[Lalwendë]

Jinniver’s eyes did not leave Pegram. She stared at him furiously, even reaching for the pouch of tobacco and filling her pipe without looking at what she did. How dare he come here and spoil her enjoyment? It was not as though she had gone far and for long. She realised he must have been at the farm early this morning, and seen the letter she had sent to their father, informing him that she would be staying on a while longer. Before she had left, Pegram had given her a long list of instructions on where not to go and what not to do, how to avoid any unwanted attention being drawn to her. She had borne these instructions in mind, and had come to feel restricted by them; to her delight, had found that Hobbiton was very different to Bree, somehow safer, so now, she did not care so much for his so called helpful instructions.

Pegram, meanwhile, felt all eyes upon him. It was no matter to him; his pride caused him to puff out his chest a little as the other man addressed him. Who was he to step into his business with his sister? As Derufin spoke, indignance spread across Pegram’s face and he did not hear half of what was said to him, but he took the chair offered. There he sat with his arms folded tightly across his broad chest, carefully taking the measure of the man who had spoken. Who might this man be to his little sister? And who was he to step in to talk about one he cared for so deeply?

‘What sort of business are you in,’ Derufin asked Pegram, rather too casually, he thought. It was the voice of a man ready to spring to the defence but all too careful not to reveal this. Pegram could tell from his tone that he thought he might be defusing the argument in some way. Let him try what he might, Pegram thought to himself, if he wanted to start any trouble then this was his business and nobody else‘s. ‘Begging your pardon, in advance, if I seem too forward - but if you’re anything like your sister, I would easily guess you are prospering . . .’

Jinniver noticed her brother’s face twitch with thought at the question. He did not like to be asked about his money; his possessions were one thing, but the secrets of his successful distillery in Bree were keenly protected by him. His young son, Jinniver’s nephew, would one day learn these secrets but they were not for anyone else.

“I am a distiller. Cornthrift of Bree,” he answered eventually. “My products go far and wide in these times. Though they are quality, no, luxury goods as you may say.” His held his broad face high, and his words were clipped and measured. He wished to impress upon the other man that he was no mere farmer.

Unfolding his arms, Pegram took out a beautifully finished pipe, but he did not help himself to the pouch of pipeweed which Derufin had placed on the table. Instead, he drew out a soft green leather pouch of his own, and set about the business of filling his pipe. Before lighting the pipe, he carefully smoothed the hairs of his beard down near his mouth, sticking his chin out manfully as he did so.

Jinniver watched her brother with a look of distaste. Her anger had softened a little, but she wished to show him how differently she was looked upon in The Shire, to prove to her brother that she was not the silly young girl she once had been and who he still thought she was. She was making her own money, and doing well at it, and what is more, she had gained the trust of these fine people; she was just as much a grown up as he, and her own business just as important.

“Yes, I would be glad of some assistance,” she said, speaking defiantly and proudly, making use of her brother’s silence to speak up and finally answer Derufin. “I see now that my message has been received in Bree. So I should hope my father has seen to sending off the plants today. As I said, this will be a fine garden.” She looked across unflinchingly at her brother, catching his eye as he took a draw on his pipe.

Pegram caught the look. He wanted to put his sister in her place a little, to make her see what a disrespectful nonsense she was making of herself. She was his sister, a gentle soul, who he needed to protect; he didn’t like the look of disrespect which she now gave him. It hurt him, and he wanted to make her suffer for it.

Drawing on his pipe and blowing out a great cloud of smoke which obscured his face, Pegram sniggered softly, but just loud enough so that all at the table heard it. “A fine business this is, Jinniver. Making gardens with rustics. If that is what you call business then I’m sure you are welcome to it.”

Sitting back, he savoured his statement. Pretending to attend to his pipe, he did not look up, but he could sense the anger in the faces of those around the table and was satisfied.