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The wind was in the west and Jinniver felt sure there was a rainstorm approaching. The leaves on the trees were turning their pale undersides to face into the breeze, and it was common knowledge to farmers around Bree that the trees only did this if it were going to rain. Turning to face the west for a moment, as though she could somehow see the rain coming herself, Jinniver frowned. She hurried to fasten her freshly washed clothes to a line, hastily contrived from some of the twine from her pocket belt, and hung in the shelter of the trees behind the old cottage, where rain could not spoil them.
This was the most sheltered spot she could find, and she was anxious that the long tunics she normally wore dried quickly, for she had been forced into wearing her best dress and she felt very self conscious. It was a beautiful thing, cut trom a thick silk of a rich buttermilk colour. The neck, hem and long sleeves were trimmed with a deep line of green and gold braid, and the silk fabric was overlaid with a fine, faint pattern of leaves.
Jinniver was anxious about damaging the dress as it was such a beautiful garment and she began to wonder why she had even brought it with her. It was a fanciful notion that had made her do so; that The Shire might be a place where the hobbits were all fine folk, the kind who would not dream of buying from a rustic, plainly dressed woman. She had nursed this idea since the end of the troubles many years back, and despite what her father and brother had told her to the contrary, she had brought it along anyway. In her opinion, it was always best to be prepared. But now she knew the folk in the Green Dragon, she felt a little embarrassed about sitting down to supper with them dressed in such a manner.
Something else embarrassed her. And this was that she was all too aware that the dress was not loose fitting like her tunics and breeches. It had been given her many years ago, when she was to be married, and in those younger years she was not at all as self conscious as she was now. But she knew there was little she could do about it unless she wanted to hide in her bedchamber all evening and go hungry. And besides, how was she to hang out her washed clothes if she had nothing else to wear.
Sighing to herself, she had put the dress on, and immediately tried to cover it with an old shawl she took from the bottom of her travelling bag. It was threadbare but it was large, and she wrapped it tightly about her shoulders, covering up as much of herself as she could manage. The cook had smirked when she appeared in the kitchens, shrouded in the old shawl and hunched over, shyly asking if she might borrow some hot water and soap to do her laundry. Jinniver had scuttled away quickly, clutching the shawl tightly around her shoulders, and made for the back of the barn so she might do the washing unobserved.
She heard cheerful voices going towards the inn as she stood beneath the trees, and thoughts of supper and ale, a blazing fire and good company, made her hasten with her chore. When she was done, she took up her pocket belt which she had left on the ground. She carried it in her hand, in case any grime from it rubbed onto her skirts; she pulled the shawl tighter as the breeze, which was getting colder, caught it. As she was halfway to the inn, she was sure she felt raindrops.
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