go ahead and get acquainted.” The hobbit walked off, and Gwetheril and the farmer stared at each other for an awkwardly long moment while Gwetheril resisted the urge to snicker.
“You look like one of those ranger types. Well, suppose that can’t be helped. I’m Hamphroy but she already told you that I'm sure,” He gestured vaguely with his ale at the departing hobbit, “Can’t get any peas and quiet with her around.” His tone was slightly apologetic, but Gwetheril took a moment trying to process if the pun had been intentional before replying.
“I’m just passing through—I’m planning to leave as soon as the rain lets up.”
Hamphroy turned even redder, “I’m not actually… Well even if I were, you look young enough to be my daughter, and,” He trailed off, before adding in a somewhat defeated tone, “You’re the third woman she’s tried to set me up with. Beats, (well beets,) me why she thinks it will work, at least the other two were locals!”
Gwetheril glanced over, and saw that the hobbit was watching them intently. That would make a retreat difficult, but she looked over at the man across from her and the seed of an idea came into her mind.
“This Mrs. Puddlefoot, has she a husband?”
Hamphroy shook his head, “Has grandchildren, so I’d reckon she used to be.”
Gwetheril leaned forward, “Have you considered suggesting a match for her?”
“With who? I don’t know many hobbits. And I got to be honest, she scares me a little! I’m not sure I’d dare try!”
Gwetheril considered a moment, “Must it then be a hobbit, or for our purposes would a disreputable man do? Half the town thinks that I am more likely than not mixed up with disreputable types, her not the least.”
A little longer they spent in conversation, although both were relieved when they went their separate ways. After the taciturn Lossoth, and comfortable conversation with her own kin, Gwetheril found the gossipy Breelanders something else entirely. And Hamphroy was unable to get over either the awkwardness of their introduction or his discomfort with wandering strangers. She could not wait to get back on the road. In the unceasing rain both her and Forchalad the puppy were getting restless.
..........................................
The next evening Brito was eager to see the success of her scheme. Letting the poor young woman turn her life around, giving that poor lonely windower company… Well, wasn’t it a good thing she was around to fix their problems!
And indeed, Gwetheril greeted her with a smile. “We have set the wedding date a week hence, but since it is you we have to thank for our happiness, it is the least I can do to find a man for you, that you may wed on the same day!”
Brito blinked, “Young lady?”
“I have a friend, and he’s amassed quite the number of coins, although he does not much care to talk about how he obtained them,” Brito gasped at the scandal the woman so carelessly insinuated, but Gwetheril continued, seemingly heedless of the hobbit’s discomfort. “He seeks a nice lady to settle down with. It should be just the thing! I have sent him a note and he should be in Bree shortly, he is quite eager to meet you.”
Brito spluttered. Yes, spluttered. the first time in memory that the hobbit had been reduced to such inelegant behavior. “Well I never!”
Across the room she saw Hamphroy turn away a second too late. She had seen the gigantic grin that spread across his face, though ever after, he professed his complete ignorance of the woman’s joke.
