“Who’s next?” Faramir asked.

“I am,” came the quiet reply from his wife. Goldilocks arose from the rocking chair and straightened the silk of her gown. It was a dark, midnight blue dress embedded with baroque freshwater pearls and tiny crystals. It set off the fine dark gold of her hair, elaborately dressed in ringlets, braids and midnight blue ribbons. Fitting for the future Thain’s wife. Regal, yet appropriate for the solemnity of the occasion. Yet Goldilocks was uncomfortable as she stepped across the room to her brother.

Bilbo handed her the letter with her name written on outside of the envelop.

She carefully unfolded the ancient parchment and began to read.

My dearest Goldilocks,

Child of the meadows. Chaser of butterflies. Young savior of the mallorn Party Tree (yes, I see you watering it every day during that year of long drought). Lover of young plants. Beloved of fireflies and hummingbirds. Companion to bunnies and hens and little white lambs of spring. Mature lady of orchards and lanes. Friend of the bees and quiet rains. Dreamer of the goodness of the earth. A true child of Rose and Sam who follows in their love of all that blooms and grows. She who loves the garden with the same fierce love as I love her parents.

The duties and politics of the Great Smials wear heavy upon your heart, my beloved child of flowers. You wear well the mantle of leadership, accepting the duties of title and high society without complaint or murmur of discontent. And you do so willingly. You do so for love. And you are willing to submit your own desires and longings in order to please your love. And that may seem fair and good to you for awhile. But only a little while.

A word of warning from one who can see several possible futures for you: If you continue down this lane, your discontent will eventually bring woe to the great house and separation from your lord and lover. Step back, my daughter. It is not too late. You can regain that which was lost.

Beloved Golden Girl. Listen to your heart. Its joy will wither and fade, just as a plant withers and fades, if it is not nourished with what it needs. Happiness is not to be gained by substituting the wishes of another, but by taking the path of your own desire. Happiness for you, my beautiful daughter of a humble gardener, is to be found in nurturing the soil around your adopted home.

I cannot in clear conscious gift you with anything rich or fine. You already have this, and know the true worth of a gift is not in how much it costs. What I give you cannot be purchased or traded.

Your gift is in the chest at the foot of my bed. They are your grandmother Bell Gamgee’s. The Gaffer and I talked about what to do with them, and he was well-pleased to let me store them until you needed them. Take these reminders of Bag Shot Row, Bag End, and your heritage. Take them back with you at the end of day, and create your heart’s ease in the beautiful hills of Tookland. You can have both the humble and the rich. They are not mutually exclusive.

Love,
Uncle Frodo

Goldilocks’s ear tips were burning a bright pink in embarrassment at having her problems laid out for all her siblings to hear. She folded the letter and stared at the rag rug, the only sound being the gentle creak of wood as someone shifted their weight from one foot to another.

Hamfast cleared his throat, disturbing the uncomfortable silence.

Faramir walked over to the chest and Daisy handed him a box wrapped in pink ribbons. He was about to open the box himself, when Primrose stopped him.

“Faramir,” she said, laying a hand atop his, “this is for Goldie, not for you. Let her open it and decide what to do.”

The rest of the family were looking at the handsome future Thain. The gold of his buttons gleamed in the sunlight. The richness of his formal dark grey waistcoat and silk embroidered light grey shirt a noticeable contrast to the more humble attire of his in-laws.

Bilbo got up from the writing desk. “Here, Goldie. Sit down.” He offered her the little high-backed wooden chair. She gratefully sank into it, eager to somehow end the ordeal.

Faramir placed the package into Goldilocks’s lap, then moved behind the chair. He leaned down and tenderly kissed her on the cheek. She hesitantly loost the pale pink ribbons and removed the package’s lid.

It didn’t look very impressive. There were some old clothes neatly folded inside white tissue paper. They had a faint, musty, earthy smell. Goldie lifted up a simple farmwife’s gingham print work dress and began to cry.

Robin came over and stood next to Faramir. “It’s all right, Goldie-girl. Go on. There’s more.” He patted her on the shoulder in support of his sister.

Faramir handed her his pale grey handkerchief. She dabbed at the tears, took a deep breath, and continued to unpack her grandmother’s clothes. A well-worn apron, some gardening gloves with tiny red and yellow tulips embroidered upon the cuffs, a thin dark green fringed woolen shawl, and a sunbonnet in pale green, brown and yellow were also in the package.

That was all. No secret letter. No hidden compartments. Just some old clothes lovingly preserved for a granddaughter by a family uncle she had never met. She carefully folded away the clothes, except for the gloves, which she couldn’t seem to give up.

Faramir turned and knelt on one knee in front of his beautiful wife, taking the package from her. “I love you, Goldilocks,” he softly said. “I’ve loved you since the first time I saw you at Dad’s party. You don’t have to take these old rags. I’ll buy you some new clothes. Pretty clothes. The best clothes money can buy. I’ll get you anything you want. Anything. Just stay with me. Please?”

She brought the worn gloves up to her face and lightly caressed her cheeks with their rough cloth. She sighed and slowly tried them on. They fit her delicate hands as if they were made specifically for her. But they looked so incongruous against the rich background of the midnight blue silk and pearls. Goldie looked up from the gloves and into her husband’s grey-green eyes. Tears spilled over her lashes, getting trapped in the sad corners of her mouth.

Faramir put the package down on the rug and leaned in, kissing Goldilocks tenderly on the lips. He took her gloved hands in his, the Ring of the Seal of the Thain gleaming amber against the rough cloth. “Will this make you happy?” he quietly asked, gesturing to the old clothes.

She looked down at the sad pile, then into her own unhappy hands, and nodded. “Uncle Frodo was right. Oh, Faramir, I do love you. With all my heart I love you. But I’m so unhappy. I miss it. I miss working in the sunshine. I miss the flowers and bees. I know it’s not right for the wife of the future Thain to be doing manual labor, but I miss it.”

“Then we shall have a garden, my love,” Faramir whispered and smiled. “And you shall work in it to your heart’s ease. And you shall wear your grandmother’s apron or whatever else you wish to wear, and… well… to heck with what other people think. You’ll have your garden and I shall visit it each morning with you. We’ll take tea in the garden with honey collected by your own hands. Only say you’ll stay with me, please, my dearest Goldie. Please stay with me in Tuckborough?”

Goldie nodded and smiled. Faramir wiped away her tears. She stood up and retrieved her package.

“Put on the bonnet, Goldie,” Tom teased.

“Yes. Put on the bonnet,” Elanor added, putting her arm about her brother Frodo’s waist.

Goldilocks smiled again and acquiesced to her siblings’ wishes. The little bonnet had a difficult time going over the mass of elaborate braids and ribbons. Goldilocks stubbornly refused to let her hairstyle win. She pulled down the top-most braid, and plunked the bonnet on top her head. She looked utterly charming.

“That looks terrible with your blue dress,” Daisy snorted. “Uncle Frodo must have been color-blind.”

Everyone laughed. The sadness spell had been broken.