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Had anyone been listening they would have thought a pair of Hobbits were arguing with each other. As it was, it was only Will discussing out loud with himself the post he’d received that day. His mother, the redoubtable Pearl Longholes Hayward, had decided to come to Stock in two weeks time with two of her daughters-in-law, Sapphire and Lily, to buy a bolt or two or so of sprigged cotton and some yards of lace. Never mind that there was a perfectly adequate cloth shop in Crickhollow that had served her family well over the years.
He puffed on his pipe; clouds of smoke hung thickly above his head. He worried the mouthpiece and stabbed the air with it as he read the letter again and then once more. Read between the lines, that is. It wasn’t cloth she’d come to inspect is what he expected, is what he knew. She’d come to see what her youngest son was ‘doing’ with his life. Translation: had he found a suitable lass yet? And when would he be tying the knot? She’d seen through the letters he’d sent of how well he was doing at the inn; had enough of his fending off questions of settling down like his brothers had done. His mother would be coming to set him on the ‘right’ track.
It was drawing toward dark when he roused himself from his brown study. The big oak beneath which he’d sat, and paced, and leaned against in his bemusement cast a deeper shadow now and from a ways beyond it, the restless sounds of the horses and ponies broke in upon his thoughts. Will folded his mother’s letter into a small square and jammed it deep into one of his vest pockets.
Back in his familiar routine he pushed away his irritation and fell to taking care of the animals and their needs. Fresh hay, some oats, clean water . . . and the occasional apple for those whose insistent noses nudged him as he tended to them. They listened to his troubles with tail-twitching patience, seemingly swishing away problems with an easy flick of ear and tail.
Having set the stable in order, Will made his way toward the Inn. A plate of nice, fat mushrooms would put him in a better frame of mind, he thought. Fried crispy, in butter. And a pint of dark, strong stout to further smooth away the edges. Yes, that would do nicely!
And maybe he could talk to Master Boffin, too. Perhaps he could be gone when his mother came on her shopping expedition. Buying trip for the Inn? Something that would take him away for a great deal of the time she’d be here. Or a building project – new roof for the stable, maybe. Something to keep him occupied long into the evening and away from his family . . .
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