Canvas: a heavy
woven fabric made of flax or cotton commonly used as a support for oil
painting; also, the background against which events unfold If we do not complete the sitting today, then your grandfather will forfeit his deposit on the commission fee. I cannot and will not work under these conditions!" The strident voice, with a very nasal Southfarthing accent, was loud enough to be heard all the way to Frogmorton. "Keep up that bellowing and you will lose the commission!" Merry hissed through his teeth. Well, there was a slight chance his mother might hear and discover this clandestine operation. Very slight. Minuscule actually. "What did you say?" Merry caught the movement in his peripheral vision -- a pale face with a wild nimbus of red hair emerged from behind the easel and canvas, undoubtedly glaring at Merry malevolently. As instructed -- no, as commanded -- hundreds of times, Merry kept his gaze on the wallpaper -- second blossom over from the doorframe (and fourth up from the wainscoting), did not change his expression, did not speak in response, and tried not to focus on the maddening slide of a drop of sweat down his shoulder blade or the equally maddening itch of his new, very stiff, shirt. And now his left foot was numb. "Detestable brat--" the rest of the whispered imprecation trailed off into disgusted muttering as the head disappeared once more. Undoubtedly the toff didn't think that Merry could hear, in addition to thinking that he did not have a brain in his head. Merry gritted his teeth. Insufferable, arrogant prig. He longed to fling himself at the poncy artist and knock his teeth -- and the container they were in -- into the Old Forest, but remembering the threat that his Grandfather Rorimac had voiced just this morning, Merry restrained himself. It had been weeks since Yule and his Grandfather's birthday celebration was the first time he would see Frodo since they had parted at Yule. "If you can't sit still long enough for that portrait to get finished, boy, then you aren't invited to the festivities. I'll see to it that Sara sends you off to the Burrows'. You need to learn a bit more about those new whites he's working down there." "But Milo is coming to your party, Grandda." Merry had known he had made a terrible mistake when his grandfather's face had gone bright red. "Boy, either sit for the portrait or pack now. If that portrait is not finished in time for me to gift it to your mother--" The eldest Brandybuck had lurched painfully to his feet, and it had taken everything Merry had to stand still in the glare of those blue eyes. "I will see to it that you are hip deep in manure in Budgeford for the next six months. And there'll be no cousins visiting and cosseting you either. Tweening is fine in its place, but you and I know you won't have long for that, the way things are around here." Nearly frowning at that thought, Merry caught himself stiffly and tried to be content with digging his fingernails into his palm. It wasn't fair! Why did he have to be worrying about the running of the Hall and holdings before he was even close to his majority? It just wasn't fair. Of course, it wasn't fair to his mother either. "You're doing that again with your lip," came the whiny, nasal voice. "Some may find it attractive, but I think it rather childish. Unless you want to hang in the main hall looking the faunt forever, I suggest you control your thoughts." Merry contented himself with thinking of all the various ways that he was going to torment the blasted painter after the blasted portrait was safely completed. First, he would find some of that itching powder that Pippin had used on Aunt Asphodel last year and sneak into the toff's room and pour it into his small clothes. "That's much better! Just hold that thought," came the happy response from behind the easel. Had he been in the mood, Merry might have laughed. But the idea of hours more of this torture was too painful to contemplate. "I agreed to attempt to complete this commission only if the young Master will sit for me on Trewsday until I get what I need. There will be absolutely no interruptions. He can take his meals in the parlour and leave, if need be, for necessary-- things." At that point, the painter's nose had wrinkled up, and Merry had nearly sniggered. The toff likely couldn't say the word 'privy' without choking. Merry would have laughed if it hadn't been for the look on his grandfather's face. "But if he does not remain in pose for the duration, I will pack up my things and leave. This is unconscionable." "Agreed," his grandfather had said quickly, then turned to growl at Merry. "Meriadoc, you heard Mister Bunce. If I hear that you have moved one hair on Trewsday without his permission, you better be packed as well." If only Frodo were here. He would make this ordeal bearable. He would agree with Merry that this Bunce fellow was a total toff and a complete waste of space. "Perfect! Now that is an expression for the future Master of the Hall!" Merry gritted his teeth and groaned as his head protested. Wonderful -- now a headache, in addition to everything else. He heard the bright swish of the brush on the palette picking up colour, then the dab of the brush against the canvas, followed by an interminable pause, then yet another dab. It seemed to Merry that the process was taking entirely too long and that the artist was enjoying his free room and board entirely too much. But when he had mentioned that suspicion to his grandfather, he had been very firmly put in his place. Insane. He was going to go quite completely and thoroughly insane -- screaming and blithering. But first he would have to remember to toss the toff out the window. That thought gave him a momentary feeling of satisfaction. Then there was a loud rumbling noise from his belly. No, he would starve. He would slowly starve to death. Why hadn't he eaten this morning? Just a sweet roll or a sausage would have been enough. But no, Grandfather Rorimac had to grab him out of bed and toss him in here with this -- this pitiful excuse for a hobbit -- before he had even managed a cup of tea. And he hadn't eaten much last night either, under his grandfather's angry glare. It wasn't his fault the toff kept insulting him until he lost his temper and stalked out of every sitting -- insufferable lout. And to make it worse, the smell of the paint made him dizzy and queasy -- it clung to his clothes and hair and he couldn't be rid of it no matter what he did. Merry's stomach growled warningly. It was certain. Starvation. That was it. ***
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