Finduilas decided to take the flowers she picked on her morning walk directly to her sitting room. Usually she went to her garden after walking so she was not surprised when her maids did not expect her, but she was surprised to see her son’s nurse talking to them away from the nursery.
“Nurse, what are you doing here, who is with Boromir?’
The Nurse curtseyed. “This happens every day after you leave, My Lady. Please follow.”
With the respectful familiarity Finduilas inspired in all in the White City, Nurse led her to the door of the nursery. She signaled to look in quietly.
There she saw Denethor, Steward of Gondor, with his usual dignified concentration to the task at hand, shirt sleeves rolled up, soaked to his skin, bathing Boromir. The baby was cooing and splashing as though he enjoyed it. Denethor handled him with the touch of a collector cleaning his most precious eggshell pottery.
Finduilas watched, torn between her love of her husband’s unplumbed depths and her fear of what she had gotten in to with her marriage. Later Nurse told the Maids that she had never seen a woman look with such love on her husband.