Chapter 6 – Stepping Over the Threshold.

The same day, just before sunset, June 25, Afterlithe.

When Frodo reached the step to Rosamunda’s cottage his high heart deserted him. He faltered and stopped. As he stared at the open doorway, his heart began to hammer. Every nerve thrummed as if in fearful anticipation. This was ridiculous! What did he think he might see? Possibilities crowded his mind: Rosa angry, Rosa happy, Rosa bored, Rosa gone – even Rosa naked (which was silly). Frodo roused himself. By an act of will he gained the threshold, took a breath, and looked in.

He almost laughed out loud, so great was his relief. How foolish he had been. Peering across the parlour he could see Rosamunda quite plainly. She was not naked but dressed as usual, labouring at her kitchen table, quite absorbed in the homely tasks beneath her hands. He stepped inside. The delicious smell of bread freshly baked wafted up to meet him and he breathed it in, heady and familiar. Crossing the floor on silent feet, he looked about him as he went. He wondered how Rosamunda could see to work in such an ill lit space. Light spilled in through the entryway behind him but the parlour windows were small. The room’s remotest recesses were exceedingly dim. In the kitchen the light was better. Its eastward-looking window was much larger. It glowed with the colours of the coming twilight like a great round of indigo and lapis.

Frodo hung back in the archway, watching her as she worked, bathed in the soft light. Her dark hands and forearms, brown from the sun were dusted and speckled with flour. Strands of hair escaping from pins wafted and drifted with her movements. She hummed a little tune.

Frodo took another step then hesitated.

“Rosa …”

He spoke softly, so as not to startle her. She looked up and smiled. At the sight of it, his last fears drained away. However, the part that wasn’t fear remained. His heart still beat too fast, and his skin prickled all over. His breeches seemed confining.

“There you are!” she said, spreading a cloth over a plate of sweet biscuits. “I am just finishing up. Come and see,” she invited with a smile still warmer.

By a fresh act of will, Frodo made himself go and stand beside her. From just behind her, he could watch her hands, the hands he loved to watch. He was definitely taller than she, now; yes. Thus unobserved, he could not help eying the place where her pulse jumped, just at the angle of her throat. He thought he could hear her blood coursing through her veins. As he listened to her breathing, his eyes dropped to the swell of her bodice where her breasts rose and fell.

“Would you like to help?” she asked, baring a rind of cheese to cut. “You could slice some bread.”

At the other end of the table, new loaves cooled on wooden racks. Frodo reached for a knife but checked himself when he noticed his right hand. It was stained with bruised grass. He began to blush.

“I think I had better wash, first,” he mumbled. Thankfully, Rosamunda’s attention was upon her task. She did not see his colour bloom and fade.

“Over there – the big kettle,” she said, glancing over her shoulder towards a large pot simmering on the stove. “There is wash water in there.”

Next to the stove was a long sideboard with a washbasin standing ready, a stack of linens, a bar of soap, and a flagon of oil for the skin. Frodo ladled some steaming water into the basin then added some cold from the bucket. He laved his hands, turning the soap between his palms, working up a rich lather. As his fingers slithered and slipped they looked to him like pairs of legs, crossing and twining. His bath was coming to nothing, he thought to himself, dashing himself with cold water. He was blotting his face with a towel when he heard Rosamunda chuckle.

“Are you coming back?” he heard her say with amusement.

Frodo turned to see Rosamunda bending over the table, leaning her weight into the cut – the cheese was very firm. As she bent, the gathers of her skirt smoothed closely over the rounds of her buttocks. The folds that hung suspended swung and swayed as she wielded the knife vigorously. Each strike of the blade against the board sent a shiver through the cloth – and through Frodo.

He had not realised he was staring until Rosamunda interrupted his reverie, casting an inquiring glance over her shoulder (which gave her back a very pretty twist).

“Well?” she said.

This would never do. He must get a better grip.

“Sorry,” he said. “I am just coming.”

“This one will do,” she said, sliding the biggest loaf towards him.

He cut it carefully, making very even slices, for the discipline.

“Are you hungry?” she asked, arranging the slices of cheese on a plate. “I thought I would make us something to eat. It was too difficult to just sit and fret.” She laid a cloth over it. “It was better,” she added, “once I was busy.”

Had she been nervous, too? Frodo had never wondered if she might.

“Well, actually, I have already eaten …” he began.

Rosamunda was spooning jam from a crock into a bowl. “Well, so have I,” she said with a laugh, “and, I have been snacking ever since!” Popping the spoon into her mouth she suckled off the last bit. Frodo watched, riveted as she pulled it out and gave her lips an appreciative smack. She must have caught his hungry look for she glanced away, dropping the spoon as if it were hot. Her cheeks flamed when she raised her eyes again and said, “I thought we might be hungry – later.”

Frodo could have fallen upon her there and then but she deflected him, giving him further instructions. While he sliced ham she lifted rounds of butter onto a dish. They covered it all with cloths.

“And that,” she said with a cheerfulness that seemed to him a little strained, “should be that!”

With nothing left for her to do, Rosamunda turned and leaned one hip against the table edge. With the back of her hand, she pushed away some strands of escaping hair.

Frodo still stood very close but did not move.

She swallowed hard. Dropping her eyes to the back of her hand, still held out before her, she stared at it. It was white with flour.

White on brown, Frodo saw.

“Is my face all floury, then?” she asked, lifting her face for him to inspect. Indeed, there was a white smear across her cheekbone, angling up towards her temple.

“Here, I can get it, Rosa,” Frodo said, stepping closer. Reflexively he licked his thumb, steadied his hand on the side of her face and drew it across the mark, erasing it under his touch.

The shudder Frodo felt beneath his hand was unmistakable. Slipping his fingers into her hair, he slid his other arm around her waist and drew her to him. There was no need to pull her close for already she was melting into his embrace, yielding completely to the press of his hand against her back.

As he fitted his lips to hers, Frodo gave himself up to her warmth and scent as if he might drown in it. She kissed him back and as she did, Frodo felt himself falling over a precipice – into the unknown yet into what was utterly familiar. Rosamunda’s hands were twined around his neck, and her fingers were gripping the hair at his nape as if she were falling, too. Deeper and deeper Frodo fell into her kiss until he landed as if into a luxurious featherbed, whose sheets and pillows only wanted to be plumped and smoothed by the sweep and flick of his tongue.

So engrossed was he Frodo did not notice he was leaning forward, bending Rosamunda over the table. As they leaned, their combined weight dislodged the heavy table’s legs. It juddered against the flags with a rattle and clatter of dishes and knives that startled them both. Frodo released her from the kiss and stared. Rosamunda returned his stare, her dark eyes turned to jet. Her bodice lifted in heaves and her hair was coming down, hairpins winking among the fallen strands. Chafed to ruddiness, her lips were stung full and her brown cheeks glowed russet.

Frodo guessed his own appearance only mirrored hers. His cheeks blazed and he saw that his wrists shimmered with damp. Then he noticed the hanks of skirt he clutched in his hands. He had been completely unaware he had them pulled up, so afire was he to reach her nakedness beneath.

But as he stood clasping the handfuls of fabric, Rosamunda seized his wrist. “No, Frodo!” she told him in a voice low and urgent. “Not like this!”

Frodo’s heart seized in his chest. What had he done? Rosamunda must have seen his panic for she drew him to her for a reassuring kiss.

“I only meant,” she told him breathlessly when she pulled her lips away, “Not here – in the bed.”

* * *

It was over so quickly Frodo never got a chance to see Rosamunda naked, as he had so longed to do. They barely had made it to her bed. Spent and panting atop her, Frodo was both ecstatic and ashamed. It had been glorious but surely any hobbit woman expected better.

He had not even been able to get his clothes off. First his fingers had tangled in the strap of his belt. And although he had got his breeches off most of the way (with her help), his shirt was still half on, bunched uncomfortably under his armpits. His waistcoat was the only thing he had managed to get completely off; it lay on the floor where he had tossed it. As for Rosamunda’s clothes, he had done even worse. Although he had started to unfasten her bodice, he never had got past the first few buttons. He would have tried to hold off, really he would have, had she not been so eager herself, urging her skirts up and pulling him down and down until he had consummated his ardour so precipitously.

Afterwards she had wrapped her arms and legs about him and showered him with kisses, crooning tenderly into his ear. Only now could he remember it, so transported had he been by the throes of his long-awaited climax. Although his remorse was not abject, tempered as it was by the absolution already received, he thought, “I should have waited….”

* * *

Rosamunda had not reached any such extremity herself, but she thought no mournful thoughts as she lay with her lover sprawled over the top of her, his forehead burrowed into the pillow beside her cheek as he recovered his equanimity. The throbbing between her legs would subside. It had already. There would be time for all that, she hoped. No, she knew it: they would have time.

When she had been new to lovemaking, Rosamunda had been able to be patient. She could dally at kissing forever, not yet knowing where it was headed. But once she had learned what pleasure could be under the exciting attentions of Odovacar, she had become the more eager of the two. Odovacar, ever the tease, had preferred to draw it out, if only for the pleasure of watching her suffer exquisitely (over and over). But Rosamunda had been barely willing to wait until he should fill her with the final bliss.

It had been four years since anyone had touched her or kissed her in any intimate way. As she thought about what had just passed, Rosamunda wondered whether someone else could have kindled such a response. Perhaps it was merely the years spent alone, but Frodo’s touch – his mere look – had made her go up like tinder. She blushed to think of the way she had dragged him off to the bed. But as she lay under him in the darkened room, she felt exceedingly happy. Outside, the evening was deepening into dusk, making her window a round of purplish blue. A chorus of crickets had struck up and the gibbous moon was rising, spreading its silver light across the floor. Beside her cheek, Frodo’s tangle of hair tickled, but smelled exceedingly nice as if it had been freshly washed.

The thought of washing was suddenly an attractive one. Rosamunda felt damp and sticky and her dress clung uncomfortably. She would like to feel very much cleaner, if only for later. Certainly, there would be a “later.”

“Frodo” she said, brushing her lips against his cheek.

“Mmmm?” He still sounded rather dazed.

“Get up, sweet,” she said, chuckling softly, “You are crushing me.”

He wasn’t, really. He must weigh half what Odovacar had. In fact, it felt rather satisfying – the weight of him stretched out upon her.

“Am I?” Frodo asked, immediately concerned. He shifted off to the side.

“No, I am joking. I could lie under you all night!” she laughed.

He gave her the loveliest grin.

Recalling herself Rosamunda went on to say, “Still, I am sweaty and sticky. You have plastered my clothes to me thoroughly! I am going to bathe. I will pour a bath for you, as well, if you would like,” she offered, smiling.

* * *

Bilbo would be surprised, Frodo giggled to himself. Two baths in one day!

“What is so funny?” Rosamunda demanded before she flung herself upon him with a laugh. She seized him under his ribs and made him giggle even more, for he was quite ticklish. Then, pushing up with her hands, she held herself above him and stared into his eyes as if in challenge. He tried to pull her down to him but she had locked her arms. The strength with which she held him off impressed and excited him, somehow.

When he did not answer, she put on a stern face. “Well?” she prompted.

Frodo explained, “Bilbo told me before I left, women are finicky about baths and that sort of thing. He even insisted I have a good wash before I left. I was thinking Bilbo would be amazed to learn that his nephew had gone under the soap and cloth twice in the same day.”

Rosamunda laughed, and, with a push she rolled herself away. Frodo dodged a swat from a pillow before he seized her, pulling her back to nestle in his arms.

When she had settled she said, “So, you and Bilbo had a little heart-to-heart about me?” He could see the gleam of her smile in the growing darkness. “You wicked Bagginses! I hope you will not be giving him an account each time!”

Each time. He liked the sound of that.

“Heavens, no!” Frodo assured her.

But the picture of the old hobbit as he had stood before Bag End, waving his goodbye, began to form itself in Frodo’s mind. He rolled onto his back and gazed up at the ceiling as it crystallized. “Bilbo does love me, though,” he softly said, still studying the pattern on the ceiling, barely discernible overhead. “In spite of all he has done against this day, he wants to see me happy, I know it.”

Then he turned to her to say, “I would want him to know that I was happy, Rosa. That is – that I am.”

Frodo knew that Rosamunda understood his meaning. Even in the dark he could see her eyes glisten.

Then, in a tumble of rumpled skirts, she clambered over him and leapt out of bed. Reaching for his hand to pull him up, she chuckled and gave his arm a good yank. But Frodo sensed the feeling she kept hidden. Although she laughed, her voice was husky as she said, “Come on, then! Let us go and bathe.”

Frodo struggled to rise but his trousers, still tangled around his legs, impeded him. He began to kick them off but suddenly felt shy. Rosamunda still was fully dressed but he was not. He pulled them back up, instead, holding them together at the waist as he followed her through the parlour to the kitchen.

“I think we shall want more water,” she said as she entered the kitchen ahead of him. “Did you notice the well when you came up the path?” she asked when he had caught up. “It lies very low but the wooden cover is quite plain. Here,” she said, swinging up a couple of pails from where they were stacked by the stove. “The kettle is nearly full, but we shall need more.” Frowning at the pair of buckets on the floor near the sideboard she said, “One or two more trips should do it. We shall want it later.”

Frodo clutched the waist of his breeches together with one hand, while he tried to take the handles of both pails in the other. Rosamunda watched him struggle for a moment then told him good-humouredly, “Oh, there’s no one about for miles. Never mind your breeches – go without them. If someone should see you – which they won’t – your shirt tails will keep you covered well enough.”

Frodo saw the silliness of his efforts. Smiling sheepishly, he let the breeches go. When they had dropped to the floor, he stepped out of them. Rosamunda scooped them up and draped them over a chair. Frodo swung up the pails then hesitated.

“Straight down and to the left,” she said.

In the doorway Frodo thought to ask, “Rosa, where’s the privy?”

“You’ll see it on the way down to the well, at the edge of the little copse,” she said.

Warmed by her smile, Frodo turned and went.

* * *

Rosamunda watched as he walked jauntily down the path into the growing darkness, pails swinging. She was seized by a happiness so intense she wanted to cry out. She would have stood there longer, just for the pleasure of seeing him return but she did not. There were preparations to be made.

From its hook on the kitchen wall, she took down the wide shallow basin used for bathing from its hook on the wall and placed it on the floor. The water warming in the kettle had begun to hiss. She looked inside. Frodo had taken out more hot water than she had thought. After she had ladled more hot from the kettle into the sideboard basin, she heaved up a bucket of cold from the floor to replenish it. When she had finished, she stood patting her hands on the stack of towels and turning the soap, first one way, and then the other.

Bother, she thought. Should she take her things off while he was gone – or wait until he came back? Now that it had come to it, she felt very shy of appearing naked before Frodo. She chewed her lower lip, imagining different ways to go about it.

Better to get it over with at once, she resolved. Quickly she unbuttoned her bodice and peeled it away, then she unbuttoned her skirts and stepped out. Next she slithered out of her damp shift, easing it over her head.

Rosamunda tossed them all into the corner laundry basket. But once she was undressed she felt chilly. Goose pimples rose up all over her in the breeze from the kitchen window. She would put on her nightdress. That was what she would do.

Her bedroom was nearly dark but she saw it where it hung on its hook, its whiteness stippled with dots. She was slipping it over her head when she heard a noise from the parlour. A grunt and then a slosh, followed by an oath. She entered to see Frodo stumbling into the darkened house. Spilled water gleamed on the flags where moonlight crept across the floor. He must have felt momentarily blinded. There was no light inside the cottage except for the faint glow from the stove.

“I cannot see at all, Rosa!” he complained, plonking the buckets down. “Mightn’t we have some light?”

She would miss the cloak of darkness but graciously she acquiesced.

“Yes, of course,” she said. “Forgive me.”

Taking a pair of candles from the shelf, she set them on the table and lit them.

Frodo’s eyes widened like saucers at the sight of her. Was it the nightdress? Although the summer cloth was somewhat thin from wear, it was a very modest affair. It must be the idea of it, she supposed. Glancing over him, she noticed that Frodo’s shirt was partially buttoned. He must have done them up outside. It was silly, she knew, but this show of modesty endeared him to her, relieving some of her anxiousness.

“Right here, please,” she said, indicating where she wished the buckets to go. Frodo set them down then helped her pour water, cold and hot, into ewers for rinsing. “Thank you,” she told him. “You’re welcome,” he replied. Their formal courtesies arose more from nervousness than from gratitude, she thought. When everything they would need had been made ready, Rosamunda seized a lung-full of air and began.

“I suppose we must take turns,” she said thoughtfully. “There is not room in there for two to stand.”

* * *

Two? Frodo had not considered the possibility of their having a bath together. Immediately he imagined standing with her in the basin naked and wet, but he merely cleared his throat and said nothing.

Rosamunda plunged ahead.

“Well,” she said brightly, “I shall go first, then, shall I?”

Frodo hoped he did not look as relieved as he felt.

“You may as well sit down, until it is your turn,” she suggested courteously.

Frodo took a chair from under the kitchen window, but the seat felt chilly under his naked buttocks and thighs. He got up and pulled the window to.

“Oh, thank you, Frodo,” Rosamunda said gratefully, “That was very thoughtful!”

Frodo blushed as he took his seat again.

Rosamunda approached the basin and stood. Nervously she smoothed her hands over the cloth of her nightdress.

“Frodo …” she ventured tentatively, clasping her hands before her.

“Yes?” he said, wondering what could be amiss.

“It is my turn, I know, but I admit to feeling very … awkward.” She began to blush. “With you sitting there, I mean – watching. Would you close your eyes, please? Just until I am used to it?”

Frodo was so surprised he could not at first make an answer. He had wanted to see her for so long; it had never occurred to him that she might not want to be seen.

“But … didn't Odovacar see you all the time?”

“Yes, of course,” she answered gently. “But you are not he, are you?”

Frodo saw the sense of that. Although he was disappointed, he agreed and closed his eyes.

With nothing to look at, Frodo’s hearing sharpened. As if it were next to his ear, he heard the shifting of her feet against the flags and the whisper of cloth over her skin. He had not noticed how it had fastened. Had she pulled it over her head? He imagined it catching under the moons of her breasts. Perhaps she had stepped out of it? That made a nice picture, too. He saw it drop to the floor and pool around her feet.

Then he heard the sounds of water being sloshed in the basin and the squeaky sound of soap as she turned it in her hands. Then more sloshing. She must be washing her face. Light buffing noises told him she was using the towel. After a little more sloshing, he heard water trickle into a bowl as soap was rubbed across cloth. After a pause he heard the skitter of metal upon stone.

She was stepping into the basin, to do the rest. The rest…! Frodo was unable to contain himself.

“Oh, Rosa,” he cried, “Mayn’t I look now?”

He heard water as it trickled and fell, echoing into the basin on the floor. Frodo imagined her standing there, holding the wet cloth in her hand. Even from the chair, he heard her swallow. In a very small voice she answered, “Oh, very well.”

Frodo opened his eyes.

After the imposed darkness of his closed eyes the room seemed ablaze with light, even with just the two candles. Rosamunda stood at the centre of its splendour, rising out of the basin like a gleaming tower of burnished gold.

She was browned on her hands and forearms, and on her face and throat, but all the rest of her was as golden as honey. And, as Frodo had guessed, Rosamunda did not look anything like the lasses he had seen frolicking in the Brandywine. They might have been boys, but for the lack of anything dangling from their fronts.

He knew he must be gaping, but she filled his eyes with height and shape. There were valleys and hills and clefts that ran down into secret places. Her arms were strong and shapely, tapering into her long-fingered hands. Her legs were columns of gold, curving in and out with grace and strength. And her breasts! They were not at all like his squiggles on paper, but real and ripe and full and luscious, as if flowing with dark honey. Her browned nipples stood out like berries, ready for the plucking. He could not restrain his eyes from sliding around the dip of her navel and over her belly, down to the thick triangular thatch of gold-brown curls. As he gazed the thought came to him, even in the midst of his reverie, he had made that V too dark. Ah, but no drawing could ever do her justice.

“Oh, Rosa,” Frodo sighed, enraptured. “I could look at you forever!”

Rosamunda relaxed visibly. Smiling she giggled and said, “Well, you shall not be able to! I have not even begun to bathe, and the water will get cold.” She took up her cloth and began to wash. She went about it briskly at first, but, as if warming under Frodo’s ardent gaze, she began to take her time. It was too much for Frodo and he sprang up from his chair and stood before her.

“Let me, Rosa!” It sounded more like a demand than a request: he offered her his most winning smile.

“I am almost finished,” she replied firmly, but as she gazed into his eyes, she sighed softly, relenting. “Oh, all right,” she acquiesced. “But no dawdling!” Her eyes darkened as she added, “After all, we still have you to do.” Frodo’s face felt hot as he took the cloth.

She had already done her arms and breasts, which, examined closer to, looked exceedingly polished. Frodo gulped some air and started soaping her sides, beginning at her waist. He almost expected the cloth to hiss when it touched her, but that was his own heat, not hers – wasn’t it?

Her body was wonderful to look at and better still to touch, even through the cloth. As he eased the soapy cloth over her belly, he could see it was marked by a maze of pearly lines like ribbons.

“What happened there, Rosa?” he looked up to ask.

Rosamunda threw back her head and laughed. A descending series of notes cascaded from her mouth. Her breasts shook distractingly. She grinned as she cupped his face between her hands and gently waggled his head, saying, “Silly! Freddy and Estella happened.”

Frodo had quite forgotten about Freddy and Estella.

“Carrying your babies in our bellies takes its toll, you know,” she added with a kiss.

It amazed Frodo to think that Freddy and Estella (especially Freddy, who was already quite large for his age) had ever been in there. Then pictures blossomed in his mind and he remembered: images of Rosamunda, big-bellied with Estella when he was still a lad. She had seemed huge to him then, her belly protruding like the prow of a ship. He had loved it when she had let him press his face against her skirts that he might feel the baby as it moved inside. At the thought, Frodo’s heart overflowed with present and remembered love.

“Ah, Rosa!” he softly sighed. Twining his arms about her hips, he pressed his face there once again while Rosamunda stroked his hair.

Frodo let her go, stood up, and recommenced the bath. With nearly reverent care he ran the cloth over Rosamunda’s belly. When he got lower down he hesitated. Safer to make a detour, he decided, and he bent to wash her legs. But inevitably the cloth made its way back up to the V of tousled curls and Frodo faltered once again.

“I’ll do that part,” Rosamunda said, smiling down at him. “If you go bathing me there, we might never get to you at all!”

Frodo stepped back to watch as her cloth-covered hand disappeared and reappeared from between her thighs, dripping with foam. He trembled from the looking.

“Now,” she said, holding out the cloth. “Perhaps you would you do my back?” He took it and she turned around.

This view only heaped on further coals. Although her legs were long, Rosamunda was a bit short-waisted. The line of her back where it dipped inwards was pronounced, offering even greater definition to the sweeping, symmetric volutes of her buttocks. Lifting the fallen strands of her hair, she dropped her head forward and offered up her back.

Frodo gulped some air and forced his hands to stick to business. As she had reminded him, there still was his bath to do (to which he was now eagerly looking forward). He washed the back of her by sense of touch alone, averting his eyes as he worked. To look at the springing curves beneath his cloth would be unbearable. Even without seeing her, each stroke reminded him of when he had stood behind her years before, pressed against her skirts. But now there were no skirts.

When he had finished, Rosamunda rinsed off beneath the water Frodo poured from the ewer.

“Thank you, Frodo!” she said warmly. “It has grown a little tepid, but we shall add some hot for you.” Stepping out she dried herself with a towel from the stack. When she had done, she reached for her nightdress and began to slip it over her head.

Frodo’s face must have shown his disappointment, for Rosamunda hurried to assure him, “I will take it off again, Frodo, when we get under the covers. But now I am a bit chilly.” Her cheeks pinked as she added, “You give a lovely bath, you know.”

She slipped the gown over her head.

“Well, then,” she said, “Now, for you.”

Frodo had forgotten his nervousness but now it all rushed back at once. He would have pulled away had not Rosamunda seized him by his shirt.

“I behaved for you,” she admonished, “Now, you must now behave for me!” She spoke sternly but a smile quivered at the corners of her mouth. The smile widened into a grin and Frodo relaxed instantly, willing to be divested of his shirt without further protest.

Only the bottom buttons were fastened, the ones he had done up outside. Rosamunda struggled with the first one; the button had snagged on a thread. As she fiddled and pulled at it, the jerking of linen upon his flesh made Frodo clench his teeth.

“Bother!” Rosamunda exclaimed at last. In frustration, she pulled the whole thing over his head. But once it was off she let it drop to the floor, forgotten. “Oh, Frodo,” she rhapsodised, “You are very beautiful!”

Intensely gratified to be thought so pleasing, Frodo blushed as Rosamunda’s eyes flitted over him, as if she were trying to look everywhere at once. Then she began the circuit again, but more slowly. As if her eyes could caress him he felt her look as she lingered over his shoulders and down his arms and his hands. It almost tickled as she trailed her eyes back up his ribs, coming to rest at the centre of his breast bone. As if asking his permission, she looked up at him before she let her eyes descend.

The lower Rosamunda’s eyes travelled, the more rapt they became until they were luminous, wide, and dark. Even before she reached his navel Frodo felt the force of her gaze like a physical thing. She might as well have dragged the flat of her hand down his belly, to leave such a swath of heat. It prickled and penetrated to his entrails. As if they emitted a magnetic force, Frodo felt his body dragged up to her eyes until he was taut as a bowstring pulled back tight, thrumming under the power of her regard.

Then all at once Rosamunda seemed to remember herself and glanced away, flustered. Hot-cheeked, she confessed, “I am sorry. I suppose I was staring.”

Frodo was about to reply that he loved for her to stare if she stared like that, but already she was speaking on.

“You had better begin your bath,” she said in a bracing manner. “Here, I will add a bit more hot.”

After Rosamunda had ladled more warm into the ewer and basin, she took her place in the chair she sat, folding her hands in her lap. She sat demurely but she watched with keen attention. Frodo noticed she kept her eyes above his waist.

Frodo began, standing before the sideboard basin to wash and rinse his face. Then he turned and began to bathe, starting with his chest. While he washed his arms, Rosamunda began to relax in her chair as she became more engrossed. When he lifted his arm, her head would incline to that side. When he changed arms, her head would incline the other way. Plainly enraptured, she breathed softly through parted lips. With the candlelight behind her, her eyes were soft and dark as inky velvet.

So deep was Rosamunda’s reverie she had not noticed Frodo observing her until he stopped his washing mid-way to gaze at her. She looked up. He smiled, enchanted. When he smiled, he saw that Rosamunda squirmed upon her chair. He was sure of it. She squeezed her thighs together and pressed her folded hands into her lap, as if trying to quell what she was feeling there.

Emboldened, Frodo held out the cloth.

“You do the rest, Rosa,” he said.

She seemed a bit unsteady as she rose, but she took the cloth. Squeezing it between her fingers, she assessed, saying, “It needs more soap.”

She walked around him to the sideboard basin. Frodo watched as she dipped the cloth and wrung it out so that it was nicely wet, but not sopping. Then she soaped it up with enthusiasm, working up a rich lather. Her wet fingers looked very dark. Soap oozed in a frothy cream from between her fingers. Frodo’s heart began to beat more rapidly.

“I want to be able to see what I am doing,” she told him and she stepped back around the basin, so that the candles were shining upon him but at her back. She paused, gazing at him with eyes like coals.

So great had been Frodo’s anticipation, he almost flinched when she touched the cloth to his skin. She drew it across his ribs and swiped it briskly up and down and back and forth, truly washing him. Its dripping corners sprinkled the air with droplets every time she flipped it over to use the soapier side. Frodo watched as they sparkled in the light. Then she dragged the cloth down Frodo’s side and he winced.

Rosamunda stopped and bent to peer at the place that she had touched. Frodo’s eyes followed hers. He had not known it was there, but directly over his hipbone a purplish bruise had risen.

“That looks painful,” she said, dabbing it gingerly. “What happened?”

Frodo answered gruffly, “I banged it on a table earlier, getting up.”

No further reference was made to the bruise as she bent to wash his legs. The nearness of her face to Frodo’s thigh so enthralled him the injury was quite forgotten.

“Pick up your feet,” she said, crouching before him. Frodo used the sideboard to steady himself and watched as she thoroughly washed his feet. When she had done, she paused.

“The rest …” she said, looking up at him with burning eyes. “Do you want to do it … or shall I?”

A candle sputtered.

“What would you rather do?” Frodo heard himself ask with a slight croak. He hoped she could not see his legs begin to shake.

Rosamunda stood up. She held the sopping cloth in her hand while it dripped, making a metallic noise as it pattered slowly into the basin. Holding her head to one side, she gazed at him and smiled a smile that made him weak.

“I will do it,” she said.

Over the basin she wrung the cloth between her fingers while Frodo trembled. He began to feel cold all over. He burned on the inside, but goose pimples sprouted up all over him. Even his nipples stood erect. Twisting about, he watched as Rosamunda stepped behind him to the basin on the sideboard. She was about to dip the cloth in the water when she stood for a moment, very still. Then she laid it down and began to soap up her hands, instead. The hair on Frodo’s nape began to rise. When she returned, she stood before him, the bar of soap dripping in one hand. She took a breath. He closed his eyes before she touched him.

All Frodo’s chill was swallowed up in waves of heat as her hands touched him, warm and wet and slick. He heard her sigh as she moved them over his torso and back, going over the places she already had washed, as if for the feel of him under her bare hands. She didn’t rush but she didn’t dawdle, keeping up a steady pace, stopping only to re-soap her hands. Frodo listened to the sounds of her hands sliding over and up and down and around, then coming back to start again. Certainly, he had never been cleaner. But when she began to slowly glide a slippery hand down his belly, Frodo opened his eyes. He had to see it: brown hands moving over white. Her hands were stained to an even greater richness by the wetness in the candlelight, and under her fingers his pale skin glistened and gleamed, the colour of cream poured from a jug. The beauty of it pierced him.

Then she leaned towards him. He could feel her breath on his ribs as she reached lower then lower still. He didn’t have a chance to gasp but shuddered as her hand disappeared between his thighs, all the way back. She slid her soapy hand back and forth and back and forth, letting her fingertips run over sensitive places Frodo had not known he possessed. When she withdrew her hand she lingered, gently squeezing the fruit of him between her fingers and palm before she smoothed her fingers up his length to curl about him in a circling grip. Ah, the feel of it! And the sight of it! He cried out in wonder to see the tip of himself slipping in and out of the circle of her fingers and thumb, as ruddy and glossy as the tight-furled bud of a rose.

Just when Frodo thought he might lose every bit of control, Rosamunda had finished. She went to the sideboard and lifted the ewer, reaching inside as if to test it. Satisfied, she returned to pour it over him. Frodo turned in a circle beneath the flow, moving his hands over his skin as he gasped for breath. She poured another over him. When she had finished, Frodo stood and dripped in the basin while she reached for a towel. He took it from her but on second thought handed it back.

“Are you sure?” she asked with a chuckle and a very saucy smile. He returned her smile, giving her sauce for sauce.

“I am sure,” he answered. He stepped out of the basin and bent for Rosamunda to towel his hair where it had got wet. Briskly she rubbed his shoulders and back and arms, taking special care with his hands. She blotted and stroked between each finger, and Frodo tingled pleasantly all over. He was disappointed when she only whisked and flicked the cloth over his buttocks and loins in a sketchy manner. But then she knelt, sitting on her heels to dry his legs and feet. As she chafed them with the towel, one after the other, he held onto the sideboard for balance. Then she tossed it aside.

“Reach around, Frodo, would you? Fetch me one of the little towels.” He handed her one from the stack of smaller towels she kept for hands and she took it. He was terribly excited yet nervous about how she might treat his tender nether regions – her rubbing elsewhere had been so vigorous. But when she reached up she merely blotted him, very gently, letting the thin towel be a veil between his sensitive flesh and her hand. But when she lifted the towel away she looked and sighed, “Oh, beautiful …!”

Frodo echoed her sigh as he felt her breath upon him, deliciously warm and moist. But her adoring kiss caught him by surprise. And when she took him into her mouth, he gasped aloud and quaked. He clutched the sideboard, struggling to subdue his trembling. Her soapy hands had been wonderful, but this – Oh! – It was beyond anything. He dropped his head back and groaned at the splendour of it, tottering on his feet. Rosamunda grasped the backs of his thighs and kept him steady. As she moved her mouth over him Frodo watched, engrossed, as he disappeared and reappeared in fascinating succession. Just when he thought he could not be any more exquisite, she began to do things to him inside her mouth. He thought he really might faint. He clenched his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut, hoping he might endure it if he did not see it.

When he could not bear it one more second, Frodo pushed her off and held her there, gripping her shoulders while he panted. She looked at him from where she knelt. The face he saw was so full of desire, he pulled her up into a kiss. Just the thought of where her mouth had been sent flares of heat all through him. She drew his tongue into the satin of her mouth and did things to him there that mirrored what she had done to him below, things that seared him to his ear tips. He answered her kiss, silk for satin. He wanted her badly now but skin to skin – without the barring cloth between. “Rosa, help me get this off!” he growled, exasperated. He tugged and yanked at the delicate stuff, eager yet afraid to tear it.

Bother! He would wait no longer for her full nakedness; he would take her here. Hoisting up the hem of her nightdress, Frodo tried to pull her down on top of him, but she resisted. “Not on the floor,” she panted, laughing, “It hurts!”

Bubbling with breathless mirth, Rosamunda pulled free of his embrace and fled. Frodo stumbled after. She had gained the bedroom and was hitching the nightdress over her head as he plunged through the doorway after her. The white of her nightdress went sailing over their heads as he caught her. Frodo laughed as he seized her by the hips and tumbled her onto the bed before him.

“Get off! Get off,” Rosamunda cried between giggles, as she wriggled beneath him. “Let me turn over!”

“No, not yet!” Frodo panted. He had wanted to feel himself in just this spot for years, ever since the time in Bilbo’s kitchen. Rosamunda’s legs were pinned between his knees, and her naked buttocks writhed under him deliciously. He fell upon her, devouring her shoulders and neck and back with heated kisses. Rosamunda moaned and trembled wonderfully, all of her pleasure redounding to him. Soon he was fumbling behind her, desperate with excitement to enter her.

“Frodo,” Rosamunda cried between sighs as he struggled behind her, panting into her neck. “We can do it this way, but not if my knees are pressed together!”

Past feeling foolish, Frodo sprang back while she positioned herself. Even so, the light in the room was barely enough to see and he had made several erring attempts before he found the place. Then he pushed. With a shuddering cry he sank himself inside her.

Rosamunda felt very differently inside from the other way around. Walls of muscle squeezed and clutched him in a manner that was nearly unbearably pleasurable. Frodo tried to hold back but could not resist. He began to plunge, deep and hard. After only a few such impetuous strokes, he succumbed with a shout and a series of groaning spasms, crumpling over Rosamunda’s back in a swoon of ecstasy. Limp-limbed and nearly senseless he lay, sobbing for breath.

* * *

Frodo was still gasping into her shoulder as Rosamunda slid down onto her stomach. She had been nowhere near ecstasy herself, and she felt rather squashed, yet she was very happy with her lover. She lay very still, just listening to the beating of his heart as she waited for him to recover his power of speech. His heartbeat had returned to nearly normal, when she felt him lift his head from her neck. Smoothing his cheek over her shoulder he kissed it, whispering penitently, “I am sorry, Rosa.”

Rosamunda extricated herself from beneath him, twisted round and gathered him close. “Do not be sorry, Frodo,” she murmured softly, stroking his hair and kissing his face. “I am not. What is there to be sorry for? You have made me very happy!”

Frodo made a sceptical noise and lay upon his back. There was moonlight enough to discern his features. She saw that he was watching her, attending. She traced along the line of his jaw with her fingertips then urged his mouth to hers for a tender kiss. Under the gentle persuasion of her lips and tongue, she felt Frodo yield. He snuggled back into her embrace.

“Mmmm,” she said with noisy relish as she sucked in his lower lip and nibbled it. Then she released it with a loud pop, making Frodo giggle.

“Your lips are so tasty, Frodo, they remind me that I am starved. Aren’t you hungry?”

Even in the dim light she saw a smile spread across his face.

“Yes,” he answered brightly, “now that you mention it. In fact, I am rather famished.”

“Come, then,” she said, giving him a squeeze. “Shall we go and eat?”

Frodo needed no further urging.

Rising out of bed, he turned and offered his hand which Rosamunda took. Together they made their way into the kitchen.


* * *

Chapter 7 – Unveilings.


The night of the same day, June 25 ~ Rosamunda’s cottage.

Swabbed down and satisfied from their meal, Frodo and Rosamunda lounged under the summer coverlet upon her bed. It was a beautiful night. A breeze stirred and the songs of crickets and frogs rose from the sloughs to make their way into the room. The moon was high and through the window its silver spilled across the floor. Otherwise the room was dark, so Rosamunda had lit the candle on the bedside stand.

Propped on piled pillows, Rosamunda lay on her back with one arm flung up behind her head. The fingers of her other hand threaded loosely through the coils of Frodo’s damp hair, twirling them into silky spirals between her thumb and forefinger. Frodo lolled next to her, his cheek upon the pillow beside her shoulder. One leg was thrown over hers, which he drew languidly up and down for the feel of it. His arm was draped across her ribs and he fingered her hair and drew designs over her skin.

“May I ask you something, Rosa?” Frodo said, tracing the rounds of her breasts and making little stops and starts for punctuation.

“You may ask me what ever you wish,” she said. “But,” she warned, “I shall reserve the privilege of not answering.”

Her bantering answer seemed to have silenced him. “You may ask me whatever you wish, Frodo,” she offered more softly, stroking his cheek, “Do not be afraid.”

Frodo snuggled a little closer.

“Do you still miss Odovacar?” he asked.

Her eyes softened. “Yes, I do. That is, I did,” she corrected herself. “At first, I missed him terribly. But eventually I got used to his not being there any more.” Darkly she murmured, “Time is like that….”

Recalling her guest, she bestirred herself and said more pleasantly, “No, I do not miss him; not the way I once did, if that is what you mean, Frodo.”

“Do you mind, Rosa – when I ask you about Odovacar?” he asked tentatively, gazing up at her.

“No. Not really,” she smiled. “I loved him, but, well, now he is gone.”

Frodo was silent while his fingers made looping figures between her breasts. Then he let them trail up her throat to her face, his eyes following. They glittered in the candlelight. “But … don’t you miss it? – doing this?” he asked.

She took his hand and kissed it. “Making love? Yes, very much. But I got used to it – not having it, that is.”

“Oh, Rosa,” he cried, pressing his cheek to her breast as he gave her a mighty squeeze, “I don't know how you could have borne it!”

“A very lover-like speech, but it is possible to bear,” she said, amused but touched. “What about you? You do not seem to have cut any wanton swath through the Shire. At least, not that I can tell,” she chuckled.

Frodo’s head snapped up. “What do you know about it?”

“I have made it my business to know,” she answered easily, noting his apologetic smile. To let him know no offence was taken she joked, “I have kept my eye on you, Frodo Baggins. What sort of auntie would I be if I did not?”

“But you are not my auntie – anymore,” Frodo countered with a soft gaze.

It was a moment before she could answer. “No, not anymore,” she agreed quietly.

Frodo dropped his head back onto the pillow. While his fingers made a fresh circuit, Rosamunda smoothed the back of her hand over his cheek. It was like velvet.

Once more she recalled herself again and asked, “Well? Have you been with a lass? Like this, I mean?”

“No, not like this,” Frodo answered, flashing a grin.

Then, as if he were calling all of his experiences to mind, he stared into the candle’s flame where it burned upon the bedside stand.

“I have been with lasses, but it hasn’t been anything much – just a lot of kissing,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. Almost as an afterthought he had added, “And some other things.”

“Hmmm.… What ‘other things’?” Rosamunda prodded, nuzzling her chin in his curls. She guessed he would like to tell – and she wished to hear it – almost forgetting they had just been lovers.

* * *

Frodo wondered how little and how much to tell….

“Well,” he began, “Things did get beyond kissing when I was visiting at the Smials.”

Frodo was thinking of the sisters of Reginard, a Took cousin. Actually, Reginard’s father Adelard was more nearly Frodo’s cousin. But Adelard was a whole generation removed, so Frodo had always called him, “Uncle.” Reginard was not particularly interesting, and neither were his sisters, but they were very pretty. Two of them were near in age to Frodo. A few summers before, when he’d been there for the days of Lithe, things had got very interesting.

“Who was she?”

“Well, there were two of them, actually, some of my cousins.”

“Two! What? Both at once?” Rosamunda said, marvelling.

“No, not at once,” Frodo giggled, “And it was during different summers.”

Returning his cheek to her shoulder, he proceeded to make new circles and loops with the tip of his finger. Rosamunda was making circles, too. Winding his curls around her fingers, she coiled them smaller and smaller. As if in answer, Frodo traced circles around her nearer breast, spiralling up and up until he reached the darker place around her nipple. Up close, the skin had its own lustre and sheen and was exquisitely silky, like no other place on her body. When his finger reached the centre, however, he could not resist and gave her nipple a gentle pinch.

Laughing, she smacked his hand away but caught it again and pressed it to her lips, kissing his fingertips. When she drew one into her mouth, the pleasurable sensations that coursed through Frodo surprised him. So keen was the pleasure he was about to abandon his tale in order to embrace her when she gave his finger a smart nip, as if for good measure. “Ow!” he said, and snatched it away, but as he returned his cheek to its satiny perch, he tingled all over.

“And then, what?” she asked.

Frodo, still tingling, groped in his mind for what he last had said.

“What happened with the cousins at the Smials?” she prompted. “Did you fall in love with them?” she asked, smiling.

“No – not in love!”

Frodo laughed but then he hesitated. How might he relate such adventures? Rosamunda stroked the back of his neck in a manner that reassured him.

“Well,” he began, haltingly at first, “To tell the truth, after that time at Bag End, in the kitchen, I couldn’t stop thinking about you, Rosa – and how it felt to hold you.”

Frodo did not look up at Rosamunda but he felt the squeeze of her fingers in the hair at his nape. Frodo wondered whether he had stirred up memories or had been too blunt. But in another moment her fingers relaxed and she slid them along his scalp. Gently she worked her fingers through his hair in what could only be a sensuous manner.

“Anyway, afterwards,” he began again, “that sort of thing was on my mind quite a lot. But it wasn’t until another summer or two had passed, when I was at the Smials, that I determined to do something about it – if I could.”

Again Frodo wondered if he was being too frank but the rhythm of her fingers as they squeezed and released did not falter.

“Do continue,” she said, “I am listening.” Frodo cleared his throat and went on.

“At first there was no one who suited. Or, I should say, no one who suited whom I suited – if you know what I mean.” He punctuated his remarks with extra kneads and strokes as he smoothed his hand up and down her sides and ran his fingers around her breasts.

“But the next summer, there was someone. Several lads were following her about, but she seemed to fancy me, I don’t know why.”

“Nor do I,” Rosamunda said.

Frodo glanced up, unsure of her meaning.

“Silly,” she said softly, “How could she not?”

Frodo ducked his head at the tenderness of her look, abashed but extremely pleased. He nestled his face in the crook of her neck.

“So,” Rosamunda resumed, clearing her throat, “She seemed to fancy you. And, did she?”

Yes, she did. Very much, if only briefly. Frodo resumed his caresses while memories of their little trysts unfolded in his mind

His first adventure had been with Reginard’s middle sister, Anthea. As the start of Lithe the two of them had reached an understanding. The Smials was so rambling, its grounds so large, and the feast days so hectic it was easy to slip off unobserved for a bit of kissing and harmless fondling. All of this had been extremely nice. Anthea kissed enthusiastically and well, and Frodo had learned a great deal from her.

A few days after the end of Lithe, when they became separated from the others while combing the ground for the last of the wild strawberries, Anthea had pulled Frodo into a dark thicket for an extended session of heated kissing. She still would not let him open her bodice, lest they be surprised by others looking for places to tryst, but she let him touch her under her skirts, if only a very little. She had touched him quite a lot, however, after she had unbuttoned the placket of his breeches. Just the thought of it made him spring into renewed hardness.

Although he had not noticed it, Frodo had slowed his stroking of Rosamunda. He had nearly stopped when her voice broke into his thoughts.

“Well, did she?” Rosamunda said.

Frodo must have looked his puzzlement.

“Did she fancy you?” she asked again.

“Oh!” Frodo answered gratefully, “Yes, as it turned out she did.”

Rosamunda’s eyebrows lifted expectantly; obviously she waited to hear more.

“She – we –” Frodo stammered. He was unsure what he might tell without embarrassing himself or being indiscreet towards his cousin.

“It was … very exciting,” Frodo said at last.

Actually, it had been extremely exciting. Rather too exciting. Frodo had embarrassed himself even as they stood there, fully clothed. Anthea had seemed to think it very funny, but Frodo had been mortified. But he put his shame behind him and had continued to pursue her. But after a few days it was clear that Anthea had lost interest. A handsome Took visiting from Long Cleeve – an older lad who towered over Frodo – had begun to pay her court.

Nevertheless, Frodo’s hopes were revived the following summer. The eldest of Reginard’s sisters, Linnéa, began to show him favour. Linnéa had known what he and Anthea had been up to, she revealed. This had given him a jolt. He feared at first she would tell her father. Adelard Took took a whip to any lad he caught poaching after one of his daughters – or so everyone said. But she was not going to tell, oh, no. In fact, she said, she wanted Frodo for herself!

Linnéa took Frodo to another trysting place, a densely wooded spot not too distant from the Smials. Once they had got there, she had not even bothered kissing him standing up but had lain down at once. Indeed, they had done very little kissing, even lying down. Frodo had not needed any kissing, however. When Linnéa began to pull up her skirts, it was all he could do to contain himself, just from the anticipation.

Unfortunately, Frodo again had become too excited too soon. He had survived Linnéa’s hand (barely), when she began to rub herself against him, skin to skin. It was only her thigh but just the knowledge of their naked bodies touching had been too much for him. What little control remained deserted him and Frodo had gone over the edge. At least he had got his breeches down.

But all was not despair and gloom, Frodo soon learned. Not only he, but Linnéa had been disappointed in brevity of their encounter. She would be willing to meet him, she said, as soon as they should get the chance. They met the very next day in the same place. All was going well, but, alas! – her father must have seen them going off together (or else had been informed). Adelard had followed, bursting upon them in the thicket like an enraged bull. What a sight they must have made! Linnéa was beneath him with her arms about his neck. Frodo was between her thighs, still pushing up her skirts but his breeches were down, leaving his buttocks bare.

Nothing irrevocable yet had taken place, but her father’s voice had filled them both with terror. All their hopes withered before the fire of his wrath, as well as Frodo’s ardour. Linnéa cowered and trembled. Hastily she covered her legs while her father dragged Frodo off her to stand before him. Frodo tried to stand up straight, in spite of his shirt being all askew and his breeches gathered around his feet. Uncle Adelard had been beside himself with fury, brandishing his whip and threatening to geld Frodo then and there, Baggins heir or not.

Later, Bilbo struggled successfully to calm Adelard and Frodo was not sent away. But the summer had been spoiled. Humiliated and shaken, Frodo kept his distance from them all for the remainder of the visit. He had never been so glad to go home.

The following summer Uncle Adelard’s temper had cooled, but, by then Linnéa had liked another.

“Was it not happy for you, then…?” she asked. The gentleness in Rosamunda’s voice recalled him. He had long since stopped caressing her, he realised. She must have been wondering and waiting. Frodo did not trust himself to look at her so he burrowed his face into her shoulder, kissing the softness of her upper arm.

“It was at first,” he said at last, “but we were caught.”

Rosamunda stroked his cheek and kissed his curls, smoothing his hair away from the side of his face. After a time Frodo stirred. Looking into her eyes he ventured his own question.

“Rosa – did you ever do this with anyone besides Odovacar?”

“No,” she answered simply. “Oh, there were lads who kissed me or tried to push their hands up under my skirts, but I had not cared for any of them,” she confided.

Nuzzling the side of his face against her shoulder, Frodo allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. Then he resumed his doodling while she continued, “But when Odovacar kissed me, it was very different.”

“How, ‘different’?” Frodo asked glancing up at her, “Because you loved him?”

“Well, no,” she answered plainly, “For, in fact, I did not love Odovacar right away. But I loved his kisses immediately!” she laughed. “Of course, he had had a great deal of practice before he ever courted me,” she offered in explanation.

Frodo raised himself upon his elbow. “Shall I need a great deal more practice, do you think, Rosa?” he asked knitting his brows anxiously.

Rosamunda did not answer at once but scanned his face, unsure. After a moment she smiled slightly, saying, “No, not a great deal, I should think.”

“What? I was hoping you would say I needed to practice incessantly!”

“You!” she laughed, throwing her head back onto the pillows, baring her throat and affording a glimpse of the shadowy recesses behind her white teeth. Frodo would commence his extra practice right away.

Her abandon before the onslaught of Frodo’s kisses was highly gratifying. She was quite beset. He seized the opportunity to trail his free hand beneath the coverlet. Encountering no resistance, he ran his hand up her thighs and down the satin of her belly before he ventured to touch the springy cushion of hair. She sighed and he dared to reach lower. She opened to him. Feeling bolder still he slid his fingers between into slick, moist, silky warmth. He shuddered even more than she as he insinuated his fingers here and there, apparently to great effect, for Rosamunda sighed deeply, curling into his touch like a rasher in a pan. As Frodo proceeded he felt as though he were entering a labyrinth blindfolded. His fingers found big and little folds that unfurled and closed again at his fingers’ bidding. He had not expected the place between a hobbit woman’s legs to be so … complex. How he would love to see it!

He stopped. Frodo was surprised to hear the sound of their panted breaths in the quiet, much louder than the cricket songs outside. Rosamunda relaxed her legs but looked at him, obviously puzzled. She waited.

She could only say no, he reasoned.

Frodo raised himself on his elbow again and turned to her, searching for the best words. “Rosa,” he began, haltingly, “You said I might ask you anything….”

“I did.” She answered evenly enough, but he saw a flicker of anxiousness in her eyes as she searched his face, no doubt wondering what he might have stopped to ask. The apprehension in her look unsettled Frodo and he swallowed nervously. She must have noticed; she smiled. The smile softened her eyes and warmed her voice as she asked, “What do you wish to ask?”

Frodo found his voice and stammered his request.

“Rosa, may I look at you? May I see you?”

Rosamunda’s eyebrows rose in puzzlement.

“But you have seen me, Frodo. You see me now!”

“Yes, I have seen you – and I do see you,” he continued, “But – not enough.”

“It is rather dark in here,” she conceded, glancing at the bedside candle, now burned down to a stub. “Why not fetch another candle or two? Then you could see much better. Would that suffice?” she inquired graciously.

Frodo felt exasperated – not with her but with himself. He should be bolder and speak plainer. Girding himself, he looked her in the face, and let the words tumble out before he could change his mind.

“I have seen you, Rosa, yes, and, oh, you are beautiful! I would love to look all night – at every part!” Frodo cleared his throat and prodded himself to finish. “But the most interesting parts,” he blurted, “They are not very easy to see, are they…?”

Rosamunda comprehended at last. Her eyes grew wide, and she drew back into the pillows almost imperceptibly. She opened her mouth to speak, and her lips formed an O, but only a wisp sound emerged.

On the bedside table the candle guttered and went out.

* * *

Suddenly deprived of light Rosamunda could barely see Frodo’s face before her. He was peering at her, too. But once she had got used to it, the moonlight from the window was enough to make out his features. Very earnestly, he continued.

“I should – I should very much like to look at you, Rosa,” he said, “but all of you….”

Rosamunda felt quite unnerved. That Frodo should want to see her naked was not surprising. Of course he would! Odovacar had loved looking at her. Which hobbit did not wish to feast his eyes upon the body of his lover? But Odovacar had made no such request.

Frodo leaned closer. “May I see you, Rosa?” he beseeched, “– in the light?” At once importunate and tender, it was a face that could not be denied. Rosamunda offered him a softer, almost maiden smile.

“Very well,” she answered rather unsteadily “– if you wish it.”

Frodo rose from the bed and disappeared into the gloom of the parlour. She shivered a little as she waited, listening as he searched about the cottage. He made several trips, bringing candles from every room and standing them on the dressing table opposite the bed. Then she heard rummaging in the kitchen.

When he reappeared in the bedroom doorway, he carried a lighted rush before him. Holding it aloft in his right hand, he shielded it with his left. Rosamunda almost could not breathe, so lovely was his face thus lit. With its flame screened from view, it seemed as though Frodo’s face, not the rush, was the source of light. His face burned out of the darkness like a small sun. Rosamunda lay curled on her side with a pillow plumped under her cheek, the better to behold him as he went to the dressing table and lit each candle in turn. As each wick caught and flared, an answering flame kindled in her until she blazed inside like the room, filled with golden light.

When he had lit every one, Frodo extinguished the rush and laid it on the table. Then he stood beside it, gazing thoughtfully at the floor. Rosamunda gazed, too, but only at Frodo. The commingled radiance of the burning candles bathed his body in liquid gold. All down his side his pale skin glistered and gleamed, reflecting the candles’ warmth. Every curve and dip was delineated; each outward curve casting a velvety shadow. The splendour of so much beauty smote her. She caught her breath and sighed.

* * *

At the sound, Frodo glanced up and saw upon Rosamunda’s face a look of rapture. A knot in his chest tightened. To be so looked upon! His pleasure waxed further as her eyes flickered and slid down his belly to where he sprang from the dusky triangle below. She sighed again. So profound was it, it seemed to issue from her very depths. The sound stirred Frodo to speech.

“Do you … you like looking at me, don’t you, Rosa?” he asked. He was sure she did but he wished to hear her say it.

“Oh, yes,” she breathed as if intoxicated by the sight of him, “Looking at you gives me great pleasure!”

Confidence surged through him. “Well, that is the pleasure I want,” Frodo said excitedly. “You may see me – all of me – just by my standing here before you,” he said, glancing down at himself. “But on your body, so much remains hidden ... I mayn’t see you – all of you – unless you let me.”

Frodo went to her, hoping she might see in his face the power of his feelings. Crouching beside the bed he touched her hand where it lay, tightly curled beside her cheek upon the pillow. Gently he turned it over and unfolded her fingers, smoothing them open with his hand as he began to speak.

“I wish to look at you very much, Rosa – just as you have looked at me,” he explained. “You have said you will let me, but … ‘if I wish it….’”

Frodo hesitated a moment, brushing his palm back and forth over hers before he spoke. “I want to see you terribly, Rosa, but only if it gives you pleasure, too. I don’t want you to … submit to it, because I begged it of you.”

Gazing directly into her eyes, he asked her plainly, “Tell me, Rosa, do you wish it?” He could see heat rushing up Rosamunda’s neck, scalding her cheeks. But the fire that burned in her eyes was soft and steady.

“Yes,” she answered, “I wish it.”

Silently Frodo rose and stepped across the planked flooring to the little dressing table, moving all the candles to the nearer edge. He returned to the bed and drew off the clothes. They slithered to the floor. Rosamunda scooted towards the middle in order to make him room. Frodo sat beside her, offered her a reassuring smile, and bent to kiss her. He took his time, letting her desire open her up to him. When he reached between her legs to signal his intentions, a touch sufficed to part her thighs. Then he climbed between her extended legs, propping himself on his elbows. When he had made himself comfortable, he looked into her eyes. In their jetty darkness the reflected candlelight glimmered and leapt, the tongues of flame rising and falling like her breasts as she breathed. Frodo held her gaze, waiting, letting her choose the moment. Then she drew up her knees and let them fall to either side.

“Oh…!” Frodo’s voice was hushed with wonder. “How beautiful you are!” he cried, gazing up at her.

As if his words had been the caresses of his hands, Rosamunda sighed and her eyes flooded with warmth.

Then Frodo dropped his gaze to fill his eyes with what he so long had wished to see, poring over every inch. He had reached to touch her when he checked himself, lifting his eyes to hers first. A melting smile answered his silent request and he let his fingertips alight.

Frodo traced his fingers over the contours of her body, savouring the fineness of her skin, before he trailed his fingers through her springy curls, where he revelled in the plumpness of the mounded V beneath. Then he held his breath and reached lower, taking and testing the pouting fullness of the outer folds, then drawing aside the inner ones like petals, marvelling all the while. The colours were so rich and various – not like anywhere else on her body. He thought of how the two of them matched in this one way, for only in this place was his own skin so richly-hued.

As Frodo touched her, sighs of pleasure were rising from the pillows, sighs which seemed to echo his own, although his sprang more from wonder. Then he noticed a little something nestled at the top of the intricate folds. “What is this?” he asked, indicating with a press of his finger. Rosamunda flinched.

“I am sorry,” he said, “Did that hurt?”

“No,” she answered breathily. “But that is a very sensitive place. Perhaps, if you wet your fingers….” she suggested.

Frodo slipped two in his mouth. “Is that better?” he asked. It certainly was. Tucked up against his ribs he could feel her toes curl as she moaned. Then she helped him make it better still, placing her fingers over his and showing him exactly where and which way and how fast.

"Oh, Frodo!” she gasped brokenly, “Oh ... wonderful!"

To be the author of such keen pleasure filled Frodo with unparalleled joy. What a sight she made in the candlelight! Completely open to his eyes and hands, her head was tossed back upon the pillow, while her loosened hair spilled across it. Her lips were parted as she drew sharp breaths, exhaling gusty sighs and whimpers. Her whole body quivered beneath his touch, until she was stretched taut and covered in sheen.

Suddenly Frodo paused and lifted his fingers away. Rosamunda uttered a soft, plaintive cry. He kissed the tops of her thighs.

“I just want to look at you one more time, Rosa,” he assured her before he lowered his gaze again.

How mysterious she was in her hidden places. And how powerful was the attraction those places exerted upon him – perhaps all the more because of their concealment. Unlike his parts, so exposed and obvious, hers were cloaked and subtle. As he parted the delicate veiling flesh, Frodo thought how vulnerable she looked. Beneath his fingertips he could feel the throb of her blood, as if her heart beat there, just under her skin. It was as if in this one place he could see the inside on the outside – a secret revealed – a secret just for him. As ruddy and glistening and tender as a wound – a beautiful wound. Impulsively, he kissed it.

That made a stir. He did it again. Rosamunda shuddered and whimpered. Moving higher, he ventured a kiss near the little bud that before he had pressed too hard. Better still! Encouraged by her enthusiastic response, Frodo began to use his mouth in earnest. His experimental nibbles became kisses – true kisses – the kisses of his mouth. With sweeps and flicks of his tongue he sampled and tasted, plucking up the little folds with his lips to mouth and suckle. Rosamunda wriggled and sighed in the most gratifying way.

But when he began to swirl his tongue around the swollen bud, her groans were not to be restrained. "Oh! Oh! Yes! There!” she cried through gritted teeth. Frodo could feel her thighs beginning to tremble. When he lifted his eyes to look at her he saw her head thrust back into the pillows and on her face an expression of agony. Her breasts heaved and her hands shook. When he deepened his kisses to suckles, building a steadier rhythm, she became quite beside herself. Her hips moved in helpless synchronicity as she repeated, “Oh, Frodo! Oh, Frodo – More! – That!” Relentlessly, he increased his tempo until she was uttering only shreds of his name.

Then, all of a sudden, Rosamunda stilled her movements but quivered all over, as if she were held in some state of exquisite suspension. Frodo faltered, wondering, but she reached for him wildly, grasping his shoulders and arms, crying, “No, don’t stop!” He did not stop and soon her breath came in hitches, each exhalation a sharp rasp until she gasped and her body seized. Her fingers clutched and twitched; her teeth clenched, and a stifled groan became a wail as her body snapped and released. Suddenly gone limp, her lungs filled with air and she seemed to expire before him, her lungs emptying with one long, drawn-out sigh.

Frodo did not pause to marvel, for his own need now was very great. He pushed himself up onto his hands and hovered over her only an instant before he sank himself deep inside her, as far as he might go. He thought he would expire, himself, from the glory of it, but he did not. He would not; not this time.

Inside, Rosamunda was very hot and wet – much more so than before. He would not have believed it could have been more delicious than the last time, but it was. He felt himself not only enfolded but clasped in a silky heat that throbbed around him. Rosamunda surprised him by reviving immediately. With a throaty, joyful laugh she embraced him with her legs. They were strong as they furled around the backs of his thighs and held him close and fast, but her hands she could not keep still, shifting restlessly over his body and face, as if she wished to hold him everywhere at once.

The intensity of her pleasure was terribly exciting to him, but Frodo could sense a bit more control remaining to him this time. He did not fear immediate surrender. At first he had indulged himself in a series of long, penetrating thrusts, but these proved dangerously exquisite, especially with Rosamunda moaning and shivering at his every stroke. He found he could more safely make smaller movements, shallow dips like a bird sipping nectar from a flower. Rosamunda made cooing, dove-like noises as she wound her arms around his waist to pull him closer, releasing his thighs to use her feet against the mattress to raise her hips and angle herself differently beneath him.

Then her eyes became desperate with desire and she began to pant. Inside she was wetter than ever, while her heated flesh gripped and squeezed him tighter still. He did not know how he would bear it. Her cries became thin and high as her hands fell away. She was on the brink, he now knew. Faster, he went, delivering quick, chasing thrusts until she gasped his name once. “Frodo!” she cried as her body clenched round him in a series of spasms. Frodo then threw away all restraint and plunged with everything he had and the great oak bed trembled beneath them. As if from far away, he heard her crying out when a great crest of ecstasy curved over him and broke, tumbling him over and over in a froth of pleasure, the great swells surging around him and through him. But as the flood receded, Frodo felt himself borne upon a sea of sweetness. Waves undulated beneath him as they carried him gently onto the warm shingle that was Rosamunda’s breast. He lay panting in the ebb.

* * *

Rosamunda wrapped her arms about her lover as if her heart would burst from gratitude and joy.

“I had forgotten!” she sobbed into his neck, stroking his hair.

“I want you never to forget me, Rosa,” he said. He held her face between his hands and peered into her face. He wetted his thumb and drew it along the side of her face, just above her cheekbone. She smiled to see a smudge of flour when he lifted it for her inspection. Then he eased himself to the side, gathered her in a loose embrace, draping her with an arm and knee.

As they lay in silence, Rosamunda listened to the sounds of the night and their own breaths as they quieted. The candles were nearly burnt out; a breeze from the window plucking at their flames and making them flicker. She should get up, she thought, and quench them. Frodo would need to shift. But when she turned to speak to him she saw he was already fast asleep.

* * *

Chapter 8 – The Rising of Bread.

1400, June 26, Afterlithe ~ Bag End.

The next morning, Bilbo was able to make some headway in his work on Dwarves in the Second Age. After picking at his elevenses, however, he puttered around the house – casting an eye out the windows – when he couldn't help it. He took further sustenance an hour later, then went and sat outside on one of the benches in the gardens.

It was very fine out. The sun-baked flags radiated a comfortable degree of warmth through the bottoms of his feet. Pulling out his pipe, he prepared it while admiring the work of Sam and the Gaffer, in evidence all around him. The first flowers of summer were just passing their peaks. The oranges and scarlets and deep pinks of Bag End's high summer garden were showing their heads in the midst of the waning riot of purples, blues and yellows. From his seat, Bilbo could see the labourers striking the biggest tents of Lithe from the Party Field. Everything else had been taken away the day before. He had been closeted in his study, however, and had not seen it.

Bilbo smoked, paying only fitful attention to the gardens or the goings-on below. It was the Hill rising up behind him that drew his eye. The leaves of the great oak that grew there stirred and glittered in the light breeze under the brilliant sun. Although he tried not to, he caught himself glancing over his shoulder not once, but several times in the space of so many minutes. Confound it! Where was the boy? Not a boy, he reminded himself. It still took getting used to.

Looking at the garden dial, Bilbo saw that the sun was past its zenith. He watched the afternoon shadows stretch past the noon mark until his pipe went out. He might as well go back inside, he thought. Before he went in, he ventured one more glance back at the Hill and at the lane that curled around from Overhill behind it. There was nothing.

The interior of the house seemed dim after the glare of the midsummer sun. Bright spots swam before his eyes. On a whim, he walked back down the hall to Frodo’s room, which stood at the end. Bilbo cherished his own privacy and had hoped that Frodo would feel the same. Frodo had.

The door was part-way open, just as it had been when Bilbo had got up that morning and glanced that way. But, now that he actually stood in the threshold, Bilbo saw that Frodo’s clothes from the night before were strewn in a trail that led beyond his sight. Bilbo tiptoed in.

Frodo had been there all the time! Bilbo could have smacked his brow for a simpleton if it wouldn’t have made too much noise. Of course! Rosamunda wouldn’t allow Frodo to come sauntering back in broad day light. Bilbo gazed at his nephew, still fast asleep. A smile crept over his face, crinkling all the way up into the corners of his eyes.

Frodo hadn’t bothered with a night shirt, Bilbo could see, but it was warm enough without one. His nephew lay sprawled on his stomach beneath a rumple of summer linens, his arms and legs going this way and that, rather like a sprinter who had been stricken mid-race. His breathing was deep and peaceful.

Frodo would not be up any time soon, he guessed. When had the lad got to bed? Well, not to bed, but to sleep, Bilbo corrected himself, his eyes twinkling. When he tiptoed out and went to the kitchen, he was feeling very much improved.

Should he have lunch? No, he’d just have another little taste of something to tide him over until tea. Surely Frodo would be up by then. Bilbo didn’t like to admit it, but he had actually missed the lad, once he wasn’t there. But now that he knew Frodo was home and under his roof, he felt up to having another go at his book.

Yes, he decided, patting his waistcoat smartly with open palms. Just a snack would do for the time being, then a good-sized tea, later – with Frodo.

* * *

When Frodo did emerge, the afternoon was well advanced. He was dressed and looked as though he’d washed, the curls around his face showing the damp. Already busy in the kitchen, Bilbo restrained himself from staring at his nephew openly.

“Hungry?” Bilbo asked, with only the briefest glance at Frodo’s face.

“Starved!” Frodo answered, stretching.

Bilbo shooed his nephew’s hand away from the serving plate. “Just wait! Everything’s ready. I’ll take this. You tip those off and bring them with you.” Upon the stove, a batch of sweet rolls stood puffed up high upon a baking sheet. Heat was still rising from them.

Frodo fingered them gingerly onto a plate and carried them in behind, holding them up to his face to take in their fragrance. “Are these the honey ones?” he asked. “They smell like it, but even better.”

“Honey almond," Bilbo answered. "When I was at the merchant's last week he let me know he'd got some almonds in from the South, by way of Bree. He let me have a good-sized sack at a pretty price: a couple of bottles of my best. But I think these rolls are worth it."

Bilbo plucked up a warm roll, taking an appreciative whiff. Pulling it open, he spread it with a lump of butter and let it melt. Frodo dribbled his with honey, as well.

Nothing else was said until they had worked their way from warm rolls to the cheese and meat. Both of them seemed to want to say something, but neither knew where to begin.

Bilbo decided to go first.

“Will you be going back to Rosamunda’s?” he asked, keeping his eyes on the piece of bread as he piled it with alternating slices. He looked up only when he sensed Frodo’s eyes upon him.

“Tonight.”

A teasing exclamation was on the tip of Bilbo’s tongue. Already? he was about to ask with a wink and a grin, but something in the younger hobbit’s face kept it back. Frodo smiled, but the smile was soft and diffuse, more reflective than jubilant. Bilbo searched for a better tone before he ventured a response.

“You enjoyed yourself, then?” he asked, but was taken aback when Frodo reached across the table and covered Bilbo’s hand with his.

“Oh, Uncle,” Frodo replied, “It was – she was – I am so happy!”

The older hobbit averted his eyes from the spectacle of Frodo’s remembered rapture. It was something Bilbo himself had never felt in all his experience. He did not wish Frodo to see his own sudden regret.

“I hope you made her happy, too!” he twinkled cheerfully, instead.

Frodo dropped his eyes as colour mounted to his cheeks. “Yes – that is – I learned to.”

“Good! Well done, Frodo!” Bilbo exclaimed with hearty bluster, relieved to see the characteristic blush. Retrieving his hand, he gave Frodo's hand a pat and returned to his meal with zest.

That was more like it, he thought – much more familiar territory. Frodo, however, said no more.

Bilbo flourished the last roll before his nephew, the one that had been the largest. "Take it! Go on, I've had enough. You need it more, I think," he added with a quick grin.

Accepting the roll, Frodo smiled at Bilbo's raillery, but made no further remark.

Bilbo continued with verve, "Though I say it myself, these buns turned out exceptionally well, don't you think?"

Frodo's mouth was full but he nodded his enthusiastic assent. When he had swallowed he smiled again at his uncle, but said nothing. A very warm, appreciative smile, Bilbo thought, but the lad was doing next to nothing to liven up the conversation. He wished to rouse Frodo from this state or mood, but was not making much headway. The lad seemed…Bilbo did not quite know what Frodo seemed. Happy, certainly; attentive – yet – a little subdued, even removed.

Well, of course he was a bit removed! Frodo's mind was otherwise engaged, under the circumstances, Bilbo snorted to himself. Frodo would make better company once this first burst of passion was over and done with, he shouldn't wonder. It would all become routine – it was just a matter of time. But time was growing shorter for the two of them, just a little, was it not…?

Pish and bother. Bilbo would not think of that, not just now. He could indulge himself in such thoughts once Frodo had gone out. He wanted no shadow cast upon the time they had remaining.

Snapping the crumbs from his napkin, Bilbo rose. When Frodo stood to join him and began to clear away, Bilbo stopped him with a hand to his arm, saying, “Never mind these for now, my lad. It is so fine, let's go out and have a bit of a walk, shall we?”

"Yes, Bilbo, I should like that very much." Slipping on his waistcoat, Frodo joined his uncle at the door. The afternoon was well advanced when they walked out and down the Row: two hobbits, arm in arm, out for a stroll.

Bilbo didn't get much out of his nephew as they walked, but Frodo was companionable enough, joining in whenever the elder hobbit raised his voice in song. The shadows were getting long when they decided to round off the afternoon with a few mugs down at the Ivy Bush.

Back at home, they read until their dinner, which they brought outside to the garden. As they ate the sun began to sink behind the Hill. Frodo joined Bilbo in a glass of fine sweet wine to go with afters, taking it in little sips. With effort, Bilbo refrained from making a toast to Frodo's successful first night. Nor did he suggest a second glass. Bilbo could see the younger hobbit’s eyes glancing towards the north-west with imperfectly concealed anticipation. No, Frodo would not be staying. Bilbo did not need to ask.

* * *

Bilbo watched Frodo settle into a routine with Rosamunda, but not one that evidenced a subsiding of their mutual interest. After three weeks Bilbo saw his nephew no more than he had after the first night. Rosamunda dined with them at Bag End twice or thrice, but they had all been rather awkward together. Frodo had been unable to keep his eyes off Rosa and she, abashed by the attention paid her before his uncle, attempted to hold up the conversation for the both of them. It was just as well that Frodo saw her elsewhere (at this stage, in any case).

When it got dark Frodo would walk the hills to Rosamunda’s, coming back home by dawn. The mornings, and sometimes the early afternoons, Frodo slept away. Bilbo worked, closeted in his study.

Frodo slept through Sam's visits, too. Samwise long had been having lessons from Bilbo and still did, once or twice a week during second breakfast or elevenses, depending on the work at hand. Sam had learned his letters years before, but now it was the tales he wanted. He knew them by ear but longed to read them for himself. Frodo usually sat in on these, ostensibly to help, but more for the fun of watching Bilbo teach and embroider upon the histories as written.

Now Bilbo led his pupil through the texts without the extra listener. If Frodo continued to fail to appear, young Sam didn't complain – and didn't ask questions. An early riser, Sam had his own ideas as to what might be keeping Mr. Frodo so late abed.

When Frodo did get up, he would join Bilbo for luncheon or tea. Then they would do something together, whether seeing to business, going for a walk or a paying a call. Although it was unspoken they reserved their afternoons for each other. Even if they stayed in, if Frodo was working on a journal or deciphering a text, Bilbo made it clear he might be consulted without Frodo receiving a sense that he was interrupting.

After supper they would stroll down to the Ivy Bush or, less often, to the Green Dragon which was further off. These visits were a long-standing ritual of summer. High summer could be hot and the ale houses were dark and cool. Whenever Bilbo made an entrance he was always greeted fulsomely. He was an esteemed raconteur – as well as being good for several rounds. If Bilbo preferred to stay at home, Frodo would go on his own. He also was good for several rounds but was less accomplished as a story-teller. His arrival, therefore, was not greeted with quite as much popular notice. On his own, Frodo did not stay as long, leaving before sunset – not just that he might get back to Bilbo – but in order to get a good start on the night ahead.

In this way, Frodo was missed by some of his friends, the ones who came by after dusk.

* * *

July 14, the night of the new moon ~ Hobbiton.

It was not yet sunset when Frodo excused himself from all and sundry at the 'Bush. Even the Gamgees were not nearly finished, and they were usually the first to leave, on account of their early work day during summer.

Stepping out of the cool of the inn into the built-up warmth of the afternoon, Frodo ran smack into Folco and Marco Boffin, just walking up. This was a bit of bad luck. Frodo stopped, receiving their warm greetings. He cared for the Boffins, but inwardly he wished to be gone.

"You're not leaving, are you, Frodo?" Marco, the youngest of the Boffin brothers exclaimed with open disappointment. "Why, Rollo is here! He's just on his way down now, Frodo." Rollo, the eldest of the many Boffins, was already married to a North-Took lass and lived up near Long Cleeve, on the edge of the North Farthing's moors where the hunting was still quite good.

"Stay for a round or two, at least," Marco implored.

The sight of the sun, lower now in the sky, exerted the stronger pull on Frodo.

"I am sorry, Marco, really," Frodo said, excusing himself. "I'm just off home, actually. Another time? Give Rollo my greetings, though, will you?"

Folco gave Frodo a sidelong look – a rather knowing one, Frodo thought. The sensation of alarm it occasioned made the tips of his ears tingle. He hoped he wasn't beginning to blush. Such a thing would never go unremarked by his friend. But Folco only said, "All right then, Frodo. Another time it must be." Yet his black eyes twinkled as he clapped Frodo on the shoulder. "Give my fondest regards to your uncle,” he said, “if that's where you really are going, you sly dog!"

Folco's wink and manner were so broad, however, Frodo felt sure he was only teasing.

As soon as he saw the Boffins step inside the inn, Frodo was off, feeling much relieved.

* * *

The sun was beginning to drop behind the crest of the Hill when Frodo got back to Bag End. He would just say a quick good night. Conveying Folco's greetings to Bilbo, Frodo dashed inside to change. His clothes reeked of pipeweed and slopped ale, he had noticed. Perhaps a quick wash would be in order, too.

When Frodo emerged, he found Bilbo still sitting outside in the garden, his wine beside him on the bench, his pipe in his hand, ready to fill. Immediately, Frodo warmed to the sight of the old hobbit and checked his headlong rush. It was not as though he was expected at a certain hour and minute, not really. Joining his uncle, he sat where Bilbo had patted the bench in invitation.

"Bless me! I thought you had gone on, hours ago." Looking Frodo over, Bilbo noted the change of clothes. "Yes, those will do nicely. Though I must say, Rosa does not seem much interested in what you've got on," he said, leaning his shoulder into his nephew’s.

Frodo smiled and dropped his eyes, but exhibited only the slightest blush. "I dare say you are right, uncle," he admitted with a chuckle. "But I thought they smelled of tavern."

"I see. Women and smells. Just as I warned you, my lad." Bilbo seemed pleased to have elicited a grin. Lifting the bottle, he ventured, "Won't you join me? You'll just need to pop in and fetch a cup."

Frodo brought another capacious goblet and sat down. Topping Bilbo's, he poured his own. The sound of the wine filling its bowl seemed loud, as if he were filling a basin. The breeze had dropped to nothing. Distant sounds of isolated hobbits down the Row, doing last homely chores came up to them with remarkable clarity. Frodo drank, lifting the bowl to his lips between his cupped hands. Even his swallow sounded loud to him.

Together they sat and luxuriated in the quiet.

"Look. The sun is setting," Frodo said, his voice trailing off as together they watched the splendour of the last slanted rays striking the contours of the land that stretched off into the east beyond them, saturating everything in richest hues of purple and red and gold. His uncle's soft, enraptured voice only enhanced the loveliness of the scene.

"Ah, Frodo…! On an evening such as this, I wonder how I could ever leave!"

Frodo said nothing, his eyes and thoughts filled with the beautifully lit prospect before them. But in the ensuing pause he realized he was expected to comment.

"Leave? How could you? You know you never would," Frodo laughed. "What would become of Bag End? The Sackville-Bagginses would pounce – and you couldn't let that happen!"

A little under the influence of the wine, Bilbo leaned into Frodo again, saying in conspiratorial tones, "the Sackville-Bagginses … Hah! They shall never have Bag End! It is you who shall live on here after me, of course. It will be your Bag End. And your children's." Bilbo followed this with a series of affirming pats on his heir's arm.

Frodo, himself beginning to feel the effects of the wine on top of a few tankards of ale, returned his uncle’s affectionate nudge.

"Oh, Uncle,” he chuckled. “You're not on about dying again, are you? You are far too fit to alarm me, I'm afraid! No more, please, of 'When I am gone,' or 'When I have left you at last!' It seems to me that you will be around for many years to come!"

Bilbo did not comment, but poured himself another glass, watching with pronounced attention as the last of the ruddy liquid poured out in a dwindling stream. Picking up his pipe, he gazed into the empty bowl.

Then, lifting his eyes to his nephew, Bilbo said, "Would you care for a pipe before you go?"

Bilbo’s voice was cheerful, but his eyes bore just a trace of wistfulness, Frodo thought.

The softer shades of early twilight illumined his uncle's familiar face. But the twilight also spoke to Frodo of the cottage – of Rosa waiting. A breeze rose and the first songs of the night birds were struck up. Frodo felt it as a cue.

"Actually, Bilbo, I think I should be off." Frodo's tone was hearty as he tossed off the last of his wine, feeling its effects in earnest. Standing, he added, "But I shall take you up on the offer of a pipe tomorrow."

Frodo had to force himself to look at Bilbo beside him, for he did not want to see that his uncle wished him to linger. But Bilbo's wistful look had become merely thoughtful. He seemed about to speak, and Frodo paused, his eyebrows lifted encouragingly.

Bilbo merely observed his nephew, smiled, then grinned. With a laugh, Bilbo waved Frodo away with the back of his hand, saying, "Oh, be off, for heaven's sake!" He snorted out another laugh, but paused to add quite warmly, "I shall look forward to that pipe, Frodo."

Frodo stooped to kiss his uncle's soft cheek. Fighting off the rising love he felt for the old hobbit, Frodo turned from him where he sat, and strode away.

Bilbo watched as Frodo leapt easily up the bank, in spite of the wine and ale. At the top, Frodo paused, turning to give his now customary farewell wave. Then he was gone from sight.

* * *

Just after sunset ~ Rosa's cottage.

Looking out the open door at the pink and gold and azure light, Rosamunda leaned into a batch of dough, readying it for the first rise. The oven glowed behind her but did not make the room hot, now that the cool of evening had come. The colours of twilight, visible through the windows and open door, were so lovely she let one lamp suffice. Little light was needed, she knew her work well.

Rosamunda was a talented cook; she loved good food and was willing to prepare it, but she had not the artisan's delight in execution. Cooking was merely the necessary means to a desirable end. Bread, however, she loved to make.

It had grown too warm in the last weeks to do any baking by the time she had got up – keeping such late hours as she did these days. As she never knew just when Frodo might arrive, she preferred to keep herself busy with work for her hands in the latter part of the day. It kept her from fretting or becoming impatient and, sometimes, it kept off desire. But not bread-making. It only exacerbated it, she was learning.

She had always found the kneading of dough satisfying labour, but now, as thoughts of her lover flowed through her mind, the actions were almost mesmerizing. Everything about it recalled some facet of love. Such simple ingredients, mixed together. A pinch of yeast quickened the loaf and made it big-bellied. Up to the surface the yeast rose, frothing in its little bowl, earthy and pungent, spreading its rich, creamy head. Then, onto the board it all went where, under the work of her hands, what started out stiff and unpromising came to life. Firm and resilient, then – yielding under the rhythmic push and pull – satin-surfaced, supple and altogether pleasurable to touch.

The aroma of the dough wafted up and Rosamunda breathed it in, luxuriating in the smell. The smell of bread at every stage delighted her, whether that of the kneaded dough as it warmed under the hands, or the intoxicating aroma of it baking. These were better to her than lavender or roses! She hoped the cottage would be filled with the smell of bread when Frodo arrived. If he was not very late, Frodo might have some while it was warm, just as he liked it best – smothered with butter and honey. Warm or cool, he would want it. Frodo might be coming of age but he still had a youth's appetite. He certainly did. A growing one, she chuckled appreciatively.

Then Rosamunda paused, thinking of her own appetite, also growing. She did not chuckle at that. In fact, it troubled her. Although she continued to remind herself daily it could not go on, she was doing nothing about it. In fact, she anticipated his coming more and more. She must make a better effort! She would start tonight.

Ah, tonight…

Oh, dear, now she was becoming warm. Her hair was coming down, too. One strand was being particularly tiresome, hanging over her eye. Her fingers filmed-over with dough, she tried blowing it away, but it would not budge, floating back down each time. Giving it up, she paused to smooth the strand away with the back of her hand, glancing up as she did so.

For a second Rosamunda started, seeing a figure there, silhouetted against the round of the open doorway, for she had heard no sound of steps approaching. It was only Frodo, of course. But the little jolt she had felt did not disappear, but dispersed through her as prickles of heat, making a circuit over her skin, spiralling up from the soles of her feet all the way into the her scalp. Stop it, at once, she admonished.

Bother! He wasn't even yet in the room.

* * *

"You are making bread in the dark?" Frodo enquired, laughing with gentle incredulity. "Here; I'll bring more light."

Surveying the sideboard he chose another tall lamp, rather than candles, which were comparatively short. Lighting the lamp, he carried it to the table and set it down where it might illuminate her work better.

"There. How is that?" he asked.

"I suppose it has become rather dark in here, hasn't it? Thank you, Frodo."

Rosamunda glanced up, giving him a quick smile of gratitude, but dropped her eyes again. She did not look at him, only at her work.

Frodo chose a spot directly across from her, in order to watch. The light from the lamps glowed and wavered, playing across her face, making shimmers in her gold-brown hair. Her lashes cast shadows upon her cheeks, gleaming and burnished by the sun. She seemed too absorbed in her work to notice him, so Frodo could look his fill.

Rosamunda wore her usual clothes, a long-sleeved bodice tucked into skirts and an apron tied about her waist. The bodice was buttoned up most of the way but her sleeves were pushed up for working. She must be very warm, Frodo thought, especially with the shift she probably wore beneath. She did look a little flushed. Each time Rosamunda reached, he noted the way the cloth of her sleeves strained over her shapely arms in little folds and creases. Following the line of her arms to her shoulders, he paused to admire their comely strength before he let his eyes descend. Frodo again was grateful that Rosa disdained the use of stays for, oh! the weighty richness of her breasts – like fruit that swayed from the ends of branches ripe for the plucking.

Frodo sighed; he would be content with looking only. He had arrived determined not to become carried away.

While attending to the matter beneath her hands, Rosamunda spoke.

"I had put off lighting another lamp, before, on account of the heat," she explained. "And I wanted to see the colours. Outside, I mean – the colours of the twilight."

Rosamunda gazed out the doorway behind him, savouring the last of the twilight she loved. But Frodo was looking at her.

"Besides," she added, leaning into the push before pulling up the dough to bring it back, "I have done this so often, I don't really need to see. I can tell what I’m doing, just by the feel."

These appeared to be ill-chosen words, Frodo could see, for Rosamunda ducked her head as if suddenly embarrassed. Roses bloomed beneath the brown of her throat and cheeks. Humour won out, though, and a smile tugged up the corners of her mouth and mirth frothing up into giggles, restrained only by the back of her hand. Nearly composed, she risked a look at Frodo.

Colour had streaked up his own neck, he knew; his cheeks felt hot. She would see it, surely, as well as the look in his eyes. Indeed, at the sight of him, Rosamunda's mirth vanished. She would not – or could not – hold his gaze. She turned instead to her work.

Frodo had caught the glitter in her darkened eyes, however, and noticed the hitch in her breath. Even from the other side of the table he knew the blood was rising in her, humming a song he could only sense, not hear – an echo of the rising chorus outside of crickets and frogs as the twilight deepened into night. Frodo felt it rising within himself. Who would succumb to its music first?

Frodo had entered the cottage resolved to hold back, which meant, in practice, making Rosamunda wait. When he would arrive, she was usually so keen, Frodo would become quite swept away under her heady ministrations. Spurred by her ardour, he would plunge ahead, soon to outpace her in excitement and she would be left behind. She seemed to love to ravish him on the spot.

In the beginning, Frodo was keen to be ravished. He would be abashed but she would laugh, saying it would take the edge off – for later – and so it did. But now, Frodo felt the need to show more self-command – if not for her, then for himself. It fretted him that he was always the first to succumb. Or, nearly always.

This time, he meant to somehow keep her off; this time, Frodo meant to ravish her first.

But now that he was here, Rosamunda was showing a marked degree of reserve. Perversely, Frodo found he badly wanted to break down that reserve. He shook his head at himself for only a moment, then gave it no further thought.

He moved against her at once, with the weapon of proximity.

"May I help?" Frodo asked, beginning to move around the table.

Rosamunda smiled, but her eyes were on the table top, where she was sprinkling a bit more flour. "Thank you, Frodo," she answered, "but I am almost finished. Just a bit more, now. Then, into the bowl, for the rising."

Her manner was bright but her voice sounded a little constricted.

Frodo came to stand beside her, as if to watch. And he did watch.

Her breaths were coming quicker now, as he stood so close. She worked with greater vigour. He saw and could almost feel the press of the heels of her hands as she sank her weight into the push away, then gathered the dough to lift it deftly for the turn. With each push her long fingers flexed and splayed, up and apart. Frodo thought of her legs, the night before. The dough looked glossy and smooth as it stretched, pliant under her expert touch.

As she would become under his, he thought.

Frodo felt a little parched; he could do with another cup of Bilbo’s wine right now. He licked his lips and swallowed.

"I'll just get some water, Rosa. Would you like some?"

She gave him a glancing smile as she thanked him but declined. Reconsidering, she accepted, draining the cup he gave her quickly. She accepted another. Frodo tried not to watch her tip her head back to finish the last of it, her strong neck stretched in a graceful arch as the liquid coursed down her throat.

“How long for the rise?” Frodo asked, recovering himself. He moved a little closer to enjoy the affect he was having upon her.

“In this warmth, only about an hour – maybe less," she said, drawing the back of her hand across her brow to remove the errant strand of hair.

In this warmth, indeed, Frodo thought.

He leaned in close, taking in her scent.

“An hour? – that should be enough,” Frodo softly said, venturing a kiss in the fragrant hair behind her ear.

Rosamunda trembled and Frodo rejoiced, but she pressed on towards her work's completion, moulding the dough into a fat round. Pulling a heavy earthenware bowl towards her, it scraped loudly as it scudded across the table.

"Hand me the butter, Frodo, would you, please?"

Frodo espied it at the far end of the table, softened and spreading upon a plate. He gave it to her but she still avoided his glance as she took it. Piqued by her restraint, Frodo stepped behind her and slipped his arms around her waist, resting his chin upon her shoulder, as if to watch. He thought he heard her make a little squeak. He smiled.

"You are distracting me, Frodo," she admitted, scrunching up her shoulder to dislodge his chin.

"I know," he answered simply. Rosamunda sighed dramatically, lifting his chin as she did so, but also her breasts, he noticed.

Swiping off a generous portion, she smeared the butter between her fingers and palms. It made a squeaky, slippery noise and the smell of it wafted up to Frodo's nose. He watched as she gingerly took up the ball of dough and tossed and turned it gently between her fingers, coating it thinly all around. Nestling himself up close behind her, he enjoyed all the sympathetic movements this made.

Rosamunda appeared to be satisfied with her work. Setting the buttered round into the base of the crockery bowl, she covered it with a thin, damp towel that lay ready nearby. Frodo felt her exhalation of completion against his chest, as he held her in an easy but close embrace.

At last, he thought.

He watched Rosamunda examine her buttery hands then pluck up a towel, with which she began to wipe them clean. She had finished one, but Frodo intercepted her before she could wipe off the other.

Clasping her wrist, he drew her buttery hand up and away, holding her around the waist with his other arm. Her head naturally followed in the direction of the hand that Frodo had seized, presenting a tempting expanse of her very sensitive neck. Frodo paused in his purpose and assailed her there, in ways he knew she loved. The resulting shivers and sighs gratified him. They also removed any resistance, as he continued to bring up her captive hand behind her. The gentle backwards pull induced Rosamunda's back to arch; the shivers coursing through her caused her knees to weaken and bend; and all encouraged a tilt to her hips that fitted her more snugly against Frodo's already heated groin.

Ah, yes...Frodo thought, arching his neck and pulling air in through his teeth at the feel of her settling back against him. The urge to rip open his breeches and hike up her skirts at once possessed him but, with a fresh effort of will, he restrained himself. He would content himself merely to savour the warmth between the springy hillocks of her hips, discernible through the layers of cloth. She felt him, he was sure, for she lurched away with a tiny gasp, but acquiesced at once when he pressed her back with a splayed hand, lower now, just below her belly. Like that – There…

Frodo joined her in a shudder as he finished drawing her hand all the way up and back, till it was just behind her shoulder, her buttered palm facing him.

"Oh, you will get my hair all buttery, Frodo," she protested when she finally noticed where her hand was. She tried to retrieve it in vain.

"No I won't," Frodo answered smoothly. Popping a buttery finger into his mouth and then another, he sucked and licked off every bit, in his most luxurious manner.

"Oh! Oh!" Rosamunda cried, soft and high, as she wriggled her legs together in an excess of pleasure – which wriggled everything else.

Oh, oh, indeed, Frodo thought, again fighting off the urge to take her then and there against the kitchen table. He had pictured it often enough. Obviously, her fingers were exceedingly sensitive. Her palm, too, he noted, which was very buttery as well. He licked that off with the flat of his tongue, but across the dip in the middle, where the butter was thickest, he had to rake his teeth. Finally, sucking up the pad of flesh in the angle between her fingers and thumb, he laved it with a finishing swirl and sweep.

This brought on a fresh wave of sighs and whimpers – high but more drawn out. They were wonderful to hear. Frodo had no need to hold her to him any longer; she was pressing back against him and moving herself all about. Reaching her free hand up to find his neck, she twisted her fingers into the hair at his nape. She wanted him closer; she wanted to kiss him – he knew it.

This was becoming too much for Frodo, but he was determined not to surrender. There would be no surrender but hers. He would render her senseless, as senseless as she made him. Withdrawing her fingers from his mouth, he would let her know of this.

"Do you know, Rosa," Frodo began evenly, in spite of the huskiness in his voice – "Do you know how it feels when you do this to me?" Frodo demonstrated what he meant, slowly sliding a finger all the way into his mouth, then dragging it back through a gauntlet of suction and lips and more teeth and always a strong, sinuous tongue flickering, slithering, enfolding and grasping as he moved it slowly in, then out.

Rosamunda made him no answer, but Frodo expected none. Rather, he felt her grow weak, as if she might faint beneath his arm, but for the clutch of her fingers in his hair which she did not give up. He caught her up again with his free arm, rejoicing in her affliction. There would be no fainting, not yet.

Frodo's own breaths were beginning to come too quickly. His little demonstration was taking an unexpected toll on him. Trying to fight his rising desire only seemed to make him feel its effects more keenly. His actions became impatient, almost brusque. Pulling her against him with a rough jerk, he squeezed her under her ribs and tightened his grasp around her wrist. He heard her sharp intake of breath, but compressing her body under his hands seemed to make it easier to keep his mouth soft and silky upon her fingers.

"Your fingers are very sensitive, Rosa, are they not?" he said, forcing himself to breathe more slowly. "Yet, my body, in your mouth, is far more sensitive than your fingers." She wilted with new pleasure as he demonstrated again.

"You like that, don't you, Rosa, your fingers in my mouth? That is what it's like when you have me in yours – only so much worse!"

Frodo loosened his grip for a moment, sensing he was beginning to cross some boundary; but, having crossed it, he squeezed again. He could hear a new strain in his voice, as if he spoke through clenched teeth. Rosamunda must have heard it, too, for her body had stilled. She felt suddenly uneasy in his rigid embrace; alerted; listening.

Where was he going with this? Frodo wondered to himself. He did not clearly know. Gulping down another lung full of air, he strove to finish – but to finish what? He plunged ahead, heedless.

"I want you to know what it feels like, Rosa," Frodo said, his voice rising. He heard the edge in it, but could not sheath it. He yanked her against him again to keep himself from shouting.

"I want you to know what you do to me – what you make me feel. I want you to feel it! I want to make you feel it!"

Rosamunda twisted around to face him, in spite of her captured wrist. Looking into Frodo's flushed face, her eyes blazed.

"You say you want to ‘make me feel it.’ Feel what? What do you want me to feel? Do you really not know what you make me feel? You cannot tell? I am astonished! Must I have one of these for you to be able to tell?"

She had grasped Frodo through the cloth of his breeches, startling more than hurting him, but he grimaced and let her go.

She stumbled backwards, but pressed up close to him again to say in a subdued but almost fierce voice, "Well, Frodo, you must look for other signs, mustn't you!"

Frodo nearly shrank from her, feeling thoroughly chastened.

Rosamunda appeared to relent at the sight his dismay and altered her tone at once. Reaching out her hands she touched his face with her fingertips, as if she might feel out his thoughts.

"You do everything to make me ache to touch you, Frodo. Surely you see how you have succeeded. Or … is it your success that you regret? Oh, I do not understand what it is you want of me."

Upon the last, Rosamunda dropped her hands and turned away.

It felt to Frodo as if a portion of the room's warmth suddenly had withdrawn with her, clinging to her skirts as they swung away from him.

What did he want of her? He wanted everything she did to him. He would die without it!

He would die without it….but would she die without it? Frodo felt as though he had trod upon a serpent. Oh, he did not know, not yet! But he must speak.

"Rosa…I don't know. That is, I meant – I think – I wanted you to feel – I just want to think that you care for me, too."

Frodo struggled to find better words.

"I know that I please you –" Frodo saw her shoulders flinch. "But," he said, taking a deep breath, "I do not know –"

Frodo halted and stared at his feet. He could not say it. He would have said, I know that I please you – but I do not know that you love me. He did not say it, for he could not. If she did not love him, he did not want to know.

Frodo was relieved to look up and see Rosamunda turning to him again, with a softened face, the face he knew. She looked into his eyes. He was not certain what she saw there, for he could not veil them from her, but her own eyes shone. She came to him and twined her arms around him, swift and sure, and he felt no further reservations in that instant.

"I do care for you, Frodo!" she said, one hand upon his cheek, her dark eyes engaging his.

Frodo averted his gaze to hide his disappointment in a kiss upon her neck.

I do care for you. She might have said that to him when he was little! But that was all he had said to her, Frodo admitted to himself, nuzzling his face into her hair, burying himself in her fragrance. He must tell her how he felt at some point, or he would burst! Their private little summer was coming to an end, Frodo knew, however much he pushed the thought aside. He must tell her, and tell her soon.

But not tonight, he thought, wrapping his arms around her as far as they would go, savouring her soft closeness.

The room was restored to warmth.

"Do you think the dough is ready yet?" Frodo murmured behind her ear.

Gently, Rosamunda pushed his shoulders back to look at him. She smiled the smile he loved, tender and familiar.

"There is only one way to know for sure," she answered. "We must go and see." She brushed his nose with hers and gave his lips a feathery kiss.

Their arms about each other's waists, they moved towards the kitchen table.

* * *

"Check the fire, would you, Frodo?” Rosamunda said. “You could help with the bread, if you would like."

Rosamunda lifted the dampened cloth and examined the state of the dough.

Frodo prodded and stirred the fire in the box, adding a bit more fuel.

Rosamunda was aware that Frodo knew his way around a kitchen, but Bilbo took charge of all the baking at Bag End. Bilbo had insisted, however, that Frodo help him at every step, so that he might learn. Rosamunda knew from humorous tales that Frodo was an indifferent cook who had to be prodded.

Pressing a finger into the risen round, Rosamunda checked its progress. It sighed and did not return the imprint.

"It is ready," she said. "There is enough to make two. Would you like to do one of them, Frodo? Or would you rather not?"

She thought he might acquiesce, simply to be polite, but he actually looked pleased.

"Yes! I enjoy making the loaves," he answered, smiling brightly.

She knocked it down and cut it in two, handing him a half. On the dusted table they set to work. Frodo pressed and pummelled his portion out flat, then tucked it under into a round, very neat, pinching the overlaps to seal them well.

Rosa was taking her time with hers, the handling of the finished dough being her favourite part.

"I want to see you make a long one, Rosa," Frodo smirked, sending them both into snorts of mirth.

She arched a brow but, grinning, did so – stretching and rolling and squeezing the dough – punctuated throughout with moans and sighs interspersed with giggles in which Frodo joined. He added a few groans and yelps when she pinched it under, at the ends.

The atmosphere seemed quite relaxed again. What sort of mood had he been in, she wondered?

Carefully, Rosamunda laid her loaf down one side of the tray she had buttered and dusted with meal, inviting Frodo to do the same. She covered them both with the dampened towel.

"It's not quite so warm now – but they should be ready in another hour or so," she said, straightening the corners of the towel. But even as she glanced up, Frodo had already slipped behind her, pulling her to him in a close embrace.

"Oh, Rosa!" Frodo sighed into her ear, kissing her in earnest up and down her neck, while his hands travelled up over her breasts and down her belly with fluid motions, leaving trails of effervescent sensation everywhere in their wake. She felt herself melting into him, so closely pressed behind her, as if the intervening hour had not happened.

She gave herself up to whatever he might do to her.

Off came the apron, which Frodo tossed on the table. Then he began to unbutton her bodice – he was much better at this now. His motions were not hampered by his usual haste; soon he had them easily undone. Reaching inside he touched the cloth of her shift. She felt a disappointed snuff of warm air behind her ear but then a grunt of satisfaction when he found the little ribbon ties that went all down the front. The shift was one she had worn when nursing Estella – or perhaps it was as old as Freddy – for Rosamunda never stopped wearing the things that she loved. These shifts had long plackets down the front, tied together with ribbons.

Leisurely, Frodo pulled each tie undone, assailing her neck and shoulders in a most delicious manner as he did so. Rosamunda felt herself swaying and listing, becoming altogether soft and pliant as she yielded under the barrage of his hands and delicate, succulent kisses. The dough must feel like this, she thought. When the ribbons were all untied, Frodo slid his hands inside the placket. Lifting out her breasts, first one and then the other, he hefted them as if testing their weight. She felt the wafting heat of the lamps upon her skin but warmer still was his touch.

Such limited access wasn't enough to satisfy Frodo. Pulling the sleeves, he drew the bodice off, kissing her bared shoulders as they were revealed. With a few gentle tugs, he pulled the bodice out from under her waistband and dropped it in a chair. Rosamunda leaned back into him, luxuriating in the softness of his cheeks and lips and the moist warmth of his breath. Next he dispensed with the top of her shift by drawing it down over her shoulders, first one side, then, the other. Still cinched in by the waist of her fastened skirts, it draped down over her forearms. She felt like a child being prepared for bed as Frodo lifted out her arms, kissing the palms of her hands as he did so.

Rosamunda thought the skirt would go next; she trembled with anticipation as she felt his fingers brush the buttoned tab. He was being so patient! – far more patient than she. But Frodo was not yet ready for the removal of skirts; she felt his hands slide around her waist and up her ribs to capture her breasts again, this time to knead and squeeze and pinch and roll. Oh, it was beyond delicious! Trying to touch him, too, she reached up behind her to twine her fingers into the loose curls she loved which tumbled down his neck.

Rosamunda heard sighs, high and breathy – they were her sighs, threatening to become moans. She made an effort to restrain them, as if holding them back might contain the mounting excitement she felt. She might stifle her cries, but the unconscious rhythmic rolling of her hips as she arched against him betrayed the state of her desire.

"Oh, Rosa!" Low and throaty was Frodo’s voice this time, more like a heated panting than speaking, just beside her cheek. When suddenly he released her breasts and loosed her hands from around his neck, Rosamunda squeezed her eyes shut and nearly cried out, so bereft of him she felt. But then, her eyes still shut, her ears and skin prickled to hear the whispering slide of his brocade waistcoat, then the rustle of the linen shirt. She opened her eyes in time to see both of them flung into another kitchen chair.

When Frodo slid his naked arms around her again she felt herself enveloped in pure warm silk, his bare chest and stomach sliding over the skin of her back, making her shoulder blades quiver from the feel of it. But then he left her cold once more.

Rosamunda closed her eyes and held her breath, listening. She felt a yank as he undid her waistband buttons, followed by further fumbling about behind her. Her heart leapt when she heard the slap of his leather belt hitting the floor, then, the whispery sound of soft twill sliding down his legs. She heard the breeches scuff across the stone flags.

She couldn't wait; she reached behind to touch him but what she touched was the top of his head – he was crouching down behind her. Before she could open her eyes to look, she felt the cooler air from under the table upon her legs. Frodo was pulling up her skirts, hoisting up fabric in handfuls, the long loose shift caught up in its folds.

"Lift up your arms," he breathed near her ear, his voice charged with desire. Up and over her head it went, skirt and shift, air rushing over her skin where layers of cloth had been. She heard the sound of the heap of fabric as it hit the floor.

Though Rosamunda knew what was coming, she gasped when she felt Frodo’s nakedness against her, hot and hard as a burning brand, which torched a firestorm within her.

"Oh, Frodo!" she heard herself cry out, loudly, this time. She was all aquiver, her strong legs turned to jelly. Rosamunda didn't resist when he pulled her with him in a downward slither of limbs, her feet tangling in discarded skirt and shift. As she fell, she managed to lodge a protest, weak but plaintive, "Not the floor, Frodo! I hate the floor!"

He paused in his execution.

"Oh, very well!" Frodo sighed, with just the hint of a chuckle.

Standing up again, Frodo took Rosamunda’s arm and pulled her up.

She had a stunning sight of him for only a second, before he heaved her up over his shoulder, knocking the breath right out of her, bearing her off to the bedroom.

Rosamunda barely had leisure to marvel at this, before she was dumped upon the bed, her legs sprawled over the edge, her presence of mind knocked out of her more than her wind.

The light from the lamps in the kitchen spilled in through the doorway. Even though their light was little at this distance, in the black of the room on this moonless night, the light they made seemed greater.

Raising her head, Rosamunda could see the tops of her breasts and the rounds of her belly and thighs, but she could not see Frodo. He was a dark shape silhouetted against the doorway behind him. She pushed herself up to sit. The shape advanced at once. The edges of his body were illuminated like the rim of the moon in a full eclipse.

He didn't speak but the faint light that traced the edge of his jaw showed her he was smiling.

"Come here," he said.

She moved forward, but did not touch him, suddenly seized with a frisson of apprehension, mixed with desire. Who was he?

Mesmerized, she watched his arms and hands, edged with gold, as he reached for her. Cupping the tops of her shoulders, he ran his hands down her arms until he'd reached her wrists. Deftly, he laced her fingers into his, easing her backwards until her thighs touched the edge of the mattress. He did not urge her down. Instead, he stretched their interlaced hands up and out, bringing his chest to hers, just touching, as he leaned into her. If there had been no bed behind her, Rosamunda would have fallen. Arching his neck to the ceiling, the light shone through his suspended curls. While he slid his chest and torso over hers in an undulating pattern, his raised fingers twined with hers in some secret dance of his own devising.

Rosamunda wanted the rest of Frodo, too – she ached to feel him up against her. Arching her own hips forward, as much as she might without losing her balance, she sought him out. But Frodo kept her back.

"Not yet, Rosa," he said.

She was sure that he was smiling. Was he drunk after all?

Rosamunda wondered no more when he took her shoulders and, in a quick succession of movements, sat her down and toppled her back upon the bed.

At last, she thought. She had begun to make her way further onto the bed when, taken by surprise, the darkened shape that was Frodo intercepted her. Hooking his hands behind her knees, he gave her a good tug. She could see the edge of light outlining the bunched muscles of his shoulders as he did so.

With another yank and a shift he had pulled her hips to the edge of the bed. He stood poised before her.

Here, then, she thought. She closed her eyes in anticipation, a new a wave of heat washing over her. She closed her eyes in anticipation, a new a wave of heat washing over her. She had not been positioned like this since she had been big-bellied with Estella. It had felt unimaginably exquisite those times. But, she remembered, she always had been filled with desire when she was carrying a child.

Her eyes snapped open again when she felt herself being grasped by the legs. The dark shape had descended, leaving the top of her body glowing with light from the lamps on the kitchen table, except where the outline of tousled curls blocked it.

Frodo urged her legs back and apart.

She gasped even before his mouth touched her.

"Oh! Oh! Oh!"

Rosamunda's stifled cries rose in inflection, louder inside her head than in the room, as she began to sink into a pool of pleasure. From Frodo, she heard only breathing and the wet sounds of his chosen task. Every pull of his lips and every lap and flick of his tongue sent out pleasure as if in concentric rings, like a stone might, dropped into a still pond. Frodo had become so accomplished at pleasing her in this way it wasn't long before the pond was still no longer still, but roiling and frothing. Rosamunda was close – so very close – to being pulled under to drown in cataracts of sensation.

She wanted, she needed to hold him. She tried to reach for his shadowy shoulders but they were too far away. The fingers gripping her legs were close enough, now flexed back as far as they could go, but just to touch them wasn't enough to satisfy. Flailing her arm about, she found a pillow to clutch. Against its softness she clenched her teeth, smothering the groans which yet felt to her so unseemly.

Heavens, he was killing her! But not quite enough. She was just at the edge; buffeted, stripped; ready to fall but left to teeter, her fate uncertain. She beat her arm upon the mattress, the torment was so exquisite.

When Frodo slipped his fingers inside, too, pressing his finger tips just along the top, smooth and strong, the way he knew she loved, she fell. But Rosamunda brought her foe down with her, locking his fingers in the embrace of her prolonged agonies.

"Oh, Rosa!" Frodo softly exclaimed. In his voice there was a touch of marvel. He left his fingers where they were – stilled, now – while the spasms subsided. His other hand, spread upon her stomach, just above her navel, felt warm and soothing to her.

His heated cheek he laid upon her loins, gentling her. For the first time since they had come into the bedroom, she could see his face, if only one side of it. Light shone through the wings of his lashes.

When she was quieted, she saw him lift his head and his face became darkness once again. Revived, she expected him to rise and take her, for she was ready. Instead, Rosamunda felt his fingers awaken inside her. She trembled.

As Frodo let them begin to stir, she felt his thumb creeping up through the silky folds.

She held her breath in trepidation.

"Again?" he asked.

Frodo did not wait for her answer; her body had already done so, embracing the enemy before it had advanced.

* * *

Rosamunda was dealt another mortal blow, only to be dragged up off the arena floor to be vanquished several more times, before Frodo finally stood up.

The sight of him standing there against the light focussed every ounce of her desire on just one part of him, although she could not see it. Oh, how she wanted him! She would die in earnest if he did not help her now. All of the deaths Rosamunda had died were for her always only preliminary to this one. It was this death for which she longed, every time, from his very first glance or touch.

Glistening with sweat, her breath in tatters and her entire demeanour that of one lost to shame, she clasped the sides of her lover's waist with the curving arches of her feet, pulling him to her.

"Oh, Frodo," she panted, "Don't make me beg."

Frodo let himself be drawn to the edge of the bed.

She saw his hands reach out before she felt them, clasping her hips as he shifted himself between her aching legs. When he brushed up against her she felt herself respond inside with immediate, involuntarily clutching.

"I want you higher up," Frodo said, moving about, as he considered.

Oh, she could scream! Rosamunda threw the pillow she had used to smother her groans at his chest.

Frodo laughed as he caught it.

"Can you reach another, Rosa?" he asked.

She reached and flung it, too, but could not help laughing herself.

"Lift up," Frodo said in a more tender voice.

Bringing her feet down upon the mattress edge, Rosamunda pushed up, raising her hips while Frodo pushed the stack beneath her.

"I'm sure this will be better, Rosa," Frodo said, very sweetly, moving back into position. Sliding his hands up the backs of her raised thighs he gripped her, leaning his weight a little forward.

Rosa was held in suspense only briefly before she felt him and the fatigue of her trembling muscles instantly drained away. She shuddered down to her bones as he entered her.

She heard him groan as well, for he had made himself wait so very, very long.

Their juxtaposition forced him to slide into her just as his fingers had done, pressing along the top of her, inside. From the first stroke, Rosamunda found it so exciting she knew it hadn't been because she was carrying a child that she had loved it this way so.

Gathering himself first before he proceeded, Frodo then began to penetrate her with long, slow strokes, nearly pulling out between each one. Clearly, he was using all his restraint – Rosamunda could feel it by the tremble in his hands as they pressed into the backs of her legs, and in the quiver running through the iron muscles of his thighs as they pressed against her, at the deepest part of each stroke.

When Frodo suddenly let go her thighs, Rosamunda cupped her feet around his waist, eager to keep him close. She could see the outline of his hands reaching towards her before they gently seized her breasts. Stroking them tenderly, he continued to move within her, increasing the pressure as he deepened the strokes.

"Oh, Rosa…so beautiful!" he said. His voice was low and soft.

She thought she would melt away to nothing, to hear him say it, at that moment. It added immeasurably to what was already almost too much sensation to experience at once. The squeezing and rolling between his fingers sent bolts of fire straight to what now seemed to be the centre of her being, gathering and clamouring around him, hot and fierce, exulting in near-triumph over the invader.

"Oh, Frodo," she gasped, "I almost cannot bear it!"

"Nor I," Frodo confessed, breathlessly.

"Now, Rosa?"

"Now!"

Rosamunda felt the great bed jarred as Frodo anchored his knees against it. Gripping her thighs, he began to move, leaning into his hands, all of his concentration focussed in his deliberate, sinuous thrusts.

Slowly, he let the tempo build. Every stroke massaged but also abraded the core of bared nerves in Rosamunda, sending sheets of fire to shake themselves throughout her. Showers of sparks whirled and swirled around and through her. At every stroke, she thought she would die from pleasure. At every stroke, she imagined Frodo writing his name within her, inscribing himself indelibly, upon her body and upon her mind.

Frodo stooped over her now. The edges of light traced his chin and mouth as he dropped his head. Sliding his arms under her, he pulled her back, one last time. Widening his stance and bracing himself against the bed, he clung to Rosamunda's fair flesh and gave himself up to the apparent desire to pound her to dust and ashes.

But Rosamunda was not reduced to ashes. Instead, she curled her hips up, utterly open to him, receiving him so that every pounding thrust reverberated, sending shocks and tremors shooting through her; tremors of such intensity, she felt herself arching and straining – up, up, up – until she heard a voice crying out, "Frodo!" and the voice was hers! The sound of it seemed to reverberate off the walls of the room. She was sure it could be heard at Overhill, but she did not care. Her echoing cry mingled with that of Frodo's and, together, the rising sound of their voices winged up and up like a covey of birds flushed out of concealment.

Frodo shuddered and quaked, pulsing into her as she felt her own muscles and
flesh throbbing around him, seizing and clutching in witless spasms. Frodo
fell upon her, sprawled and shaking. Rosa did not even embrace him. Her arms
were flung out upon the bed beside her; her legs hung limp.

"Oh, Frodo," she sighed at last. "Do you mean to kill me with happiness?"

* * *

Shortly thereafter, in the midst of languorous meldings of lips and bodies, Rosamunda remembered the bread, so long in preparation. Putting her foot down, she freed herself to see to it. The loaves went into the oven, but had nearly over-risen.

Directly after the loaves went in, Frodo excused himself. Naked, he ventured out to use the privy. Well, not precisely. In such an isolated situation, and at night, Rosamunda knew he long had ceased to bother with this formality.

Rosamunda had not poured herself a cup of water before he dashed back in and seized her arm.

"Come outside, Rosa! Come out!" he cried.

Frodo tried to pull her outside with him, bodily, but Rosamunda balked. She would not – not until she had found something to put on. Taking an old cloak from a peg by the door, she pulled it round her and let him lead her out.

Stepping outside with Frodo into the mildness of the summer night, she stood under a vast, deep sky – a canopy of jet – except for the stars. There was no moon at all.

Frodo drew her away from the cottage to the grassy slopes to the west. The noise of frogs and crickets increased as they went, immersing them in a pulsating chorus only made louder by the darkness all around.

"Look!" Frodo breathed, pointing into the sky above them.

Rosamunda could sense more than see the direction of his hand.

"There is Soronúme! The eagle of the West swooping down!"

"Where?"

Except for Eärendil and the great Wain, Rosamunda could not name the stars, though she recognized many shapes.

"The star that glitters blue? Just there? That is Luinil. See how it shines like a sapphire!"

Rosamunda stared up into the night sky without the urge to identify which star was which. She wished only to behold them. So drenched in blackness was the sky the stars gleamed out with pointed brightness, the densely clustered belt directly overhead suffused with milky radiance. So vast was it, as she turned herself to take it all in, it made her dizzy. Frodo sensed this too, perhaps; she felt the tug of his hand, to pull her down beside him.

"Wait – here," she said. Taking off the cloak she had worn, she drew it along the springy turf she could not see, to make a blanket.

Laying upon their backs, they gazed at the sky above them.

"Isn't it beautiful, Rosa?"

Frodo's voice was filled with awe.

Though she plainly heard his voice beside her, it sounded far away, as if he were suspended up there somewhere, too … high, pure and remote. The stars seemed close – suspended from their ceiling of velvet blackness – as if she could reach and touch them. But she knew that she could not. They were high and far away. So very high, so very far.

"Yes, it is beautiful," she said.

"You are shivering, Rosa! Are you chilly? Come, I will keep you warm."

Frodo turned to pull her to him and she nestled closer. While his closeness was reassuring, it was the sky full of stars which held his gaze, spread vast and brilliant above them, not she. Rosamunda could feel his cheek settled up against hers as he turned his face to see it.

What did she care for the stars? At that moment, nothing at all. Not one was as beautiful as he.

Her shivering subsided as Frodo embraced her more fully, covering her with his body. She quieted beneath his solid warmth.

Raising himself upon his elbows, Frodo took her face between his hands. He could not see but could feel the wetness upon her cheeks.

"Tears? What is it, Rosa?" Frodo asked, drawing his thumbs across her cheekbones.

"It is just the beauty," she murmured.

As she lay there, Frodo seemed to loom above her, a dark shape silhouetted by the massed stars behind him. Did he block the stars from view, or did he make a hole in them? He did not seem real without a face, yet Rosamunda could hear his breathing; she could feel the warm weight of his body. He was real.

But when he bent to kiss her, the blackness grew as he drew nearer. It was as if a hole in the night sky was gaping, widening, through which she might be drawn into whatever lay behind the edges of the world.

Her stomach lurched and she closed her eyes to shut the vision out.

"Come," Frodo whispered, and pulled her up. "We'll go in. I'm hungry, aren't you? The bread will surely burn if we do not."

They were in time.

But many another loaf was spoilt in this way – burnt or never baked – and many a pot of honey or jam went uncovered. They would find them later, studded with hapless flies and bees, drowned in the sweetness.

* * *

Chapter 9 – A Delivery of Cherries.

1400, July 18 ~ Bag End.

The next morning had seen a change in the weather. The temperate westerly breezes were swept away by a hot wind out of the South. In the days that followed, it became warm – too warm – even for high summer. Under the few trees that spread their branches over cultivated fields and pasture lands, farm beasts gathered in tight clumps like mariners stranded on deserted isles. Pigs huddled up to the shady sides of sheds, abandoning their muddy holes. Chicken and geese gleaned only in the shadier spots, scurrying across the open spaces in between where the bright sun beat down. Only the ducks seemed unperturbed, gliding across the surface of the Water.

Before noon labourers would stop off whatever they were doing and look for shade, staying in for lunches and teas then lingering long wherever shade could be found, to do their work. Under the trees and around kitchen tables there was talk of the weather. Hot spells meant storms, and the next hay was due to be cut. The Shire had not been without rain long enough to harm the crops, though many looked wilted under the full power of the sun at its zenith.

Flower gardens thrived, however, basking beneath the sun’s brazen glare. The flowers that spilled out of Bag End’s beds were especially bright and various, Bilbo noted as he watched the Boffins’ cart approaching. In spite of the heat, Folco Boffin was behind the reins, encouraging the sturdy pony as it climbed the Row to Bag End’s door. He had the last of the cherry crop to deliver which wouldn’t keep.

Bilbo had a standing order from the Boffin orchards, as did almost everyone in the vicinity. Boffin fruit was the best in the West Farthing. Not only their fruit, but their honey and preserves were highly prized. Bag End had some fruit trees but only one cherry, which did not produce enough for even a few pies and tarts. Bilbo thought he would try making wine again this year. He’d like to leave a decent batch for the years to come, as a remembrance, if only some extra help could be found so deep into the summer.

Folco looked brown and fit, Bilbo thought, no doubt from another summer spent learning the management of the family operation. Although he was the middle son, it looked as though Folco would be the one who would run the farm. The eldest, Rollo, would not be back, as he was now married and established in the North. Folco would be the son to take it over, along with Marco, the youngest, if Marco stayed put.

Although Folco was eight years older than Frodo, he did not look or behave as if he were. Responsibility had not weighed down his irrepressible spirits. Hopping down from the seat of the cart, he sauntered up to the garden bench where the two Bagginses lounged. There they were enjoying a leisurely smoke, while they sipped from tall tankards a punch made from a crush of berries sweetened with honey. The day was hot, but the seat, tucked back under the flowering vines, was cool in the shade.

Folco mopped his brow with a handkerchief he pulled from a hip pocket, tossed his broad-brimmed hat onto the flags and greeted the two with showy courtesy. Stretching out a hand towards the younger Baggins with jaunty flair, he made a show of waiting as he tapped a neat foot upon the terrace stones. A smirk threatened to become a grin, while his black eyes sparkled. Acquiescing, Frodo returned the smirk and extended his pipe as he drawled, "Do be my guest, Master Boffin."

Folco plopped down on the end of the old bench where the other two had made a space for him. Accepting Frodo's pipe he inhaled appreciatively.

“Thank you, Frodo,” he sighed, gazing at the village below from the shelter of the bower.

"Something cool, Folco, to go with that?" Bilbo asked, leaning out from Frodo to see their visitor better. Frodo leapt up and went inside to bring another mug while Folco watered the pony.

"I didn't think you were still being pressed into service, making the deliveries, Folco," Bilbo remarked, once Folco had drunk his fill. The elder hobbit exhaled languorously before continuing, "Didn't your father turn all that over to your new lad?" Mal, sent down from the North Farthing by Rollo, had been with the Boffins at Overhill for three years now, but he was "new" by Shire standards.

"So he did, Bilbo. Why, Mal was supposed to deliver this lot, today."

Folco accepted a second drink. Turning to observe Frodo, he continued.

"But I said to myself, 'Folco, you haven't seen Frodo Baggins in a dog's age! Well, for days, at least. And when you do see him, it's just a matter of moments till – poof! He's up and gone, with a half-drained mug left upon the table to remember him by.' So, I said to myself, 'Folco, why don't you make the rounds, and find out what's what for yourself?'"

Peering at his younger friend keenly, but with high good humour, Folco asked, "What have you been up to, then, Master Baggins? No good, I shouldn't wonder!"

Frodo felt acutely uncomfortable but managed to produce a weak chuckle reinforced, he hoped, by a cheerful jab to Folco's side.

"Oh, nothing, really. Just being lazy, I expect!"

Bilbo gazed into the bowl of his pipe.

"Well, it's time to rouse yourself, Frodo Baggins! If you're doing 'nothing, really,' why not toddle on down to the 'Bush tonight? And don’t rush off as soon as you've had a round! Bilbo's not keeping you short, is he?”

Bilbo shook his head in the negative, his eyebrows raised up under the fringe of his greying curls.

“You're not trying to stint on your turns, are you, Frodo?" Folco said, adding a wink.

Even with the wink, the remark needled Frodo. Was Folco serious, just a little, beneath the joking? Was that how it had looked?

"No, of course not!” Frodo interjected. “I've just been …"

Bilbo remained silent, but gave Frodo a sidelong glance while he puffed. This is your affair, his look said.

"All right then," Frodo replied, mustering up a decent show of enthusiasm. "I shall be glad to! I’ll stand for all those rounds I’m due for, too,” he laughed; convincingly, he thought. “I'll be along rather late, though – not till after sunset, perhaps,” he qualified, thinking through his plans. “I…have a few things I want to do, first."

"Good! You do them, Baggins. Then come along – and be prepared to stay late. I've nothing to get up for in the morning – nothing that someone else can't attend to for once, anyway. And you never do, with your life of leisure," Folco chuckled.

Frodo laughed but looked a bit abashed. It was true enough, he thought, looking at his friend who bore the sweat of honest labour.

Abruptly, Folco stood up. "Come on, Frodo. Lend me a hand, will you?"

"Of course!" Frodo replied, following his friend down to the cart.

The baskets were large but the two young hobbits could swing them up onto their shoulders without difficulty and the cherries were brought inside. Back out at the garden seat, Folco brushed his hands together, then finished off the remainder of his drink.

"I've still a few more deliveries, so I’ll be off," Folco said, handing Frodo the empty mug. "See you next at the Ivy Bush, my lad. I'll save us the corner."

Bidding them both farewell, Folco scooped up his hat and strode down to the cart. Turning, he laughed and called, "Don't come on an empty stomach, Frodo!" Leaping lightly up onto the box he gathered the reins, wheeled the pony and cart around and made his way back down the Row. Mid-way, he turned again to wave a final farewell.

Bilbo puffed on his pipe as they watched Folco dwindle off down the lane. Exhaling, he finally asked, "Isn't Rosamunda expecting you?"

Frodo's brows had been knit together ever since Folco had driven off. Deep in thought, he slowly turned the tankard between his hands. He stopped turning it and answered, "Yes, she is.”

Standing up, Frodo declared, “I shall go, Uncle – I shall go straight away,” and strode back inside.

Bilbo hadn't finished his pipe before he saw Frodo step through the doorway and set off from the smial at a brisk pace. Before Frodo had got any distance at all he came to an abrupt stop, executed a sharp turn, and headed back inside. Bilbo continued to watch.

When Frodo re-emerged, he was carrying a one-handled basket. Bilbo could see it was laden with cherries.

Clever lad, Bilbo thought appreciatively, as he puffed. Rosamunda might need to be mollified. Frodo was up the Hill and nearly out of view when he paused, turned and gave his customary wave.

He had better not dawdle at Rosa’s forever, Bilbo thought, now that he had promised to appear at the Ivy Bush. But what was Bilbo thinking? Frodo would not renege.

Bilbo turned back from the Hill that rose behind him and nursed his pipe, watching the afternoon shadows lengthen, the sunny side of everything made especially brilliant by the angled light. The growing shadows, however, brought little respite. The air had grown heavier, making the heat more oppressive still. Poor Folco, up on that cart! Well, he was young and hardy.

Perhaps they would get a summer squall, Bilbo wondered, searching the sky. That would be a good thing, he thought as he scanned the fields that stretched away from the village below. A little rain wouldn’t hurt. It might cool things off, too. The sky was clear, but that could change.

Bilbo's thoughts were again with Frodo, following him over the fields to the cottage in the grassy hills. Those two would have to learn to make an adjustment some time, sooner rather than later. Should he have Rosamunda over to dine again soon? Frodo definitely needed practice at behaving when Rosamunda was present.

He needed a bit more prudence, too. Frodo gone off to Rosamunda's in broad daylight; that was risky. Rosa would take him to task for it. The basket of fruit was a good thought, though. It was too bad Rosamunda lived so far off; she might be sent a message more easily if she were closer. She could learn of a change of plans without Frodo having to walk the hour’s journey each way. But what other way was there, other than Frodo delivering the message himself? It was not as though they could send someone else…or could they? Young Sam was looking rather knowing these days…. But no, Samwise, barely a ‘tween, should not be brought into this. No, there was nothing else for it. Frodo must bear his own messages. Rosamunda would not be hearing of a change of plans over a mug of ale down at the Ivy Bush! Bilbo smiled at the thought. A Took female – in a tavern – that he could not imagine.

Knocking out the ashes from his pipe upon a stone standing near the bench, Bilbo stood up, stretched, and went inside.

It was still too hot to do any real work. He could have a go at his memoirs. Although it seemed a never-ending project, it was one which Bilbo enjoyed. He might just take a fresh peek and consider what could be included next. In his study, Bilbo leaned over the desk to push the window open further, as far as it might go, taking care to move his shell from Elrond before he did so. No breeze entered; the air was still so hot and heavy.

Undoing two more buttons at his neck, Bilbo sighed and took up the book. It opened readily to his favourite places. On a small inset map, with the tip of his finger he traced the East Road as it led away towards Bree, over the Bruinen, and beyond … towards his past and – more certainly with every season – towards his future.

Would it be this year or the next?

Returning his attention to the text, Bilbo lightly rubbed the smooth sides of the shell with his fingertips as he read.

* * *


The same day ~ Rosamunda’s cottage and its environs.

Rosamunda indeed never went into a tavern. In fact, she rarely entered the village, having neither the need nor the inclination. Odovacar had not left her rich, but she was comfortable enough, quite content with her situation in terms of her family and her home in Budgeford. But in Hobbiton, she felt she had as yet no true place. She was familiar to folk, having visited relations there since girlhood. As the young widow of the still fondly remembered Odovacar, she was even better known. But to most she remained a newcomer and an outsider. What was worse, the village folk thought her, "Tookish."

Proud of her heritage on her father's side, Rosamunda was not aware that many folk looked at her askance precisely on that account. Her newness as a resident was secondary as a reason for any reservations they might have about her. "Tookish," they had thought Bilbo's urge to look around the corners of life, curious to see what might be up ahead. Even his love of learning they thought Tookish, although this was not a Took predilection. All of this curious interest in things smelled to them of meddling, of poking about in what was not a hobbit’s business.

Since Rosamunda did not seem to share these interests with Bilbo, folk would single her out her appearance for pointing to what was Tookish. Her face was not an example of what Tookish beauty could be, but its expressiveness, the general fineness of feature and basic family resemblance marked her as a Took. She was not fair like the Tooks, although her hair was light. She had a dark complexion, like the Goolds. This they did not note. She was tall like a Took, but she also exhibited the denser musculature of the Goolds, softened by the ample curves for which the otherwise undistinguished Goold females were widely admired. It was this Goold feature in combination with the Took stature, which brought Rosamunda's appearance to particular notice. The Goold curves were simply added in with the Took height as reason for censure. This was because these two attributes thus mixed together in Rosamund typically inspired in Hobbiton males a marked response. Local hobbits tended to appreciate the combined effect exceedingly. Since Took females were generally held to be a snare to sensible hobbits, Rosamunda often was judged along with them. Matrons of the town would cluck about the Mistress Bolger, “So comely (and a Took)! And so young a widow!” Far too young – with so many years of singleness stretching ahead of her – to be thought quite safe.

Beyond her appearance folk thought it "Tookish" that Rosamunda should walk the hills and keep herself to herself. They quite ignored the fact that Tooks, on the whole, never walked when they could ride and went everywhere in company, so sociable were they. Rosamunda truly enjoyed her summer solitude. The only persons who ventured to Rosa's cottage, other than her children, were the laundress who came and went up the cart track every week, and the merchants’ lads who delivered what she ordered from the village. From the Boffins she had most of her foodstuffs. Their farm was the largest local source of produce and meat, eggs and butter, as well as flour, preserves and honey. These they usually sent to Rosamunda by Mal, the "new lad," but sometimes deliveries were brought by one of their sons, to make the transaction more neighbourly. The Boffins, as a family, were exceptionally hospitable folk. Folco Boffin seemed to be the one who made these calls most often, she had noticed. But Rosamunda's only regular visitor came at night.

Her days at the cottage were spent as they ever had been whenever her children were gone away for their visits. During the morning when it was coolest and the light inside was best, she saw to the doing of homely tasks. Then she would walk, often for hours, across the rolling sea of hills and little sloughs. Sheep from the Boffin's flocks, their shorn coats grown in, dotted the wide expanse like little puffs of white. She loved the land there round about, so like the land where she grew up. Sometimes it seemed alive to her, as if she trod over a great-muscled beast drowsing under the sun. The grass was its shaggy coat that rippled and glistened when the west wind rushed over it.

In these last weeks, however, when Rosamunda walked, the land would fade away to be replaced by images of her lover. By the time Frodo arrived, she already had longed for him every time the wind had pressed her clothes against her breasts or whipped her skirts around her legs. The spectre of the summer's end, not very far off, she continued to push away while the nights that passed increasingly filled her mind.

In the short time that followed that Mid-year night, she and Frodo had learned much in the way of pleasing each other. Rosamunda, having had the benefit of her tutelage under Odovacar, had learned what pleased Frodo sooner, but he was her pupil no longer. Able now to resist her most intrepid advance, he often could hold her off, sometimes long enough to turn the tables upon her to vanquish her first in the contest of love. Frodo’s powers had grown and he used his art to move her, more than she had imagined possible.

When she considered it in an objective light, she could not see that Frodo did anything that her accomplished husband had not done before him. He even seemed to enjoy testing himself as Odovacar had done, not only by holding himself back in order to bring Rosamunda to her climax first, but in bringing her to that state repeatedly until, utterly undone, her legs trembled beneath her when she stood. Obviously he revelled in the spectacle she made as the result of his ardent lovemaking. Did not Frodo glory in this – at least a little – as a proof of his competency, as Odovacar had done?

Rosamunda stopped and pondered this, then dismissed her suspicion. No, Frodo did not do that, not really. Odovacar had come to her a seasoned veteran of many liaisons – a generous lover but one who loved to flaunt his prowess. Frodo's manner had a different feeling to it, she thought. He was pleased with himself, clearly, but there was beneath it a certain keenness or fervour that informed everything he did. More than showing off his skill he seemed avid – almost driven – to find new ways to make her die more and more exquisitely. Perhaps, it was simply that Frodo was young and new to the joys of bringing a lover this sort of pleasure. That joy was a heady one, Rosamunda knew, from her own experience.

Yes. That was what it was. Frodo was not like Odovacar in the same way, she resolved, resuming her stride. Nor in other ways – of course not. Therefore, not in his kiss, his embrace or his glance. He was himself, with his own mind and his own body, whether it was a matter of the thoughts he expressed, or the voice with which he expressed them. Rosamunda thought then of his voice. How melodious it was and pleasing to her ear! Thinking of Frodo’s voice, she pictured his mouth from which the voice issued, uttering his thoughts in words. Envisioning his mouth as he spoke, she considered the line of his jaw and of his throat and the way it rose from the hollow between his collarbones. Remembering him speaking just the night before, she recalled the fineness of his hands as they strove to articulate his spoken thoughts.

Rosamunda admonished herself to stop it at once. Striking a brisker pace in spite of the warmth, she turned her attention once more to the land around her, mopping her face and neck with her handkerchief. The heat really had become oppressive! But not so oppressive that it kept her mind from straying, returning inevitably to the thoughts she sought in vain to push aside.

Yes, everything about Frodo was unique. His mind and body; his mouth, his voice, his speech, his hands, his face…. At the thought of Frodo’s face, Rosamunda’s stride faltered. She must not think of his face. When she imagined his face – or what she seemed to see behind his face when looked at her – it was as though all of her will emptied out of her, spiralling down and down into some abyss. It thrilled but frightened her.

No, she would not think of his face. She would think of the rest of him, instead. Those parts stirred her terribly, too, but they were far less dangerous than his face. She pressed on, thinking of those parts, instead.

Now, where had she left off? Rosamunda sought to resume her train of thought. Why should not Frodo’s touch, the way he kissed or spoke her name be different to her? If he were uniquely himself, then all these things would be different, too. And so they were. Even the feel of him inside her was different from that of Odovacar. But surely that should not be so. Chuckling to herself, she thought, they were not very different in that respect! The chuckle languished; she sighed.

It shouldn't be different – but it was. As she toiled along under the brilliant sun the thought of his lovemaking conjured images so vivid that Rosamunda soon felt overwhelmed, experiencing it all over again. Had Frodo imprinted himself upon her mind as well as upon her body? – searing her understanding like a brand – the way he already had seared her flesh? In the baking heat, she thought she could hear the hiss.

Remembered sensation crackled through nerve and sinew, all converging in one spot. In her mind she saw his name spelled out, like writing on a page. She heard it spoken – in her own voice – although she had said nothing. Pressing her fists into her skirts, Rosamunda sought to make it stop. Her head fell back, her mouth parted – all from the thought of him inside her. Heated air filled her lungs, dry as dust, and she gasped aloud from wanting him. Swallowing, Rosamunda licked her lips but the sweep of her tongue only conjured up his. Standing under the open sky she wanted to wail aloud, so parched and starved was she for the taste and feel of him. Ah, to be filled with him! Would that they could flow one into the other – then she might be satisfied!

In the middle of the grassy track atop a wind-blown hill, Rosamunda stood, her eyes squeezed shut. She made a small lonely figure in the great expanse. A sound – something moving in the grass – made her blink them open. She jumped, startled to find herself being closely observed by one of the Boffin sheep. It stood half way up a little slough beside the path. Chewing steadily, it regarded her with what seemed a baleful eye. It shifted slightly in its stance as they stared at one another. She wondered if it would challenge her, but the great beast settled back to crop the tender shoots that grew in the damp still lingering in the recesses of the slough.

Rosamunda passed, giving the animal a wide berth. Pressing on, she determined to think of Frodo no more. The hot south wind rose, almost taking her hat. It pushed against her and although it brought little relief from the warmth, it seemed to strengthen her resolve, driving her on the homeward way. But when it dropped Rosamunda’s resolve flagged with it, and Frodo's face appeared before her.

Once more lost in reverie Rosamunda was surprised to find herself before her cottage door. Perspiration trickled beneath her clothes, so hot had she become from the trudge, as well as from the sultry nature of her thoughts. Her bodice was stuck to her skin and her shift clung to her legs. Even the ribbons of her hat were limp with sweat and difficult to untie. Stepping over the threshold into the parlour, she picked them free then dropped the hat on the bench inside the door.

The house’s interior seemed blissfully cool and dark after the heat and glare of the day outside. Dug into the hill the way it was, the bulk of Rosamunda’s home lay under turf which helped enormously against the heat. The windows, however, all faced south-east. Through these poured the light which, now that it was hot, was less favourable than it was in cooler weather. The sun was moving off, though, into the west, casting the front of the cottage into shade which brought a degree of coolness. She’d have something to eat and drink, she thought. Then a cool bath would be nice. The bath she would follow with a little nap. Unable to go back to sleep after Frodo left each day before dawn – and loving the morning so well – taking a nap in the afternoon had become a necessary refreshment.

Rosamunda ate, cleared away, and prepared to bathe. Stepping into the basin, she sighed. How far away the night seemed! The pleasures of the bath were great enough to take her mind off the pleasures of the night which she anticipated. Water squeezed from a hand cloth made cool runnels down her heated skin and pattered at her feet. The sound of it reminded her of little rills falling over stones down shady hillsides. The image refreshed her.

After she had dried herself, she pulled a clean shift on over her head, letting it drop down, loose and cool around her. It was a favourite one, very old, made thin and delicate by years of wear. It had come from the trunk of things left to her by her mother, Columbina. Perhaps it had come down from her mother's mother before her. Rosamunda's mother had died before she could tell her daughter the stories of these things herself.

In the darkened room, Rosamunda climbed onto the great oaken bed, the marriage bed of her parents. Pulling the light linen coverlet over her legs she lay there, listening to the quiet. There was no sound. There was no breeze outside; no movement, no noise, not even of birds. The quiet hummed in her ears as she gazed at the planking on the ceiling up above her. It began to stipple with tiny dots as she relaxed. Soon she did not see even these as other images took their place, images of Frodo. Lulled by the cool and the dimness she let herself sink towards sleep. In her drowsy state she did not fight the pictures off, but let her hands became Frodo's, gliding them over the wash-softened summer shift. She let a hand slip beneath the coverlet, as she knew he would wish to do. Drawing up the delicate folds of cloth, in her imagination she let him find the place she yearned for him to touch. When she had been soothed in this way, Rosamunda succumbed to deep, contented sleep.

* * *

By the time he had reached Rosa's cottage Frodo was steaming and drenched. Good heavens, it was hot! The handle of the basket heaped with Boffin fruit was slippery with sweat. Not only was it hot, it was humid, with not even a breeze for respite. Scanning the sky Frodo looked for signs of a storm to come but there was nothing, not a single cloud.

Glancing through the doorway to call out a greeting, Frodo saw no one. The parlour and kitchen stood empty and silent. Some cooking things lay on the table, as if set out for later use, but that was all. It looked rather different inside in the day time, he thought. There were more details and more colours. It looked more – real.

Setting the fruit down on the bench inside the door, Frodo saw Rosamunda’s hat. He called out, tentatively, but no answer came. Where was she? Perhaps out walking – but without her hat? In this sun?

Back outside, he climbed to the top of the knoll that rose over the cottage and looked about in every direction. Except for some sheep sheltering in the copse and a few birds wheeling high overhead Frodo saw nothing moving.

In that case he would wait. He would wait for her as long as he could.

In the meantime, Frodo badly wanted something to drink. Back inside the shady house he lifted the cover from the kettle on the sideboard that served as a cistern. Using the wide ladle, he drank several draughts of water in swift succession. The water spilled from the ladle’s sides, trickling down his neck and under his wilted shirt. It felt lovely in its coolness.

Frodo would do better than that. Quickly, he stripped off what he was wearing and draped the damp garments over the backs of kitchen chairs to dry. Swinging up a couple of pails, he stepped outside. After a quick look both ways – out of habit – he strode off naked down the hill. Frodo had become used to fetching the water in this way under cover of darkness, but it was so hot he couldn't be bothered covering up.

Down at the well Frodo lifted the cover. Filling pail after pail he sluiced his head and chest, letting the spring water run down him like icy rivers until he felt refreshed. Afterwards, he stood and dripped. It seemed like ages since he had stood out-of-doors in the sun without any clothes. It felt wonderful. Earlier in the summer he'd gone bathing with the Boffins in the Bywater Pool. There were several nooks along its banks where a hobbit might wade and have a splash on a warm day. Unlike most of the local waders, he and the Boffin lads actually swam. Frodo had taught them how during the first summer he had lived with Bilbo under the Hill. These days, he'd been sleeping so late, he'd neglected these morning outings, each one a chance to feel the sun and water and air right against his skin. As he stood there, with the intervening layers of sweltering cloth removed, even the sun beating down upon him felt satisfying. A breeze freshened for a moment, making chilly patches on his skin where his water-soaked hair had dripped. He might as well go in and dry off. Stooping, Frodo filled the pails once more and carried them back up the hill, setting them down in their places inside.

He was towelling his hair when a small sound gave him a start. There it was again. It was a sigh – definitely a sigh. Frodo grinned at himself – to think he had not bothered even to look! Quietly peering around the bedroom door Frodo saw Rosamunda fast asleep upon the high, wide bed. Soft-footed, he approached, stopped and stood – still holding the towel between his hands.

Rosamunda had twirled her hair into a long tail and pulled it up behind her head where it since had come untwined, spilling across the pillow. Stray wisps curled and crimped about her face; dark lashes rested upon her russet cheeks. On her lips Frodo discerned just the trace of a smile. Her breasts rose and fell, her breathing easy and light. In the intense quiet of the darkened room the sound of it was barely discernible, so peaceful, so serene was her slumber.

Frodo clutched the towel to his chest and felt his heart constrict; she was to him at that moment supremely beautiful. In the dimness her sun-browned skin looked darker still against the whiteness of her shift. Her near arm was flung up beside her head, lighter on the underside; he could detect the delicate tracery of blue beneath the pale gold of her skin. The curling of her fingertips made a shallow bowl of her palm. Frodo looked at that palm – the palm which had offered him so much goodness throughout the years and which now held for him such unimagined sweetness. He almost expected to see nectar gathered there, pooled and spilling between her opened fingers for him to taste. He bent to do so -- but he did not -- not wishing to wake her. He meant only to look.

His enamoured eye followed a line from her hand down the curve of her arm, sweeping in, then out at the roundness of her breast, then across to its twin, just as ripe and full – the fine stuff of her shift stretched between them. Through the cloth Frodo could discern the darker shade of the areolas encircling her nipples. He leaned down to kiss – he reached to touch – but checked himself. Not yet. He let his eyes linger once more over her breasts before letting them travel downwards where the light sheet was draped over her legs and hips, shielding them from view.

This would not do.

Frodo hung his towel upon the nearby chair. Then, carefully lifting the coverlet, he drew it down below her feet. Gazing at her thus uncovered he saw her other hand which had been hidden by the sheet. Instantly, Frodo's lambent ardour was fanned by the sight of it.

Her palm rested upon her thigh just at the juncture of her hip, but the tips of her fingers nestled under folds of cloth where she had drawn up the hem. Frodo’s eyes darkened, a smile curving the corners of his mouth, as he conjectured what her thoughts and deeds had been before she drifted off to sleep. Suddenly, he was seized by desire – the desire that her fingers might be his. Seeing them nestled so, Frodo could not help thinking of the feel of her – silky-hot and drenched inside – closing tighter; tighter still around him.

What her body revealed to him was unmistakable – she wanted him; and, he pleased her. What her words revealed to him was not so clear. Frodo wished her feelings for him were plainer – expressed in words. But Rosamunda’s bodily response to his lovemaking, Frodo admitted to himself, was immensely gratifying. The way she responded to him was not only intense but seemingly unlimited. Frodo had been amazed to learn that when he had brought Rosamunda to the heights of pleasure once, with what seemed the merest additional moves or strokes on his part he could bring her there again. In fact, for as long as he wished, Frodo could topple her over the brink – over and over – she would always revive. Her capacity to respond to him was like the flooding along the Water when spring rains made the river rise until it over-spilled its banks. Overwhelming the low lands the waters would spread, inexorably, until the rain simply stopped.

Although Rosamunda obviously loved it when Frodo did this, she had pressed him about it, on occasion. Only the night before they had been laughing together after making love.

"Frodo,” she had quipped, “do you mean to make me your slave?"

The words had been lightly spoken, but Frodo thought he felt an edge of seriousness beneath them. His denial had been spoken lightly, too, but what she had said had struck something in him.

Is that what he meant to do? Was he trying to make her his slave? In some place he did not wish to examine, Frodo acknowledged that he did. That is, he wished to bind her to him. Already, he knew, he was bound to her. But he wished to be bound; Rosamunda, seemingly, did not.

"Slave" was an ugly word. But what else was it – if he bound her to him and she did not wish it? Yet that was what he meant to do, really. Every time Frodo wrought in her a state of bliss, he hoped thereby to forge another link in a chain which would attach her, fettering her body and, through her body, her heart. A delightful chain, but still a chain. To bind and to be bound…was that not love? If it was willing? It was not the sort of love he felt for Bilbo, of course. Though, in truth, he did feel bound to Bilbo, but it was not the same.

Frodo was sure what he felt was love. Did Rosamunda love him, too? He simply did not know. Whenever he thought he would dare to ask her, "Rosa, do you love me," he refrained, imagining what she would say. Of course, she did, she would say; she had always had. But that was not the sort of love he meant.

Rosamunda never said what she felt for him, not clearly. Frodo hoped that she loved him. He thought that she did – in spite of what she did not say – but things she did say unsettled him and fretted at his happiness. Things that were spoken lightly in the midst of banter, but things that Frodo took as though she meant them seriously. They made him anxious. However carelessly spoken, they all implied that Rosamunda cared for him only for the present; that she envisioned a time when she would care for him no more. She did not say, "I shall tire of you," but she said things which presupposed its happening. Things that, underneath, seemed to mean, "Someday, I shall leave you; someday, we will surely part."

Early on, Frodo had teased Rosamunda about her moans and groans which she so closely stifled whilst in the midst of the transports of love. He was not nearly so restrained himself. How could she prevent herself from crying out, he had asked her. She had laughed, "When you are married and have children of your own, Frodo, you will learn to keep your voices down, too!" Frodo had smiled but said nothing.

A few nights before Rosamunda had confessed to Frodo how much she loved it when he took her on the edge of the bed. "I haven't been made love to that way since I was quite big with Estella," she had said, then went on to tell Frodo how wonderful it had been with him. Hearing her say this had thrilled him, but then she had spoiled it when she added, "One must be inventive, Frodo, when there is a baby to consider – but you and your wife will discover that for yourselves, when your time comes."

Rosamunda had laughed merrily saying this and Frodo had laughed, too, a little; but inwardly her words distressed him. In fact, he hated it when she spoke this way. He wanted no wife that was not she, and no babies that were not hers.

Yet, in spite of her reticence to gratify him with words, in every other way Rosamunda seemed to be telling him that she loved him. Frodo was sure that her joy at seeing him when he arrived at her door had only increased, not diminished, and that her regret at his departure before dawn was more heartfelt, not less. Frodo believed it to be so. He certainly had tried to make it so. Though he knew he must yet be patient, it was very difficult. Well. He would practice patience now.

Settling himself upon the bed next to where she lay, Frodo gazed at the face of his sleeping lover and wondered of whom she dreamt. He traced the smile on her lips with his eyes, hoping she dreamt of him. He thought she did. But uncertainty gnawed him. The desire to see her look at him – to look on him with love – tugged at Frodo. He might wake her now, he thought, but gently.

Leaning across her, Frodo traced with his fingertips the smile he had traced with his eyes. Lightly he let his fingers drift across her cheek, to hover over the hair behind her ear. She did not stir. Should he speak? She might be startled. Perhaps a whisper would do better. Bending down to her, he let his lips just stray along her jaw until he reached the lobe of her ear.

“Rosa,” he whispered, so softly Frodo could barely hear himself. Leaning back, he saw the hand that lay upon the pillow twitch; the other abandoned its perch upon her thigh, dropping back beside her cheek. She sighed.

How utterly lovely she was, he thought, even thus veiled. Letting his eyes wander over her, he longed to touch her everywhere, but looking must suffice. Reaching for her face again, Frodo trailed his fingers along her shoulder then up the side of her throat, sliding the tips of them into the hair behind her ear. As lightly as he could, he stroked the rim of her ear with the edge of his thumb.

“Rosa,” he whispered again, a little louder.

"Hhmmm…" The sound Rosamunda made was somewhere between a hum and a sigh. Although she did not waken, she stretched a little, dropping her head back and to the side as she arched her neck, as if offering it up to him.

Softly speaking her name, Frodo leaned down to her throat, just where her pulse jumped. Drawing the tender flesh into his mouth, he found it both salty and sweet.

"Frodo…" she murmured, drawing out the word in two languid syllables.

Frodo lifted his lips at the sound of his name and waited. Through half-opened eyes, Rosamunda beheld his face, her lips curving into a drowsy smile.

"Frodo," she murmured again.

She had been dreaming of him, he thought, inwardly elated.

Rosamunda began to turn her head, as if to offer him the other side, but her eyes, fluttering open, opened wider still until she was staring into his, alarmed.

Yes, Frodo thought, she was awake, now.

"Frodo!" she exclaimed. Lurching up so precipitously they nearly banged foreheads, she cried, "What are you…? What is the time…?"

Rosamunda, though still a little befuddled was galvanized by the sight of daylight visible through the open window. Looking back at Frodo, her mouth still open to form another question, she saw that he was naked. And aroused. Expressions of dismay – and desire – alternated across her face before she found her voice again.

"Frodo! What are you doing here?" she gasped. "Now, I mean! In the day!" As she glanced again towards the window she noticed the coverlet, where Frodo had drawn it, gathered at her feet. Then she saw her pulled-up shift. Her initial look of bewildered alarm knitted itself into a frown. She shot Frodo a look of accusation mixed with disbelief.

"That wasn't me, Rosa!" Frodo interjected hastily. "It was already pulled up like that – when I got here – your shift, I mean."

Instantly, colour rose up Rosamunda's neck and stained her face, even through the bronze. She swallowed hard and glanced away. Then, her shoulders relaxing, she chuckled, as if to herself

Raising her eyes to his, she said, "Caught out, am I?"

The tone of her voice was one of abashed amusement, but the look in her dark eyes bespoke desire. It made Frodo reel for a moment, but he recovered himself.

"Yes! Caught," he laughed, flashing a grin – but his voice sounded a little hoarse. On impulse Frodo sprang up onto the bed, landing astride her.

Rosamunda fell back onto the pillows in a burst of surprised mirth. She tried to toss him off but Frodo held on, gripping her legs between his as he straddled them. Foiled in that quarter, her hands darted for his most vulnerable spot, but Frodo captured her arms by the wrists and pinned them back against the mattress. She laughed as she struggled to pull herself free, but Frodo's grip was unbreakable.

"You are my captive, now,” he told her sternly, but his smile seemed to belie him. “Do you submit?"

His eyes must yet have betrayed the gravity that underlay his bantering request, for she did not laugh. Looking directly into his eyes, Rosamunda answered, "I submit."

Frodo was sure he caught something in her gaze or in the tone of her voice as she uttered those two words – something which quenched the glib rejoinder he had ready on his tongue. If his joke was quenched, though, nothing else was. Her response had only stoked the fires.

"Lift up, Rosa,” Frodo ordered, with what he hoped sounded like mock gravity, “I want this off." He curbed the urge to tear the fragile cloth of her shift right down the middle. It was one of her favourites, he knew.

Keeping her eyes locked on his, obediently Rosamunda lifted her hips and then her shoulders as Frodo carefully hitched the delicate garment over her head. Once it was off, he filled his eyes with her splendours. Rosamunda’s shift fell from his hands, forgotten.

"Oh, Rosa," Frodo sighed, enraptured by the sight of her spread out below him. His own body twitched, in spite of himself. Glancing quickly at her face, Frodo caught the flash and flicker in Rosamunda's eye. So sensitively seated, he could not help but feel the little tremor that ran through her at the sight of him, rising up before her thus. Almost imperceptibly, she wet her lips. Catching sight of it, Frodo knew how much she wanted him; but she must wait. Gazing down at her, he was amazed anew at the sheer voluptuousness of her. So much, so much, Frodo thought. And all of it, his. Surely, it was his. He had made it his.

Frodo let go her wrists but only to fill his hands with her naked breasts, bringing them together just for the sight of them mounded high and opulent, like two golden hills, with a deep ravine running in between. He wanted to bury his face there, as if he might burrow into her heart. He made do, however, by dropping his face between her breasts to savour first one silken hillside, then the other, with his cheeks.

Raising himself to admire her once again, Frodo caught sight of Rosamunda's freed hands making a stealthy advance. Intercepting her at once, Frodo recaptured her hands, pinning her wrists to the sheets beside her once more. He mustn't let those hands gain their prize just yet – he could not bear it.

"You are still my captive, Rosa," Frodo reminded her. He had meant to sound commanding but, at the sight of her eyes – soft and beseeching – his words came out almost as a whisper. Held by her eyes, Frodo slowly bent to her again, the coils of his hair falling forward around his heated face. He would have pushed it all out of the way, but he could not risk releasing her. As he drew near, her eyes fluttered shut and her lips parted slightly for the anticipated kiss. But Frodo dared not kiss her – that way lay surrender. Inches from her lips Frodo hesitated then moved, instead, to her breasts. Just the warmth of his breath upon her seemed to melt her gathered readiness to resist and he felt her body relaxing beneath him. Taking a deep breath, her ribs expanding, her breasts rose to meet his touch. Frodo drew a cheek across one silky breast and then the other, luxuriating in their exquisite smoothness.

Rosamunda was enjoying his attentions, Frodo could tell, in spite her renewed efforts to show him no response. Her breathing had accelerated and deepened. He could feel her beginning to squirm beneath him however much she attempted to restrain herself, just to thwart him. The feel of her moving about between his legs was difficult to bear, but it was the teasing hardness of her nipples under his cheeks that called Frodo to indulge his desires at last. He would taste her with his mouth, but not too zealously.

Not trusting Rosamunda with her hands free, Frodo kept them pinned beside her as he browsed the tops of her breasts, his mouth as soft as the muzzle of a grazing pony as he drew one browned nipple and then the other into his mouth, suckling and pulling and nipping, then suckling again. Rosamunda moaned and whimpered pitifully through clenched teeth, gulping down draughts of air in between, as her arms kept straining for release. She did not do so in order to push him away, Frodo knew. She meant to pull him close and then to seize him. He could feel her straining to open her legs but he would not let her, sitting down harder and clasping her firmly between his knees and feet. Lifting his lips from her breasts, Frodo fixed Rosamunda’s eyes with his, in silent reminder of the terms of her agreement to surrender. She stilled herself. But when he bent his mouth to her again, Rosamunda sought relief by stretching out her legs, long and straight, alternately flexing and pointing her toes, her body thrumming underneath him like an arrow speeding to its mark. Arching her head back into the pillows she moaned, high and breathy through her parted lips.

Her moans, added to what he felt going on beneath him, had a powerful effect. Frodo was forced to pause to recover himself. While he did so, with all her strength Rosamunda suddenly stretched out her arms to either side. Frodo, still clasping her wrists, but caught off guard, was drawn down on top of her, his face dropping into the pillow beside her neck.

Turning to the side to breathe, Frodo stayed there very still, just to register the feel of it. Not only their torsos but also their extended arms met in a continuous embrace. This contact was to him so novel and gratifying, he let go of Rosamunda’s wrists to slide his fingers into hers to interlace them. He squeezed and she returned the pressure. Squeezing again she answered, but this time with her full strength, tensing her whole body against him. The extreme closeness, combined with the exertion, felt strangely satisfying to Frodo. Wishing to feel it more fully, he slid his feet down along the sides of her legs until they reached past her toes. Fully stretched out upon her, their bodies were nearly matched; cheek to cheek, breast to breast, belly to belly and limb to limb. Frodo paused again to relish it. Then, on impulse, he hooked her feet and ankles with his. Slowly, he began to pull and flex, as if inviting her to contend with him.

Rosamunda chuckled. "Do you mean to wrestle me, Frodo?"

Frodo lifted his head to look her in the face; she wore a wide grin.

"I warn you," Rosamunda admonished him, arching an eyebrow over a dark, glittering eye, "I have won matches against bigger lads than you when I was a lass."

Indeed, Frodo found in Rosamunda a worthy adversary. She was strong; so strong Frodo felt he could bring much of his strength to bear against her, without worrying that he might hurt her. Rolling this way and that upon the great bed, they gave themselves up to their sinuous struggle until both of them were slippery with sweat in the dim, warm room. They uttered no words. Frodo heard only the inarticulate sounds of their struggles, mingled with giggles and bursts of triumph when points were won or lost. They paused, but only to seek each other's mouths with joyous, breathless kisses, never loosening their interlocking grip. Frodo could not tell if he strove in order to prevail or simply for the pleasure of the struggle – for the feel of muscle and sinew stretching and flexing as he pulled and pressed against her.

They rolled once more, bound together as they were, sending Rosamunda to the top. Frodo, trapping her arms and hands behind her back, squeezed her round the middle until she could scarcely breathe. But Frodo had miscalculated. Even thus pinned and pressed, Rosamunda was not without resources. Flinging aside her damp hair, she bent her face to his and captured Frodo's mouth, nipping and tasting his lips, bruised already to unwonted colour and fullness by the zeal of their lovemaking. Having subdued him in this manner, she assaulted Frodo in earnest with a fiercer kiss, penetrating past his weakened defences to steal his breath away, as if in retaliation. Frodo’s head swam as she swept and searched for pockets of resistance. She echoed those dizzying rounds and spirals with voluptuous movements of her hips. Trapped as he was between their sweat-slicked bodies, Frodo felt himself pulled and rolled until he was nearly overwhelmed, caught by alternating waves of heat and chill. They built and swelled and gathered momentum, sweeping him headlong towards his consummation in a froth of glittering sparks and icy shards. Over and over he tumbled until there was little left of him but one exposed ridge rising to cleave the waves as they rushed and swirled to pull him under. Then he felt her disengage her feet and ankles, part her knees, and slide them over Frodo’s legs, opening herself to take him.

Frodo simply could not let her remain at such a vantage. Releasing her hands at once, he tumbled her over and regained the ascendant. Her wrists released, Rosamunda did not contend with him at once but flung her hands back upon the pillows and lay there, panting, flushed and glistening with perspiration.

Having skirted so close to disaster, Frodo panted likewise, stretched out upon her for a moment of respite.

Rosamunda was quicker to recover. Taking Frodo’s languor for license she seized her chance. Flexing her knees, she raised her hips and deftly captured the tip of him within her, grappling his slippery buttocks to hold him still. It happened so swiftly, Frodo was breathless from both the shock and thrill of it.

"Rosa!" he gasped, "That is cheating!"

She slid her arms around his waist to pull him down the rest of the way, but it was not necessary. Frodo was falling – sliding – sinking towards an ignominious rout.

"Who is the captor, now?" Rosamunda exulted, her voice raspy from her exertions. "It is you who must submit!"

Frodo found himself moving inside her despite his resolve, eliciting tremors and moans at the exquisiteness of it – both hers and his. He knew that very soon he would be lost, lost beyond recall. With all his power of will he forced himself to pause and think on how he might, even yet, regain the field. He'd not had time to consider when Rosamunda slipped a hand behind his head and, tangling her fingers into his steaming curls, drew him down for another dizzying kiss. Beneath him her body curved and flexed, urging him to surrender. Frodo hesitated, distracted. He did not notice her other hand slipping up behind him until he felt the unexpected touch of her fingers, sending shivers of surprised delight all through him as she administered the subtle presses and strokes she knew would make him nearly senseless.

In a passionate whisper, yet quivering with mirth, Rosamunda asked him once again, "Frodo, do you submit?"

He gritted his teeth and held his breath, still determined to resist. Then, delicately, she squeezed. Frodo trembled. Sighing, he gave it up. Dropping his face into her neck he groaned, vanquished, "Very well, I submit."

Rosamunda showed him no mercy, but Frodo no longer wished for any.

* * *

Although it had been undeniably wonderful to be thus defeated, afterwards Frodo found his pleasure mixed with regret. His ordeal had ended far sooner than he had hoped, for Rosamunda had utterly undone him – and speedily. Still quivering from the aftershocks, Frodo rolled off his lover and lay silent.

Rosamunda, sensing the shadow in him, drew him back to lie with her, caressing his face with her fingers while she held him close. Murmuring endearments, she coaxed from him a kiss or two of truce. “Sweet,” she called him, and “dear” – but not, “my dear.” She called him, “lovely,” but not, “my love.” As before, all her actions spoke the words she did not say. Yet, more than ever, Frodo wished for her to say the words.

Laying her cheek upon his chest, Rosamunda began to speak.

As he listened, Frodo watched her sun-browned hand sliding lightly over his skin, so white where the sun seldom went. Her hand hovered over the little dipping place near his hip bone, a place she seemed to love. Droplets of moisture still pooled there, beaded up like pearls. He sensed her eye lingering upon his vanquished self which lolled, like a new babe just glutted with milk, upon its bed of dusky silk. Even in this sated state, the power of her look made Frodo’s body twitch.

"I know how you love to prevail … in our lovemaking, that is, Frodo,” he heard her say. “And I love it when you do.”

Frodo could not really see her face, so he watched her hand as it moved instead.

"But, I like to have a turn, as well."

Frodo glanced away. Lovemaking, she had called it – and so did everyone. But was it that?

Rosamunda had paused, letting her fingers glide back over his ribs and up the rise of his chest in a movement smooth and languid, lulling him. Her fingers continued up the side of his throat to slip behind the base of his skull and into his hair. Withdrawing her fingertips to his cheek, she turned Frodo’s face to hers to seek his eye before she spoke.

"I know you love to please me, Frodo,” she said. With a little chuckle, she added, “To make me die of pleasure obviously gives you joy!”

Frodo did not laugh but managed a little smile.

Her expression became graver as she confided to him, “I love to please you, too, Frodo. I love to know I please you.”

Rosamunda’s voice trailed off, discerning in him no response. Though he lay within her arms, he felt himself distant from her.

She was right, of course. What she asked of him was only what Frodo so enjoyed himself. Why could he not simply accept what she wanted to offer and ask no more of her?

Rosamunda searched his face, waiting, her dark eyes shining and earnest

"Surely, Frodo," she ventured, "that is not too much for you to bear?" She had spoken softly, almost lightly, but her candid eyes betrayed deeper feeling.

Suddenly ashamed of sulking, the shadow within him edged away. Holding Rosamunda’s face, Frodo kissed her tentatively, his tenderness mingled with remorse. Stroking her cheek with his thumb, he met her eyes, letting his own be open to hers. The look she returned seemed to show she saw his feelings – but did she answer them? He thought so.

Heartened, Frodo reached for her. Suddenly filled with the love he felt, he gathered her to him and in his arms she became supple and yielding, letting him mould her to him as he wished. For him, her mouth flowed with honey and her breasts with nectar. For him, hidden within her was a secret store of intoxicating sweetness inexhaustible.

* * *

Although it was not very late the sky had grown dark by the time the lovers had risen from Rosamunda’s bed, feeling the need for other refreshments.

The house had grown much cooler, Frodo noticed. Peering out from the bedroom casements he saw a looming lead-grey sky, but from the south and east big clouds of a lighter grey, piled and heaped upon themselves, were rolling in. Though up above the clouds were moving, the air on the ground seemed still. A sheep bleated in the copse below, but otherwise the sounds outside were few. There would be rain after all.

Rosamunda led the way into the parlour, pulling her shift on over her head. Frodo followed close behind her, laughing as he stole a last armful of warm bare flesh before the garment had fully descended. Pulling her back against him, he nuzzled her neck and the shell of her ear. Relaxed and content, Rosamunda let him do so, leaning into his touch and luxuriating in it. Languidly, she turned her face to the doorway to gaze through its round at the lowering sky outside. Interrupting her reverie, she straightened and took a few steps towards the open door.

"Where did those come from, Frodo?" she asked, turning to him. Curious, she studied the generous basket of cherries still sitting upon the bench where Frodo had left it, just inside the door.

Good heavens! Frodo had completely forgotten the very purpose for his visit. Striding past her, he scooped the basket up and swung it onto the kitchen table.

"They’re some of what we had from the Boffins," Frodo remarked, plucking out a deeply-coloured cluster and nibbling the fruit off the stones. "These are the last of the summer, Folco says." Convivially, he held out a cluster to Rosamunda, saying, “Here, try some. They’re really very good.”

Rosamunda took the little bunch and was about to speak her thanks but Frodo continued.

"The order came today. Bilbo says he is going to have another go at making cherry wine – with better success than last year – he hopes,” Frodo laughed. Picking up another cluster, he went on to explain, “I thought I would bring a basket along with me, just in case, should anyone be looking. In case they should see me coming over, that is…."

Frodo's voice had faltered to a stop delivering this expository speech, on account of Rosamunda’s response. He was surprised, then inwardly alarmed, to see Rosa's eyes darken as he spoke, her brows coming together in a small but decided frown. He couldn't be sure in the dim light but he thought her eyes suddenly glistened, as if from rising tears.

She stood very still, pressing the fingertips of one hand into the furrow above her lips, as if this would make the frown disappear. After a moment, it did. She looked away from the basket and spoke, her voice steady, but even softer than usual.

"That was a good thought, Frodo. To bring them. In case anyone should see."

Frodo did not think she sounded very convinced. He dropped the cluster of cherries back into the basket.

A silence followed which hung in the air between them. Frodo did not know what to think. Following her example he stared at the cherries. Surely he had done the right thing! He looked from the basket to Rosamunda. She produced a faint smile, but Frodo thought it a poor attempt. The sight of that smile plucked at him; he could see she was disturbed but did not know why. He felt very ill at ease indeed – and naked. Glancing about he spotted his shirt and breeches where he had left them to dry, draped over a couple of kitchen chairs.

Rosamunda watched in silence as he slipped on his shirt, pulled up his breeches and fastened the buttons. As he looped the leather of his belt, she maintained her smile but still said nothing.

Frodo’s heart and mind began to race. He should not have come over in the day, he chastised himself. The feeling of anxiety growing within him had become acute, pressing up against his diaphragm, crowding out the air in his lungs, till words began to tumble out.

"I am sorry, Rosa. I suppose – no – I know I should have waited,” he said. “For the night, I mean – I should not have come here in the day."

Frodo hesitated in case she might say something, but she did not. He forged ahead.

"You see, Folco came by – with the fruit. He brought it himself, not Mal. He came, he said, just to ask me, where have I been? And, why didn't I stay longer down at the Ivy Bush these days; and, where was I always rushing off to? He just wouldn't leave it alone, Rosa. I felt – I felt backed into a corner. Folco wasn't trying to insinuate anything, I don't think. That is, I don't imagine he was. Well, nothing specific."

Frodo took a breath and studied the fateful basket but, hearing nothing from her, he went on.

"I don't think Folco suspects anything, Rosa,” Frodo said decidedly. Turning his eyes to her, he concluded, “I think he's missed me, that's all."

He waited, but there was nothing.

"I promised him I would join him down at the Ivy Bush. Tonight. Of course, I wanted to tell you that I wouldn't be coming, Rosa, so I came straight away."

Frodo dropped his eyes, but raised them to add, "I am sorry I forgot to say so, Rosa, until now."

To his surprise, Rosamunda's wan smile had blossomed into a warm one, full and radiant. Relieved and encouraged, Frodo went to embrace her, but she held him away in order to speak.

“Frodo, I am happy for you to see Folco – I want you to see your friends!" she exclaimed. “You’ve no need to think I would dislike that. I confess, I hadn't really thought of how you’d be missed, before. But, of course, you would be. You are loved by many, Frodo."

Frodo’s heart leapt at her use of the word, and he waited to hear if she would say more upon it.

Rosamunda did say more, but not about love, as Frodo would have liked.

"I would not wish you to cheat your friends of your company, Frodo, on account of rushing here to me.” In a reasonable tone she continued, “You needn't always come so early – truly. Or, even, every night."

This was not at all what Frodo had hoped to hear. He opened his mouth to protest, but Rosamunda stayed him with a gesture. As she paused her face became grave. When she spoke again, her tone was thoughtful and her words hesitant.

"You perceived rightly, Frodo, that I was … troubled. Before. It was just that – it made me unhappy that –"

She appeared to be getting herself into a tangle, trying to choose her words and walked away. Squaring her shoulders she turned around to face him.

"You see, Frodo, it grieved me, all of a sudden, when I saw it – and heard why it was brought. I was sorry, you see, that you had to invent an excuse. To come here to see me, I mean."

Frodo was mystified.

She went on, as if to clarify, "The cherries. You brought the basket of cherries."

Frodo was still perplexed and let her know it.

"Yes, I did. Should I not have done? I couldn’t think of anything else, at the moment. I needed to come to see you, right away. So, I thought of the fruit, as a reason, in case anyone should be looking. Was that ill-judged? I thought it would do."

"It was very sensible, Frodo," Rosamunda readily agreed. Yet, having conceded that, she seemed unhappier still.

What, then, was wrong? Frodo persisted.

“Is it that it wasn’t a real gift – the fruit?” Frodo saw her vigorously shaking her head, even as he suggested it. No, he hadn’t thought it could be that.

"Is it the hiding – the covering up – that you mean? Is that it, Rosa?” Frodo asked.

She bit her lower lip when it trembled, but her eyes were welling up with starting tears. That was it, then.

Gently, but firmly, Frodo took her by the shoulders and studied her face.

"Rosa, what is it, especially, about the cherries? I brought them, certainly, as a pretext for coming here. I needed one. I could not hide myself, could I? Yet I could hide my purpose. But what is new in that, in the hiding? We have been hiding, after all – all along.”

She looked away.

Frodo waited for her glance to return before asking, “Haven’t we, Rosa?”

Rosamunda looked very miserable, but Frodo felt he needed the clarification.

“You think I do not notice, but I know what is expected of us and I know we have not done it. We have done otherwise than what the Shire expects. I know you fear Freddy or Estella might learn of us, and suffer from it.”

“Therefore, we must be discreet – and we are discreet, Rosa. We meet only at night – precisely so I shan't be seen when I come here. Isn't that hiding? Isn’t that ‘covering up’? When I leave the Ivy Bush, and someone or other asks me, why don’t I stay? I make my excuses. I don't lie to them, not outright, but neither do I tell them the absolute truth. Isn’t that concealment, Rosa? Yet, I know you would not have me tell them where I really mean to go – would you?"

Rosamunda shook her head.

No, plainly she would not want that.

Then, what was it? Frodo asked himself, thoroughly puzzled.

"I am sorry, Rosa. But, truly, I do not understand what is special about the fruit. Considering everything else, what is the difference?"

Rosamunda gazed through the open doorway, labouring to form her answer.

"You are right, Frodo,” she said finally. “There is no difference.”

The tension in Frodo’s shoulders dissipated but only for a moment.

Rosamunda appeared to be studying the floor near his feet, her expression darkening. When she raised her eyes to him again, the look in her eyes was so disconsolate, fresh anxiety seized him.

"Frodo, everything you say is true; I was wrong. There is nothing different about bringing the cherries for an excuse. Not really; you have argued well. I suppose, it’s just…. It is just – I never felt it before – the hiding, that is. I did not see it, not clearly, until you explained – about the basket.”

As her feelings rose her voice became choked, nearly to a whisper, but she forced herself to go on. “I have not felt it – the hiding – but you have felt it, Frodo. You are the one who has had to make the excuses. You are the one who has had to do the covering up. I – I had not thought of what it has meant for you, not truly. Not until you told me, just now."

"I’m so sorry, Frodo,” she whispered, utterly wretched. She hung her head.

Frodo watched dismayed as a tear rolled down Rosamunda’s tawny cheek, and then another. He could not bear it, just to stand and watch. Pulling her to him he held her tightly, rocking her back and forth to comfort her.

"Rosa, Rosa," he chanted into her hair, but the tension Frodo felt in her did not dissipate. She had not finished.

Staunching her tears, Rosamunda pressed him away to say with a burst of feeling, "I hate that you must lie! I hate to lie, myself! But that is how it would be, all of the time, if we were to keep on as we have done.”

Rosamunda then fell silent, recovering herself, but remained poised as if preparing to say more.

Prickles of apprehension crawled up Frodo’s spine.

“I have not wanted to think of it, Frodo,” she began. “But, now, I suppose I must. Of the end, I mean.”

Frodo gasped but Rosamunda did not seem to notice.

The end. She had said it.

Rosamunda still was speaking. Frodo made himself attend.

“….seeing that basket and hearing why it was brought – so plainly spoken – it made it real to me, Frodo, all of a sudden.”

Curse the basket! Why had he brought the wretched thing? Frodo fought down the sense of panic rising in him. It muffled her words till they only seeped in through the growing web of fear spreading all through him.

"…hadn’t realised you weren’t seeing your friends. You should not have been doing that.”

Frodo still was thinking, “the end.” And, “if.” If they should keep on….If they still should see each other….

His heart pounded in spite of his efforts to subdue it as he heard in his mind these words repeating, the words he had dreaded. Grasping Rosamunda’s arms Frodo almost shook her, trying not to raise his voice.

"If we should keep seeing each other. “If.” What do you mean, “if,” Rosa? Are you planning to send me away? Is that what you have meant to do? Do you mean to do it now – already? Is that it?"

Rosamunda stared back at him, her stricken expression seeming only to confirm the things she said.

"Oh, Rosa, I am sick at heart! You cannot mean it! Rosa, you would not – I should die if you did!"

Frodo shocked himself at his own outburst.

When he had quieted, Rosamunda came to him and took his hands in hers, holding them against her breast.

"You shall not die, Frodo," she told him very gently, for she saw his distress.

His heart sank and his eye followed hers as she turned to gaze through the open door where the sky loomed low and threatening. Isolated patches of distant landscape were sharply illumined by light streaming through rents in the western sky where they could not see.

Letting go his hands, Rosamunda stepped to threshold, surveying the scene outside as she spoke. Her voice was flat and toneless.

"In less than a fortnight, Freddy will be back from Buckland; Merry, with him,” she recited. “When they go on to Tookland, you and I shall go with them, as we have done every year. Estella will be waiting for us, too.”

Turning to Frodo, she said, “We cannot not be at Great Smials, Frodo, what we have been to each other here. Nor can we be so here, at the cottage, once the children have returned.”

Frodo said nothing. He could not.

“You have seen that, Frodo, have you not?" she asked him, her voice subdued.

Frodo did not answer but showed that he was listening while her words washed below him, like a brown river, bearing him slowly but relentlessly away from her.

Rosamunda began twist and press her fingers as she spoke, as if to govern her feelings. The sight of it gave him a flicker of hope, in spite of what she was saying.

"I – I have thought it would be best to end things before the children returned. That is what I have meant to do, well before this.” Looking outside she said, almost bitterly, “But I was weak."

Her words were like brackish water eddying round him, threatening to pull him under. Frodo struggled to keep his feet, however disheartened he felt.

Rosamunda turned again to Frodo and looked into his face. He saw her feelings quicken – it seemed she had to look away to master them. She could feel pity for him, then, he thought. Suddenly he felt an overwhelming impulse to simply grab her, while she was weak, to cajole her – even to beg her – but he fought it. Instead, he waited, in suspense.

When she turned back to him her face was wrung with unhappiness, but she looked decided.

"I know what I should do," she declared, her chin firm and her hands clenched by her sides.

As she took a breath, Frodo trembled inwardly, his entrails tightening.

"I know what I should do,” she repeated – but there was hesitation this time. Noticing her hands twitching open and shut, Frodo’s hope began to surge though he tried to keep it down. She hadn’t finished.

"I know what I must to do, Frodo,” she said, clenching her hands again. But this attempt to make her declaration was marred by a trembling of her lip. She bit it but could not subdue it.

“I know what I ought to do – but I cannot do it,” she conceded miserably. “I said I was weak. I find I still am so.”

Frodo’s relief was enormous. Waiting no longer he pulled her close. A powerful but curiously undirected gratitude welled up within him, to what or to whom he did not know, and he wept – though he was unaware of it until he felt Rosamunda stroking away his tears.

“It seems I shall make you unhappy, either way,” she said, her smile sad.

“I am not unhappy, Rosa, not now,” Frodo averred, but the joy he felt was almost painful. He kissed her in testimony of his happiness.

Rosamunda did not resist Frodo’s embrace, but after he had withdrawn his lips she spoke earnestly, making sure that he was attending.

"When Freddy and Merry return, you shall not begrudge them your friendship, Frodo. Not these two who have loved you so long. Nor Estella. She will be longing to be with you, too, when she sees you."

"I know how much they care for me," Frodo reflected, contemplating her words. Between delicate kisses upon her cheeks and neck – more appreciative than amorous – he said, "I care for them, too, Rosa; you know that I do.”

Looking at her directly he assured her, “I know what you are saying. I shall master myself, Rosa. I shall do better than I have done and behave as they deserve. You will see."

Frodo sought to seal his declaration with a better kiss, the kiss he had felt building up within him. But she withheld her mouth.

“No, you had better not, Frodo,” Rosamunda softly said, kissing his ear instead.

Though she held him away from her, he saw that she yet bore a grin, her good humour restored. “You know I can’t resist you,” she explained.

Glancing outside she said, “It is nearly sunset, even if we cannot see it with all the clouds. You should be leaving soon.”

Frodo, too, had observed the deepening colours outside. But he had no desire to be gone.

“Won’t you have something to eat before you go?” she asked him.

At her mention of it, Frodo realised that he was terribly hungry. Remembering Folco’s admonition not to come down to the Ivy Bush on an empty stomach, Frodo smiled.

“I would love that, Rosa,” he answered. “Here, I will get things started.”

While Frodo brought out things to eat, Rosamunda dressed. Together they cut it up and laid it on plates. Once seated, they both found they were ravenous.

“We’ll have the cherries for our afters,” Frodo heard Rosamunda remark, lightly.

Instantly alert, Frodo wondered if she was being ironic. He glanced at her with apprehension. But Rosamunda smiled, he saw, and her eyes burned bright.

Taking from Frodo the knife he held poised in the air, she set it down upon the table. Then she covered his hand with her own and pressed it.

“I have done with all that, Frodo. I am willing to do what we must, to be together, while we still may.”

It was not the declaration Frodo would have preferred to hear, but it would do. For now, it would do.

When they had finished, the overcast sky outside was darker still. They lit a lamp. After a moment’s awkwardness during which much was meant but nothing was said, Rosamunda offered to walk out with him.

“I love it before a storm,” she said once they stood outside, inhaling the smell of its approach as she glanced in every direction and taking in the scene. A breeze had arisen, lifting the leaves of the little bushes. It soon would be turning to gusts, they could see, from the bending of the grasses off in the distance. The light outside was almost eerie – golden-greenish with a hint of verdigris. The colours of the land around seemed saturated even though there was as yet no rain to make it so.

“Soon it will break. You will be wet through, Frodo, I am afraid,” she said. “I know! There is a good oilcloth cloak hanging up –”

Rosamunda did not finish making her suggestion and Frodo did not enquire further. The cloak, Odovacar’s, would be noted and remarked upon should he be seen wearing it. She smiled at him ruefully.

“I shan’t need a cloak, Rosa, honestly,” Frodo offered, quite cheerfully. “It’s been so hot, I could use the soaking in lieu of a bath! I can always change again at home, on the way there.”

“That’s a good thought, Frodo,” she answered, raising her voice a little against the wind that was beginning to rise. It plucked at her hair, swirling strands across her face and neck.

She was achingly beautiful to Frodo in the lowering light, her dark eyes gleaming black, her clothes swirling and rippling all around her. He did not want to go. He wanted to stay. He reached for her waist but she clasped his wrists and prevented him.

“No. Go,” she ordered, frowning. She added, with a grin, “It will be good practice.”

Frodo laughed, but twisting his wrists free, he took hers instead. Bringing her hands to his lips, he kissed her fingertips, still cherry-stained. At the smell and taste of them, the love Frodo felt began to crowd his chest.

“I –” he said. Swallowing, he tried again. “I –” It was no good.

“I shall miss you tonight, Rosa,” Frodo murmured finally. Almost, he thought, almost. The next time, he would say it.

“I shall miss you, too, Frodo. Terribly,” she answered.

The intensity with which she said this made Frodo want to venture more, but Rosamunda had stepped back, glancing up at the sky, frowning.

“Really, Frodo. You should be going,” she said, insistent. “There might be lightning, by the look of it.”

Frodo acquiesced and, taking his leave, turned to go.

Rosamunda watched him as he walked down the hill through the waving grass. Once or twice he stopped and turned to look at her, walking backwards for a few steps, but soon Rosamunda could see him no more amid the greens and golds against the violet grey.

Staring off into the direction he had gone, she stood listening to the wind as it shook and sifted the grass. Two sheep emerged from over a hill and hurried for shelter in the copse. A bird wheeled and fell, joining the sheep in the little trees and scrubby brush.

When the slanting rain began to come down in earnest, Rosamunda went back inside. She watched from the open door as the lightning and thunder began their show. The display was only brief, the sky clearing in patches, letting in the last of sunset’s deepest pinks and gold to glitter on the wet. Then the rents in the clouds closed again and the rain came down, soft and steady. Long she stood and looked, until it was full night.

* * *

Chapter 10 – The Truth Will Out.

* * *

1400, July 18, just after sunset ~ Hobbiton.

Having first stopped at home to change into dry clothes and fetch a cloak, Frodo arrived at the Ivy Bush to find several patrons idling about in the lane, trying to avoid the puddles left standing in the cobbles from the sudden squall. The sky still threatened rain, but shafts of sunset’s oranges and violets shot through the open places in the roiling canopy. The near sides of buildings were stained with rich colours that shifted with the moving light.

“Did you see that, Frodo? – That pretty bit of a rainbow?”

As he shouted, Odo Proudfoot sloshed the drink about that he had carried out of doors with him. When the inn was bustling, mugs left unattended could be swiftly carried off. Odo’s son, Olo, stood nearby; the patriarch had been a bit tottery of late.

Looking over his shoulder, Frodo saw the clouds beginning to close the gaps through which the vivid light was passing.

“No, Mr. Proudfoot, I’m afraid I didn’t. What a shame!” he said with real regret. “I didn’t think to look behind me, in my hurry coming down,” he explained. Joining the assembled hobbits still gazing into the restless sky, Frodo asked, “Bilbo – is he here, did you notice?”

Frodo had not seen Bilbo at Bag End. The dinner things, however, had been freshly washed and set to drain.

“Indeed, he is!” the elder Proudfoot shouted again. He was a trifle deaf. “He sang a bit and told an admirable tale. He’s quite the storyteller, once he’s up on his feet, your Bilbo. Although I suppose you’ve heard them all before, Frodo. He’s in there deep in talk with the Boffins,” the old hobbit said, gesturing over his shoulder with his mug; “The usual spot.”

Frodo exchanged a few more pleasantries then passed inside. The old oaken door had been propped open to take advantage of the sudden cool the storm had brought. Compared to the freshness and light outside, the inn seemed smoky and dark, but Frodo knew where to look. Inside, Folco hailed him, signalling for Frodo to come and join him.

Their usual spot was snugly situated in a corner; a bench went along both walls. A third bench stood up against a partition of oak which rose half way to the ceiling, partially sequestering the space from the rest of the room.

Folco sat with his back against one wall, Marco with his back to the other. The bench backed by the partition remained empty. Bilbo was sitting in a chair at the end. Puffing on a pipe and waving his mug about, he was finishing up something directed to Marco, the youngest Boffin son, when Frodo arrived. Bilbo waved to a passing lad to fetch Frodo a drink.

Bilbo’s cheeks were very ruddy and his brow damp. “I was just saying, Frodo,” he said, turning to him as Frodo slid along the bench, “we should have a dinner party at Bag End – and soon. Just a few of the younger folk – including me of course! I thought we’d ask the Boffin lads, here – and Rollo, too,” Bilbo said, pausing to turn to Folco and Marco, “if he’s still stopping with you by then – along with his North-Took wife. I’ve not taken a proper look at her since she married him, which was what – ten years ago? Something like that.”

“Eleven, last month,” Marco supplied.

“Tell me again – which one did he end up marrying – Carnelia or Adamantine?”

“Rollo married Tina, the elder,” Folco answered. Before he went on, he had to lean closer to make himself heard over a burst of laughter from the other side of the partition.

“Rollo and Tina’s children are here with them, of course. But there will be an awful din if they should be brought along to dinner, Bilbo. Mum and Dad can look after them for the night.”

“I take no notice of the sort of rumpus lads and lasses make,” Bilbo protested genially.

However, even easygoing Marco agreed – such little children were best left to Grandad and Nana.

Bilbo acquiesced.

“Tina …. I recall her, now,” Bilbo said, narrowing his eyes, remembering. “Tall – and very flaxen-haired, wasn’t she – even for a Took? A bit on the willowy side, though. She didn’t look at all the sort for child-bearing. But four children in just ten years!” Bilbo’s brows lifted into the curls clinging here and there to his damp brow.

“You’ll have a lot of catching up to do, Folco,” Bilbo laughed boisterously, “once Delphie comes of age.” With a wink, he took another swig.

Folco had been courting Delphinium Brockhouse for several years, a Hobbiton lass who was about a year younger than Frodo. The courtship was unofficial, due to her age, but everyone knew of it. A large Boffin wedding was widely and eagerly anticipated once Delphie’s 33rd birthday had passed. Some hobbits, however, wondered behind their hands whether the wedding could be put off that long. The Boffin lads were very nearly as bad as the Bolgers, in that way. Folco must be getting very impatient, many snickered. At least, he looked it.

“Well, Folco, I shall tell you what,” Bilbo proposed, beaming beneficently. “We shall invite Delphinium to join us, too – so as not to waste any opportunity to strengthen your suit. Oh, don’t look like that! I shall invite her dullard brothers, too, for the sake of appearances.”

Bilbo’s eye was exceedingly merry.

Delphinium’s brothers, named for the founding heroes of the Shire, Marcho and Blanco, bore little resemblance to their illustrious namesakes, although they were amiable chaps.

“It will depend on the weather, Bilbo,” Folco answered thoughtfully. “As soon as this weather clears and things dry out a bit, they’ll be cutting the hay, down in the South Farthing – then it will be our turn. But when the South is ready, Delphie’s brothers will be going down to help the cousins. They may be dullards, but they are fit.”

“Quite right. Quite right. Her mother’s folk have quite a lot under cultivation down there, do they not? Yet, I am betting Marcho and Blanco will be back in time to help you out up here, Folco.”

Bilbo turned to Frodo, then, who had been thinking of other things.

“I expect you’ll be lending a hand at the Boffins, too, won’t you Frodo?”

Frodo loathed cutting hay, but he sat up and nodded vigorously, as if signalling his enthusiastic assent.

Every hand was needed during the cut; Frodo always felt obliged to pitch in.

“Well,” Bilbo continued, “if the weather continues dismal and soggy, we shall have our dinner party straight away. Otherwise, it must wait till after the hay-cutting.”

Everyone showed their approval of this plan by raising their mugs to their lips, then Bilbo struck up the conversation again.

“I am thinking we should invite our old friend, but newest neighbour; Rosamunda Bolger. What do you think, Frodo?”

Frodo, choking on his ale, sputtered some down his waistcoat and shirt. Thankfully, Bilbo had already moved on ahead and was holding forth with such zest, nobody had noticed.

“She will not feel too out of place, among so many young folk. Rollo is not much younger than Mrs. Bolger, is he, Folco?” Bilbo went on to ask. Not waiting for an answer he added with a naughty twinkle, “If I recall, Rollo was extremely taken with Mistress Rosamunda once upon a time – when he was a pining ‘tween and she still a Miss Took. Was that not the way of it, Folco?”

Folco, his mouth full of good ale, could only nod his affirmation, but rolled his eyes for emphasis.

Bilbo’s grin was almost wicked, Frodo thought. Still working on his first mug, Frodo had been listening contentedly, but now, he could have kicked Bilbo under the table.

“Well, that’s all over and done with, surely, after all these years,” Bilbo said with a gesture of dismissal. “I am confident the two of them shall get on very well, when they meet again – you will see.” Brightly he concluded, “And so shall we!”

Having talked himself dry, Bilbo took the opportunity to drain the last of his mug. In the ensuing lull, the talk from the table on the other side of the partition could suddenly be heard quite clearly.

Glad of the reprieve, Frodo was pleased to identify the voices as those of the Gamgees.

A very deep voice, that of Gaffer Gamgee, was suddenly lifted over the din of the main room as he hallooed his youngest son, booming out, “And mind you ask for some of those crispy tater bits, Samwise – a great platter full!”

Frodo seized his opportunity; twisting round and clambering up onto the bench he leaned over the top of the much-scored oaken panel to hail their gardener and his sons.

"Good evening, Mr. Gamgee! Good evening, Hal! We’re just on the other side, here. Won't you join us for a round or two?"

The eldest Gamgee, looking about him, quickly identified the source of this cheerful invitation. His craggy smile spoke hearty assent to the youthful one that beamed at him over the top of the darkened rail.

"Much obliged, young Master Baggins!" the Gaffer cried out.

Up he heaved, both knobby-fingered hands pressing against the table for leverage. He was inclined to bouts of stiffness from his years of stooping and bending.

“Samwise!” he shouted to the bar. “We’re over in the corner, now, mind you!”

It appeared that the Gaffer was already a round or two ahead of Bilbo and his party, judging from the loudness of his usually subdued speech. Motioning broadly, the gardener summoned his middle son, Halfred. Hal was a year younger than Frodo, but already he looked even older than Folco. Work and responsibility had matured him early. He, like his elder brother Ham, was due to go up North some day, having a similar knack for roping, as well as a fondness for hunting of which there still was plenty on the North moors.

The Boffins and Frodo scooted down the benches in order to make more space. The Gaffer, before settling in, stuck his head round the partition to call to his youngest once more.

"Samwise! Over here!"

Sam’s head snapped around, and, swinging up a plate of cheese and bread along with the platter of crispy potatoes, he threaded his way to the corner nook.

All the Gamgee men were strapping fellows who looked as if they could demolish any platter of food in a trice. Young Sam looked as though he would grow up along the same lines. At twenty – now officially a 'tween – Sam had been permitted to start tagging along with his elders to the taverns.

Frodo watched as Samwise set the platter down then trotted back to fetch the half-mug he’d left behind. Discreetly, Frodo observed the lad as Sam took spare little sips – making his ale last – all the while thinking of Fredegar. Freddy was just Sam's age. Back in the end of the spring, Freddy’s twentieth birthday had already come and gone, but Frodo had not been out that way to celebrate it with them. He really must remember to wish Freddy well, just as soon as he got back from Buckland. Frodo could take him for his first tankard of ale at the Ivy Bush. The lad would already have been feted at the Hall. Yes, that’s what he’d do. As soon as Freddy got back.

When Freddy got back from Buckland…

The prospect of Rosamunda’s children coming home was not an altogether happy one, Frodo acknowledged privately. But he willed himself to welcome it. He must, for Rosa’s sake.

Frodo was in the midst of these thoughts when he caught Samwise watching him from under his brows. The boy looked away at once, but Frodo had a sense of guilty knowledge in Sam’s guileless eyes.

Oh, no. Surely, Sam hadn’t seen anything untoward…. But the apprentice gardener was up and about very early. Had his been the distant figure Frodo had glimpsed, once or twice, as he was walking home from Rosa’s before dawn? He hoped not. Frodo would be sorry if young Sam should become burdened with matters beyond his years. Though, better Sam than many another, Frodo thought to himself, considering. Sam was extremely loyal to Bilbo, and, if to Bilbo, then to Bilbo’s adopted son and heir.

Frodo felt sure of it. Sam Gamgee could be trusted.

After the seven of them had demolished all of the food on the plates, Bilbo scraped his chair and rose.

“I am for home!” he announced, brushing stray bits and crumbs from his waistcoat.

Frodo began to rise with him, but Bilbo motioned him back down.

“I thank you, Frodo, for your kind intentions, but I am quite able to convey myself to my own door. I am not besotted,” he chortled, flashing Frodo a meaningful look.

Really, Bilbo was overdoing it, Frodo thought to himself darkly.

Bilbo did not appear to notice Frodo’s disapprobation as he made his way towards the door.

“Don’t forget our dinner plans,” Bilbo called back to the Boffins, leaving the Gamgees a bit puzzled as they watched the Master of Bag End wending his way to the door.

Bilbo paused to say something to the landlord before he departed, displaying only the slightest weave and list as he made his exit.

Whatever they had guessed were Bilbo’s words to the landlord, all wondering was set aside when yet another platter of crispy potatoes, piping hot, arrived at their table.

“Compliments of Mr. Bilbo,” said the barman’s son, pushing the huge plate across the table.

This, too, disappeared and another round of beer was ordered. The Gaffer would brook no refusal – it would be on him.

When the Gamgees had drained their mugs they rose as if at a pre-arranged signal. Making their farewells, they wished good health to Bilbo when Frodo should see him at home, and took themselves off.

Frodo, Folco and Marco sat in sudden peace and quiet. Marco, seeming to take it as a cue, wandered off into the main room where he spotted friends of his own and settled down with them.

Folco and Frodo were left to themselves.

“Well!” Folco observed, finishing up the mug the Gaffer had bought. “Your uncle was in fine spirits. It must have been the pleasure of your company that did it, Frodo – your being here tonight having become rather a novelty.”

Before Frodo could protest, Folco had got up and had their mugs refilled. Bringing them back, Folco looked a little unsteady. They sloshed when Folco plonked them down, sending a little plume of foamy spray onto the empty platter. Scooting back into his corner spot, he swung up his feet onto the empty length of bench.

“Not that I haven’t missed you, myself, of course,” Folco continued, giving Frodo a twinkling grin. More earnestly he added, “Really, Frodo, it’s good to have you here again, like old times – just us two.”

Raising his mug aloft, Folco saluted the sentiment he’d just expressed. Then, leaning back against the wall, he watched Frodo through half-closed eyes, taking leisurely sips. Folco’s mood seemed to have shifted; his eyes glittered with suppressed amusement.

“Well, Frodo,” Folco began, his tone very bright. “Where have you been keeping yourself ever since Lithe?”

Folco was not wasting any time, Frodo thought. He must look about himself.

“Nowhere. That is, I have been here, Folco. I am here nearly every night, as a matter of fact. If you got here earlier, you would see.”

“I suppose that is so,” Folco conceded. “But I am used to your lingering longer – at least until Marco and I can get here to join you. Our work days in summer are so long I forget, sometimes, that yours are not.”

Frodo’s reply was subdued.

“You are right. I have few responsibilities.”

“Oh, I don’t mean to take you to task, Frodo,” Folco said, leaning towards his friend, seeming to regret his tone. “I was only teasing. I envy you! Well, not completely.”

“You see, I really do love our place,” Folco confided. “I love the land; I love the work that goes into it. I do not begrudge the time I spend at it. In fact, I hate sitting about idle.”

Seeing Frodo’s look, Folco hastened to add, “Not that you are idle, Frodo. But I just don’t enjoy the same things – reading and study. I must be up and doing!”

The two were silent for a while as they sipped, listening to the low murmur of voices all around them. As it grew later the noise had quieted down, the drone of indecipherable talk broken only by the isolated outburst of unchecked mirth.

“A Baggins dinner party sounds a good idea,” Folco remarked at last. “That is, as long as we don’t end up cutting hay the same day. If this bit of rain moves off smartly, we can enjoy it sooner.’

Changing tack, Folco said, “You seemed to know nothing of it, Frodo – the dinner party.”

“Bilbo has talked of doing a little something before the summer’s end,” Frodo answered, “but he had not said when – or whom he was thinking of inviting. It sounds a splendid idea, to me.” Frodo watched Folco drain his mug before going on.

“I didn’t get to see Rollo the other night, when I had to leave early. And I haven’t really met Tina – not to talk to at any length. I saw her when I was a lad visiting relations up North – or it might have been at the Smials. I think she was forced to mind us and hadn’t wanted to. I am not sure it was her, though; I was so little, then.”

Frodo paused as glimpses of a time when his parents were alive opened in his mind – just as the patches of sky had opened in the clouds as he’d stood outside on the cobblestones. But it all seemed very long ago.

He let them close again.

Folco, Frodo noticed, had been watching him attentively, but not with the uncomfortable, searching interest he had shown earlier. Perhaps Folco was mellowing with the successive mugs of ale – Frodo hoped so. A sober Folco was far too keen. Drunk, Folco would be easier to manage; he was looking rather under the weather at the moment. Nevertheless, Frodo must make an effort to keep the conversation moving along safe paths.

“Did Bilbo specify a day for the dinner, then? – before I got here, I mean?” Frodo asked.

“No. He just said, ‘soon.’ My sense was that Bilbo was thinking in terms of days, though, not weeks. In any event, you will hear of it first, so it will be your job to let us know. I’d like it to be soon, myself, while Rollo is down.”

“I must confess,” Folco went on with a chuckle, “I am very curious to see how Rollo behaves when he sees the Mistress Bolger face to face again. I have been a nuisance of a younger brother to him, poor Rolly. But, indeed, I am looking forward to it – though I shall try to refrain from teasing him.”

Folco, tipping back his mug, noticed it was empty. He made a show of disappointment.

Grateful for the opportunity, Frodo seized Folco’s mug and whisked it off for the landlord to draw another.

Setting the refilled tankard on the table before his friend, Frodo sat down again. Their corner was very quiet now.

“And so am I,” Frodo said. At Folco’s puzzled look he explained, “– looking forward to the dinner.”

“Yes! To the dinner,” Folco cheered. Clanking Frodo’s mug with his own, Folco took a noisy sip.

“Bilbo is an awfully noticing sort, isn’t he?” Folco observed, a little thickly, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “It could make one quite uncomfortable, being always under his scrutiny. Is there anything he doesn’t miss?”

“Very little, I’m afraid,” Frodo said with a wry smile, but, stilling himself, he waited. Folco was only preparing an opening for something else unnerving, Frodo was sure.

“Bilbo did not even know Rollo, not really – yet he knew of Rollo’s ancient enthrallment with the Widow Bolger – the Miss Took that was.”

Folco’s gesticulations were on a grand scale as he spoke, made extravagant by the ale.

Frodo hoped his look was one of mild interest.

The Widow Bolger…. The appellation sounded very strange to his ears – and most unwelcome.

“After all,” Folco continued. “It was not as though Rollo wore his heart on his sleeve. It’s a wonder Bilbo took any notice at all. I am sure no one other than those who knew Rollo well ever did. Rolly is such a quiet, self-contained sort of fellow – unlike me!”

Folco crowed at his joke and slapped the table with the flat of his palm.

It was nice that Folco was in such a merry mood, but, really, he should moderate his speech. Frodo masked his displeasure with a smile, but, with a look and a gesture, warned his friend to lower his voice.

Folco did so at once, but, as if to compensate for lost volume, leaned across the table. With hushed animation, he continued.

“Rollo was terribly cut up about it, you know, when Rosamunda went and married Odo Bolger. But, when their betrothal was announced, even Rollo could see he never really had stood a chance. He, being five years younger, would have seemed just a young pup to her. Obviously, she preferred an older dog.”

Frodo suppressed a sudden desire to giggle, crushing one foot under the other beneath the table.

“I was still a lad, then, of course,” Folco enlarged, “but plenty old enough to see what was what. Most people wondered if there wasn’t a baby on the way – what with Odovacar so hot in his pursuit and the two of them marrying the instant she came of age. Not that anyone blamed Odovacar for going after her, in spite of his years. Rosamunda was not that pretty a lass – for a Took – but she had … something. Any lad could feel it. She has it still, as one can see. Well, those who are old enough to appreciate such things can see it, Master Baggins.”

Folco grinned at Frodo and took another swig.

Frodo squirmed in his seat, so great had become his discomfort – and ire. But, with effort, he hid it, somehow managing to feign amused interest, instead.

“Of course, I suppose you wouldn’t be able to see it,” Folco continued, eyeing Frodo thoughtfully, “having came to know her when you were a little lad and all.”

Frodo relaxed slightly, but the very next second was flooded with alarm.

His gleaming eyes sparkling with mischief, his amiable smile turned into something like a smirk, Folco leaned even closer to Frodo to say, “Or would you?”

Inside, Frodo writhed, desperately struggling to look unaffected by this query, dreading what Folco might say next. He moistened his parched mouth with a of sip ale, stalling for an extra moment before he spoke.

“Would I do what? I don’t know what you mean.”

Frodo almost tittered in his anxiousness.

“Don’t you, Frodo? I saw you at Lithe, you know – that last night. Didn’t you notice? I was standing right there.”

Frodo racked his brain for images from the feast. Had Folco been there, unseen, as Frodo had argued with Bilbo about Rosamunda out beyond the privies? Had Folco been walking right behind them when they’d started across the fields that night to Rosa’s? Surely Frodo would have noticed. And besides, he only had walked Rosa home. Anyone might have done so.

“You don’t remember, my lusty lad?” Folco asked, mirth rippling beneath everything he said. “You don’t remember me standing next to you during the singles’ dance? It was I who pointed them out to you – Bilbo and Rosamunda – while they were dancing together. Ah. You remember, now, I see!”

A peal of laughter broke Folco’s expression of triumph. Frodo knew his cheeks must be flaming.

“You should have seen your face then, Frodo! I’d say you looked extremely appreciative. It wasn’t the sight of dear old Bilbo that brought on that stunned look of utter adoration!”

This was so much better than what Frodo had expected to hear, he sighed with relief and the blood receded from his cheeks.

“Yes,” Frodo admitted, ducking his head and smiling into his mug. He hoped he looked abashed, not guilty. “I remember. You are right, though. I did not see Mrs Bolger’s attraction when I was a little child, but I did that night, when she was out there dancing.”

Frodo knew confession was grossly understated, but it seemed to pass inspection.

“Yes, Mistress Bolger was all aglow with it that night,” Folco breathed. “And you weren’t alone in your admiration, I can assure you, having looked around. You should have seen Hugo Goodbody!” A rude gesture was offered by way of illustration.

Folco’s excess of hilarity abated a little as he added more moderately, “Curiously, she herself does not seem aware of the charm she exerts – but that makes it all the better. Perhaps she didn’t know it back when Rollo was following her about with dog eyes. She simply paid him no attention.”

Folco settled further back into his corner.

“Anyway, Rollo has got over all that, I think. He married Tina and appears not to regret it.”

“They sound as though they are happy together,” Frodo ventured.

“Well, they certainly have produced the children to prove it!” Folco chortled.

Frodo raised his mug, as if to toast the fact. Folco had finished with the subject of Rosamunda Bolger now, he hoped. Taking a sip, Frodo determined to take the lead.

“And you, Folco – you still are set on Delphie?” Frodo asked this knowing the answer.

“Oh, assuredly! You know how long I’ve had my eye on her – ever since she entered her ‘tweens. She’s a wonderful lass, in spite of her dim brothers, whom, I am happy to say, she is nothing like except in amiableness of temper. She’s lively and quick-minded – and – what’s more, she’s keen for the sort of life we live at the farm. That is important.”

Folco set his drink down, cupping his hands around his mug and running them slowly up and down its sides, as if considering. When he glanced up, he gazed at Frodo intently.

“Delphie stands to inherit a very pretty piece of property through her mother some day, all that land near her cousins’ down in the South Farthing. It’s beautifully rich and mostly level – all under wheat and a good bit of barley. Which is just what we don’t have much of up here. It would make an excellent addition to our holdings. Delphie thinks so, too. She may be young, but she’s got a good head on her shoulders. In fact, we see eye to eye on everything that matters: land, family, children, working together….”

Folco paused as he lifted his mug to his lips.

Before he could think to stop himself, Frodo heard himself asking, “But, what about love? Do you love Delphie, Folco?”

Folco’s eyes flared. “Of course, I love her,” he almost snapped. “I have done, for years. What do you mean, Frodo – asking me that?”

“I only thought it sounded as if…. I suppose I just wanted to hear you say it, Folco, that’s all. I wanted to know, so that – so that I might wish you every happiness.”

How impertinent Frodo must have sounded. Now, why had he asked Folco that? For the pleasure of hearing someone say it, he supposed glumly. Even if he, seemingly, could not.

I love her…. I love you.

Such short statements; but so gratifying to say and hear.

Glancing up, Frodo saw that Folco had settled back again against the wall, as if he were amenable to the subject so Frodo continued, but with a lighter tone.

“I suppose, though, I really cannot wish you every happiness, Folco, until Delphie comes of age.”

Folco threw his head back and laughed.

“I am struggling to refrain from that happiness,” Folco confessed when he had settled down, “Of that you may be assured. But it is a hardship, holding off. Sometimes I wonder if I shall succeed much longer.” More seriously he said, “I really don’t want to get her with child, not before we’ve had a proper wedding. But as soon as she’s of age,” he declared, “there’ll be no stopping me!” With a wink, Folco raised his glass.

Peering at Frodo, Folco then said, “You’ll be of age even sooner than Delphie, Frodo. It’s just another year for you. Have you not thought of finding yourself a lass at all? Other than Mrs. Bolger, I mean?”

Frodo felt his stomach lurch but Folco added immediately, as if he were indulging the slow-witted, “You know – at Lithe!”

Frodo’s stomach settled and his heart beat within his chest once more, instead of in his throat.

Oh, dear, Frodo groaned inwardly. This was turning into such a difficult evening. Was there nothing safe to say? He must resort to action.

“Wait a moment, Folco,” he said, bolting up out of his seat, not waiting for an answer. “I may as well order one more round before they turn us out of doors. It is nearly closing.”

As he waved away his friend’s offer, Frodo saw his gesture was a little imprecise. Frodo was in nothing like Folco’s state, but he really must be careful.

“No, no. It is not your turn, Folco” he insisted. “I am in arrears, remember?”

Carrying back their last refills Frodo noticed that his gait had become a bit unsteady, too. Foam slopped over the rims of the mugs and down the leg of his breeches as he negotiated his way, banging up against an empty table.

He mustn’t get drunk, Frodo thought; who knew what he might say then?

When Frodo was comfortably seated and Folco had swung his legs up once again, they saluted each other and each took a sip.

Crossing his ankles on the bench, Folco watched himself as he waggled his feet back and forth. He paused for a second sip then spoke.

“I think she has a lover.”

Frodo choked back a cry and just caught his mug before he sent it flying across the table. Had Folco seen his response? He seemed not to have done, still studying the movement of his feet.

Desperate, Frodo could only think to stammer – “Delphie has a lover? Surely, not, Folco!”

The feet stopped wagging as Folco flashed him a look of incredulity.

“Don’t be absurd, Frodo! Not Delphie,” he explained, round-eyed, as if Frodo were rather dim, “Rosamunda Bolger.”

“What makes you say that?”

Frodo prayed that he did not look as wild as he felt.

Folco’s feet resumed their wagging.

“Well, for the last three or four weeks – ever since Lithe, in fact – I’ve noticed that her grocery orders have increased. Quite a lot; nearly double. I ask you, Frodo: What does that look like to you?”

He could see very well what it looked like.

Frodo was deluged by remorseful self-accusations. The food! He had forgotten how much she got from the Boffins. Of course whatever she ordered would be noticed – but he had never thought. He hadn’t realized how many meals he had taken there. Perhaps because they were taken in the night, they hadn’t seemed to count, somehow. But they had. How could he have been so careless as to let her be compromised in this way? He would start bringing over things to eat the very next thing. At Bag End they had plenty and to spare.

Folco was still speaking, he realised, so Frodo set aside his inner wranglings and made himself attend.

“…so I asked myself, ‘Folco, who is eating all that food? Her children are away; she receives no visitors that anyone is aware of (other than tradesmen’s pimply lads and the washerwoman once a week). Is she giving it away to wandering beggars? She is not getting any stouter, so she’s not the one who is eating it.”

Folco was inebriated, Frodo told himself, working to restrain himself. Some allowance must be made for Folco’s condition, but it was difficult to bear.

“On the contrary, she is looking sleeker and more blooming than ever,” Folco added with considerable warmth. “Very blooming and fit! I know, since I deliver most of her orders. Mal could do it, but I enjoy being a good neighbour.”

Folco winked and guffawed; Frodo seethed.

“I go there to have a look at her, to be honest.”

Hair rose on the back of Frodo’s neck.

“Not to look, precisely; but to be around her. To get close to her. She just exudes something,” Folco said. Gazing off as if pondering it, he finally concluded, “Something … lover-like. One can almost smell it.”

Frodo almost leapt off his bench and throttled Folco, and might have done so in spite of the ale, had he not mastered himself with every ounce of will. He did not trust himself to speak – even to move – so great was his desire to strike the smile from his friend’s face. But this secret was not his alone; it was Rosamunda’s, too. He must be silent.

Fortunately, Folco had not been looking at Frodo during this moment of trial, so, perhaps, Frodo had not completely betrayed what he felt. But he must say something.

“Really, Folco,” he began falteringly, finding his voice, “I don’t think –”

“What do you think, Frodo?” Folco interjected with a look. He seemed quite unaware of what he was provoking in his friend. “Surely the idea is not implausible,” he began, then turned his attention to one of the empty plates. As he spoke, Folco pressed one edge of the rim down onto the table, lifting the other side up then letting it fall with a clatter – raising it higher with each attempt as if just waiting for it to break.

Frodo found it irritating beyond belief

“Think of it: There she is in that little cottage, away from everything, with no one to see who comes and goes. And all by herself. Mightn’t she get a little lonely? Especially after all those years married to a lusty fellow like Odovacar Bolger? She must be very accomplished, too. What a shame to let all that go to waste!”

Clank went the plate. Folco watched intently as he slowly tipped it up again.

“Why, if it weren’t for Delphie, I myself might be inclined to – ”

Before he could stop it, Frodo’s hand shot out and seized the edge of the plate, mid-tilt, his knuckles white.

Startled, Folco’s eyes snapped up to Frodo’s. The eyes he saw glittered, hard as Dwarvish steel.

“Stop it,” Frodo said. His voice was quiet, but his teeth were clenched with effort.

When Frodo let go of the plate, Folco lowered the edge of it back down to the table.

“An irritating habit, I know. I’m sorry, Frodo,” Folco giggled drunkenly. “It drives Mum wild, too. Especially when it’s one of her best.”

They said nothing for a minute or two but Folco had begun to tip his mug up onto its edge, turning it about in a circular pattern. He was not finished.

“Well. You were there just this afternoon, Frodo. Mal saw you tramping off with a basket of our cherries. Didn’t you sense anything when you were there with her?”

If he noticed a new flicker in Frodo’s eyes Folco did not show it, leaning back against the wall as if with nonchalance, waiting for Frodo to answer.

“I brought over the cherries,” Frodo said at last, “but I did not sense anything different. It did not seem to me that anyone else had been there.”

His voice was soft, but his manner stony.

“Well! I must have been wrong, then,” said Folco, as if acknowledging he’d reached a wall in the conversation. Looking sidelong at Frodo, in a manner more subdued Folco offered, “I had forgotten what good friends the Bolgers have been to you. If I have offended, I apologize. Perhaps I have been too presumptuous.”

“Yes,” Frodo answered more softly still. “You have.”

They finished their mugs in silence.

The landlord hailed his patrons; it was time they all went home.

“Walk with me, Frodo, back to Overhill,” Folco urged, turning to Frodo as they stepped out into wetness. A soft drizzle fell, no longer rain.

“All right.”

Frodo had put Folco’s impertinence down to drink, and, feeling the effects of the ale himself, he was inclined now to be benevolent. He truly loved the friend who had taken him under his wing, when Frodo was the “new lad” eleven years before. The ale not only had made Frodo benevolent, it had made him unsteady; he caught himself just before stumbling into a puddle. And, it had made him a little melancholy. It had not been the evening he had hoped for. In fact, it had been rather dreadful.

But as they started up the lane their hearts lifted, simply to be out in the night. As they climbed the lane, a lamp in the last window streaked the glistening cobbles with gold and amber light. With no stars and no moon, the night was very dark indeed, once they’d left the village, but the way was so familiar they could not go astray.

As they followed the lane up over the Hill, passing the turn to Bag End, both hobbits felt themselves begin to unwind inside. Moving through the darkness, refreshing and cool, every sound and smell was heightened by the moistness of the air, increasing their pleasure in the night.

* * *

The same night ~ Rosamunda’s cottage.

After Rosamunda had watched Frodo walk off over the hills, the display of thunder and lightning that followed had been enough to engage her mind. But when the drama had ended, a dull numbness crept over her. While the last light faded into night she stood in the doorway staring as one stupefied, listening to the soft, faint hissing sound the rain made in the expanse of tall grass. Only when she could see nothing at all did she move away. Inside the darkened house, she needed to feel about to find a lamp.

Well, she admonished herself, lighting a rush from the stove and carrying it to the parlour, that was what came of dwelling upon what did not bear dwelling upon. Frodo would not be coming back. Though, not forever, for heaven’s sake. He would be gone for the night; that was all. And what was so dreadful in that? She should be glad for him, she reminded herself as she lit the lamp and some candles. Frodo was doing just what he ought, going out for a laugh and a drink with his friends – friends his own age. He would be getting a better sense of himself in the world, the world in which he was meant to take his place. Not a world circumscribed by her cottage walls but the wider world, which would be his some day soon. He was heir to Bag End under the Hill. His whole life was before him! Not just one summer but many summers – summers wholly unconnected to hers. It was all for the best, and she needn't mope about like some silly tween.

It felt very early still to Rosamunda, so used was she to keeping late hours these weeks since Lithe. She should find something to do; something useful. There was plenty to be done.

A bath would be good, she thought, to start. The afternoon with Frodo had made her all sweaty again; even her hair felt dull and lank. This she would tackle at once – and no lingering lest her own touch remind her too much of Frodo’s.

After she’d bathed and put on a nightdress, Rosamunda stood combing out her hair, clucking over the state of the bed linens. What a mess they’d made of everything, tumbling about in their silly wrestling match. She smiled in remembrance as she stripped the bed. Shaking out fresh sheets, she smoothed them down with the palms of her hands and deftly tucked the corners under.

Standing and admiring her work as she twisted her hair up into a coil, she became sad. There would be no such goings-on tonight.

Ah! No more of such thoughts, she scolded herself. Sliding in some hairpins, she looked about her. Another task; she needed another task. Sleep would not come easily that night.

Clearing away their dinner things only conjured up fresh memories. Frodo had sat just there, worrying the edges of his toast as he’d told her of his mix of feelings for Bilbo, full of humour and tenderness. Slowly dragging a slender finger around in the crumbs on his plate, he’d made a design while he spoke. Rosamunda could not speak when he had glanced up, so full was her heart; Frodo was lovely to her, and dear. To hide her starting tears, she had swung up the basket of cherries in order to begin to clear. But when she’d brushed by him, Frodo had reached out to stop her.

“I am sorry, Frodo. Did you want more?” she’d said. She had asked him with no hidden meaning, but, slipping his hands round her waist, he’d looked up into her face and said, “I shall always want more, Rosa. But more of you. For you are sweeter and more luscious than any fruit.”

Deeply moved, she was bending to kiss him when he’d added, a smile peeping out, “In fact, you are so lovely and tall, you would make me a very fine tree. Then I could plant you wherever I wished.” Standing, he’d taken the basket from her and said, “You could always be with me! My very own tree, always full of lovely fruit, and I’d never have to do without.”

Rosamunda laughed and both of them giggled as Frodo had capered about, dangling clusters of fruit from her fingers and ears, looping some over buttons that ran down her bodice and tucking in others at her waist. “Of course, yours taste better than anything from the Boffins, Rosa,” he’d declared, plucking off cherries and popping them into his mouth. “Mmmm, delicious!”

But when he had bent to nibble off others with his teeth, the ones that hung from buttons between her breasts, Rosamunda laughed no more and nearly had begged him to stay. She had recovered herself and managed to push him away with a laughing scold. Sunset was near and Frodo must go; Folco would be waiting.

Glancing now at the pile of dirty clothes in the corner, Rosamunda thought of the cherry stains that smeared her bodice front. Later, she would need to put that to soak. No, better to do it at once. She filled a bowl for the purpose. She might as well wash the dishes, while she was about it. Putting on her apron, she swirled her hands through the soapy warmth, wondering what she might do next. Baking, perhaps? No. That would only remind her of other things.

Was there nothing that was not associated with Frodo?

There were letters to write; her latest letters lay unanswered on the parlour table. Nor had she written to Freddy or Estella that day. Yet, in this mood, what might she say that that did not sound false? “I love you dearly," she might begin, and, "I miss you very much,” might be her closing. And she did miss them, it was true. But even more, she missed – no – she would not even think it. And, as for whom she loved very dearly, just the shadow of this thought threw her into a state of alarm and Rosamunda thrust it from her. She slammed the door against it. But it came in through the cracks; it seeped from under the door.

She must overcome it. She would.

What next?

Towelling her hands with unnecessary vigour, Rosamunda considered. There was mending to be done, but that struck her as dull beyond words. Casting her eye about the parlour she noticed a pair of faded cushions, embroidered by her mother when Rosamunda had been small, tucked into the corners of her little couch.

Not mending, she realised, but needlework was what she might do. The making of patterns from coloured silk was work that both satisfied and engrossed her. From her stack of unfinished work at Shady Bank, Rosamunda had brought a lovely nightdress she had sewn for Estella. Not one for a little lass; it was for Estella later. Long and elegant, made from the finest linen stuff she could find, Rosamunda had fashioned it for the day when her younger child should be married. She had imagined making Estella these things from the time her daughter had been born – things Rosamunda’s mother had not lived to make for her. Yes, such work would do very well.

She brought out a box of needles and threads and tiny shears of Dwarvish make. Odovacar had bought them for her from a peddler in Bree, shortly after they were married. Lifting the nightdress out of its protective cloth, Rosamunda brought everything to the little couch, an old settee, ornate and very sturdily made, taken from her parents’ house. Made for two, there was room to keep her sewing things beside her. She could drape the end of the nightdress over the arm to keep it off the floor while she worked. Bringing a lamp to the table beside the settee, Rosamunda set about her task.

She made good headway detailing the design that went around the neck, but after an hour she had had enough. Her eyes hurt; the light was too poor. No, it was not the light, she sighed, vexed. She simply did not wish to do it. Wrapping the nightdress again in its cloth, she got up and put it away.

She must move about.

In the open doorway to the cottage, Rosamunda stopped and stood, looking out into utter blackness. Unseen clouds hid the stars and the sliver of young moon. But the smell of rain-washed night – cool, fresh and clean – was lovely. The moisture bathing her face was no longer rain but something more like mist, swirling about on a light breeze. She might have gone out for a walk had there been any light, but she did not know the land well enough to negotiate it in such darkness. There were too many fissures in which to turn an ankle; too many rain-filled sloughs in which to tumble. The thought of sprawling headlong into one of them and getting soaked made her shiver. In fact, the cool damp she had found so refreshing a moment ago now chilled her, chilled her to the bone.

Back inside it was no better. The hole seemed cold – dark and dank.

A fire might be nice. The nights of Afterlithe had been so mild (and recently, so hot) it had been many weeks since she’d lit a fire. But at this moment, Rosamunda could think of nothing more appealing.

Choosing some wood from the stack by the stove, she laid a modest fire in the parlour grate and lit it. It caught and flared, spreading from stick to stick until it was crackling nicely. The sight of it pleased Rosamunda beyond measure. That was better!

Taking a drink of water with her, she returned to the settee. She turned it a bit to better face the fire, but it was still too far away to satisfy. Abandoning it, she chose the wooden hearth-side chair, instead, an ancient but stoutly-built piece brought from Shady Bank. Low-seated and high-backed, she had liked to sit on it while she was nursing Freddy and Estella. Dragging it up as close as she might without cinders landing on her feet, Rosamunda sat upon it. She propped her elbows on her knees and sipped from her cup as she basked before the blaze, now grown lively and bright. Unwanted thoughts began to crowd in, but, as she stared, her mind emptied until she only felt and heard and saw the fire before her.

When the fire got low, Rosamunda went to the kitchen to fetch more wood. Gazing again into the burning brands she watched the tongues of orange and white lick up through the spaces, with bits of sapphire showing in between. She lost herself within the fire’s caverns, enchanted by the glowing nooks and little cracks which led to places hidden from her sight.

It was foolish, she knew – a fire in the summer – but she simply could not bear to see it die. Each time the fire burned low and the light dimmed, it was as if her sense of the room dimmed with it. Not just the light but the very heart of the room seemed to darken and shrink, the life and warmth of it seeping away as the fire waned.

Which was ridiculous, of course. It was only a fire. And, a fire in summer! It was silly. And a waste.

Getting up to fetch more wood, Rosamunda reproved herself, but laid more sticks upon the fire. This would be the last time; she would let it die and go to bed.

In spite of herself, Rosamunda watched with irrepressible joy as it burst back into life. Her heart leapt up with the flames, her spirits revived. She loved it, waste or not. How splendid it was! How warm! How beautiful!

It was while in the midst of her transports that Rosamunda glanced towards her bedroom, its door opening into darkness. She had thought about it earlier in the evening, once or twice – how she might feel when it was time to go to bed without Frodo. But it was only then, as she stared through the darkened doorway that she felt the force of it.

Without him. She would be climbing into bed without him. She thought of the high, wide bed she had so recently prepared; in her mind, she saw it standing there in the darkness, freshly made. Freshly made for whom?

She imagined the feel of it – the feel of sliding between those sheets – so flat, so smooth, so cool. Rosamunda shivered.

The prospect of spending the night in her bed without Frodo lying beside her was suddenly so terrible, a tremor shook her. It looked so dark in there. So dark and dead and cold.

What did she think she had been playing at?

Rosamunda marvelled at herself. There she had been, fiddling about with a fire made of sticks, as if it could ever warm her in a way that mattered! She could have laughed out loud at the folly of it, were she not too distraught.

Did she feel cold? Well, what else might be expected when there was no fire? A true fire. A fire in the grate was no substitute at all. Frodo. It had been Frodo, all the while. Frodo had been the fire. Surely, she had felt it, seen it all the time – hadn’t she? It wasn’t just the heat they conjured up between them that she missed – the passion kindled by their lovemaking. That seemed to have its own fiery life. The fire she missed now was a different matter. It was in Frodo himself. How could she have sent him off like that? Had it been just a few hours ago?

Frodo had not wanted to go; he had wanted to stay. She had seen it. She had seen it, but she had closed her eyes to it. Well, let them be opened now. In her mind’s eye Rosamunda saw him walking away, walking down the hill then stopping, turning. Walking a bit further then stopping, turning once more, his face wistful and expectant, hoping for a word, a look – anything from her that said, Tell me to stop – Tell me you want me to stay.

But she had let him go.

What had she been thinking, as she'd watched him walking away – stopping, turning, looking? Paltry, foolish things.

Wasn't he lovely? Wasn't he dear?

Why hadn’t she just chucked him under the chin like any indulgent Bywater matron, telling him, Run along, now; there's a good lad.

Remorse and regret wrung Rosamunda’s heart as she railed at herself, full of agitation as she paced before the fire.

Who did she think he was? What did she think he was, that she could have dismissed him with such words of farewell, sending him off with a peck on the cheek? “Mind your clothes, Frodo,” she might have said – as if he were a boy!

Rosamunda stopped and stood appalled.

As if he were a boy.

That was it, wasn’t it…she had treated Frodo like a boy – a little boy.

But he was not a child.

Self-reproach overwhelmed her as she thought of it in this new light. It was true. Not just that afternoon, but all along, she had been treating him like a boy. An infatuated boy.

Since that first night with him at Lithe, she had encouraged him – petting him, stroking him; letting him dote and become attached – yet, all the while, keeping him at a distance. With all the encouragement she had been giving him, why had she bothered to keep him from coming too close? Was it a sop to her conscience, so that she might be able to tell herself she was conforming to Bilbo’s wishes? If that were so, she would have done better to have turned him away at once!

But she hadn’t. She had let him come to her. Yet whenever he got too near, she had held him at arm’s length as if he were an over-eager child who, if not discouraged, might clamber over her to demand a kiss, spoiling her clothes and putting her in disarray.

Surely, she did not really think this of Frodo! He was not some unbridled, overwrought youth who must be kept in check, lest he make a nuisance of himself. Frodo was no such child.

Yet she had rebuffed him as if he were one. She could see it, now, as remembered moments came back to her. She had pushed him away.

But not his body. His body she did not push away. She was keen enough for that, wasn’t she?

Rosamunda’s face burned at the admission, but, scrutinizing her behaviour, it seemed to be true. His body she would allow him to open to her, but not his heart. And it was his heart that he had been trying to offer, was it not?

Just that afternoon, Frodo had been trying to tell her what was in his heart. But, it would seem, she had not wanted to hear it – as if it might be unbearable! She had turned away from him, leaving him to carry the burden of everything he felt alone.

Tears sprang to Rosamunda’s eyes; tears of shame, of anguish, and of pity. She wept aloud and her heart smote her to think of it. All that feeling! And she had let Frodo carry it inside him, all alone; she would have none of it.

She thought of the basket of cherries, when he’d shown all that he had been thinking and doing, working to keep their affair hidden – protecting her. He was the one who had been brave. He was the one who had been grown-up, facing the realities of what being her lover had meant, not she. While she had been going empty-handed, Frodo had been carrying all the weight of it; the burden of an adult, not a child’s.

Why had she not seen he had grown up? Anyone looking on would have recognized it, even before he had started coming to see her. What he had gained in stature since Lithe was a matter of experience, not of innate character. Apart from his growth in confidence, Frodo was unchanged. To anyone who knew him this would have been apparent. To anyone, it would seem, but her.

Frodo had grown up. He was grown up; she merely had not wished to see it.

Why was that? Why should she wish to keep him a boy? For that was what she had been doing in denying him the recognition of his feelings as those of an adult.

"Prudence," she might have answered – before the cherries and before this night spent alone before the fire. Now she was uncertain.

Before tonight, she would have said she was keeping Frodo at a distance for his benefit, to keep him safe from forming too great an attachment, against the day when they would part. She and Bilbo had talked of it, discussing Frodo’s future. If Frodo should come to care for her too deeply, he would suffer that much more when the inevitable end came. Frodo was yet so young; his ardour would pass in any case. A lad’s love burned hot but was of short duration. Frodo would love, but then move on – as he should and must.

But now such thoughts seemed disingenuous. Frodo was young, but he was not a lad – he was a hobbit grown, and, more mature in mind and deeper in heart than other lads his age or older. And she knew it to be so, deep down. That she continually fended him off tended to show that she had have seen it, or she wouldn’t have taken the trouble. Clearly, what he felt was serious.

As for the life she and Bilbo had envisioned between them for Frodo; was his life theirs to plan and try to press into paths of their design any longer, if it ever had been?

She had only wanted to protect Frodo, she defended herself. She had tried to keep him from getting too close, in order to protect him. It was done to save him future pain, lest he suffer too greatly when it ended –.

Rosamunda’s scalp prickled as knowledge dawned.

Whose future pain had she been trying to prevent by keeping him away? Who might suffer too greatly at the end? Whose happiness had she been striving to protect, really?

Frodo’s – or her own?

Rosamunda could not deny the answer. But so anguished was she by the realisation, hot tears sprang to her eyes anew. Blinking them back, she strove to face it. It was she herself she had been protecting all along. She only had pretended to herself it was done for him. Oh, disgraceful!

Rosamunda wept again, but forced herself to stop.

But – protecting herself from what? From Frodo? Never. From Frodo’s feelings for her? Those could not be so unbearable.

Frodo could be intense, it was true, but she loved that in him. Since he had been little, Rosamunda had delighted in him as her friend, so sweet was his companionship. Yet, underneath, there had been a spark in him, a small flame that quietly burned inside. It seemed to animate him, making him a little restless, his mind always in motion; watching, observing – never quite satisfied with her explanations. Frodo had been like no hobbit she knew in that respect. Now, as a lover, he seemed to blaze with it; his ardour was incandescent; yet his flame was constant and did not waver.

It was this flame in him which drew her; it kindled something like in her she hadn’t known was there. It filled her with joy – but also with an undefined anxiousness.

Yet fire was a good thing, was it not? It warmed; it heartened; it was bright and beautiful. One might die without it.

Standing again before the hearth, staring into the little blaze, Rosamunda laid on another few sticks, in spite of her resolve to add no more. They caught and flared, and, becoming a little conflagration, threw off blessed heat that she basked in.

What a shame that it would be of brief duration. The dry bit of kindling soon would be consumed and reduced to ash.

The thought roused her. Was that what she feared? Not Frodo, but the love itself? That it might consume her?

Fire burned and warmed – but also it consumed. Would it be too dreadful to love Frodo back? For, yes, it was love that he felt, although she had not been willing to hear the word. He burned with it.

In the midst of her darkened house Rosamunda stood, considering, listening to the fire’s rush and crackle.

Well, she thought at last, better to burn and live, than slowly to die of cold. And she would live, for Frodo burned yet lived. If it did not kill him, it would not kill her. She would choose the fire.

The fire!

Nearly spent, it fast was becoming a glowing mound of ash. Rosamunda rushed to the kitchen, dashed back with another armful of wood and hurried to lay it on. The fire must not go out.

After it had blazed back up, Rosamunda felt restored.

Crouching upon the rug before it, she thought of the great bed of her parents that waited for her in the darkness of her room, wide and clean and chill. She knew she would not sleep in it. Not tonight.

She tried to drag the old settee closer to the fire, pushing the wooden chair away. She could not pull it up onto the rug, so she left it at the edge, angled over the corner. That would have to do. As long as she could see the fire and feel the heat, that was all that mattered.

Taking a coverlet out of the cupboard she curled up on the little couch, pulling it up over her shoulders. Making a nest for herself in its faded familiar cushions, she felt soothed. She realised her hair was still damp as she nestled her head into her mother’s pillows, plumped fat and comforting beneath her cheek. She should sit up and let it dry. But, suddenly tired, the tedious task of waving and fluffing it back and forth seemed too onerous. She would unpin it and spread it out. The fire would dry it. The pins made no sound as she let them drop to the rug.

Ah, the fire….

As Rosamunda settled inside herself, smoothing her cheek against the worn embroidered plush that her mother’s hand had worked, the leaping flames entranced then lulled her, until they became a part of her dreams.

* * *

The same night ~ the Boffins’ home at Overhill, and its environs.

As the two friends neared the Boffin home, Frodo could make out a glimmer of light. The dark shapes of smaller structures, sheds and outbuildings standing back from the lane, could be discerned on either side as they made their way. The light appeared to be shining from the house.

The Boffin home was a rambling affair, the product of many additions made over the years. Not a hole, it was built above the ground, but its low profile was almost indistinguishable in the gloom of the overcast night. Closer to, Frodo could see the light was coming from the kitchen. Surely, no one would still be waiting up.

As if he had read Frodo’s thoughts, Folco said, “Mother has started leaving a lamp burning in the kitchen for us, whenever we are out late ever since Marco came home drunk last month and cut his lip falling over the dog. His lip was not of great concern, but a broken arm or leg would put the work back shockingly!” he laughed. “She’s not waiting up, if that’s what you’re thinking. The lamp will be a good thing, though, in our conditions.”

Folco stumbled against a stone at the edge the path as if to prove his point, uttering an oath.

If Folco’s mother was not waiting up, others were. A chorus of yelps rose up as they opened the garden gate and found themselves surrounded by a circle of glittering eyes and panting jaws with tongues slavering.

Although Frodo had long since learned that not every dog was one of Farmer Maggot’s, he momentarily had to steel himself to stretch out his hand for their eager noses to smell. They knew him for a friend.

Up near the house, the light spilling from the kitchen lamp was enough for them to see which dog was which. Folco grinned as one of them continued to nose Frodo with keen enthusiasm; indeed, as if it might tunnel its nose right through the crotch of Frodo’s breeches.

Dogs , Frodo thought.

“Off, Tip! Give over!” Folco ordered through snorts and giggles. “Leave something for the lasses!”

“You could push him off yourself, you know, Frodo,” Folco advised, “unless it’s just too enjoyable to forego.”

At this, Frodo broke into a fit of giggles himself, Folco joining him in hilarity. They tried to stifle their noise, but, doubled over with laughter, their arms upon each other’s shoulders for mutual support, they shook with helpless mirth until tears streamed down their faces.

When the fit had passed, sighing for breath, Folco suggested they go inside and take a bit of refreshment. Frodo was amenable to that. But, just as he was about to follow Folco inside, they were startled by the creaking of a casement.

“What’s all that rumpus out there? Folco, is that you?”

“Yes, Mother, it is,” Folco affirmed in a loud whisper, adding, “Frodo Baggins is with me.”

“Oh,” the voice answered, sounding mollified.

“Well, just keep your noise down a bit better, you two. And put out the lights when you’ve finished up. And leave some of those sweet buns for breakfast.”

“Yes, Mother.”

The conversation was at an end.

Inside, Frodo was grateful to share from a plate of food left covered with a cloth on a high sideboard, to keep it from the dogs. A large dent had been made in it already; Marco must have come home already and gone to bed. Rollo and his family had retired long before.

Frodo and Folco finished their meal with sweet buns, two each. They were exceptionally good, even cold. Folco’s mother was extremely indulgent (towards Frodo, too) however much she disliked being woken from her sleep. Her daughters were married and gone, but she baked a variety of sweet every day, to suit the tastes of “her lads” – the two sons who remained at home and her husband.

Restored, Folco stood up.

“Now, Frodo! We’ve got just the thing to round things off nicely. Rollo brought it down from Long Cleeve; a bit of the North Took specialty. It’s a barley malt such as you and I have never dreamt of, it is that superb. You’d think one of Bilbo’s Elves had made it!”

Folco vanished but quickly reappeared holding a crockery bottle sealed with a lump of wax. He opened it, lifted it in a gesture of reverence, then held it up to his nose. Both hobbits took turns breathing in the spirit’s heady perfume, sighing with pleasure.

It would be wonderful.

Several diminutive glasses later, Frodo and Folco were feeling pleasantly undone by the spirits. In the near-darkness of the old back parlour, redolent with the smell of whiskey, pipeweed and dog, they lounged. Folco sat with his legs stretched out before him on the rug, leaning against the sofa, his head propped on the seat cushion behind him. Frodo, on the sofa, was sprawled upon his back with a doggy-smelling pillow under his head, his feet hanging over the arm at the end. One hand was up behind his head, the other held the empty glass, which he slowly turned this way and that, studying the reflections that winked in the candlelight.

They said little, merely enjoying the effects wrought by the skill of North-Took distillers. Some candles flickered on top of a table across from the couch, their light waxing and waning as they dripped little pools onto their trays.

“Frodo,” Folco said at last, breaking the silence.

“Mmmm?” Frodo answered.

“I am sorry I baited you.”

“Baited me?”

Frodo was still backing up his thoughts looking for a reference, when Folco spoke again.

“Yes, baited you. At the Ivy Bush.”

“Oh.”

So, they were back to that. Blast. Unwillingly, Frodo braced himself.

“You see – I was sure it was you.”

“Sure I was what?”

“The lover. Rosamunda’s mystery lover.”

Double blast. Folco was being plain enough.

“I was hoping, you see,” Folco went on tentatively, “that if I pushed you a bit, you might say something. But if you don’t want to tell me anything – ”

Sobered, Frodo worked to muster an unperturbed tone with which to fashion a reply, but could not. There was nothing he could say that would not be a lie.

“Oh,” Folco sighed. “I shan’t try to drag it out of you.”

Frodo waited, still tense. He was sure Folco hadn’t finished.

‘Was I wrong, after all? I must have been, I suppose. For if it were you, you would have told me. I would have told you if I were the one – as your friend.”

The tone of Folco’s voice was almost one of hurt.

Frodo said nothing, but, glancing at his friend, he suddenly felt shabby for his deceit, in spite of Folco’s presumptuousness. His friend’s profile was only partially lit as he stared off somewhere overhead.

Looking at him, Frodo was filled with inexplicable tenderness. Frodo’s predicament was not Folco’s fault. His friend did not mean to wound. Frodo would simply have to bear it.

“I was so certain it was you, Frodo,” Folco went on, unable to let it go. “That was why I pressed you.”

“I thought, ‘Who else could it be?’ You were missing night after night at the Ivy Bush, with little to offer by way of explanation. But I hadn’t meant it in a nasty, prying way – as if just to be nosy.”

Frodo heaved a silent sigh; when would this ordeal be over?

Folco had twisted round to look at Frodo, casting his face into shadow. But Frodo was facing the candlelight, so he smiled, to show his good will.

The smile must have been convincing; Folco relaxed again. Turning back around, he dropped his head against the sofa cushion.

“I merely wanted to cheer you on, Frodo…” Folco continued wisfully. Raising his glass he sipped the last of it, made a satisfied sound and straightened up a little against the couch, his head dropping even further back.

“And why wouldn’t I want to cheer you on, Frodo? I would have been pleased for you!” Folco said with renewed fervour, gazing somewhere between the rafters. “Is there a lad who wouldn’t count himself lucky to land up in Rosamunda’s bed?”

Behind Folco’s reclining head, Frodo bristled. Sinews stood out on Frodo’s arms and wrists. The strangled sound that escaped his throat must have caught Folco’s ear.

Turning around, Folco was smiling, ready to speak, as if anticipating something other than what he saw.

Frodo did not know what he looked like, but at the sight of his face, Folco’s smile vanished; the words he had prepared shrivelled on his lips. In spite of the ale and the North Took spirits, Folco was suddenly open-eyed.

“Frodo,” he stammered shrinking away and scooting back across the rug.

The light of the candles behind Folco hid his face from Frodo’s view, but the tone of his voice told Frodo everything.

“I didn’t realise, Frodo!” came Folco’s anguished voice. “I am – forgive me.”

Folco dropped his head, abashed.

Lifting it again, he blurted, “Oh, good heavens, Frodo. What have I said? What an ignorant, blundering – I never thought! Do you mean that you – ? Well, of course you do; I can see that. But, does Rosamunda know? I mean – oh, dear. I’m so sorry, Frodo.”

Folco’s queries and exclamations foundered miserably, one after another, at the sight of Frodo’s indignation and distress.

Whether Folco was sorry to think his friend was in love with “the Widow,” or whether he was sorry that Frodo was pining – unrequited – for a woman who was seeing someone else, Frodo could not tell. He appreciated his friend’s remorse, on account of the love it revealed, but the situation really was too much to bear. He must get away.

Standing up, Frodo put down his little glass and straightened his clothes. Dampness stained the breast of his shirt. Took spirits, he surmised.

Folco, drunk and wretched, struggled to push himself up off the floor, imploring Frodo to wait. Frodo was touched by his friend’s distress in spite of his own, but it was all he could do to keep from dashing out.

“I really must be going, Folco. It is very late. But thank you for asking me over. Thank Rollo, too, for providing the treat – and beg his pardon if we drank too much of it.”

Folco would not be put off so formally. Grasping his younger friend by the shoulders he held on, as if for support, as words continued to tumble out.

“Don’t go feeling angry with me, Frodo. I didn’t know. Really – I didn’t! I guessed that you – but I never imagined that – I thought you were just – ”

Amusing myself? Trying out a few things with the ‘lonely widow’? Frodo could fill in the spaces.

“Frodo – please believe me – I never would have said all that rubbish if I had known that you – if I had known how you felt.”

Folco had never believed in any other “mystery lover,” that was plain. And, he was becoming weepy.

Pulling his friend to him for a gruff but heart-felt embrace, Frodo managed to prevent Folco from saying anything more. Yet, feeling himself embraced powerfully in return, and with such obvious love, Frodo suddenly longed to tell Folco everything. To tell somebody of the love that made his heart expand and fill his chest to bursting. But he could not.

“There is nothing to know, Folco," Frodo said, holding Folco away so that he might look him in the eye. "There is nothing to know and nothing to tell. That is – there is nothing I am able to tell. Can you understand what I am saying, Folco?”

Frodo meant to sound firm but his tone must have been sharp, for his friend shrank away.
Pulling Folco back for another quick embrace, to reassure him, Frodo bade his friend farewell and left quickly, letting himself out before Folco could speak or follow.

* * *

Outside, standing in the thin spill of light from the Boffins’ kitchen window, Frodo could see his canine admirers running up to him. All panting eagerness, the dogs opened their jaws to bark a fresh greeting.

“Shhh! Down, Tip,” he whispered, giving his special admirer a vigorous scratch and a pat. Stooping made Frodo’s head feel heavy; he had drunk too much after all. Tip, oblivious to the state of Frodo's head, was nevertheless satisfied. Amiably he trotted off into the night, the others following their leader.

As quietly as he could Frodo went out through the gate, turned his face into the swirling mists and stepped into the homeward way. The drizzle had stopped and the cool night air had a refreshing, sobering effect. Frodo did not stumble as he went; even completely inebriated and on a moonless night Frodo had always been able to find his way home, just by the feel of the familiar road under his feet.

* * *

Almost at Bag End, Frodo came to a halt. So precipitous was his stop it nearly sent him flying headlong. Frodo's eyes had nothing to fix upon, but, flexing his toes against the cool wet of the lane, he recovered his balance. As the feel of the earth firmed under his feet, his thoughts began to sort themselves.

Frodo had been ambling along, letting his mind wander. Sensing the proximity of his home he had begun to picture his arrival there.

He’d open the gate and then he’d enter the darkened door….

Inside Bag End it would be quiet and dark. He would take a lamp from the kitchen and light it, carrying it before him. From Bilbo's room, he would hear snoring, soft and steady. Passing along the silent hall, the lamp would make shafts of dark and light that skittered across the walls and floor as he walked to his room at the end. At his doorway he would come to a halt, and, holding the lamp aloft, look in.

There would be the contents of his room – solid yet curiously insubstantial in the wavering light. His worn writing desk covered in writing things that had been his father’s, brought out of store from Buckland; his books on their shelves; the dressing table with its mirror, basin and pitcher – his tooth powder – brushes and combs lying beside it; the heavy clothes press; the hearth and grate. By the hearth would be the cushioned chair and stool that had come from his parent’s parlour, also out of store; a non-descript nightstand stood by the bed.

The bed. It was the bed that drew his inner gaze. How stark it looked; how strangely unfamiliar – bleak – and utterly lonely. Frodo had not slept in it at night since Lithe.

How long ago was that? Folco would have been able to tally it up, Frodo thought wryly. Was it only three weeks past? Three weeks and some days? It seemed like years, like lifetimes ago….

Standing in the dark lane, Frodo hesitated.

Almost at his own front gate, he realized he had no wish to go home. Nor did he want his bed. In fact, he flinched from it. The prospect of getting into it alone depressed him utterly.

The truth was, Frodo no longer could think of a night alone – a night that did not end in Rosamunda’s arms. Nestled up against her, his cheek near her breast, lulled by the rhythm of her breathing – that was how he slept now.

It was terribly late, Frodo knew; she would have gone to bed hours ago. Yet, he simply could not make himself go inside Bag End. Late as it was, he would walk to the cottage.

Perhaps he could just creep into bed beside her; there still were several hours left before the dawn. But, then, he thought, he might wake her with his fidgeting – at least – if he could not settle down inside.

He would listen to his breathing; that usually quieted him. It did now.

As the turmoil inside began to still, Frodo began to notice the sounds around him. Frogs sang in the new-filled ditches, the song of their rhythmic chirping ebbing and flowing like breathing or like the blood that pumped through his veins. Frodo loved listening to them as he lay on Rosamunda’s bed, his hands clasped under his head. She would listen, too, her arms loosely wrapped around him; utterly soft, but full of latent strength to hold him tight.

The sloughs near her home would be full of new rain. The songs would be glorious….

He would go to the cottage; he would not be going home.

No, that was not true – Frodo would be going home, he realised at once – but, to another home.

After all, not just Bag End but the cottage, too, had become his home. He had two homes, now, hadn’t he? Or, perhaps, it was one; his lonely room and lonelier bed were no home.

Yet, Bilbo was still his home. That was closer to the way it was: Bilbo himself was his home – not Bag End. Just as it was not the cottage but Rosamunda herself, who was his home, out in the grassy hills. Home resided in a person, not a structure. Home was where one loved, and where one was loved in return.

Frodo had such a home with Bilbo; now he wanted one with Rosamunda. Did he have a home with her – in her? Did she even know how much he loved her? Folco’s impertinent remarks came, unwanted, to mind.

Did Rosamunda, like Folco, think Frodo was merely amusing himself?

No, surely not. Never. She would not have received him had she thought it was merely that.

But was she merely indulging him, out of their old friendship, but really waiting for him to outgrow a besotted infatuation? That was a more likely possibility. Frodo couldn’t bear it if she felt like that. In fact, it was the possibility he most dreaded.

He had to know. He had to know tonight.

As Frodo struck out across the fields in the darkness, following the cart track by the feel of mud, he trusted as much to instinct as to knowledge to bring him where he wished to go, for his mind was out in front of him. Directly overhead, a rent in the clouds disclosed a patch of the great belt of densely clustered stars that stretched across the heavens. Frodo’s heart lifted immediately at the sight of it.

Leaping a narrow ditch between the fields, Frodo's mind still churned, but not with the anxiousness and confusion he had felt before. He knew what he wanted to say, and he practiced it as he went.

They were so simple, the words – “You are home to me, Rosa. You are the one whom I love. Do you love me, too?" He merely had to say them.

And he would have no trouble finding his way. How could he? He was going home.

* * *

Chapter 11 – The Fire upon the Hearth.


* * *

1400, July 19, the middle of the night ~ Rosamunda’s cottage.

As he drew nearer the cottage, Frodo was surprised to see light shining up ahead. So late? It was not just a flicker but a steady patch of warm light shaped like a half-moon. The door must be standing partly open. That was odd, too. It was not like Rosamunda to leave it open once she had retired. Perhaps she had gone down to the privy – but she almost never bothered going down there in the night. Furthermore, she would have taken a light if she had and there was none.

Rosamunda hated to go down to the privy in the dark, even when the moon was full.

“I always think there might be something down there,” she confessed one night early on. “It is silly of me, I know.” She had laughed, but Frodo could see she felt ashamed to admit her fear.

Frodo descended the last hill and stopped in the little dip below the cottage to listen. The privy was not far off, but other than the sound of frogs that hid in the wet tussocks around the well nearby, Frodo could hear nothing.

At Rosamunda’s open door, Frodo stood on the step, cocked his head and listened. Inside it seemed quiet. No, there was a sound. It was very faint but familiar. As he stepped into the spill of light just inside the entry, Frodo caught a glimpse of the sound’s source.

From the hearth, which was on the interior wall of the parlour opposite the entry, light glimmered. Rosamunda had lit a fire. That was curious. A fire on a summer night. The house felt cool compared to the oven it had been that afternoon, but it certainly was not cold. Why had it been needed?

Shaking his damp cloak out over the step, Frodo congratulated himself for thinking to stop to fetch it on his way down to the Ivy Bush. The real rain had stopped while he was at Folco’s, but the swirling mists were wet enough. He gave his hair a good shake before he checked his feet. They would do; the wet grass must have cleaned them off.

Back inside the little hall, Frodo hung his cloak up over a hook then stopped to consider as he looked into the parlour. Rosamunda could not have gone to bed very long ago for although the fire was low, it was lively enough. The settee had been moved, too. It partly obscured the hearth. Had she been cleaning in the middle of the night? Rearranging the furniture?

Drawn by the fire, Frodo walked towards the hearth, but it was not until he was abreast of the settee that he noticed Rosamunda lying there fast asleep.

This was more curious still. Why should she be sleeping here, in the parlour? Barely long enough for two to sit upon, the settee obviously made a very poor bed. And her own bed was so lovely! Yet here she was, apparently content, curled up on her side with her knees drawn up, all tucked under a coverlet. She was breathing softly with her cheek against the plumped pillows, the backs of her fingers curved into the hollow of her neck. Her other arm was extended out over the parlour rug, her hand suspended, the long fingers dangling like catkins.

It was her hair, rippling slightly in the draft from the fire that captured Frodo’s attention. Over the arm of the couch and down its front cascaded the fall of deeply waving hair, shimmering gold-brown in the firelight. He had never seen it this way before, for Rosamunda never wore it loose. Disliking the feel of it upon her neck, she preferred to put it up. Even in bed she wore it pinned or tied, although it tended to come loose during the course of their exertions.

“It is such a bother, Frodo,” she would complain. “It only ends up in your mouth or in mine – or gets wrapped around my neck.” But her eyes had borne a tiny twinkle when she added, “It is a nuisance in other ways, too.” Seeing his eyebrows quirk, she had elucidated. “Well, Frodo, you know how you love to see….”

He smiled at the memory. She was quite right, of course; he did love to see absolutely everything.

And then he frowned. The settee. Lovely hair or not, the settee would not do at all. Frodo’s cherished hopes for crawling into bed with her would never be realised if she were to continue sleeping here. All the way across the sodden fields, Frodo had been picturing her asleep, but in her bed, not on a settee.

He would need to wake her. He must wake her in any event if he meant to have his say. And he did mean to have his say.

But first he would look – and touch – while he may.

Frodo had withstood the allure of her dangling fingers, but Rosamunda’s hair was not to be resisted. Tentatively Frodo reached out and touched it, letting glistening strands trail through his fingers like waving lengths of fine silk. It was slightly damp underneath; she must have washed it. Bending closer, Frodo confirmed his guess. Lavender soap. But something else, too. Rosemary? Whatever it was, it was lovely and fresh.

In contrast, the smell that wafted up to him from his own person was rather unpleasant. Good heavens! Frodo thought, wrinkling his nose. Everything about him reeked, and not just of pipeweed, either. He might have dipped his shirt in ale and stuffed his pockets full of fried potatoes. There was a great deal of dogginess about him, too. And under his clothes, although he’d had a bathe (of sorts) earlier when he’d sluiced himself down at the spring, all that sweaty rolling about they’d done afterwards was telling its tale on him. They had got drenched in their little wrestling match, and Rosamunda’s bed had been a tangle of sopping sheets by the end of it. But it had been a pleasure.

At the thought of the bed (and the pleasures he had enjoyed there) Frodo began to wish he had not decided to speak his mind to Rosamunda, after all. He wished her back into bed instead, as if he might simply transport her there by the power of wishing alone. Then there would be no anxiety, no confessions; no words at all – just him filling his arms with sleepy warmth to snuggle against until the dawn.

Frodo sighed. Straightening up, he took a candle and carried it into Rosamunda’s room, just to look. The bed was quite restored to order, he saw. Freshly made, the linens were spotless, beautifully smoothed and tucked, and the pillows plumped just so. He thought it looked exceedingly inviting.

He sighed again. He really must bathe. It would be good to feel cleaner, too, he told himself. The wash might him feel more ... prepared. Prepared for what?

The more he lingered over it, the more he felt his courage seeping away. He tried to rouse himself. What had happened to his zeal to make a clean breast of it? Where had his enthusiasm gone? Had it fled before his returning sobriety?

He really was feeling a bit anxious. Tramping over the hills, he had felt confident that Rosamunda returned his feelings. But now that he was actually here….

A bathe. Yes. Followed by a frigid sluicing-down. That should buck him up again.

In the kitchen, Frodo tested the kettle on the stove. It was barely warm but it would suffice. The metal washbasin would be too noisy; a crockery bowl would do better. Next to the oil and soap, Frodo noticed Rosamunda’s little pot of tooth powder. Now that he came to think of it, the taste in his mouth was rather like the bottom of the grate at the Ivy Bush. With the moistened corner of a small thin cloth kept for the purpose, Frodo dabbed up some powder. Thoughtfully, he began to rub his teeth.

Rosamunda’s powder was not nearly as nice-tasting as the sort Bilbo made up for their use at Bag End. Frodo had always meant to bring her some of theirs, but he never remembered, content to make use of hers. Well, he would bring some along the very next day. Then he remembered Folco’s remarks about Rosamunda’s increased grocery orders. Running his mind’s eye over the shelves of Bag End’s pantries, Frodo began to consider what he might bring. A ham would be good, he thought as he rubbed. Some rashers and a round or two of cheese, too. And the plump and juicy sausages that he and Rosamunda both loved – she might indulge him by eating them in amusing ways. But he mustn’t think of those ways just now.

Frodo swilled water around in his mouth as if to cleanse the image away. What else? Butter. Plenty of butter. And wine. Rosamunda had nothing left in store but a dreadful sweet wine Odovacar had enjoyed after his meals.

Stooping to rinse and spit, Frodo’s hair fell forward into his face and made him grimace. It must have soaked up every odour from the evening like a wad of wool. Dog, especially. Tip loved the parlour sofa.

Dunking his head as quietly as he could, Frodo lathered up his hair.

Then, covered in a soapy film, Frodo strode down the hill to brave the spring water from the well. He poured buckets over himself, no longer making any effort to be quiet. Around the spring the songs of frogs had risen to a din; so loud were they, Frodo could hear nothing else. But the throbbing waves of sound seemed to bear him up and were as encouraging to him as the chilly water had been bracing. He looked up to see a slender slice of moon peeping out, and the stars shone in great open patches of the night sky. The sight heartened him more than he could have explained. He took a great breath of night air, swung up his pail and climbed back up the hill.

In the kitchen, he took up one of the towels from the sideboard that Rosamunda kept for baths. Unlike the fat, fluffy towels at Bag End, these were grown quite thin from years of use, but they were large enough to do the job.

Frodo had just begun to blot himself dry when the glimmer of the fire from the parlour proved irresistible. Silently he crept into the parlour and, standing before the crackling fire, he let himself drip. Summer or not, the fire’s warmth felt wonderful; the cold water that ran from his hair grew warm by the time it trickled over his legs and feet.

Bother. He was making a puddle on the rug. Laying down the towel he had carried in from the kitchen, he used it to stand upon. Yes, he thought. Rosamunda had been wise to light a fire after all. It felt so satisfying. Very satisfying, indeed.

Frodo stood, letting his skin toast while the rivulets snaked their way down all around, tickling him now and then. He let his head drop back and stretched out his hands to either side, soaking up extra warmth. He sighed at the loveliness of it.

* * *

It was then that Rosamunda stirred.

Opening her eyes she beheld a vision of Frodo, whether real or part of her dream she could not tell at first. Partly turned away from her, he stood upon a swath of cloth before the fire. His arms and hands were extended, his palms angled towards the blaze as if to catch the wafting heat. Stars winked between his outstretched fingers. His eyes were closed but his lips seemed parted, his head tipped back, his hair falling in dripping coils stretched long and loose as if soaked with water or rich oil, glistening with jewels that fell from the ends like rubies or like topaz. Like liquid fire the water drops fell until his whole body ran with gleaming rivulets, streaming down like molten metal, ruddy-gold in the firelight.

She did not speak; she did not move, lest the apparition vanish.

“Ahhh…” the apparition sighed blissfully.

It was no apparition; it was Frodo himself, living and real. She was awake.

Stooping, he picked up the cloth he had been standing upon. She saw it was one of her towels. She watched as gingerly he patted and blotted himself, as if trying to make no sound. Then, squatting beside the hearth, he took up one of the last sticks and stirred the fire about, laying the rest on top. They kindled at once and the flames blazed up with much popping and snapping, scattering shards of fiery light all about the room. Reflected light danced over the front of his body as Frodo knelt on the rug before what he had made. Then, settling back onto his heels, his hands spread over his knees, Frodo stilled himself and stared into the flames.

Rosamunda was enraptured.

“Frodo,” she said. She had meant to lift up her voice in a joyful cry but what she heard sounded pitifully wan and thin. But Frodo had heard, and his head turned at the sound of his name.

“Rosa,” he cried, and his eyes blazed up, just as the flames had done on the hearth. Instantly, he was beside her, crouching down upon one knee as she pushed herself up from the pillows.

“I hadn’t meant to wake you,” he said, lightly kissing her cheek, “but I’m very glad you have woken.”

He gave her another kiss, this time on the lips, but very lightly again, almost as if he did not wish to linger. Then, as if reading her thoughts he nuzzled her cheek near her ear, pressing it against the side of her face. His breath was soft and warm, and he was so close she could sense the pulse in his throat, as into her ear he whispered her name on a sigh, “Rosa....”

It lasted only a moment, but her name and the breath that carried it seemed to enter into her like a physical thing, threading its way like a slender golden serpent, which, striking, wounded her with inexpressible tenderness. Or, it was like a dollop of creamy butter dropped into her heart – hissing for an instant – but melting and spreading throughout her, rich and warm.

Frodo had said her name many times before; he’d whispered in her ear and given her every sort of kiss. Why should this time be different? The answer was obvious. Now, she loved him.

No. That was not it. She loved him and she knew she loved him. There. She had said it, if only to herself. She loved him.

It was to Frodo, however, that she should say these words. She would say it now.

But Frodo had turned away and was gazing into the fire, as if he were gathering his thoughts. His eyes glinted as his pupils widened and contracted, alive with reflected flames. When he turned back to her he spoke; but haltingly, as if he were suddenly shy.

“On the way home tonight, I – I was thinking, Rosa …”

Of what? she wondered. Frodo appeared to be very happy to see her yet he seemed edgy, even anxious; a mood she would not expect after a night spent drinking. Even at this late hour he was more than usually animated but, in his naked state, a discreet glance told her his animation was not of an amorous nature.

“You were thinking ...?”

“I was thinking of you, of course,” he said with a quick smile. Then he stood up and took a restless step towards the fire. When he turned back to her she saw his smile begin to spread, but then he let it fade. Shifting his focus to somewhere behind her he stared, as if he were making an effort to concentrate. He spoke slowly, saying, “I was almost to the garden gate of Bag End … but when I thought of going in –”

Suddenly looking at her, he said, “It is awfully late, I know.”

Perhaps because she did not reply at once to this non-sequitur, he looked away and fell silent.

Rosamunda watched a swift succession of thoughts and feelings play across Frodo’s face before he glanced back and said, “It was all right to come back, wasn’t it, Rosa?”

She almost laughed, she was so astonished. How little he guessed! She would have died if he had not. Knowing Frodo would only misinterpret such a response, Rosamunda reached out to where he stood and touched her fingers to the slender hand that hung by his side. Evenly she said, smiling, “It is always all right for you to come here, Frodo. I am very happy you have returned.”

Frodo took her hand between his own and, kneeling beside her, pressed it to his chest. But he released it and stood. Then, as if by an act of will, he spoke, watching her intently.

“The thing is, Rosa, once I thought about it, I couldn’t bear the idea of sleeping there, in my own bed, on my own. So I came back here to be with you.”

Having spoken, he looked at the rug near her feet, apparently studying the rumpled towel he had dropped there.

Every sort of feeling swept over Rosamunda at his words; his thoughts were so like her own. Yet she felt awkward trying to converse from a recumbent position, especially while he was standing so close – and so naked. Moving the pillows she pushed herself further up into the corner of the little couch. When Frodo came and crouched again by the settee, his eyes were more nearly level with hers.

His eyes ...

“I could not sleep, either, Frodo,” she began with difficulty.

Well, that sounded perfectly silly. There she had been, after all, sound asleep. Frodo seemed encouraged, though, obviously waiting to hear more. She must speak more plainly.

“That is not what I meant ...”

Rosamunda stopped, disconcerted, when Frodo plucked up the towel and, standing, wrapped it around his hips, tucking one end over the other to secure it. He never covered himself in front of her.

Flipping back the edge of her coverlet, Frodo appeared to be looking for a place to sit.

Perhaps he was worried about getting the cushions damp. But he was usually unconcerned about such things, just as he was about most household matters, leaving his clothes strewn about.

A bit of seat cushion had been left vacant when Rosamunda had pushed herself higher up into the corner, just in front of her stomach and thighs. Insinuating his towelled buttocks into the spot, Frodo perched there. Then he swivelled round a bit and leaned closer, one hand upon the back of the couch and the other upon the edge of the seat. Half lit by fire he bent towards her, his face framed by his dark tumble of curls. So unbearably lovely and desirable did Rosamunda find him at that moment, it hurt her to breathe. She felt she might cease to see or hear, so intensely did she feel his proximity, and so greatly did she desire his kiss.

Frodo did kiss her, but the kiss he offered was disappointingly cool and light, like a leaf brushing over her face on a woodland walk. She had closed her eyes but opened them again; he was watching her. But his demeanour was attentive rather than ardent, as if he were waiting to hear more.

What had she been saying? Oh, yes.

Rosamunda swallowed and made a little cough, but, glancing up at Frodo, she realized at once she would not be able to look him in the face and continue. Instead, she let her eye be drawn to the satiny oval that surrounded his nipple, which, burnished copper in the firelight, stood out from the paler skin surrounding it. The dark patch shifted slightly as he breathed, moving with the rise and fall of his ribs. She would focus her attention there.

She began again.

“What I meant, Frodo, was that I couldn’t sleep in my own bed, either. Somehow I – I just couldn’t bear it.”

The dark oval she had been watching twitched, as if the underlying muscles had suddenly flexed, and the breaths that lifted it came a little quicker.

He leaned a little closer.

“You found me sleeping on the couch because ...” Rosa said, “Because it didn’t seem as bad as sleeping in my great empty bed….”

Frodo’s chest tensed very visibly, then.

“…That is to say,” she said, emboldened, “It was not as bad as sleeping in my bed … without you in it, Frodo.”

The pupils of Frodo’s eyes had widened to velvety darkness but, suddenly, they glittered with reflected fire, sending a corresponding shower of sparks all through her, just as if pine resin had caught and burst into flame in the grate.

Leaping up from the settee, Frodo looked as though he were about to shout in exultation. He didn’t, but the sinews in his neck and shoulders stood out, belying his excitement.

“That is how I felt, Rosa!” he cried.

His tone of voice was moderate, but he might have hallooed it to the hills, so filled with enthusiasm did he appear. Poised before her, he almost seemed to dance, although he did not move. Every nerve seemed stretched taut. She thought he might have sprung up off the floor, had he not restrained himself. He brought his hands together in front, as if he had meant to clap, but he stayed his hands in time, letting them come together silently. His fingers, though, were tightly twined.

At the sight of such elation, Rosamunda wished to stand and speak. She would make a full confession. But her feet were so wrapped about by the coverlet, she took too long to free them, and by the time she was ready to rise, Frodo had turned away and stood looking into the fire.

“I must say, Rosa,” Frodo remarked brightly, glancing her way, “I was very surprised to see you had lit a fire. A fire in July! But, dripping wet as I was, I thought it a splendid idea.”

Rosamunda opened her mouth to comment, but he was already striding off into the darkened kitchen. She stood, then, but too quickly, swaying a little on her feet. Her hair, now dry, fell all around her shoulders and down her nightdress in a billowy swath. Without thinking, she gathered it in her hands and began to twist it into its accustomed coil. She stooped, collecting the pins she’d dropped beside the couch, and began to put it up.

It was then that Frodo returned, bearing a fresh armload of sticks from the pile beside the stove.

“Oh, don’t pin it up!” he cried when he saw what she was doing.

Rosamunda’s hands hovered at the back of her neck, arrested by the urgency of his plea.

“Leave it down, Rosa, please. Just this once. It’s so beautiful!”

Frodo dropped the stack of wood by the hearth with a clatter, brushed his hands off on his hips, and came up to her. Taking her hands in his he smiled and said, “Here. Let me, Rosa.”

After a moment of hesitation, Rosamunda relinquished the coiled mass into Frodo’s custody. She felt a little breathless, standing so close within the circumference of his arms, yet not actually embraced.

Carefully, Frodo began pulling out the pins, gathering them one by one between his teeth before dropping them onto the mantel piece. He unwound the length of her hair in silence, intent upon his task. Standing so close in the quiet of the hole she could hear the frogs outside, but even more she could hear his breathing. She could hear it and could feel it upon her skin.

Closing her eyes, she gave herself up to the rhythm of his fingers as Frodo worked her hair, the occasional tug rocking her gently on her feet. The electric heat of him excited her while, at the same time, it had a pleasantly soothing effect. When she opened her eyes, his head was bent over a skein of hair that he held in his palm as he tried to tease out a tangle with his fingers. His hair, only inches from her nose, smelled lovely and she breathed deeply. It looked wet, still, she noticed.

Reaching up, Rosamunda squeezed a handful of curls in her hand and warm water trickled down her forearm to be wicked up by the edge of her sleeve, staining it with damp. Her touch must have tickled, for Frodo scrunched his shoulders and wriggled his neck where her wrist was touching it, but she left her wrist where it was, to feel the heat coming off his skin.

“I thought the rain had stopped,” she said, very relaxed but more and more aroused at the same time. Cupping a handful of curls she said, “You must have got drenched.”

With a giggle Frodo seized her hand, giving the tips of her wet fingers a kiss before he released it down by her side.

“I wasn’t wet from the rain, Rosa,” he explained. “I bathed while you were sleeping.” He picked up another lock of hair.

“Ah, that explains it,” Rosamunda remarked dreamily, as if glimpsing the answer to some mildly interesting puzzle. “When I opened my eyes before,” she said, her attention drawn to his fingers as they worked (and very alive to the thought of them moving over her elsewhere), “When I woke up, you seemed covered in wet, Frodo, glistening with it. But in the firelight, it looked all ruddy and gold. You looked covered in liquid fire.”

“Liquid fire,” Frodo murmured, “That would be painful, I should think.” He seemed to have become more relaxed as he handled her hair. They swayed as they stood so close together before the fire.

“No,” he said, “It was only water. And I am dry, now. Well, nearly dry, not counting my hair,” he said, glancing at the water marks on Rosamunda’s sleeve. “It needed a wash.”

Frodo caught Rosamunda’s questioning look. “It smelled,” he explained. “My hair. Of pipeweed and ale and taverns. And dog, from lying about on the Boffin parlour sofa,” he added, amused.

“I would not have minded,” Rosamunda said lazily, leaning into his touch; his hands in her hair felt very lovely. “Odovacar often came home smelling of taverns and dogs.”

“Then, all the more would I wish to smell differently,” Frodo said, his manner rather clipped.

There was an awkward pause.

Frodo appeared relieved when Rosamunda spoke first. “You were at Folco’s tonight?”

“Yes,” he said, resuming his work. “Did I not mention it? When the Ivy Bush closed, Folco invited me over.”

“That was very good. He seems to have missed you.”

“Yes, he said as much.” Frodo fell silent, and she wondered why.

“Did you enjoy yourselves? Or had you drunk too much to be able to tell?” Rosamunda chuckled, but Frodo, she noticed, did not.

“We were a little drunk by the end of the evening, at Folco’s house,” he said, keeping his eyes on his work. “Well, Folco got quite drunk. We lay about in the back parlour drinking and talking ...”

Frodo paused again, and his expression clouded. His eyes went opaque as he stared past her shoulder. Rosamunda could see nothing in them.

“… Did something go amiss?” she softly asked.

She hoped not, but Frodo’s look was very dark. His hands had stilled, while he stood looking at the hair he held in them.

“No, nothing went amiss. Not really,” he said at last, “Not in the end.” But, looking up at her he quietly said, “Things were said – things that ought not to have been said.”

Suddenly he turned from her and bent to tend the fire, laying on a few more sticks. When he had straightened up he said, as if concluding the discussion, “I believe it was the drink.”

Wiping off his hands, Frodo took up Rosamunda’s hair again. He said no more, but as he relaxed he began to hum a little tune under his breath, something she had heard Bilbo singing many times. Sensing the release of tension, Rosamunda once again gave herself up to the pleasure of his closeness and touch.

Finally, he appeared satisfied and, fanning out the strands of her hair, he spread it over her shoulders into a shining, undulating shawl that rippled down her arms, her breasts and back. Adjusting his stance this way and that, he appraised what he had done, refining it, all the while shifting closer and closer until Rosamunda’s skin began to prickle from his nearness. Stroking and smoothing her hair down all around, Frodo seemed to take great pleasure in the look and feel of it; but for Rosamunda, the pleasure was in his touch. The feel of his hands moving over her, through the veil of her hair, was a very great pleasure, greater with every passing moment. It vexed her, however, that Frodo seemed so unaware of the feelings he was creating. His thoughts seemed somewhere else entirely.

When he glanced at Rosamunda’s face, Frodo started a little, as though he had suddenly been reminded who it was that stood before him. This seemed to confirm her suspicions. He smiled at her. While his smile was very warm, she felt there was something apprehensive in it. She was perplexed.

“Rosa,” Frodo began, “I …”

His voice trailed off, but his eyes were fixed on her so intently, Rosamunda began to feel uneasy.

“Yes?” she asked, smiling. Thankfully, her voice sounded pleasantly neutral.

She waited for him to continue, but he did not. His face continued to show a mix of feelings, all of them intense, which she could not sort out. What was he thinking? What was he feeling?

Whatever else he might be feeling, he felt desire. He wanted her now, she could plainly see. The thin towel, thin and damp, concealed little. Yet Frodo’s mind seemed far from her. How could this be? His nearness was only increasing her desire for him, but his strangeness towards her made her fearful of showing it.

Frodo still said nothing, but now he began to gather up her hair in his hands, moving it all back over her shoulders. The touch of the edges of his fingers and thumbs against her skin as they chanced to brush her ears and neck sent such shivers through her. She felt her knees begin to tremble.

“You are not cold, still, are you, Rosa?” Frodo asked. His hands were poised on either side of her head as he held her hair.

Rosamunda glanced at him with suppressed wonder, and doubts fretted her. Her desire for him was so great – could he not tell? Did he not know? Frodo could not be seeing her at all. She knew how she must look. The hair he seldom got to see was flowing loose; it streamed from his fingers! The golden colour of her skin he so admired glowed an even richer colour in the firelight. Her breathing, now become very deep, would only accentuate the rise and fall of the breasts he loved, and her nipples, hard and erect, must show forth prominently through the delicate stuff of her nightdress. But clearest of all would be her eyes. She never could veil from him the desire she felt. Surely, he knew!

He did know; she could see that he did. Apart from the disarray of his towel, all the marks of desire were there for her to see, marks that mirrored hers. His arms were trembling, too, she noticed, held as they were so close to the sides of her face. Surely it was not from the weight of her hair. Why, then, did he not take her to him?

His reticence filled her with misgivings that went against her reason. He had come here for her. He had said so himself.

“I am not cold, Frodo,” Rosamunda answered in a wavering voice. The nearness of his hands and wrists had created pockets of warmth beside her head. She felt herself beginning to flush until she felt hot all over. Her ears hummed with rising blood, yet her teeth nearly chattered. The shivering increased.

“Are you ill, Rosa?” Frodo asked, peering at her more closely.

“No, I am not ill,” she said, forcing herself to speak in a moderate tone.

She smiled inwardly at herself, and Frodo saw her smile. He must have thought it was for him, for he looked encouraged, but still he did not touch her. Rather, he remained poised as if he were listening; waiting. Waiting for what? she wondered. Why was he keeping himself so tightly reined?

Suddenly, Rosamunda thought she understood. The shivering stopped as soon as the thought broke into her mind.

He was waiting for her. She had given him signs; plain ones, she had thought, but, apparently, not clear enough. Or, perhaps Frodo waited not for clearer signs but for clearer speech. It occurred to Rosamunda – was this what Frodo had experienced all those times he had tried to speak before? Had he been feeling like this? If so, he did not deserve to be put through it again. She should say it. She should say it now.

Why was it so difficult?

She would force herself.

“I am not ill, Frodo,” she began. Having drawn herself up to speak, she began to stammer. With a little smile, she checked it and began again.

“I – It is only –” Her tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth and words refused to come. The sight of Frodo’s face; so anxious, so expectant; smote her terribly. To be rendered speechless now! She fought back the feelings that choked her, but panic was consuming the air in her lungs.

Desperate, Rosamunda determined she would show Frodo how she felt, if she could not speak it. Throwing her arms about his waist she pulled him to her, but so precipitately she threw him off balance, making him stumble back before he caught himself. She saw alarm flicker across his face, but she pressed against him nevertheless, lifting her mouth, asking him with her eyes for the kiss she so wanted. When Frodo did not grant the kiss at once, unnerved, Rosamunda strove to take it from him, lurching against him. Sweeping her hands up over his chest she was reckless, heedless, making him wince when the edges of her thumbnails scraped across the tender bits of raised flesh.

“Frodo!” she cried – or meant to do but the sound of her voice was more like a strangled breath. Frodo heard, however, and let her pull him nearer. With a struggle, Rosamunda mastered herself and managed to offer her lips to him with greater delicacy. More gently she slid her hands up over his back and, pressing against his shoulder blades, urged him to come to her. Frodo brought his lips to hers, but hesitated, so she kissed him first. Although she clasped him to her with fervour, she kept her mouth gentle in order to woo him; not demanding, but inviting him with little flicks and nips to return her kiss. Finally, as if unable to do otherwise, Frodo returned her questing kiss, using his fingers to tip her head just so. But he kept his body held away, which fretted her. This would not do.

As Frodo’s kiss became deeper, Rosamunda stepped closer, letting her body melt against his. She dropped her hands down the inward curve of his back and slid them over the towelling that draped his buttocks. Grasping him firmly she pulled his reluctant hips closer until he touched her. He whimpered, but when she felt the hard ridge of him pressed up against her she nearly reeled. She steadied herself by clutching him tighter, but the feel of cloth under her fingers, instead of skin, was exasperating.

If Frodo had been in some other mood, Rosamunda would have torn the towel off him with a laugh, but he was in a mood that was strange to her. So she slipped just the tips of her fingers under the waistline of the towelling, drawing her hands around to the front. He was attending to her now, she noticed, with every particle of his attention. The kiss was forgotten as he watched her every move, riveted. She splayed one browned hand over the creamy white of his chest, then let the other glide down over his stomach, stopping where the towelling overlapped just below his navel. She hesitated a moment, her ears thrumming. Then, looking at him, she summoned his eyes to hers and held them as she let her fingers move lightly over the thin towelling. First she swept them over his thigh but, returning, she let them find him where he sprang up high and hard under the light, loosely draped cloth.

Then, as she continued to hold his gaze, Rosamunda let her fingers delicately trace his contours. Frodo was breathing quickly now but he sucked in his breath when she let her fingers slide down the length of him to cup him in her hand. His expression was one of suffering but his eyes and nostrils flared as, gently, she lifted and squeezed, as if he were summer fruit – tender and yielding under the press of her fingers. She lingered; then, trailing her fingers up higher, she closed her hand around him.

Frodo’s shuddering sigh was terribly gratifying to hear. More gratifying still was the feel of him pressing closer, easing himself higher into her hand in spite of his mysterious reluctance. Then, grasping the back of her head, Frodo kissed her with such ardour, Rosamunda knew it was an outlet for what he was feeling below. The more deeply she massaged him, the greater was the profundity of his kiss.

She had been gentle at first, but her own desire made her more urgent, and soon she was clasping him tightly. A thrill of triumph ran through her as Frodo began to drive himself up into her gripping fingers, until she could think of nothing other than the feel of him doing the same things inside her. It was bare flesh she craved now, but, when she released her grip, Frodo instantly pulled his lips away. He stilled himself as he felt and saw her fingers searching for the towel’s overlap. He was excited, obviously, but almost wary, she thought; she could feel it.

Her fingertips brushed the skin of his bare thigh and he started, as though he might pull away. Surely, he would not! But when she touched him even more intimately, Frodo ell back. He grappled her wrists, and, snatching her hands away, he held them tightly.

For a moment, Rosamunda stared at him amazed.

“Rosa,” Frodo panted when he had found his voice. “Stop. Don’t –”

Rosamunda recoiled, stung. Blood rushed to her cheeks and the back of her neck burned. Her hands went limp in Frodo’s grasp, and he let them drop. As she averted her eyes she saw him reaching for her, as if to call her back, but she could not look at him.

Whatever was the reason he had spurned her, she had no heart to hear it.

“Rosa!”

He grasped her nearer wrist and tried to pull her round.

“Rosa, please. Look at me. I didn’t mean it the way you think.” Trying to turn her face towards him, he pleaded, “Please, Rosa, look at me. Only listen.”

She looked at him, but she felt listless and disengaged as he held her in his arms.

“Are you thinking I don’t want you? Of course I do! I have thought of little else since I left here this afternoon. It’s just that I had wanted –”

Abandoning words, Frodo embraced her, pulling her close.

Rosamunda looked past his shoulder, trying not to feel, but when he crooned her name and kissed her cheek, she obliged him with a look. Struggling, she restrained an unseemly bout of tears.

“Rosa, I came back here tonight because I wanted you!” he said. With a chuckle, he added, “You saw that, surely.” But Rosamunda could not smile.

Pressing on, Frodo said, “I did come back because I wanted you. But even more, I came back in order to talk to you. I wanted to tell you something, Rosa.”

He smoothed her hair as he spoke, and she looked at him, listening, now.

Looking for comprehension in her face, Frodo asked, “Can you not see, Rosa? When you start touching me like that, I cannot speak – I cannot even think! But I must speak.”

Rosamunda’s heart had quieted, but at his words it began to pound again while Frodo forked his fingers through her hair, urging it back over her shoulders. Putting his hands on her shoulders, he took a deep breath and began.

“Hear me out, Rosa. It is – it is difficult for me. Help me, if you can.”

As if he meant to bore a way into her mind and pour the contents of his into hers, he stared at her hard, but the effort seemed to fatigue him, and his shoulders drooped. Resting his forehead against hers he closed his eyes, but, as if he had gathered fresh reserves, he looked up and spoke.

“When I left Folco’s earlier tonight, I really had meant to go straight home, Rosa. I only wanted to throw myself into bed. The evening had been very tiring towards the end, and I was still a bit drunk. But once I was outside Bag End, when I really began to imagine going to bed, I just couldn’t face it – spending the night without you. That is why I came back here.”

Frodo paused to take a few more gulps of air. He gave himself a tiny shake, and, releasing her, began to move about as he spoke.

“All the way here, as I was walking, I was thinking of what I might say, and of what I have been wanting to say to you, Rosa, for weeks. But once I got here – once you were here before me – somehow, I haven’t been able to say it.”

Frodo stopped pacing and turned to face her. But, as if the discipline were too great, he began to move about again until the words came.

“I had to come here, Rosa. Because – I feel I belong here – deep down. More than anything, what I want is to be with you. But here is where you are. You won’t come to Bag End – I have known that without asking. So, I come here. I must come here, or not see you at all.”

Wheeling about, Frodo reached for her, but plucked his hands away before he had touched her, as if he had thought better of it.

Before Rosamunda could ascribe a darker meaning to this, he had begun to speak, but with even greater zeal.

“Rosa, have you any idea how much I would love for you to come to me at Bag End? Every day since Lithe, I have wished you there with me. Even Bilbo would not mind – not really – for, more than anything, he wants me to be happy. I know it in my heart. Bilbo is not blind; he knows how I feel about you.” Softly, Frodo added, almost as if he did not wish to be heard, “In my dreams you are there with me, Rosa, but as my wife.”

He glanced at her but flinched visibly when he saw her doubtful little smile.

“You needn’t mock me, Rosa,” he shot at her, obviously hurt. “It is unkind of you! I know very well I cannot have my wish.”

Rosamunda had not meant it that way. She hated to think he might regret sharing such a confidence.

“You may come to me, always, Frodo,” she ventured, hoping to soothe his affront.

Frodo was not soothed.

“You let me come here,” he parried, “But only as your lover – your visitor. I don’t want to be your visitor, Rosa. I want a home – a home with you. If it can’t be at Bag End, then I want one with you here.”

Rosamunda was shaken by this speech, and thought before she spoke. “Frodo,” she said, feeling her way, “You must know you cannot live here.”

Frodo rolled his eyes.

“Do you think me foolish, Rosa? I know that!” He laughed, but his laugh was bitter. “I do not mean it literally – as if I might come and live with you here in the cottage – or at Budgeford – or anywhere else! I mean, I want a home with you, yourself – a home inside you, not a building. I realised the difference tonight.”

He let her go, but only in order to go on with greater animation.

“Ever since my parents died, my only real home has been with Bilbo, when he brought me to Bag End. But that home isn’t the smial, Rosa. It is Bilbo himself – because he loves me, and because I love him. But, now –”

Rosamunda thought he seemed almost to vibrate, as though he might fly to pieces before her eyes. She watched him, mesmerised. She wished to speak, to interject, but dared not; not while he was in this state. He had asked her to hear him out and he must have his say.

“I have a home with Bilbo, but isn’t enough any longer. I want one with you, Rosa.”

As he paused, Rosamunda did venture to speak, saying, “And you are welcome here, Frodo. You know that.”

Clearly, Frodo was not satisfied. “But what do you mean by that, Rosa – that I am welcome? I come here every night, and you make me welcome but, still, I am your guest . I don’t want to be a guest, Rosa. I want a home.”

“But haven’t you a home in me, Frodo? You know how I love it when you are with me. Why, every time I hold you in my arms –”

Rosamunda was not able to complete her thought. Frodo had pulled her to him roughly; not as a show of passion, she thought, but as if to ground himself in the intensity of the contact. He held her for a few moments, then, pushed her away to look her in the face.

“Rosa, I know that I have a home in you – like that – in your arms. And I love it. I barely am able to give it up each morning when I leave! But, don’t you see? That is not enough; it is not nearly enough.”

Grasping her skull, Frodo held it tightly. “I don’t want a home only in your body, Rosa,” he answered, nearly shouting. He lowered his voice at once but his tone remained fierce. “I want a home inside you.” Squeezing her head between his fingers, he said, “I want a home in here, in your mind. I want a home in your thoughts. When you think of the future, I want you to see me in it. When you remember the past, I want you to see me there. For that is how it is for me, Rosa. That is how I love you.”

Frodo released her. When he had calmed himself he said more quietly, yet emphatically, “That is the sort of home I want, Rosa. I am asking you, do I have one?”

He drew himself up to stand before her. Holding his hands close to his sides he seemed to be resigning himself to whatever was his fate.

“I have never said that I loved you, Rosa,” he said, “although I have tried to tell you many times. But I do. I love you. I have told myself that you love me. I have believed that you do. But now I ask you – I do not beg you, but I ask you – Rosa, do you love me?”

Rosamunda was speechless, but with awe; she thought him wonderful.

But, when she did not speak up right away, Frodo gave a little snort of exasperation. With the flat of his hand he began to smite the side of his thigh, slowly but deliberately, as if to subdue himself.

“For heaven’s sake, Rosa,” he cried at last. “Say something!”

Before he could glance away, she saw his eyes beginning to grow very bright. Not tears! She could not bear to see them knowing she had caused them.

“I do love you,” she said.

He took a sharp breath. Eagerly he took a step towards her, his face shining.

“I think I have loved you all along, Frodo.” Warmly, she added, “Perhaps ever since you were little.”

Frodo’s ecstatic expression collapsed into a look of such anguish, Rosamunda’s heart lurched at the sight of it, her own concerns forgotten in an instant. What had she said amiss? When she reached for his hand, he snatched it away, but she took him by the shoulders, holding him firm and fast. He sank to his knees, and she sank with him. He tried to turn away, but she did not let him.

“What is it? What have I said?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady. “I said that I loved you, Frodo. Perhaps, that I have loved you all along. What is terrible in that?” She tried to remain calm, but seeing tears begin to flood his eyes twisted everything inside her. Fighting down panic, she cast about for what she might say next, but Frodo spoke first.

“I do not wish to be loved as you have loved me all along!” he flung at her. “I don’t want such love – as if I were a child you could dismiss and then forget once I was out of sight!”

How near the truth he had come, she thought, alarmed. How long had he sensed this? Longer, it would seem, than she had known it herself.

“That was not what I meant, Frodo,” she answered at once. “Look at me. That is not what I meant at all. I have cared for you, yes, since you were a child. And you have cared for me, I am sure; and not just for me, but for all of us; for Odovacar, too.”

At Odovacar’s name, Frodo glanced away.

“When I said, ‘I love you’, I was not speaking of the way I loved you when you were little. Not even the way I loved you when you were a ‘tween, in Bilbo’s kitchen.” In spite of his dismay, she saw a smile peep out at that, and she felt him relax enough to be gathered to her, just a little, as they knelt together on the parlour rug.

“The love I have confessed is a new thing, Frodo. It is different from what I felt before.” She felt tension leaving him. No longer was he straining to pull away.

He looked at her again, and she began to proceed with her own confession, but with difficulty.

“It is true, Frodo, that I did not want this new love. I did not wish even to know that it was – not in me or in you. You sensed it, I think – that I did not want it – and that has caused you pain.”

Frodo’s unhappy look confirmed her guess, but he did not resist when she cradled his head against her, stroking his hair as she spoke.

“I did not see it, Frodo. I only saw it when you were gone away tonight. Before tonight, I think I simply could not see it. Or, I would not – neither that you loved me, nor that I did not want to love you back.”

Tenderly she kissed his face and said, “I am sorry, Frodo. I have made you suffer. That was wrong of me.”

Frodo dropped his eyes and was silent. When he looked at her again, his eyes were full of sorrow.

“Is it so terrible, Rosa, to love me?” he asked.

Rosamunda’s heart seized with anguish.

“Oh, no!” she cried, but she blinked back tears. “You are a joy to me, Frodo! I was silly and frightened.” Feeling from deep within her surged up, stronger than any she had known. She felt almost choked by it, but she made herself continue. He needed to hear it.

“I do love you, Frodo,” she declared. “I love you so much, I love you more than –”

Frodo lifted his face, expectant. His eyes began to shine. At the sight of them, Rosamunda nearly faltered. Her heart began to hammer and blood throbbed in her neck and ears. Gulping for air, she made another effort.

“I have tried not to love you, Frodo – the way I knew you wanted to be loved. But thinking of things tonight, I could see – I could see – ”

Rosamunda hid her face in her hands and said, “Oh, Frodo!”

Gently, Frodo took her hands away. Something flickered in his eyes, something besides the flames reflected from the fire.

“What could you see?” More softly he asked her again, “What could you see, Rosa?” He pulled her up so that she was kneeling, drawing her closer until their bodies were just touching. He circled her waist and gave her a firm tug, pulling her close enough for him to feel her heart beating in her chest.

“You said you could see something tonight, Rosa,” he said, “You said that you loved me. You said you loved me more than – more than what”?

More softly still, Frodo repeated it, “More than what, Rosa?”

The beginnings of a smile had spread across Frodo’s face, until it bloomed into a smile so radiant, so filled with joy, Rosamunda wanted to look away, but could not. In its light, the last shadows of her resistance were driven away.


* * *


Frodo did not understand why, but suddenly it seemed as if the locked chamber of Rosamunda’s heart had opened before him, as though someone had struck the chains from a box long bound shut.

“Oh, Frodo,” she cried, with a face so naked Frodo almost could not look at it, fearing it would disappear. But it did not, and words poured forth.

“I love you so much, I can scarcely draw breath! I love you as I have loved no one else – not my parents, not Odovacar – Heaven help me, not even my children!”

Having confessed, she buried her face in his shoulder, struggling not to weep.

Frodo could find nothing to say, and, for the moment, merely held her.

While her declaration gratified him deeply, he admitted to himself that he was taken aback. Had his own mother loved his father better than he? Until Rosamunda had spoken, he always had assumed his mother had loved him best. Perhaps he had been wrong. Perhaps every man and woman loved each other best, even his parents. Well, he could never know. He let his misgivings go.

Eagerly, then, he asked, “Rosa, do you mean it?” But he had taken too long to respond; she was beginning to pull away.

“You are shocked,” she said, averting her eyes. Withdrawing herself from his embrace, she sat back on her heels. Then, looking him in the eye, she answered.

“Yes, I do mean it, Frodo. But, remember, I am speaking of my inclinations, my feelings – not my actions.” Before she continued, she fixed him with a steelier look.

“Know this, Frodo. If the day should come when I must choose between your good and that of Freddy and Estella, I will choose theirs. Their good is my first charge. But,” she said more softly, “if I were to consult my heart alone, I would choose you.”

She looked away again and murmured, “I suppose it is rather wicked of me to feel as I do. Learning this about myself, and telling you of it, has been the most difficult part of all.”

Frodo also sat back on his heels. What she had said was so marvellous, Frodo still could not take it in. Her confession did frighten him a little, but he did not want her to regret her frankness – not after he had implored her for it. He had been shocked, it was true, but as the import of her answer had begun to sink in, he realised it thrilled him. To be loved best! – best in all the world!

He leaned towards her then and, touching the side of her throat, sought to draw her eyes. With soft deliberateness, he pressed his lips to hers as he might impress soft wax on the back of a letter, to seal it. He wanted it to matter.

“I asked if you loved me, Rosa,” he said. “And you have confessed to me a love greater than any I had dared hope for.”

“Then…you are not repelled?” she asked.

Frodo laughed aloud at the absurdity of it. Pulling her up, he clasped her to him, squeezing her, as if he might squeeze out every vestige of doubt.

“Ah, Rosa,” he cried, nearly pulling her off balance. Had they been standing he would have swung her round and round with shouts of exultation.

“Repelled? I am so happy I feel as though I could run to Bree and back, telling everyone along the way!”

He quieted then, as a trace of sadness touched him; Rosamunda noticed, he could see.

“There is no darkness in my happiness, Rosa, truly,” he reassured her. Stroking her cheek with his thumb, he looked at her intently, so that she might see the truth of it in his eyes. “I regret nothing. Except – Except that I wish everyone could know of our joy.”

“Oh, Frodo,” she sighed. He could see her eyes sparkle as tears began to gather, but Frodo had no wish to see her tears, lest they prove contagious.

“Come, Rosa, sit by me,” he said, sliding across the carpet to sit against the front of the settee, his legs stretched out in front of him. Rosamunda gathered up the hem of her nightdress and followed, covering the distance on her knees. Leaning her shoulder blade against a seat cushion, she settled herself slightly turned towards him, sitting upon one hip, with her feet tucked up beside her.

Half-reclining, Frodo looked up and watched her as the firelight flickered over her face, the crackling sparks reflected in her dark eyes. He lifted his hand and trailed the back of it across her cheek, to feel its softness.

Rosamunda took his hand, turned it over and kissed the palm. Frodo returned the gesture by seizing her hand and bestowing upon it a tender kiss that made her sigh; but then he blew against it with a comical noise, making her laugh.

“Frodo, you are not being very lover-like,” Rosamunda chuckled, all of her tears gone.

Pressing her hand to his chest, Frodo cried, “Oh, Rosa, I don’t mean to be silly, but I can’t seem to help it. I am so happy.” Having said this he grinned, and, rolling onto his side, reached his arms around her hips and buried his face in her lap.

“Mmmm …” he droned into her belly, dropping his pitch in steps until the vibrating hum made her giggle. She told him to stop and called him very silly, but her peals of laughter told him she was delighted.

A hitch in her breath put a stop to her laughter, however, when he dropped his face down to the plump V at the top of her thighs and began to intone his hum there. Under his hands, he felt the muscles of her hips begin to tighten as he changed his “Mmmm” to breathy mouthings. Although wordless, they conveyed much as he nuzzled her through the thin cloth. He felt her fingers slipping into his curls as she bent to kiss the back of his head, but as she did, her loose hair tumbled down upon him, streaming over his shoulders and back. It tickled in a delicious sort of way that made him shiver and giggle at the same time.

Turning to look up at her, Frodo was struck silent by the sight of her face. Shadowed by the curtain of her hair, her eyes seemed to gleam with desire. She swung it back over her shoulders and their eyes locked; then he pulled her down for a kiss. It spilled forward again and Rosamunda sat back up.

Blowing a few strands out of his face, Frodo scrambled onto his knees and sat back on his heels. Turning his hands palm outwards, he slid the backs of his fingers along the softness of her cheeks, lifting aside the shining waves, until he touched her ears. Leaning closer, he brushed her lips with a kiss. Then, turning his palms towards her face, he lifted her hair away, exposing her ears, letting the silky mass of it stream over the backs of his hands and wrists like a rippling veil.

“When your hair is down, Rosa,” he said, his voice hushed as he trailed little kisses along the line of her jaw, first on one side, then the other, gliding the side of his face over the shells of her ears, “it makes the places underneath seem secret – like a willow hanging over a river makes a secret place below its trailing leaves. Once you slip inside, you are completely hidden. No one can see. Sometimes I feel like that when I come here, Rosa. It’s like secret place where I can go, hidden from every other eye. Not just the cottage, but you, yourself.”

Rosamunda had become very supple and breathless under the spell of his lips and voice, and when she pulled away to look at him, her gaze was exceedingly tender. But she gave herself a little shake and, smiling, said with a soft chuckle, “I am to be your willow, now? This afternoon I was your cherry tree. What sort of tree will you be for me, Frodo – or do you merely plan to fell me?”

Frodo could feel the heat coming off her body as, rising up on his knees, he drew her lightly to him.

“Why, I am a tree for you, already, Rosa,” he said with a chuckle of his own. “Can you not tell?”

With a decisive tug, he pulled her close. A little gasp and an appreciative squirm told him that she could tell. “But,” he added with a smile, “I plan to fell you, even so.”

“Shall you?” she said, smiling back at him very saucily, merriment mixing with her passion.

But her voice was low and stirring when she asked him, “Do you plan to fell me here on the floor, or properly, in a bed?”

Frodo laughed, but then he said more seriously, “If you were asking me in earnest, Rosa, I should say, here. That is what I should like. Here, by the fire. It is so beautiful – and you are beautiful in its light.”

But, with a resigned smile he sighed, saying, “Yet, I well know it, Rosa – you hate the floor.”

Rosamunda got up and, taking the coverlet from the settee, spread it over the rug. The edge of it landed over one of Frodo’s knees. She straightened the corners and, when she was finished, stood before the fire. Looking from the coverlet to Frodo, her eyes became very luminous. Softly she declared, “For you, Frodo, I am making an exception.”

Frodo felt he must be gaping as she stood before him, the fire partly behind her. She was shapely and tall in her plain summer nightgown, its fabric gauzy from the light. Her hair made a glowing nimbus around her shoulders and arms, its edges traced with gold. Under his gaze, her playful smile began to melt; her lips parted and her eyes grew black as jet. Although Frodo knew the look of Rosamunda’s desire, the look he saw now seized and held him, for not only desire, but love was there, love unconcealed. He adored her.

In that moment, Frodo was on his feet. Poised and expectant, every nerve a-tingle, he stood across from her before the fire, the hearth between them. He still wore his towel and she her nightdress, but he felt suddenly shy. Staring at her toes where they peeked out from under the hem of her nightdress, he wondered if Rosamunda felt this way, too. He glanced up; she glanced away. They both blushed.

“Isn’t it silly, Frodo?” she said with an embarrassed grin, squeezing her hands together in a tight little clasp. “I feel as though we have never done this before – I almost feel afraid. Not afraid of you, of course, but afraid of … Oh, I don’t know.”

Frodo smiled his relief.

“That is just how I feel, Rosa!” he exclaimed. He had taken a step towards her when a new thought came to him.

“Yet, perhaps, it is right to feel a little frightened – even awed – wouldn’t you agree?” Reaching out, he touched her waist through the filmy muslin. He felt a tremor run up through his fingers. Was it his or hers? He took another step.

“In a way,” he said, working out his thoughts, “We haven’t done this before – not precisely. This time, we shall know that we love each other.”

Frodo took the last step and stood before her.

“Surely,” he whispered near her cheek, “Surely, that is a very great difference.” The beauty of the realisation pierced him.

Rosamunda stepped into his arms and lightly she moulded herself to Frodo’s body as he moulded himself to hers. Their lifted arms did not embrace as much as they danced, moving over and around the body of the other, not clasping or squeezing, but urging tender compliance from the other with a touch – a press – an inclination of the head or a breath upon the skin in the saying of a name or in whispered words of love.

Frodo felt as though he were floating, suspended in the warmth that emanated from Rosamunda’s hands and arms as they moved all over and around him. Soft and light, the insides of her wrists and the tips of her fingers, as they passed over his ears and through his hair, made a sound in his head like the hems of skirts sweeping over grass. Suddenly, a vision of green banks stretching from the Brandywine river up to the feet of Brandy Hall blossomed in Frodo’s mind, and he saw lawns dappled with sun streaming through the leaves of great trees.

“Oh, Rosa!” he cried. His words were more a trembling sigh than speech as, in his hands, he turned her head this way and that, her tension gone, rolling the back of it along his fingertips and palms, as if merely for the pleasure of feeling its weight and shape through the silky cushion of her hair.

“Rosa,” he murmured, “Is this really happening?”

“Yes,” she said. Lifting her head, she let her lips brush along his cheek until she reached his ear. “Oh, yes,” she whispered. “This is really happening, my love.”

My love.

Tears sprang to Frodo’s eyes. How long he had waited to hear her call him that! He thought his chest would burst from the happiness that swelled his heart at those words. Yet, unaccountably, he did not wish her to see his tears.

Turning to the hearth he said, “The fire needs tending or it won’t last.” Risking a glance at her he smiled to say, “We shall need another hour’s light at least. I won’t be a moment.” He gave her hand a squeeze and went into the kitchen.

Frodo was as good as his word and when he returned Rosa was still standing where he had left her, a dreamy smile upon her face. She watched as he crouched down to lay on another armful of sticks. Standing up, Frodo brushed his hands together then wiped them over the towelling on his thighs.

Then, standing, he looked at her and she at him. Frodo smiled a little sheepishly and Rosamunda giggled. But her eyes remained trained upon his movements, just as his were upon hers. Each seemed to be waiting for the other to act.

Finally, Rosamunda reached for the hem of her nightdress and Frodo reached for the overlapping ends of his towel. Together they disrobed.

“Oh!” they breathed at the sight of each other. The fire blazed up as the fresh sticks kindled. Then, in a harmony of mutual inclination, they moved together, looking; reaching; touching.

Rosamunda’s eyes were very bright as she almost crooned, “Oh, Frodo, how beautiful you are to me!” As she spoke she ran her hands and eyes all over him, but more with wonder than as if to titillate. “I hardly can believe you have been given to me.”

“But I have been, Rosa.” Frodo’s voice sounded husky to his own ears, but the gratification her words brought to him was intense, it made it difficult for him to speak. “I am yours, completely.”

“Come,” he said, pulling her down to sit with him upon the rug. “Come and sit with me again before the fire.”

Frodo’s breaths came quicker as she settled beside him. Together, they watched as the flames on the hearth licked up and swirled about like golden tongues.

Swallowing, Frodo said, “You wanted to before, but I prevented you. Take me now, Rosa, here before the fire.”

Leaning back against the front of the settee, Frodo made a space for her and watched as she knelt between his legs. Delicately she tugged his knees, urging him closer to where she knelt. He slid his shoulders a bit farther down the front of the settee and his heart began to throb higher in his chest. Rosamunda shifted her knees slightly and, placing her hands upon the floor on either side of him, she leaned forward, her full breasts swinging slightly, just at the level of his eyes. His legs trembled, and every sinew was tensed with anticipation as, taking a few deep breaths, he struggled to master his excitement.

She kissed his lips and said, “I have thought of having you this way much of the night, my love.” Dropping a kiss over his heart, she leaned into her hands and bent her head, letting her hair spill over his belly and thighs. He was about to gasp but Rosamunda was already upon him, swift and sure. Like the sheathing of a knife, she took him in one smooth stroke.

Every other thought was obliterated as Frodo felt himself borne upon white-tipped crests of pleasure. He watched her through the aperture in hair where it swept over him. Each time her lips nuzzled into the dark curls of his lap, he heard himself groan, arching his head back into the seat cushions behind him. He felt as though his entire body might shoot right through the cottage roof, so intense was the sensation. To anchor himself, he threw his arms back over his head to clutch the settee behind him. He might have clutched Rosamunda, but she did not like to be hindered when giving him pleasure, preferring to be free to move about. He watched as she moved about, pivoting on her hands and knees as she pressed into the floor and used her whole body, her head and shoulders shifting and dipping in their dance, then pausing to hover, then gliding down again. Not just her shoulders, but her back and hips were as fluid and sinuous as a snake’s as she surrendered herself to her task.

Ah, the glory of her hot, wet mouth to deliver such bliss – and such torment. With her teeth and tongue she would drag him along a razor’s edge of pleasure that sent needles of heat pricking him everywhere, until he thought he could not bear it another second. Then, in the nick of time, she would soothe it all away, holding him close and warm inside her mouth in a languid sort of way, stroking him with the flat of her tongue as one might stroke the flank of a skittish colt. But no sooner had she settled him, she began lashing him into a new frenzy until he was driven nearly mad. How he loved it! But it was difficult not to wrest control away. Frodo clenched his teeth, trying hard to suppress his answering movements, but finally need drove him. The almost imperceptible lifts of his hips became thrusts, and soon he was commandeering the tempo.

“Frodo!” Rosamunda panted, laughing, “You are being a nuisance and throwing me off!”

In spite of the hiatus in his pleasure, Frodo laughed, too. But then, with a growl that was only mock-comic, he pulled her to him for a kiss.

“Come here,” he said, rather gruffly, pinning her sides between his knees and squeezing her tight, and he poured his pent-up zeal into his kiss.

When he had released her from it, Rosamunda was gasping. Letting her head drop back, she offered him her throat. But Frodo was beyond the kissing of throats; he seized her hips and was hoisting her up when Rosamunda, still breathless, wriggled free.

“On the settee, Frodo,” she panted, reaching past him and giving its cushions a pat, “You will see – It’s better.”

Frodo was not prepared to argue and pushed himself up onto the seat, sliding back against the cushions, but Rosamunda scrambled up and gave him a tug. “Come forward,” she said.

As he brought his hips closer to the front of the seat, Frodo said without thinking, “You’ve done this on here before, with Odovacar?”

He could have struck himself.

But Rosamunda was unperturbed. Holding onto his shoulders for balance she straddled his lap, knelt on the cushions and settled herself across his thighs.

“Not on this settee, silly. We used the one at Shady Bank. This settee is quite untouched by anyone else – unless my parents used it years ago,” she giggled.

Rosamunda’s mirth evaporated as soon as she had said this. Gazing past him, then, she seemed to see other places and other times. After a moment, with a trace of sadness she said, “I would love to think my parents really had made love upon it. They cared for each other very much, you know,” she said. Her eyes glistened. “Perhaps as I much as I care for you.”

Frodo was moved but he said nothing, only looking at her, listening.

She slipped a hand behind his neck and, with the other, absently traced the contours of his face, as if she were thinking. Then, twining her arms around his waist she nosed his curls aside to brush the tip of his ear with her lips. As she hovered there, Frodo could hear and feel her light breaths, but suddenly she squeezed him tight, and whispered fervently, “This settee is for you, Frodo. Just as I am for you. For you alone. There will never be another.”

Frodo could scarcely breathe, but returned her embrace with fierce joy, burying his face in her neck as he murmured her name. Then, squeezing her more tightly around the waist, he pressed his face against her breasts and began to kiss them passionately. Rosamunda winced.

Frodo relaxed his hold at once, unsure.

“Rosa?”

“It is nothing,” she said with an apologetic smile. “My menses are due. Overdue, actually. My breasts become a bit tender. But they always do at my time of the month – or whenever I have been pregnant.”

Frodo was silent for a moment then slowly began to scatter feathery kisses over her breasts, making her chuckle. But all the while, he was wondering whether or not to speak.

At last looked at her and said, “Do you think you might be, Rosa – pregnant?”

Rosamunda did not answer at first, but with a wistful smile she said, “I do not think so, Frodo. No, I am sure not. I don’t think I am able to conceive any longer, not since Estella.”

Seeing the wondering look on his face, she hesitated but then went on.

“Freddy came at one, but I was very young, then, just come of age.”

She leaned back to look at him better then said, musing, “Do you know, when Freddy was born I was not even two years older than you are now? And now he is twenty, already a tween. And you, Frodo,” she said, looking at him with an appraising smile, “You are quite grown up.”

Her comment had the opposite effect from what he might have expected, for it made him feel extremely young. Afraid he might begin to blush, he asked, “Did something happen because of Estella?”

“Oh, no,” she replied. “But Estella did not come for nearly five years. Still, we were not terribly worried, since I was so young. There seemed plenty of time.”

“Just after she was born, I conceived again. But when I was just a few months along, I caught a fever. It was not of long duration, but severe.”

“I don’t remember this at all,” Frodo said, knitting his brow.

Rosamunda smoothed her fingers over his forehead, as if she might smooth the thoughts behind it.

“You were not even a tween then, Frodo,” she smiled. “You would not have been told. And no children were allowed to come near, in case of contagion – not from the Hall or from Budgeford. Pansy took Freddy and Estella to stay with her, while Odovacar stayed and nursed me.”

At the mention of Odovacar, Frodo did not chafe at all. He felt only gratitude that someone had been there to care for Rosamunda.

“I recovered quickly,” she said, continuing. But then her expression darkened. “One day, soon after, I was standing in the kitchen at Shady Bank, preparing our tea. I remember feeling hot then faint. I held onto the sideboard. There were pains. Then there was blood. It gushed down my legs and onto the floor.”

Her voice was only a whisper when she looked at him and said, “I knew at once the baby was lost.”

“Oh …” Frodo could think of nothing else to say, but he tightened his arms, which had been loosely draped around her hips.

“It frightened me, of course,” she went on. “But it frightened Odovacar even more, I think. He wouldn’t come near our bed for months.” She smiled apologetically, but averted her eyes to say, “I am afraid I had to beg him.”

“Rosa, my Rosa,” Frodo murmured, forgetting all of his jealousy, as he nuzzled her cheek with the side of his forehead.

Rosamunda had been twining Frodo’s curls around her fingers as she spoke, but stopped. “We never did tell my father,” she said. “He would have worried terribly, had he known.”

Placing her hands on his chest she looked at him before she said, “You see, my mother died that way. Had you known that?”

Frodo had not known. Rosamunda’s mother had died before he was born, although he had met her father several times in Tookland. Very tall he was, and gaunt, for a hobbit. “Sigismond the Melancholy,” he was called, though not to his face. Frodo had only heard of her mother when he was a child in Buckland, as the youngest sister of Merry’s grandmother, Menegilda Goold. Folk said she had died young in some sad way.

“No, Rosa, I didn’t know. Did she miscarry?”

“Yes, but many times. After my brother was born, she conceived right away, and then again, almost every year. But always it ended in blood, or with babies too tiny to live. And each time she became a little bit weaker. They tried to stay away from each other, but neither of my parents could bear to be apart. I suppose I have turned out the same way.”

She said it as if it were a joke, rolling her eyes, but her smile was bitter. It hurt Frodo to see it.

“The last time she was with child their hopes were very great, for she had carried the baby almost to the end. But it came too soon and the baby was lost. My mother died in the morning.”

Frodo could think of nothing to say as he watched her tears beginning to brim. Helplessly, he watched as they spilled down her cheeks. But though he could not speak, he could act, and he kissed her, wiping her tears away with his hands.

Rosamunda seized his hands and pressed them tightly to her cheeks. She smiled her thanks but she kept his hands, holding them clasped in hers as she went on.

“The baby was fully-formed,” she told him in a hushed voice. “I was permitted to see it when they laid them out together – afterwards – it was a baby girl. It looked just like her, Auntie Gilda said.”

When Rosamunda had recovered herself, she said, “The year before he died, my father told me what my mother had said to him. She had told him, ‘Even had I known, I would not have done any differently.’ That helped him, he said, through the years, knowing that. And he did try for our sakes to be happy again....”

Her voice trailed away as she gazed at their joined hands. “He tried, but he was always melancholy after that.”

Rosamunda dried the last of her tears on the backs of her hands and gave a little sniff.

“Anyway,” she concluded, “After that time at Shady Bank, I never conceived again. I thought Odovacar would be terribly disappointed but he never spoke of it. I believe he was secretly relieved. He would rather have had me, I think, than another child.”

At first, Frodo had no words; the thought of Rosamunda having died before he ever had loved her was too terrible.

But when he spoke, he lifted his eyes to hers and said, “I would rather have had you, too, Rosa.”

Rosamunda took him in her arms and pressed his face against her neck as, tenderly, she stroked his tangled mat of curls.

“How very dear you are,” she murmured, kissing his hair.

Then, holding him away, she said, “I am sorry I grieved you with sad stories. Such tales should not have been spoken of, not tonight. It was bad of me. Always I am too ready to dwell upon death and endings…. But,” she said, producing a brave smile, “I will change.”

“Do not be sorry you told me these things, Rosa,” Frodo told her earnestly. “I am glad you did, even though they were sad.”

They held each other for a few moments. Then Rosamunda released him from her close embrace, telling him with a smile, “You comfort me, Frodo.” More gravely, she said, “I do not always grieve like this. But, now that I love again, love has made my heart open. And it is open to everything, I fear – to what is joyful as well as sad. Yet, I am willing to have the sadness, if it means having the joy. My parents did not regret their love, although it ended in sorrow. I shall try to do the same.”

Frodo smiled, but traces of sadness must have lingered in his eyes, for Rosamunda twined her arms about his neck and gazed into his eyes. With a warm smile she said, “Come, love. Come and give me your sweetest kiss.”

Wrapping his arms around her waist, Frodo held her close, thinking of what she had told him. Except when they were making love, he always had thought of Rosamunda as everything steady and calm. She had a quiet strength he felt he could rest in. Seeing her laid bare had shaken him at first, but now he felt that his love had only been deepened by it. That she should trust him enough to tell him such things made him feel honoured. He felt enlarged, too; as if, by letting herself appear vulnerable before him, she had let him be the stronger. And he felt stronger – and older, too. She would not have told such things to a child, only to another adult. She had told these things to him. His satisfaction in this was very great.

But her present mood was volatile, he could see. While her sensibilities were still so raw, Frodo determined to deal with her with greater tenderness. He would kiss her as she had asked. He would kiss her very sweetly indeed.

Therefore, he waited until her mouth was drawn to his before he sought to kiss it. Then, as a courtier might rap upon his lover’s chamber door, he let just the tip of his tongue bid her open to him. Once admitted, he did her courtesies. With a flick and swirl he flourished his warm silk with delicacy, elegantly sweeping it across the chamber of her mouth. When he had made his manners, Rosamunda returned him every courtesy.

Receiving them, Frodo found he had been parched for want of her kisses. So engrossed had he become in their solemn conversation, he had been unaware of the diminished state of his excitement. But now, drinking deeply from her succulent kiss he felt himself refreshed. And, just as water is drawn through the roots of a plum to spread throughout the tree, swelling the fruit, so desire began to course through Frodo’s veins to every part. All through him it pumped and flowed, finding its way to gather, until he was filled with sweet juice and almost ready to pluck.

Still seated upon his lap, her legs astraddle his thighs, Rosamunda leaned in closer, angling her head in order to kiss him the way she wished. To reach his ears, she moved closer still upon his lap until she was very close, so close that Frodo felt his aroused self bobbing against his belly, her body nudging his.

She must have felt it too, for, making a little sound of surprised delight, she rose to her knees and softly pressed herself upon him. Her hair tickled where it touched and he giggled. Rosamunda smiled. She kissed him again but, with undulating movements, she began to insinuate herself around him, curling her hips until he was nestled between her inner lips. Frodo’s head dropped back upon his neck at the feel of moist, silky warmth around him, as if she were offering him her most intimate kiss.

Then, slowly, she began to move herself over him, slick and sultry, but with maddening lightness. Breaking off their kiss, tormented, Frodo grasped her hips and pulled her closer but, trapped in his sitting position, he could not move the way he would like. But he was not without means. He could, by clenching the muscles of his buttocks, move himself up while he pulled her down, thereby sliding up in such a way that she whimpered and dropped her face against his neck. Giving him a look that promised better cooperation, she pressed more firmly, moving against him in slithery ups-and-downs until she was moaning and Frodo was nearly senseless. Past speech, Frodo seized her in order bring her down upon him, but Rosamunda did not comply.

“Wait,” she panted, and, stumbling off his lap, she caught his arms to keep her balance. Frodo gave a grunt of dissatisfied surprise. Nonplussed, he was about to protest, but Rosamunda was already climbing up onto the seat of the settee, using his shoulders for support. She planted a foot on either side of him and straightened up. He grabbed her knees when it seemed that she might tipple, for the settee’s cushions were soft.

Preparing to demand an explanation, Frodo looked up, but the sight of Rosamunda silenced him. Towering above him, she was utterly gorgeous in her nakedness – and mysterious – her face and body cast into shadow, its edges gilded by the firelight. Her hair wafted all around her in shimmering, floating trails in the shifting light, and she looked to him like no hobbit in Middle-earth. She made him think of a Woman from a tale of old, one of Bilbo’s stories of the ancient days from the time when the daughters of Men ran naked through primeval woods under the moon and stars. He thought her magnificent.

Looking down at him, Rosamunda explained, very exhilarated, “I don’t like it, kneeling. I can’t move properly.” She seemed almost giddy and Frodo clasped the backs of her legs again, just in case. With a laugh, she brushed his hands away.

“Here – like this,” she said, her voice very low, and, reaching around to either side of him, she grasped the back of the settee. He caught his breath as, flexing her knees, she came down. Strands of her hair floated up behind her like an airy train as she descended, her legs parting. Frodo was entranced.

There was no time for reverie, however, for she was nearly upon him. At the last moment, however, Rosamunda stopped and hovered, just touching the tip of him.

Frodo tore his eyes away in time to see her smile, very sweetly. But she arched her neck and squeezed her eyes shut as, with a delicate push, she slipped herself onto him, taking him in all the way until their curls meshed, dark with light.

As he watched himself disappear, Frodo gasped, his tremulous, “Oh!” rising up with Rosamunda’s.

She stilled herself, as if to savour the feel of him inside her. Then, with a shift of her hands and feet, she began to move. She pushed herself up and off – almost with a swinging movement – letting herself come back down upon him, each time taking him into her all the way. She seemed to find it wonderfully pleasurable, Frodo thought, as she moved herself upon him at the bottom of each stroke with a grinding motion. The sounds she made were more like cooing than like moans, soft and throaty. Inside, he felt her quivering around him, very hot and wet.

Although Frodo fought to govern himself, it all was proving terribly intense – especially with Rosamunda in command of the act. When he was in control, he realised, he could anticipate what he would feel at every turn, letting him determine from moment to moment what he could do to keep himself from climaxing. But now, the suspense of not knowing what she might do next, combined with the sheer intensity of her actions, made him feel helpless before the onrush of pleasure. He wanted to hold off, but she was so exciting like this, the urge to surrender was great.

For the moment, Frodo resigned himself to his fate and settled for grasping her ankles and trying not to interfere; but it was a trial. If what she was doing to him weren’t bad enough, seeing her do made it even worse. He tried shutting his eyes, but he could not. Rosamunda was right to tease him – he simply had to look. Oh, to see it happening! Frodo thought he should die from the thrill of it. He watched with wonder as he saw himself be swallowed up each time, only to be given back again, undiminished. Not just undiminished, but even more potent. So absorbed had Frodo become in looking, he wasn’t even aware he had splayed his hands against her thighs in order to push them wider apart. But he looked up when he heard her breathy chuckle.

“You are incorrigible, Frodo Baggins,” she laughed.

Only slightly abashed, Frodo grinned back, but thrust up – just to show her.

Rosamunda’s laughter was checked and a low, prolonged moan issued from her instead. As if Frodo had triggered something inside her, she began to move with greater purpose. She pushed off higher and dropped down harder, swinging down upon him with the satisfying inevitability of a blacksmith’s maul upon a tent peg, the blow shivering through them both.

As if inspired, she paused and shifted her feet again. “Come forward more,” she panted.

Frodo slid down lower until his hips were near the edge of the cushions. It must have changed the angle for when Rosamunda came swinging down again, her moans were more like wails. He could tell that she strove to suppress them, but they issued from her high and drawn out like a wild creature being done to death, so great was her pleasure. She was transformed. Wild and strange she looked, but terribly exciting. Her burnished body was covered in sheen, and her head, twisting from side to side or dropping back, tossed the tumbled mass of her hair until it fell all about her. The look on her face was something between rapture and agony and the muscles in her shoulders, arms and neck were tensed and corded; even her full breasts stood out from her chest, the muscles under them clenching as she gripped the back of the couch. The muscles of her thighs bunched and her feet flexed; even her toes gripped the plush fabric of the cushioned seat as she sought to be delivered of her excitement.

He could not last; he knew it. Not with her like this. Seizing her hips, Frodo pushed her off and held her there. Rosamunda, her breaths coming fast, looked at him, dazed; uncomprehending; her eyes like coals with burning points.

“Rosa, please, I cannot bear it,” Frodo gasped. “Not for another second. I shall go off. And I want it to be together, when we do. Especially tonight.”

Rosamunda hestitated but, relaxing, rolled off Frodo’s lap to the side and tumbled onto her back into the corner of the settee. Her legs were half-draped over his and her head was wedged into the corner.

“My neck is getting awfully scrunched,” she giggled, still panting.

Frodo helped her to sit up a little higher.

“I am afraid I got carried away,” she said, but her hot blush did not seem to come from passion. It seemed more like that of a lass who has dropped a plate of cakes in the midst of matrons at a fancy tea.

He couldn’t have that.

Seeking to banish any misgivings she might have, Frodo kissed her mouth with all the art that he possessed; tenderly, winningly; but keeping in check the urge to have her where she lay, before she was ready.

“Come, love,” he said when he had released her from his kiss. Lightly he swivelled himself down off the settee and onto the coverlet-covered floor before it. Not sure what he meant to do, Rosamunda began to follow, but Frodo pressed her shoulders, guiding her to lie back along the little couch.

“I am just at the edge, Rosa,” he said, kneeling beside her where she lay, “Let me bring you there with me, love.”

With a look and a touch, Frodo urged her to open to him. A little smile curved upon her lips but quickly, it spread into the beaming one he most cherished. Deeply happy, Frodo paused to behold her arrayed before him – luxurious, gorgeous and wanton, every inch of her rich and fluid and gleaming like dark honey threaded from a spoon. Her hair spilled everywhere and her arms were flung up over her head. Strong and supple and full of grace she was, all the way to her curling fingertips. Then he let his eyes sweep over her to linger in the shadowed place between her legs. There treasures lay, waiting for him to open them.

“Oh, Rosa,” he said, his voice hushed, “You are beautiful.” Leaning over her, he kissed her, as if greeting each part; first her lips, then each breast, her navel, and then the inner places of her thighs. She shivered under his light kisses and her hips began to move. Already, she craved the feel of him inside her; he knew it. So overpowering was Frodo’s impulse to grant her wish, he pressed himself against the settee, as if he might suppress it physically.

He could not have her yet; he was too needy. But, he could let his fingers do the office.

Inside, Rosamunda was steaming. Her body closed around his fingers as soon as he began to move them. Just the feel of her around his fingers almost tipped Frodo over the edge. He made himself relax, taking deep breaths, so that he might take greater satisfaction in giving her pleasure. He thought of the near-ecstasy he had seen on her face just moments before, when she had been driving herself upon him at the last. That was the look he wanted to see again.

As he slid his fingers in and out, he sought – searching for whatever he had touched before.

That was close, he thought, conjuring up a series of moans. He watched her face as he continued. Then there was another moan, much lower this time. As Rosamunda’s eyelids fluttered, he saw her eyes roll up behind them before she squeezed them shut, her face contorted with extreme pleasure.

Ah, there, he thought.

Frodo plied her then with presses and strokes until he had induced groans so heartfelt, they could no longer be suppressed.

“Oh, Frodo!” she cried wretchedly (giving him profound satisfaction). He watched her so intently she rolled her face away, as if ashamed to feel such pleasure before him. But, however abashed her mind might be, Rosamunda’s body was bold and brazen. She flexed her legs more deeply, and opened to him further, raising her hips as if begging him to do whatever he would.

“Is that good, Rosa?” Frodo asked, sure that it was far more than good, yet he wanted to hear her say it.

“Oh,” she breathed, “It is so lovely, I can’t bear it!”
As if impatient, she began to move herself upon his fingers, and, when he accelerated his pace, she seemed nearly delirious with pleasure. Nevertheless, he sensed she needed something more. He extended his thumb, letting it glide ahead of his delving fingers and, like the prow of a boat parting the waters before it, he let his thumb part her folds. But when the tip of this thumb ran aground against her, she flinched.
Too intense, too rough, he thought. Well, he had something sleeker to offer. He would make amends with his mouth.
“Oh, Frodo,” she sobbed, then, “You will surely kill me!” She grabbed the back of the settee with one hand and clutched a handful of his curls with the other, but this hampered him. She let him go and gripped the arm of the couch behind her instead. Up, up she arched as Frodo quickened his pace with fingers and lips and tongue until she clenched, froze, then writhed in agony, slain at last. Her wild cries took Frodo aback, but looking up he watched her face with awe as the last spasms shook her and hot juices spilled onto his fingers and hand.
At the feel of her throbbing around his fingers, still runny with steamy wet, Frodo knew he must have her and have her at once.
“Come. Come to me, Rosa,” he urged, trying to pull her up, but she was too overcome. Frodo was thinking the little settee would have to do, when Rosamunda revived.
“Oh, Frodo, how wonderful you are!” she cried, throwing her arms about him and pressing grateful kisses into his neck.

Charged with ardent purpose, Frodo was finding a spot for his knee when Rosamunda twisted out from under him, breathless with mirth that seemed bubble up from some font of joy deep within her. Slithering down the front of the settee, she rolled out onto the coverlet at his feet.

“The settee is much too small for us,” she said. Then, stretching herself long and taut, her hands over her head and her toes pointed, she rocked herself slightly from side to side, as if toasting herself before the fire. “Ah,” she sighed with satisfaction, “How lovely it is to stretch out. You must try it!”

Then, raising herself upon her elbows, she looked at Frodo, her eyes luminous and dark. Daintily, she patted the coverlet beside her.

“Come, my love,” she said. “Come and take me here, before the fire. Surely the floor cannot be so very dreadful.”

As she stretched out her arms to him, Frodo was on his feet and, as she parted her legs, he was already upon her. His heart soared to the stars, even as his body descended. Entering in, he felt himself received with love.

“Are you mine, Rosa?” Frodo asked, as he initiated an easy rhythm of slow, penetrating thrusts, making both of them shiver.

“You do not know?” she smiled through a grimace, shifting her feet in order to receive him more deeply.

“Yes. But I love to hear you say it,” he answered, laughing softly as, with his next thrust, he penetrated her at a different angle, making her gasp.

“Of course I am yours, Frodo,” she chuckled breathily. “Have you not made me so?”

Resting on his elbows, Frodo paused. He held her face between his hands as he asked her seriously, “Have I only made you mine, Rosa? I am yours, but I have bound myself to you freely.”

Rosamunda smiled at him, and her eyes and voice were very tender as she answered, “I am yours, Frodo, yours by my own choice. I have given myself to you freely.”

But, as Frodo bent to kiss her, her eyes grew wide and dark. Reaching up, she touched his face; her fingers shook. Her voice faltered as she told him, “I am yours, Frodo, truly. And my happiness is very great. It is just that … such great happiness frightens me. When I think of losing it, I tremble. I love you so.”

Such simple words, Frodo thought, as she pressed her cheek to his. Such simple words; said by other lovers, in other places, and in others times – but never to him. How marvellous it was – and yet how right – how almost inevitable it felt, to be received into her love.

Rosamunda was warm in his arms, and warmer still inside, where her body held him fast. But even as he felt himself enfolded in her warmth, Frodo realised it was only the sign of a secret, greater warmth he couldn’t touch with his body; a warmth of heart which only love had kindled. She was to him like that fire, he thought. Glancing past her arm where it twined about his neck, he looked to where it burned red in the grate. It burned low and steady but when it was stirred – when a brand or two was laid upon it – up it blazed until it was a furnace.

As Frodo thrust himself more deeply into her warmth, he felt her blazing up around him – blazing up with love. Love for him. And within himself, Frodo felt as if he were uncurling, opening up and stretching out to bask in the heat of that love, like a dog before the hearth. Yes, like a hearth.

“Rosa,” Frodo murmured, not stopping what he was doing but savouring the feel of her around him, luxuriating in her blessed heat.

“Rosa,” he said again.

The eyes that looked back at him burned with love and he kissed her face, making every kiss a pledge, which she accepted. Joy surged through him – joy so great it gave his pleasure an edge of pain. He struggled to keep it back as he strove to speak.

“Do not be afraid of the future, Rosa,” he said, letting his voice soothe her like a cool hand smoothed over the brow of a feverish child.

“You have let me into your heart, the place where I have longed to be. You are home to me now, and I shall never leave it.”


* * *

Chapter 12 – In the Morning Light.



1400, July 19 ~ Rosamunda’s cottage and its environs.


When the last embers upon the hearth had died, the lovers had made their way to Rosamunda’s bedroom, fell upon the bed and slept. Frodo slept like the dead, but Rosamunda’s sleep was fitful and she dreamt.

She dreamt she stood on a hill under the waxing moon and a black sky blazing with stars. A breeze stirred the grasses around her feet. As she watched, one of the stars grew large. It fell to earth silently, trailing glittering light.

Suddenly, a woman like a daughter of Men but far more fair stood before her. The woman’s hair streamed and her raiment shimmered as she approached, her unseen feet whispering through the grass.

She was tall, so tall that she loomed over Rosamunda, making her feel a child again – yet she was not afraid. The woman stooped before her and gracefully extended her hands, holding one cupped over the other, then lifting the upper hand away. Heeding the invitation, Rosamunda peeked inside.

In the hollow of the woman’s palm glowed a small bead or pearl. Smooth-sided it was; moon-pale and iridescent with a dark swirl. No. It was not a pearl but a shell. A shell from the Sea.

As she gazed it seemed to become larger (or Rosamunda smaller, she could not tell), so that she could look inside. Leaning in, she stretched out her fingers but could feel nothing, only empty space where the shell’s side curved away. Yet there was something inside, she knew it. Something wonderful.

Straining to reach further, Rosamunda leaned so far she slipped and tumbled in. Down and down she fell, slowly spinning like the winged fruit of a sycamore, glancing lightly off the shell’s glossy sides until she found herself sprawled at the bottom in a noiseless crumple of skirts. She clambered to her feet and looked about.

She was standing inside a modest yet lofty chamber, illuminated by rosy light coming through the shell’s sides. Her heart beat fast while a sound like wind rose in her ears, but there was no wind. Everything was still.

Her excitement became very great, as it used to do when she was little, watching and waiting as the bright knife in her mother’s hand hovered over the Yule cake just before it sank into the first slice. In whose slice would be the secret prize?

Sensing a presence behind her she pivoted and saw peeping out from the innermost swirl of shell fingers; fingers of a tiny hand. She stepped nearer. It was not just a tiny hand, but a little arm, plump and soft. She stepped up all the way and looked. Cradled fast asleep in the last volute of shell an infant lay, pale as milk; a dark-haired boy.

She did not move; she did not breathe. She trembled and quaked as a flood-tide of unacknowledged yearning rose within her.

For me?

Had she said it aloud? She saw the words clearly in her mind, but there had been no sound of her voice.

She wanted to snatch the child up, but reached only tentatively, hoping to touch the little hand. Just inches away she stopped herself, blinking, startled and amazed.

The infant was gone and it was Frodo who lay there fast asleep, but very small.

What trick was this?

She rubbed her eyes and opened them. She saw an infant.

Bewildered, she stood and stared, all her thoughts in disarray, questions swirling. She sensed the woman still was near – around her or behind her – watching and listening.

She would ask.

Rosamunda whirled about only to find herself alone again, standing on the hill beneath the vast, starry sky as grasses hissed and sighed.

Long she stood and looked, dazzled and bereft, one hand upon her breast, the other clutched to her waist. She watched as the star faded and shrank until it winked, a tiny point, vanishing into the inky canopy above her.

Rosamunda bowed her head, but gasped to see she held the shell, small and white, cradled in her hand. It pulsed with secret life.

* * *

She awoke with joy, borne upon a crest of rising excitement. Her eyes flew open to see her bedroom flooded with light. But it was not the light of moon and stars, she saw with dismay: it was the light of the sun! They had overslept abominably. How would Frodo ever get away unseen?

The dream was forgotten as she lurched up and was prevented by the weight of Frodo’s limbs. Reassured by his solid warmth she relaxed, letting her head fall back upon her pillow as her alarm subsided.

As she settled, she became aware of birdsong coming from the copse below. The morning breeze plucked at the edges of the curtains and in the white shaft of light that slanted through the open casements, tiny motes swam.

The clouds had passed, the day was fair, and there was nothing to be done about their lateness. Well, they would think of something. They would have to.

Perhaps she could go back to sleep. No, there was little chance of that. She should get up. Yet, with no hurry for Frodo to be gone, she was loath to wake him.

When they had finally gone to bed, he had been utterly exhausted. She, at least, had got some sleep on the settee, but Frodo had not slept at all. Lying beside her, his breathing easy and deep, Rosamunda found his sleep as satisfying to watch as that of a stricken child whose fever has finally broken.

Still, she would very much like to adjust her position. Her arm was angled up sharply where his head nestled. She must have flung it back onto the pillows in her sleep. Frodo had tucked his head so snugly into the hollow under her arm she could not bring it down again. His head lay upon the pillows, but his cheek was pressed against her breast. His mouth was slightly parted, his even breaths drifting across her skin. His lower arm she could not see, thrust somewhere under the pillows, but his upper arm was draped across her, his palm curving over her breast like a shell.

Like a shell.

A dream. A dream about a shell….

Rosamunda drew her brows together as images flitted across her mind. She tried to bring them into focus but they slipped away. Letting them go, she sighed. It would come back if she did not force it.

She turned her attention to her sleeping lover.

Frodo was tucked up very close. As if she might bolt while he slept, not only his arm but his leg was stretched across her, his knee drawn up and his toes tucked into the space between her calves. The other leg was stretched out straight beside her.

She liked the feel of him so near, but, in truth, she needed to shift. Carefully she wriggled herself further up the bed until she could bring her arm down behind his back. Although sleeping, Frodo accommodated himself to her new position. He hitched his knee up higher, but dislodged his foot so that it merely dangled off her legs. He tried again to burrow his head under her arm, but he could not; her arm was in the way. With a little snort, he made do, settling his cheek more squarely onto the pillow. But, as if as to compensate for her slight removal from him, his fingers flexed possessively over her breast. Remembering her painful tenderness, she held her breath until his hand relaxed, curving softly once again.

Situated higher upon the pillows, she could see Frodo much better. It had not been since the days of Lithe, she realised, that she had seen him in the full light of day. Each morning he left the cottage in darkness, well before dawn. Even when he had brought the cherries the previous afternoon, it had been so bright outside it had made the inside seem dark. When the storm moved in, it had made the cottage darker still.

Now, in her bedroom filled with golden morning light, Frodo’s sleeping face seemed paler than ever, especially in contrast to her breast beside his cheek. Against the pallor of his cheek, his long lashes seemed like curving threads of jet, each one precisely delineated. Through the translucent skin of his eyelid she could see every tiny vein, each one a delicate tracery of blue. She thought of when Frodo had been a lad, sleeping beside her and baby Freddy under the trees of Brandy Hall, on the day his parents had died in the river. He had been dreaming then, she remembered, his eyes sliding restlessly beneath his lids. His mien was peaceful now.

The parts of his body that showed above the rumpled linens had seldom been seen by the sun, and were paler still. She had not noticed before, but faint freckles were scattered over the tops of his shoulders. One dark mole emphasized the whiteness of his inner arm. On his right hand, the nail on his thumb had been recently gouged, and the first fingers were slightly stained with ink. On his forearm, fine hairs glistened; hairs which normally were imperceptible. In places where his clothes did not usually cover him there were small scars, the marks of rough childhood play. They certainly had not come from manual labour, she thought to herself with a smile, thinking of his smooth hands.

There was one larger scar, however, white and thin. The end of it angled up from the outside of his forearm, just below the elbow. She remembered it at once; it came from a fall at Shady Bank during a summer visit, just a few years after Frodo had gone to live with Bilbo.

Directly below the Bolger home, willows leaned over the Water where it flowed past Budgeford. The biggest and oldest one the children called “the Jumping Tree.” It hung over a natural pool long since carved out of the high bank by eddies and currents. In spite of every prohibition, jumping from the tree was an irresistible local sport.

The pool was fairly deep and sandy-bottomed, but further out into the channel sharp rocks lurked. They were well-submerged in spring and winter, but in summer, when the river ran lower, the rocks jutted just beneath the surface.

Frodo, then a few years into his ‘tweens, was a much better climber and jumper than his little friends. He was not only stronger and more accomplished, he was more daring. Encouraged by their cheering (Rosamunda surmised afterwards), Frodo had climbed higher and jumped further until, in his zeal, the rocks found him.

“It is nothing!” he had protested, stumbling into the gloom of the Bolger kitchen. He dripped with river water and sweat, panting from the steep climb through the trees and brush to Shady Bank, his arm wrapped tightly in his shirt. Merry and Freddy had arrived ahead of him, half-dressed and breathless, elbowing each other aside in order to be first to tell the news and summon aid. Estella, still a very little lass, had come up behind Frodo, clinging to his sodden trouser leg. Frodo could not pick her up and carry her as he might have done, needing to keep his shirt pressed to his arm.

Inside the kitchen, Pansy, still the children’s nurse, shooed the admirers away, calling for room to work. Merry and Freddy were commissioned to fetch catgut from her home. They dashed away, each vying to be first out the door. Estella tried to follow but was too little to keep up. She soon trudged back and plopped down on the little stool by the kitchen hearth to mope.

All the while, Pansy issued instructions. Although Rosamunda dressed the children’s minor wounds, she deferred to Pansy for anything more serious. Pansy came from farm folk and accidents with tools were not uncommon.

After Rosamunda had put more water on to heat and had brought out her sewing box for needles, she lit a lamp. So surrounded by trees was the Bolger home, its wide windows did little to alleviate its perpetual lack of light. She hummed a tune, stealing glances at Frodo while she tore up extra strips of linen. From the size of the stain that had spread through Pansy’s compress, they would need more than what she had ready.

As Pansy pressed the cloth to Frodo’s arm, he scowled. He seemed more embarrassed and angry than hurt. He could hold the towel himself, he complained testily. Pansy silenced him with a look. She could always manage her favourite lad. Although she teased Frodo terribly – especially about his growing up – and although she gave his ear a good pinch when she thought he needed it, she loved him and he knew it.

When the cloth was lifted away, they all leaned in to look. The sight of Frodo’s wound so alarmed Estella, she began to wail and Rosamunda had to send her out. Charged to stand at the garden gate, her task was to watch and bring word as soon as the lads returned.

Once all the children were out of the way, the real treatment began.

The rock had cut Frodo’s arm at an angle. Thankfully, it was not dangerously deep. Still, it gaped in an ugly way, flecked inside with grit and river slime. He flinched and could not restrain a gasp when Pansy began to sluice the wound with soapy water, but he did not cry out.

Rosamunda forgot to hum. She occupied herself with pouring bowls of water and washing out bloody cloths, providing Pansy with fresh ones.

Between winces, Frodo looked daggers at Pansy, muttering complaints at every step. Finally Pansy stopped work, gave his sweaty cheek a smacking kiss, and grinned.

Frodo struggled to maintain his thunderous look, but his chin quivered and the familiar smile broke through.

“Now, that’s my bonny love,” Pansy smiled, giving him a sweeter kiss. Then she gave his nose a rub with hers. He grimaced, but his blush disclosed his pleasure. After that, Frodo behaved better.

Merry and Freddy returned, bursting through the door, their chests heaving as they argued over who would deliver up the coil of gut, Estella dashing in behind them. Estella hung back at first, but the little boys came as close as Pansy would permit, planting themselves at Frodo’s side opposite her. Further away than that they would not go. They even leaned against him.

Whether intended to lend him bodily support or whether they did it for their own comfort, Rosamunda could not decide. But, either way, the friends were determined to stand by their fallen captain. Unwilling to be long left out Estella crept closer but stayed behind her mother’s skirts, peeping round when curiosity would overcome her fear. The two lads did display some concern over their hero’s injury, but their faces shone with the confidence they felt as Frodo was put to the test. And they wished to witness every step of it.

Pansy finished sluicing the wound. Then, twisting the corner of a soapy rag, she used the point to coax and flick away the stubborn bits. Frodo’s face became very white indeed, and Rosamunda feared that he might faint. She nearly reached for him but checked herself, lest she mortify him.

He did not faint but held himself very still, staring straight ahead, his jaw set, making no sound as Pansy poked and prodded. But when at last she began to stitch, Frodo turned away, letting the tangled mop of his curls obscure his face. He appeared to be studying the floor near Rosamunda’s feet, but she saw the fat drops fall and splash, staining the flags dark.

As if she were cleaning away a bit of dirt from Frodo’s face, discreetly she wiped the tears away.

Rosamunda longed to provide Frodo with some relief from the lads’ adoring scrutiny and tried to send them away on a pretext, but they would not budge. He was made to endure it throughout the stitching up.

Freddy’s soft eyes she remembered especially, so large and dark; they shone with an almost worshipful admiration. When Freddy had been very little, he frequently had been teased for weeping over hurts. Merry, although the younger, had stuck up for him each time. Freddy had got much better at hiding his pain and fears, but shows of valour continued to impress him terribly.

As she remembered these things, Rosamunda looked down at Frodo’s sleeping face, nestled sweetly by her breast. She thought of Freddy’s face, so open and adoring, and felt a tiny stab. How might her son regard his older friend now, she wondered darkly, if he knew of their love? How might that face look if he could see his hero, naked in his mother’s bed, lying in his father’s place?

She did not like to think of it.

Rosamunda studied the scar on Frodo’s arm. It was no longer noticeable, not really, since grown pale and faint. Pansy’s neat stitches and Frodo’s youthful constitution had worked their healing magic. That such a wound could have healed so well, leaving barely a mark, gave her comfort.

Well, she thought, rousing herself. She might loll about gazing at Frodo for hours, but, really, they should be getting up.

Breakfast would do very well. The smell of sizzling rashers could pull Frodo out of any slumber in the best of spirits. They could take their time over it for a change, too. Yes, a breakfast would do very nicely.

Slowly Rosamunda rolled herself out from under Frodo’s arm and leg and began to inch herself towards the edge of the bed. She had not got far before a languid arm snaked around her waist to draw her back. Frodo, making an array of waking noises, had not yet opened his eyes but held her securely, snuggling up behind her.

Inwardly she rolled her eyes. His merest touch aroused her, and she wanted him.

“Mmmm ...” he droned, snuffing into her hair, now a heap of tangles piled upon the pillow behind her. Nosing it away, he pressed a few lazy kisses into the back of her neck as he let his hands wander over the front of her. Her risen nipples attracted his fingers and he toyed with them sleepily, but she was wide awake. Her skin swarmed with prickly heat.

He let her go and stretched, arching his back and wagging himself against her, rubbing pleasurably as if he were a rutting buck and she were a young tree. Clasping the tops of her shoulders, he yawned and mumbled into her nape, “What is the time, Rosa?”

“Morning, I am afraid,” she said. Still on fire from his touch, she awaited his response. She did not wait long.

“What?”

Frodo lurched up on one elbow. So abrupt were his movements she felt a draft. She twisted about and saw him gape, aghast.

“That’s torn it!” he declared and fell back onto the pillows with a smack. After a moment, he turned onto his side to face her back. Brushing the rest of her hair aside, he began to trace her contours with his fingertips while he considered. “I don’t know what is to be done, now,” he muttered, brooding. As she felt his hands shifting over her skin, she imagines the furrow between his brows and the pout of his lip.

“I shall never get back unnoticed,” he said, continuing to fret. Pensively he began to knead her arms and shoulders; lightly at first but then more deeply. Rosamunda thought it delicious.

“Well, there is no use in worrying about it, dearest,” she soothed, smiling at him over her shoulder. Supremely relaxed, she could not muster any serious alarm. “We shall have a good breakfast, and then we shall think of something. You will see.”

“Oh, I suppose you are right,” he agreed, sighing.

Frodo fell silent and, turning her head again, she watched as he gazed towards the window. Through the open casements the sun still poured, the birds still sang, and the curtains fluttered. Then he glanced at her and smiled, this time in earnest, as if now resigned to make the best of it.

She settled again into the feel of his hands.

“Well,” he said more cheerfully, “I suppose I really needn’t hurry off, need I?” After a significant pause he added, “And I am hungry, now that you have mentioned it.”

He stopped kneading and Rosamunda glanced back at him. He was looking at her from beneath his lashes, his eyes sparkling darkly.

“In fact, Rosa, I am quite starved,” he said. A slow smile spread across his face.

Beginning at the angle of her neck, he made a show of feasting upon her. Low, rumbling sounds of relish vibrated between her ticklish shoulder blades that made her giggle. But she caught her breath when he brought his hips closer, drawing the tip of himself across her lower back and leaving a trail of sparking heat.

Rosamunda had prepared a witty rejoinder but forgot it, wrapped in the warm silk of his arms and belly and chest and thighs. Slipping a hand under the narrow of her waist as she lay on her side, he twined the other around from the top to hold her tight against him. He rolled back against the bank of jumbled pillows and pulled her partway on top of him, leaving his hands freer to do what he willed.

While he nipped and suckled the lobe of her ear and made a shivery trail of breathy kisses over her shoulders and back, he ran his palms all over her front, down her sides and up her belly. Over and under her breasts they went until she was sighing with fervour. Urged on by her excitement, Frodo forgot she could not bear right now the deeper strokes she loved so well, and she winced. He released her breasts at once, but before he could lift them away, she clapped her hands over his and held them captive.

“No, don’t stop. I like it,” she said. “But, more carefully, Frodo, love.”

Frodo paused for a moment then took her nipples each between a thumb and forefinger. With exaggerated delicacy he began to tweak them, his little fingers extended daintily.

“Now, that doesn’t hurt, does it, Rosa?” he asked, his chin perched over her shoulder.

Rosamunda began to laugh but moaned when he pressed more deeply, rolling and squeezing the swollen nubs in an easy manner, the pulsing rhythm striking up such a blaze between her legs it spread to the tips of her fingers and ears. She squeezed her eyes shut and nearly squealed at the exquisiteness of it.

She imagined his rejoicing smirk as she breathed her reply, “No, Frodo, it doesn’t.”

Overcome, her head wilted back upon his shoulder. She rolled her face away, inviting his mouth, and Frodo courteously obliged. Already her hips were moving in time with his hands and mouth, pressing wanton circles against his groin, frankly begging to be delivered.

Frodo did not deliver her. Rather, he shifted slightly, as if to avoid the perils of that dark, warm valley that plunged between the hills, repairing instead to the safety of the heights.

But the heights were not safe. With her pulled back upon him so, Frodo had pinned himself against his own belly, held there by the round cheek of her buttock. No, he was not safe at all, Rosamunda rejoiced, feeling the flex and release of his hips as he began to move, letting himself be rolled and pressed in the way she knew he loved.

In undulating ups and downs he drove against her springy softness; gently at first, but then more deeply, gasping and shuddering as the delicate skin was tugged and pulled until it was stretched taut. No longer were his kisses tastes and traceries. He devoured her with real hunger. Rosamunda struggled to turn around, yearning to return such kisses, but Frodo held her fast, unwilling to relinquish his present pleasure.

That his pleasure had become intense, she knew: again he forgot the tender state of her breasts, kneading them too deeply. But Frodo anticipated her protest and checked himself before she could speak. He released her breasts gently, but only to slide his hands down her sides until they met, one over the other, cupped over the juncture of her thighs.

Embracing the plump mound with his hands, Frodo made a sound in his throat like humming as he massaged and squeezed, rocking her with waves of pleasure. Deftly he unfurled her tender folds until, slicked with her own wetness, his fingertips had laid her bare to his subtle ministrations.

Frodo’s circling fingers were exquisite but Rosamunda ached for something deeper. That he might know it, she moaned plaintively.

“Oh, dear,” he breathed over her shoulder, all solicitude. “That didn’t hurt, too, did it?”

Even in the midst of such delight she chuckled.

“Do let me make amends!” he said, panting lightly. “There, my love. Is that better?”

He slipped his fingers inside and she groaned as he curled his fingers.

He really was very terrible.

Making a valiant effort, she answered pertly, “No. That did not hurt. And, yes, that is better.”

After that, no pert replies were possible as Frodo settled in to work his magic, weaving a spell with his fingers, inscribing her as if with runes of power. High, breathy wails, which signalled her last ascent, were rising from her throat. She kicked off the last remnant of sheets. She arched back and squirmed against him, no longer inviting or begging, but demanding that he take her.

Frodo’s groans had been rising, too, as she pressed back harder while he ground his hips against her. Then all at once he clasped her tightly round the waist and yanked her up, pulling her onto her hands and knees. Between her shoulder blades, she felt his warm huffs of breath as, quickly, he positioned himself. She nearly swooned, beside herself with anticipation, when his damp curls spilled across her back as he kissed the top of her shoulders. When his kiss became a bite, she whimpered piteously. She dropped to her elbows and reached for a pillow to clutch in her hands. Her breaths came in hitches. She spread her knees and dipped her back, flexing her hips even more deeply, presenting herself to him as brazenly as any beast in season, ready to be taken.

He crouched over her, his breathing slightly faster (more from exhilaration than from passion, she suspected, flushed as he must be from the triumph of having brought her to such a state). She laid her cheek upon the sheets and watched his hand reach down beside her, just touching the bed for balance. The other hand he slipped under her waist. She thrust back, hoping to take him, but he parried easily. With a firm grip he kept her still as he teased her, lightly running along her most sensitive places with his moist, polished tip.

“Frodo, please,” she cried, part protest and part plea. She did not know whether to laugh or to weep.

As if to console her, Frodo bent forward and traced the shell of her ear with his tongue. The sound and feel of his breath sent such a wash of heat over her she felt faint. When he seized the flesh at the angle of her shoulder in his teeth, she went up in flames and lunged back. She almost caught him.

“Ah, Rosa, Rosa,” Frodo almost crooned as he gripped her hips, subduing her while she panted beneath him. His voice was soft and musical, like a young bullock’s lowing under a hedgerow at noon.

“Always, your body is wonderfully frank and outspoken,” he extolled, “yet, words you withhold. Can you not say these things to me?”

He had spoken in a playful way, his manner light, but she felt the gravity behind his request. A husky edge to his voice betrayed his depth of feeling.

“Come, love,” he cajoled, “Humour me. Tell me in words.”

He wound his arms around her waist and laid his cheek against her shoulder, speaking from just behind her ear.

“After everything you told me last night,” he said in a more subdued manner, “is it still so difficult to speak? Surely, it cannot be.”

His voice was almost hushed as he urged, “Come, Rosa. Tell me you want me. Tell me to stay.”

Why was it that she did not say these things? He observed aright, now that he pointed to it. Why did she shy away from lovers’ speech? Why did it seem when she opened her mouth to say such things, she felt as though she were falling, slithering another level down into she knew not what … a chasm or vortex … something with no bottom.

Yet she had wanted to fall, hadn’t she? In any event, it was too late. She had fallen already. There was no recalling herself, not now. All the more, then, should she not withhold the words he so hungered to hear, especially when they were true.

“Forgive me, Frodo,” she said, striving for a bantering tone. “You are right. I have been stingy with my words. I had not meant to be, truly. I shall do better….”

Abominable. She sounded like the newly-elected mayor standing on a stump at Michel Delving at his investiture. Why should Frodo listen to such drivel?

Suddenly she longed to see his face, craving the reassurance she would see in his eyes, but she could not.

Frodo noticed her efforts and, while he did not release her, he leaned over her and placed his cheek beside hers as he waited.

She had meant to proceed in the same playful manner as his, but Frodo was so near … his warmth and scent surrounded her. He hovered so close she could sense his expression even if she could not see it. How high his heart was; how open and expectant his manner. She opened her mouth but no bantering word came forth. Silently, love had coiled around her entrails until every last bit of evasive mirth had been squeezed out – as well as her breath.

When at last she gave utterance, her throat was dry and her voice rasped.

“Don’t go,” she began, but faltered.

As if he understood her distress, Frodo smoothed a velvety cheek over hers, making soft nickering sounds, like a pony might, encouraging its balky mate over a difficult place in the road.

So moved was she by Frodo’s gesture, Rosamunda could not go on. The love that had been twining about her heart struck, sinking in its honeyed fangs and flooding her with such tenderness it made her weak. Her arms quivered and her ears buzzed. The warmth of his skin against her back, the sound of his breathing, the feel of his cheek, the brush of his lashes, the pulse in the base of his throat as it throbbed next to hers made her feel as though she might expire from sweetness.

How inexpressibly dear to her he had become!

“Stay,” she began again. “Don’t go. Stay with me, Frodo – or I shall perish from want of you.”

As if content at last, Frodo sighed into her nape and dropped his forehead into the dip between her shoulder blades. His breaths were even, warm and moist.

“You shall not perish, Rosa,” he said, lifting his head. With a soft chuckle he added, “At least, not from want of me.”

He smoothed his hands along her ribs and down her sides, seized a lungful of air, grasped her firmly and, with a deliberate push, entered her. He moaned low as slowly he eased himself inside, filling her with himself to claim her completely.

It was so exquisite, and she had waited so long, Rosamunda thought she might perish on the spot. But Frodo did not begin at once. Curling himself over her back he rested for a moment.

“If you should die, Rosa,” he whispered merrily, “it shall be from too much, not too little of me.”

Although his voice was mirthful it was husky, too. Restrained excitement shuddered through him; she could feel it. In sudden recognition, Rosamunda saw that his mirth, unlike hers, was not a cloak for something else, but arose from only joy.

“After all,” he added cheerfully, his breaths accelerating, “you shan’t die alone.”

Rosamunda glanced up and saw that his arms trembled as they reached past her for the head of the bed. He grasped the wood of the rails; she caught her breath. But as he held himself poised, every muscle and sinew tensed and ready, he lowered his face towards hers. She pushed up on her hands to offer him the side of her face, arching her neck and turning her head.

Frodo smoothed her face with his, just grazing the corner of her smile with his lips. He let go one hand from the bedstead to give a tender squeeze about the waist.

“You shall die, Rosa,” he said, his voice rich and mellow in her ear. “But I shall be dying, too! We shall die together. And, if we die together,” he concluded reasonably, “what can be sad in that?”

Frodo gripped the wood tightly, his knuckles white. Exulting, he surrendered himself to his certain death, taking Rosamunda with him.

* * *

They were still locked together when Frodo tumbled them onto their sides, both of them thoroughly spent. Still hanging on tight, he spooned up behind her.

Rosamunda could feel his heart hammering like thunder against her ribs but gradually the thumping slowed, assuming a strong, steady beat. She nestled herself more deeply into his embrace, tipping her head back for a kiss. Then she reached up behind her for a handful of curls, which she twisted and coiled between her fingers.

Freshly exhausted, Frodo murmured fragments of endearments as he kissed the throat so plainly offered. Then, even the murmurings dissipated. They lay together for a time content to be silent, listening to the song of birds outside.

“I know what I’ll do,” he said at last as if he had been thinking of it all along. “I shall cut across field and go home by way of Overhill.”

This remark recalled Rosamunda to the gravity of their situation, but she could feel no serious alarm, so secure and comfortable was she in Frodo’s embrace. Leaning back against his chest, she merely nodded.

“People are used to seeing me tramping back from Folco’s after a late night,” he said, as if convincing himself of the wisdom of his plan.

“But what of all the Boffins?” she asked, turning on to her other side to face him. She wriggled up closer and hooked a possessive leg around him.

“Someone is bound to see you, Frodo,” she cautioned once she had settled. “Folco, at least, will see you and speak to you, surely.”

“I am sure he will,” Frodo answered, “In fact, I wish that he may!” Then he studied her face, and, stroking her cheekbone with his thumb, he said rather darkly, “I had meant to speak to him, anyway.”

Frodo’s mood from the night before came to mind, making her wonder.

Slightly alarmed she said, “Not about …”

Something flickered behind Frodo’s eyes before he dropped his gaze. His thick lashes veiled whatever else she might have discerned.

He drew his face across her breasts then burrowed his cheeks between them where he impressed a kiss.

“No, Rosa,” he answered, lifting his head. “Not about us.”

More brightly, he said, “I only meant to speak to Folco about the party. Bilbo is planning a dinner. Did I not mention it? Forgive me, Rosa. I forgot, I had so much on my mind.”

Rosamunda smiled. “Yes, you did,” she said, stroking his cheek. “But a dinner party? Just before haying? That is awkwardly timed.”

“No, after the haying, now that the weather has cleared. Nothing grand; just a few friends and neighbours.”

“Who?” she asked, stroking her palms over his chest. “Which neighbours and friends?” She slipped a hand behind his neck to lace her fingers in his hair.

“Why, you, of course!” he cried, pleased by her demonstrativeness. He squeezed her just under her ribs, making her giggle.

“My, that will be a small party,” she quipped, eliciting his smile. So enchanting did she find it, she brushed his lips with a light kiss.

“Am I to be the only guest, then?” she asked.

“No, indeed!” he grinned, taking her chin between his thumb and forefinger and wagging it back and forth. “There will be more than two Bagginses to ogle you, Rosa, be assured,”

He gazed at her a moment before returning her kiss, over which he lingered.

Then, a little breathless, he clarified, “Bilbo has asked the Boffins – Marco and Folco will be there.” He swept his hands over her while he spoke, stroking her like he would a Shire mare. A smart pat on her rump reinforced her impression. She smiled. He did not seem able to keep his hands still; running them everywhere, or else gesticulating as he talked.

“He is inviting Delphie Brockhouse, too,” Frodo said.

Rosamunda quirked her brows.

“Do you not know of her? I have forgotten you aren’t here most of the year; you do not know every bit of gossip. Delphinium is Folco’s secret sweetheart,” he explained. “Well, not very secret,” Frodo laughed. “Everyone in the West Farthing must know! But she’s not yet of age, so they go through the motions of discretion.”

Rosamunda smiled her understanding. She knew all about such discretion from the year Odovacar had courted her. She had not been of age, either.

“Bilbo announced it at the Ivy Bush last night with a good deal of fanfare,” Frodo continued.

“Announced what?” she asked, recalled.

In a grand style, Frodo orated, imitating Bilbo in his cups.

“‘Delphie must come!’” he proclaimed, sweeping an expansive hand through the air. “‘Delphinium must come, and her dim brothers, too!’”

“Why the dim brothers?” Rosamunda asked. She had heard Bilbo make rather cutting remarks about Marcho and Blanco Brockhouse with regard to their lack of social charms.

“Why?” Frodo blustered, still in mid-performance. “Why? For the sake of appearances, of course, my dear Mistress Rosamunda!”

“Oh, yes!” he said wryly, dropping his impersonation. “Bilbo is so noble and generous he is willing to suffer even Delphie’s dull brothers – in aid of Folco’s cause, that is.” He gave her a conspiratorial smile, saying, “Bilbo loves his bit of mischief. Well, you know all about that, Rosa. Only think of Lithe!”

She smiled, recalling the Mothers and Sons dance. Bilbo had been very naughty.

“I think Bilbo does what he does for the fun of it,” Frodo went on. “At least, in part. He simply likes to see how people behave in various situations. He would never admit it, of course. If pressed, he would insist he was inviting the Brockhouses out of sheer, hobbity kindness.”

“‘Delphie and the dim brothers must come!’” Frodo said, reassuming Bilbo’s tipsy oratorical style. “‘We must not to waste a chance to strengthen Folco’s suit!’”

Frodo’s mirth suddenly dried up and she heard him mutter, “As if Folco needed any help strengthening his suit!”

Rosamunda looked her question. Frodo coloured faintly and glanced away.

Then he pulled her close, touching his forehead to hers.

“What I mean is,” he said a little gruffly, “Folco is quite able to do his own courting. He doesn’t need any help from Bilbo!”

Following this speech, he assailed her with moody, aggressive kisses. They seemed passionate but she felt that his mind was elsewhere. When he pulled his lips away, Frodo stared past her shoulder and was silent.

“Oh,” he said, as if suddenly remembering, “Did I mention? Rollo Boffin is coming, too. He is down from the North, visiting.”

He cleared his throat.

“No, you did not mention,” Rosamunda replied, “But Folco told me when he brought my last order.”

Frodo recoiled – or had she imagined it? She must have done. At that moment, he had begun to knead her shoulders and neck in a very pleasing manner. She relaxed into it, luxuriating in his soothing touch.

“Folco is such a friendly soul,” she continued amiably, picking up her train of thought. “And so kind – or else he is very pitying,” she said with a laugh. “I imagine he thinks I live a very dull sort of life out here with the sheep!”

Frodo made an indecipherable sound.

“When the Boffins send their delivery, Frodo,” she went on, glancing at him now and then, “did you know that Folco usually brings it himself? He might easily send it with Mal instead. I think it very neighbourly of him. He always stays to chat, too, yet I am sure he must be very busy. And his conversation is always so agreeable! I am always sorry to see him go, you know. No wonder you like him.”

Frodo grunted. He did not look at her but kept his eyes on his work.

“In any event,” Rosamunda concluded cheerfully, “Folco told me that Rollo has four children now. ‘Very lively,’ he said they were.”

More silence ensued as Frodo worked on her arms and hands. So satisfying was it Rosamunda turned over, offering him her back.

“Yes, very lively,” Frodo replied once she had settled, digging in deeply. “Or so Marco said last night. So lively, in fact, the children are not being asked. They will be stopping at the Boffin’s with Nana and Grandad.”

“What? Not coming? Oh, that is too bad!” Rosamunda exclaimed, chagrined.

“Tina their mother will come,” Frodo countered smoothly, but faltered a little as he added, “Along with Rollo, of course….”

“But not the children!” Rosamunda’s disappointment was patent. Folco had mentioned that the youngest was still a nursling. She loved little babies.

“Bachelors can be so intolerant!” she remarked testily, but recalled herself and qualified her statement.

“Not Bilbo, I didn’t mean. He always has been very welcoming to little children.” She glanced back to say, “Which makes me all the more surprised – that Bilbo would agree to such a plan, I mean.”

Frodo made no comment but carried on with his work. His fingers (which always seemed to her too delicately made for any real labour) were quite strong, and the rhythmic pressure they exerted was profoundly satisfying. Her relaxed state, coupled with his continued silence, encouraged Rosamunda to speak more freely than she usually might.

“I am sorry about the children,” she said, “but Tina is to come you say? I should like to see her very much. We have barely seen each other since she married. She used to come down from the North every summer to the Smials, you know – she and her younger sister along with their cousins. Not that we were friends – I thought her too babyish then.” Rosamunda laughed sheepishly at the memory of her ‘tweenish prejudice.

“Tina was a very charming, lively sort of lass,” she enthused. “And very pretty, too, when she had grown up.” Turning to give him a sidelong grin, she added, “Even for a Took she was much sought after. In fact,” she added confidentially, leaning into his stroke, “I wondered how Rollo ever persuaded Tina to marry him!”

Frodo’s rubbing suddenly tapered off.

Immediately embarrassed by the looseness of her tongue, Rosamunda suffered mortification. What a thing to have said about the brother of Frodo’s best friend! But it was too late to unsay it.

Graciously, she added, “Of course, Rollo is very good-looking, like all the Boffin men….”

Frodo had stopped kneading altogether.

“Oh, don’t stop, Frodo! It’s lovely,” she cried. Glancing over her shoulder she saw that Frodo’s face was stony.

“What is it?” she asked, taken aback.

“Nothing,” he hurried to say, blushing. With an abashed smile he said, “Please, do go on. I am interested to hear what you would have to say about Rollo; truly.”

He took up the stroke again.

Inwardly Rosamunda chastised herself, but very cordially she began, “Rollo is a very good sort of fellow, but he is so …”

Her intended frankness failed to materialize. She said only, “But he’s so … quiet.”

Frodo made no reply, kneading steadily.

She twisted round to glance at him, hoping to gauge his mood. Thankfully, she saw that his face was no longer stern. His brows wore an interrogative lift. She turned away relieved, but resolved to speak more plainly.

“What I mean is, Frodo … Rollo is not at all like his brothers, is he?”

Frodo’s kneading slackened as she sensed him leaning closer.

At the last, she found she could not say a hard thing without Frodo’s reassurance. Twisting slightly, she lifted a hand to touch his cheek. She was encouraged when he clasped her hand and held it there.

“In what way?” he asked, attending closely.

“Rollo is your friend, Frodo, I know,” she ventured. “But …”

“But …?”

She took a breath.

“Well, he hasn’t very much to say for himself, has he, Frodo …? Oh, bother!” She blurted. “Honestly, Rollo is awfully dull, don’t you think?”

She was astonished as Frodo gathered her up and tumbled her over himself, landing her onto the other side of the bed. Pinning her to the sheets he inundated her with ardent, laughing kisses and squeezed her until she was breathless.

“Ah, Rosa, how I love you!” he cried, rolling onto his back and pulling her onto his chest. “And how I love that you are mine!”

Rosamunda joined him in his happiness. Pushing herself up to look at him, she swung her hair aside.

“Oh, Frodo,” she laughed, exhilarated. “How you make me laugh – and how I love it when you do!”

He pulled her down then for a searing kiss, as if taking her compliment as a challenge, his passion burning every bit of laughter away.

Things were moving towards a second postponement of breakfast when Rosamunda rallied, recalling her earlier resolve.

“We really should be getting up,” she insisted, struggling out of his embrace.

He attempted to coax her back.

“Just one more kiss!” he said.

She laughed and thrust him away, rolling herself to the edge of the bed.

She was about to rise but glanced back to see Frodo’s silent plea. He had perched the point of his chin on the pillow he held plumped under the hollow of his throat, his face an importunate triangle tipped slightly to one side. His eyes beseeched, but it was the merriment that sparkled in them that almost won her back.

As she leaned upon her elbows, she looked at him with fondness that could not be hidden.

How lovely he was, sprawled upon his stomach in the midst of the rumpled linens, his arms hugging the pillow under his chin. She followed the line of his back, letting her eye linger over the way it sloped between his hunkered shoulders to dive gracefully into the dip of his waist, before springing over the rounded muscles of his buttocks.

This would never do.

“Oh, Frodo,” she sighed, “I would throw myself upon you, really. But we must be getting on.”

To show her resolve, Rosamunda swung her legs over the bed and stood, snatching up the thin nightdress to slip over her head. As it dropped down over her hips, she felt a gush of warmth and wetness trickle down from between her legs.

She and Frodo must have been exceptionally effusive, she thought to herself, amused. She should have thought to bring a towel.

She glanced towards Frodo, about to suggest he fetch one when she saw his face. At the sight of it she froze.

He was sitting bolt upright on the edge of the bed, his face white as he stared aghast at the vicinity of her feet. Dread pricked her spine and the back of her neck as she followed his gaze.

It had not been only the usual flow from their lovemaking. There was blood, too. Red blotches stained her gown. Streams trickled down her legs. As it snaked down her ankles and over her feet she understood at once the reason for Frodo’s horrified look. He would be thinking of the night before, when she had told him of that time at Shady Bank….

“No,” she said at once. “It is not what you are thinking. It must have been pooling, Frodo, while I was lying down.”

Frodo gazed at her, uncomprehending.

“The blood, Frodo,” she said more plainly. “It isn’t a baby; it is only my menses.”

It isn’t a baby … it is only my menses.

Suddenly visions of night and stars and a tiny shell bloomed in her mind.

Rosamunda began to weep.

* * *

Galvanized by the sight, Frodo leapt to his feet. He had seen Rosamunda shed tears before, but not like this! He pulled her to him, drawing her back to sit on his lap on the edge of the bed.

“Oh, Frodo,” she hiccoughed miserably, “Now you will get all bloody, too!”

Frodo made soothing sounds of comfort, but inside he was trembling. He tried not to grip her too tightly as he said, “As if I care two figs for that!” He shushed her and rubbed her back while he struggled for calm.

“Rosa, love, tell me,” he asked, smoothing her hair away from her face, “What is wrong? If it is not … what it was before, when you lost the baby … if it is only your menses, why do you weep so?”

Rosamunda did not speak but he felt her relax against his chest as he rocked her. Whether the rocking comforted her or not, it comforted him, a salve to his own distress.

In a moment she had mastered herself. The sobbing stopped. But when he lifted her chin, he saw that her face was wet with tears, her eyes still brimming. He reached for the corner of the sheet, but Rosamunda had anticipated him. She blotted her face on the sleeve of her nightdress.

“I am all right,” she said with a dismissive sniff. “Really, Frodo. It is nothing. It is just that –”

Her voice began to quaver and she looked away.

“It’s ‘nothing’?” he asked, gently incredulous. “Come,” he coaxed, turning her face to see her eyes. “Tell me what it is, Rosa.”

She seemed unable to bear his gaze and stared at the bedside rug, instead, as if examining its pattern.

He waited while she took great breaths, one after the other, as if she might swallow down the tide of feeling.

“It is just – it’s just that –”

She was not yet ready, it seemed. She took up the corner of sheet that Frodo had retrieved and folded it over then opened it, smoothing it on her lap. Repeating the action seemed to calm her. She began again.

“I knew that my menses were due, of course,” she managed more easily, watching the work of her hands. “I was late – I said so last night – that is not unusual. Truly, I thought nothing of it. But when I awoke this morning … Oh, Frodo!”

She ceased folding and turned to him a pair of eyes so naked with happiness everything twisted inside him. Her face shone and her eyes were brilliant, as if with remembered rapture. Her hushed voice trembled as the words tumbled out, “I was so happy! So filled with joy!”

“Then I must have forgotten,” she said more slowly, as if trying to understand it herself. “The shock of seeing that it was morning must have driven it all away, you see.” Twisting her fingers she said, “But now I remember....”

More intrigued than ever, Frodo gave her a gentle prompt, nudging her with his forehead. She acknowledged it, giving him a crooked smile.

She took another breath.

“When I woke up, I was so happy because – because I thought – I must have thought –”

Her lower lip began to quiver and she bit it. She pressed her hands against her eyes as if she might keep back her feelings that way.

“What was it you thought, Rosa?” he asked. “Go on, I am listening.” Reaching up, he took hers hands away from her face and guided them to her lap.

“I was dreaming,” she began, gazing down at their hands. “Just before I woke up.”

She exhaled a huff of breath and muttered, as if in apology, “Oh, it is silly, really …”

“Rosa, Rosa,” Frodo chided her gently. “You always say something is silly when it matters to you – but you think it oughtn’t.”

With a shy, sidelong smile, she said, “I believe you are right, Frodo.”

“Come,” he said. “Tell me. What did you dream?”

“I don’t remember, really. I mean, I do, but not in the way one remembers a tale or what one did at luncheon.”

She struggled for remembrance. As if she might see better, she narrowed her eyes as she spoke, her words drawn out. “Just bits of it stand out clearly,” she said. “A hill … the sound of grasses. The sky at night – big and black and full of stars. And a woman; a woman holding a shell.”

Her eyes widened as she stared; at what, Frodo could only imagine.

“The shell had something in it …” she said excitedly. “I can’t remember what it was, but it was something wonderful – something meant for me.” Turning to him she stammered, “Mostly I remember the way that I felt, Frodo. When I awoke, I was so unspeakably happy, I thought –”

Frodo gave her shoulder an encouraging squeeze.

“I thought –”

She swallowed a great draught of air.

“I awoke so certain,” she declared to him with blazing eyes. “The dream – the joy I felt! This time, I thought, this time –”

She looked at him desperately, crying, “Oh, Frodo!”

All the while she had been speaking, Frodo had been watching her brown hands moving over the white of her nightdress. She had run them over her middle, tenderly smoothing the fabric flat until she held them still, her fingers cradled over her belly.

Sudden realization blossomed up Frodo’s spine, making it tingle. His blood rose up his neck until it burned his cheeks and sang in his ears.

“Good heavens, Rosa,” he breathed, “You thought you were with child – after all?”

As he watched, fresh tears gathered in her eyes. He took her hands and pressed them.

“Yes,” she said, “I did.”

“But I thought – last night, you said –”

“I know what I said, Frodo,” she replied, returning his squeeze. “It is against all reason, but that is what I thought.”

Frodo did not know what to think. His thoughts were all a jumble. But she had not finished. She was pressing her fingers against her lip to restrain a fresh bout of tears. Then she continued.

“I knew it was impossible. I told you so myself. But the dream was so strong! Even if I cannot remember it all, it seemed like a message, not like other dreams. It made me believe that I was with child.”

Dropping her gaze to her lap she noticed his hand on her knee. She took it upon her lap and cradled it, caressing his fingers with hers. As she fondled it, Frodo thought she did it absently, as if the hand were not his. His impression was altered when she carried it to her cheek and pressed it there. Brushing the back of it with her lips she sighed, “My dearest love.”

Then, in a mood of resignation, she let his hand drop back into her lap.

“But it was just a dream,” she murmured, almost too low for him to hear. “Just an ordinary dream.”

He pulled her close.

Still she kept her tears in check, but, against his chest, he could feel the shudder of her effort.

Frodo spoke carefully, not certain how to proceed.

“Do you mean … that you wished you had conceived, Rosa? That you would have wanted the baby?”

She looked at him with affection. Then cupping the side of his face with her hand she gazed into his eyes.

“It seems quite incomprehensible to you, I see,” she said with a sad smile. “Oh, Frodo, I suppose it doesn’t make any sense. But, Oh, yes,” she said, her voice rising with feeling, “With my whole heart I would have wanted the baby.”

Frodo embraced her as the tears came, holding her against his chest as she wept. He stroked her, and murmured her name, but his mind was churning with his own thoughts.

She was right; it made no sense to him. He would have thought a pregnancy would be the very last thing she would want, considering her desire all along to keep their love from being discovered.

If he had got her with child, did she think no one would notice? And did she think she would be able keep his paternity a secret? Even if Folco held his tongue (and Frodo was sure he would), young Sam’s knowing look at the Ivy Bush hinted at how quickly it would be discovered just who the father was, once the hunt was up.

Not that there would be a hunt. Did she really imagine he would not step forward at once and acknowledge his part? Did she think he would let her face public censure alone?

There would be plenty of that and to spare were she, a widow, found to be with child. Frodo thought of Folco’s remarks of the previous night. As suggestive as they were, they were not nearly as vulgar as what would fall from other lips. He had lived long enough in the Shire to know which of them would bear the brunt of it. Whatever people said against him, in the end, few would hold the Baggins heir to blame. It would be Rosamunda folk would castigate.

Frodo had sat quietly in enough drawing rooms to know what sort of talk would be bandied over pots of tea in the parlours of the Shire.

She led him on – her with her knowing Took ways – mark my words! Odovacar Bolger should have been enough for any woman. Why couldn’t she leave the lad alone, to do his duty where he ought?

Meaning, with one of their daughters, he knew.

As he imagined the men as they guffawed and snorted over their mugs, jabbing each other’s ribs and smiling behind their hands at his entrance into the ‘Bush or the ‘Dragon, Frodo’s brow grew very dark. On innumerable occasions he had overheard such talk with amusement, but he bristled now to think of Rosamunda being made the object of it.

‘Seems as young Master Baggins has been ploughing a few furrows over at the Widow Bolger’s!

How they would wink and leer! He would come in for some finger-wagging, too, but only a little. In the end, he would be excused on the grounds of youth, and they would call him a lucky fellow.

Ploughing in Odovacar Bolger’s field is not so very bad, I don’t think. Not with her so young and hisself having passed on (and a better hobbit there never was – bless his memory).

Hear, hear!

Mugs would be raised in tribute.

Aye, but to go planting a babe where poor Odo couldn’t? ‘T’ain’t right nor fitting. ‘T’aint respectful!

Aye, that’s so. But new seed sprouts best, they do say….

At that, mouthfuls of beer would spew across the boards.

Oh, yes, Frodo could imagine it all.

While he had been thinking, Rosamunda had quieted. Recalled, he touched her face to summon her look. She straightened up a little so that he let his arms fall, letting them drape about her waist and hips as she sat.

Frodo spoke tentatively, groping for words that might suit.

“Rosa, I yet am amazed, I will admit,” he began. “When I think of how much care we have taken to keep our love a secret, that you should want another child … bewilders me.”

Anxiously she scanned his face before she made her answer.

“It was not ‘another’ child that I wanted, Frodo. I have two already, whom I love.”

She waited, as if hoping he might speak but he said nothing.

“Do you really not see?” she asked. “It is not any child that I have wanted, Frodo, but yours.”

Her shoulders drooped as leaned against his chest. “I suppose it was just one more thing I have not been able to admit to myself,” she muttered, “except in dreams.”

Frodo continued to hold her in a loose embrace, but nuzzled kisses into her hair while he considered.

She had wanted his child….

Until this moment, Frodo had not thought of being a father, not seriously. Like any other lad, Frodo had grown up assuming that someday he would marry and have a family. Why would he not? Except for Bilbo (and his second cousin Ferumbras, the Thain, whose health had been poor since a childhood mishap), he had not heard of a hobbit that had gone all his life unmarried.

Yet, “someday” was far off. His father Drogo had married somewhat late in life. He had been sixty when Frodo was born. Odovacar (who had stood in somewhat as a father to him) had married even later but he, too, had been sixty his first child came. Frodo would not be sixty for nearly thirty years!

As for getting a child with Rosamunda, now that he thought about it, he had not considered it a possibility until the night before. All these weeks that they had been lovers, he had never once worried that she might have conceived. Certainly, she had shown no signs of concern herself.

But, now that she had spoken, Frodo felt her words deeply. Her confession had touched something fundamental in him – deeper than reason – as deep as sinew and blood and bone.

“Rosa,” he said at last, stroking her hair, “Although I was taken by surprise, I am moved by what you have said, truly. That you should wish to conceive a child with me matters more than I could have guessed. I simply hadn’t thought of it before.”

“But, although I am touched,” he said, choosing his words with care, “I am … perplexed by your attitude, Rosa.”

He took a breath and cast caution aside.

“That is … how might it ever have been managed? Such a thing could not be kept a secret – not that I would let it be. But, all along you have worried about our being discovered, fearing what folk would say if they knew. Only think what they would say if they learned you were carrying a child – my child! We would reap nothing but censure, especially you, however unfairly. Folk would never accept it.”

He thought she would flinch at his words but she continued to regard him steadily.

“You are wrong, I think,” she said, unruffled by what must be his look of surprised disbelief. “I have been thinking about it, you know, all this while that you have been holding me. You are right, Frodo; there would be a great scandal. And, yes, there would be strong feeling against me. Shire folk are not truly vicious, but they can be hard-hearted and spiteful. Yet my greatest fear has been that they would make my children suffer, especially Freddy. He feels things deeply, you know, although he is quiet. Folk might even forbid their children to be their friends, or to marry them when they grew up – the son and daughter of the widow who took a lover – a young lover. A lover whom her husband had befriended. Worst of all, a lover who was the Baggins heir.” With a bitter laugh she tossed her head and quipped, “Mothers all over the Shire would feel terribly cheated!”

But when she glanced his way her manner softened. “And so they should, Frodo,” she said, gazing into his eyes. “So they should.”

Although he was abashed by the implication of her words, Frodo felt his heart swell.

Then she recalled her former mood. Earnestly she argued, “But as much as folk would hate our being lovers, they would hate it less, not more, if there were a child. If there were a child, our love would seem more justified in their eyes. It would have come to something – borne fruit. They would never like it, I will agree, Frodo, but I think they might accept it.”

Plainer still she said, “To have taken you to myself would be very bad in their eyes, Frodo. But to have taken you, only to produce nothing with you … that they could not forgive.”

As she scanned his face for understanding, the force of her words struck him. His heart began to hammer and the hair lifted from his scalp.

“Rosa,” he asked, fighting for composure, “Do you mean that if I had got you with child, you might have consented to marry me?”

The face she showed him blazed with love.

“Oh, Frodo,” she said, but his name sounded more like a stifled cry. Her voice was hushed with fierce tenderness.

“My dear, dear love. Do you not see? Bag End would have an heir. Not since Bilbo has there been a child at Bag End – a child of its own.”

Frodo choked down his own rush of feeling in order to speak.

“Do you care so much what people think, Rosa? About us not having a child?”

“It is not just what other people think,” she told him. “I think it, too. You see, it grieves me –” she began but stopped. She tried again. “My heart aches within me when I think –”

He watched as the cords stood out from her neck in her struggle to speak. Then, as if committing them to memory with trembling fingertips, she began tracing the features of his face. Her voice was a mere wisp, borne upon her laboured breaths as she spoke.

“When I think,” she began again, “That no child will carry your loveliness into the future – that all your beauty and fineness will die with you – Oh, Frodo, almost I cannot bear it. Yet that is your doom if you stay with me.”

He hesitated for only a moment before he replied. He had no doubts about his feeling in this matter.

“There is no ‘if’ about it. With you is where I shall stay. Is your heart not my home? … Is mine not yours? Rosa, do you remember what I said last night, when you told me of when you lost the baby? I said I would rather have you. My mind has not changed in a day. It is you whom I love, Rosa. It is a future with you that I want, not a child I have neither met nor imagined.”

Frodo slid his hands up her arms until he held her face between them.

“You are all I want, Rosa,” he declared. More softly, he asked her, “Am I not enough for you?”

“You are enough and more,” she answered, turning her cheek into his hand. “It is wrong of me to yearn for ‘what might have been’s.” She kissed his palm, and, raising her eyes to his she murmured, “Especially when you are here before me.”

Then she twined her arms about his waist and held him tightly, burrowing her face into his neck, breathing deeply, as if taking in his scent.

Frodo nuzzled the tip of her ear, inviting her kiss, which she gave.

Then she leaned back to look at him. Smiling into his face, she said, “There, I have done.”

As she got up from his lap she asked, “Shall we bathe and have something to eat?”

Frodo opened his mouth to give his assent but gasped when he saw his lap. It was ruddy with gore.

“Heavens, Rosa, you have killed me!” he cried.

For a moment they both stared, but then they gave themselves up to mirth, breaking into peals of laughter.

As her giggles subsided, Rosamunda twisted round to look at the back of her nightdress. It was soaked in red.

“There’s the evidence, plain,” she said. Lifting to him a grave face she said, “I suppose I shall have to surrender myself to the Shirriffs. Although I am sure they will rule it ‘death by misadventure.’”

They laughed all over again before they returned to practical considerations.

“Oh, what a mess I have made of you, Frodo,” Rosamunda clucked. “Stay here while I fetch a towel.” With her nightdress bunched between her legs, she scampered out of the room, trailing giggles behind her.

Frodo was just standing up when she reappeared in the doorway, still with her nightdress between her legs but holding a pair of her thin wash towels.

“Here,” she said, leaning into the room to toss them to him. “I’ve got them damp for you.”

He dropped one onto the bed while he shook out the other.

From the parlour he heard her calling, “You bathe first, Frodo! Then you might fetch more water while I have a turn! There are a lot of linens to rinse out, I am afraid!”

Frodo glanced at the damp cloth he held. Already it was stained a rusty pink from wiping the wettest places on his legs. The sheets where he had sat bore a long red crease where Rosa’s blood had seeped between his thighs. The mattress tick was probably stained, too, though that might have to wait. Then there would be her nightdress.

Two trips for water should do it, he calculated as he finished up the tops of his thighs. But as he blotted his most sensitive areas, he changed his mind to three. Then, dabbing at his matted curls (shifting himself out of the way as necessary) he thought, no, four. They would definitely need four trips to the well, taking into account the night to come. Did Rosa keep that many buckets?

Frodo took up the second towel, shook it open, and draped it over his hand. As he thought of the evening ahead, he slackened his pace and began to take more pleasure in the business. As he drew the thin damp cloth over and around himself, he no longer needing to shift anything out of the way as pleasing images drifted through his mind.

He was leaning back, enjoying a leisurely whisk between the legs when he noticed Rosamunda standing there, leaning against the door jamb. She was watching him with rapt attention. Soft-mouthed and pink-cheeked, her breaths were deep and her eyes smoky as they lingered over the work of his hands.

Perhaps she still might be persuaded …?

She met his eyes and blushed hotly.

“I’ll go and fill the basin, shall I?” she said, then spun on her heel and went.

* * *

Frodo waved a piece of buttered toast, showering the table with crumbs as he spoke.

“Too messy? Too messy?” he exclaimed. He dropped his voice an octave and flared his eyes dramatically. “Rosamunda! After this morning, how could I care a jot about ‘messy’?”

“Well, I care,” she sniffed, pressing her lips together firmly as she lifted her teacup.

Frodo continued to stare her down, his eyebrows lifted in exaggerated query. Surely she would not be able to keep her countenance. Already, he saw that mirth was beginning to pull at the corners of her mouth. She would relent, he knew it. With veiled triumph, Frodo watched as her smile peeped out then spread into a grin.

“Oh, very well,” she acquiesced with a sigh, “But we shall use a towel.”

“Yet, do you know?” she asked him seriously, “I have never sent out this much linen, not even while the children were here. The Hobbiton laundress must be looking at me sideways. I have taken to washing the spots out of the sheets out before I send them off.”

Frodo’s mouth dropped incredulously.

“You wash the wash before the laundress washes it?”

“I have never liked the laundress knowing every little thing,” she said, lifting her chin. “I always have washed out my own things; my shifts and the cloths for my menses. I did not wash out the spots when I was married, of course. That would have been silly!” she laughed, smearing more toast thick with butter before she offered it to him.

“Of course you wouldn’t!” he agreed as he watched himself drizzle honey over his slice.

Raising her buttery slice to her lips, Rosamunda’s eyes twinkled. “But I do wash them now,” she said.

Frodo grinned, but returned to his argument.

“Surely, Rosa,” he insisted, “Any laundress has far too much to do to examine every article of linen.”

“My dear Frodo, you are mistaken,” Rosamunda replied with hauteur, but she spoiled the effect by giggling. More seriously she told him, “A laundress knows everything, Frodo. She knows who is ill, who is having her menses, who cannot hold his water – as well as which couples still enjoy their marriage bed and which do not.”

“And …” she added with a very knowledgeable smile, “she knows which lads are most restless at night.”

Frodo blushed to his ears, but laughed.

Ah, the sheets he had stripped from his bed every week and tossed into the basket! All of them had been spotted and blotched with patches of starchy stiffness, the fruit of his nightly bursts of enthusiasm. Only since he had been spending his nights with Rosa had his linens gone to the laundress unsullied.

At the thought Frodo sat up, his fourth slice of toast suspended in mid-air.

Had the laundress noticed that, too, he wondered? If a laundress noticed spots, mightn’t she notice the absence of spots? Was the laundress wondering why his linens were suddenly so pristine?

Oh, piffle. He was becoming alarmed for nothing. Their laundress had been in Bilbo’s employ for years. If she did think such things she would keep quiet about them; Bilbo paid her generously.

Really, though, Frodo needed to become more noticing.

“… is why no one knows other folk’s business better than a laundress,” Rosamunda was saying. “And that is also why their discretion is more valuable than gold! I do trust our laundress in Budgeford,” she said decidedly. “She and hers have served the Bolgers for ages and ages. But your laundress,” she said, turning to Frodo, “seems awfully knowing.”

Awfully knowing….

Frodo felt his discomfort rise all over again. He slumped down in his chair.

Then he sat up straight.

“I tell you what I shall do,” he said, plucking up the last of handful cherries. On second thought dropping half back onto the dish. “Starting tonight, I shall bring some towels from home. We have stacks and stacks! Also, a sack to carry them away with. Washing things out at Bag End is so much easier than here, Rosa – what with all the water that must be carried up to the cottage. We’ve got tubs and basins, and the water comes right in from the cisterns above. Therefore, in future I will see to the rinsing of linens. How would that suit, Rosa?”

“Why, thank you, Frodo,” Rosamunda exclaimed, sounding extremely pleased and grateful. “That would suit very well!”

So surprised and delighted was she, Frodo dipped his head in shame.

Why had he not thought to do such trifling things before? He blushed to think how little he had thought to offer any service or gift in return for her unfailing hospitality, hospitality in which he had been revelling ever since he had become her lover.

Well, he would think to offer them now.

That very night, he would bring a stack of towels. And food. And wine!

What else? Ah, yes. The toothpowder.

* * *

After they had cleared away, Frodo and Rosamunda washed out the soiled linens and spread them over bushes at the edge of the copse to dry.

Then Frodo picked up his oilcloth cloak and Rosamunda tied on a hat. She also brought along a leather reticule, to carry her clean cloths. Then, together they walked down the little path, their arms about each other’s waists. Wherever the way was too rutted or overgrown, they held hands, instead, swinging them as they walked.

Neither spoke for a time, both of them enjoying the novelty of walking abroad in the light of day together. In the absence of speech, birdsong filled their ears, the meadowlarks flitting and dipping over the grasses through which they moved.

Frodo was first to break their silence, offering details of his plans. When they got to the place where the paths forked, he would cut across field to Overhill. The day was so fair, the Boffins surely would be hard at work preparing for the haying. He hoped his entry might even go unremarked, with everyone bustling about, hurrying hither and thither.

Rosamunda would walk to Bag End. Bilbo had abandoned his plans for making cherry wine, Frodo had told her at breakfast. It had been a disappointing failure the year before. Bilbo would macerate the fruit, instead, for use in winter punches and sauces. Help from the Gamgees had been promised. Little Marigold and Sam would come, for sure. May might come, too; but only for a little, having promised her services elsewhere. Bilbo had been lucky to get any of them, what with haymaking set to begin the next day.

Well, then, Rosamunda had said, dividing the last clusters of cherries to share with Frodo, she would offer her assistance. An extra pair of hands was always welcome.

As they walked along the mid-morning sun warmed them pleasantly, heating the tops of their shoulders as the wind rose and fell. Puffy clouds moved swiftly overhead, casting shadows that moved along the surface of the sea of grass before them. The heads of wild flowers nodded and tossed, making shifting daubs of colour in its midst.

“I shall miss all this when it is cut,” Rosamunda said, stopping to gaze across the hills. The grasses bent and rippled beneath a gust of wind. “The blades of the scythe men swing as long and as far from a village as hobbits have the strength to wield them.”

She guessed the grass would be taken even up to her cottage door, if it could be managed, lest the winter be a hard one.

Another gust almost took her hat, but, with her free hand she held it while the ribbons whipped across her throat.

“Oh, I don’t think they will come this far,” Frodo said as he followed her gaze, considering. “They haven’t cut it this far in years. This is left for winter grazing.”

Their talk dwindled again to nothing and at the bottom of the next dip Frodo stopped.

“This is it.”

Frodo lifted an arm, pointing along a furrow that ran east, perpendicular to the cart track to Hobbiton. The furrow curved around a knobby hill that rounded high against the eastern horizon.

“That is supposed to be a path?” Rosamunda asked, smiling at him with amusement.

Frodo chuckled.

“I suppose you are right. It doesn’t look like much. The path was plainer when we kept it beaten down, when we were lads. From the top of that hill, one can see the all the way to Overhill.”

Together they stood and looked east.

“Will you be coming back?” she asked, squinting in the brilliant light. “I mean, to Bag End? Shall I see you there before this evening?”

She held her hat when a gust threatened to take it. The wind subsided but she let her hand remain, resting upon the sun-warmed crown.

“Oh, yes, I shall be back,” Frodo answered. “I intend to help.”

“Well, then,” she said, “You had better behave.”

Her words were saucy but her eyes were soft.

“Then you had better not let yourself be left alone, especially in the kitchen,” he countered.

Quickly Frodo scanned the horizon. He dropped his cloak in the path and pulled her to him. The wind rose and buffeted Rosamunda’s skirts about their legs and tugged their hair, but they clung to each other and kissed, not noticing. Only when her hat was snatched away did they relinquish their embrace. Frodo darted aside to fetch it as it cart-wheeled towards a little slough.

“Thank you,” she said, taking it from him. They both stood and looked at one another as the wind rose and fell.

“Well, I suppose I must be off,” Frodo said, taking a backwards step. He hesitated, as if unable to relinquish the sight of her. Then, with a show of resolve he turned to go.

“Frodo, wait,” she said, reaching out to grasp his arm. “I love you,” she said as he turned to her. “I shall ache every minute you are away.”

“Oh, Rosa!” Frodo’s face blazed with happiness. He squeezed her hand. “And I for you!”

Reining in his burst of zeal he merely brushed her lips, but let himself melt into a deeper kiss and meadowlarks wheeled overhead while the wind sang in the grasses.

When they parted, breathless, Rosamunda retrieved her hand. With her other she still held her hat.

“Goodbye, then,” she said with a resigned smile, slowly .

“Goodbye.”

Frodo kissed her cheek, swept up his cloak from the path, and turned to go.

Rosamunda watched him go. At first Frodo trudged along. Turning frequently, he would look at her and smile. His momentum built until he nearly skipped, bounding up to the knob of the hill. At its crest, Frodo stopped to turn and look at her one last time. His dark hair streamed and the white of his shirt flattened and billowed over his chest as the wind whipped across the top of the hill. Sharply silhouetted against the intense blue of the sky, the picture he made etched itself upon her mind.

I love you, he mouthed, lifting his arm to wave.

And I love you, she whispered back, returning his wave.

Then he spun about, leapt down the other side and was gone, leaving an empty sky and grasses streaming white under the sun.

At length Rosamunda bestirred herself. She secured her hat and turned into the southward track, swinging her reticule as she went.

* * *

Ch. 13 – The Hay-cut.


1400, July 20 ~ Hobbiton.

It was not quite sunrise as Bilbo waded up the hill through the grass, heavy and lush from rain following the weeks of heat. At the top of Overhill’s meadow he stopped and caught his breath where a low wall of stones marked the beginning of the Boffin orchards. He turned and looked about him, wriggling his toes in the cool wet beneath his feet. The small ceremonial haying knife brushed his trouser leg where it hung from his hand, his fingers idly tracing the handle carved like bundled sheaves. A gust lifted his hair. Overhead, a few faint stars twinkled but Eärendil burned in the pale azure of the eastern sky. Shreds of low-lying mist were stained with pink and gold where the sun was rising behind the Bywater hills. Bilbo filled his lungs with morning air and exhaled. The dew was heavy; the air fresh; the breeze light. It was a perfect day for the cut.

In front of the Boffin barns labourers still were milling about, but most had assembled on the edges of the field, waiting for the Master of Bag End’s signal. Last mouthfuls of tea were swigged and pasties munched, mouths wiped with backs of hands, and Boffin dogs snuffed as they nosed about for fallen crumbs. Some workers murmured low, but most were silent, content to give their blades a few last swipes before stowing their whetstones in their pockets. Down below out of sight beyond the hedgerows, wheels creaked, ponies nickered, and oxen lowed as they pulled wagons to their places, loaded with rails and poles for making stacks.

A short burst of hilarity disturbed the quiet as a mock fight broke out amongst the ‘tweens. Arms and legs flashed as they rolled about in the tall grass.

“Watch them blades,” snapped an older hobbit leaning on a rake.

Dropped sickles were retrieved and the young people composed themselves obediently. Finally only a few small children were in motion, zig-zagging quietly like mayflies between sets of parental legs.

Bilbo scanned the assembly for familiar faces. Boffins, Brockhouses, Chubbs, Gamgees, Cottons, Proudfoots, Goodbodies, Bagginses, and Grubbs were only the half of them. Rosamunda (who could represent the Bolgers, Goolds or Tooks) bore a last tray from the Boffin kitchens. Bilbo noticed with amusement her hair was already coming down. High over her head she hoisted the heavy tray, weaving through the press of migrant workers just come in from Buckland and the South. With her arms lifted, her bodice was pulled tight under her breasts and the faded fabric cupped their undersides like worker’s hands. Discreetly, hobbits eyed her as she passed. But they were a well-behaved lot, considering, and kept their remarks (and their hands) to themselves. They knew not to offend the families who employed them and paid them well.

Frodo was on the other side of the field. He had not seen Rosamunda, Bilbo noted. Good. Hopefully, the lad would see nothing of her the rest of the day. Inattention when swinging a blade could be disaster. Showing off for one’s lady love would be just as dangerous. At least Frodo had had a proper rest.

To Bilbo’s surprise, Rosamunda had seen to that.

* * *

Bilbo stood at the sideboard drying bowls but cocked an ear and let his eye flicker to the lovers seated at the kitchen table nearby.

“You see? That is precisely what I meant”

Although she had spoken under her breath, Bilbo had heard Rosamunda’s scold clearly. Frodo had reddened, but looked defiant.

The two of them had been pitting cherries with sharp, short-bladed knives. All afternoon they had been dropping the pink-red fruit into a series of bowls set between them, the pips littering the table. As soon as a bowl was filled, Marigold or Sam would whisk it away and dump the contents into crocks to crush with long-handled mallets.

The two youngest Gamgees had been noisily washing and drying a batch of crocks. They did not hear Frodo’s suppressed, “Ow,” nor the clatter of his knife hitting the table top. They did not see Frodo holding his finger aloft, regarding it coolly while blood bloomed from its tip and fell in red drops on the much-scored oak.

Bilbo reached for a cloth but Rosamunda had anticipated him, already poised with a wad of linen to staunch the wound. But, with an amused smile that became a smirk, Frodo leaned closer to her. Murmuring something that Bilbo could not hear, he popped his finger in his mouth and sucked it suggestively.

Rosamunda coloured and scowled. “Stop it,” she hissed under her breath, tearing a strip of clean towelling with unnecessary vigour. Marigold and Sam stopped their work, then, and turned to watch as she pulled Frodo’s finger roughly from his mouth and wrapped the strip around it. When they saw that Frodo was not seriously hurt, they turned their attention back to their task.

“Take care,” Rosamunda said, giving the knot she’d made a sharp, admonitory tug. Frodo winced, Bilbo saw, but more from her look and tone than from her rough usage. Frodo reddened again, but looked abashed. Rosamunda glanced quickly towards the children, who were paying no attention. “I mean it,” she whispered, pressing her fingers to Frodo’s cheek. “You fill me with worry.”

Rosamunda returned her eyes to her work, but Frodo kept stealing glances at her as he sliced. The pile of fruit on the table dwindled and they began to speak again, too low for Bilbo to catch, but Rosamunda’s tone was insistent, as if she were encountering opposition. Frodo muttered darkly, his look petulant, even angry, “Very well, if you insist.” A qualifying remark followed, which Bilbo could not catch, ending with an emphatic, “… not necessary.”

They worked at the table again in brooding silence, their eyes fixed on their piles of fruit, as if stoning cherries were utterly absorbing. But, after a time, tentative glances were exchanged. Rosamunda’s face softened, and, at the sight, Frodo’s sulk dissipated. She put down her knife and reached towards Frodo’s hand, but a sudden crow of laughter from the Gamgees stilled the gesture.

Sam had been over-zealous. A large dollop of crushed fruit was splashed across his nose and cheeks. Juice ran down his face onto his shirt and apron front.

“I’m sorry, Sam,” his little sister squealed, trying in vain not to laugh, “but you look so funny!” Sam grinned and laughed, too, dabbing his face with his apron hem.

Glancing back at the kitchen table, Bilbo saw that Rosamunda’s hand still hovered, not quite touching Frodo’s, which rested on its side, his knife loosely balanced against his palm.

“I think we’re going to want more brandy, Mr. Bilbo,” Sam called, pulling Bilbo’s attention away again. Marigold swiped a soapy cloth across Sam’s face so his words were muffled as he added, “More than what you’ve got here, anyway. And more honey, too, sir.”

Bilbo looked back to the scene at the kitchen table. With the ends of his third and fourth fingers, Frodo gave Rosamunda’s hand a tap. His lowered lashes and tumbled curls veiled his eyes, but, when he lifted them again, his look of apology was so sincere Bilbo knew that Rosamunda would be no match for it. He had succumbed to its power many times himself. Thus he was not at all surprised to see her bosom begin to rise and fall, and colour slowly stain her cheeks and neck. But when her eyes grew dark and melting, Bilbo looked away. He watched their hands, instead. Frodo had not withdrawn his hand, but lightly pressed the side of hers with his little finger. With a soft, entreating brush, Frodo worked their reconciliation.

Bilbo did not hear but could sense their mutual sighs.

Lovers.

“Yes, Samwise!” Bilbo answered at last, remembering himself. “We shall definitely need more brandy and honey. Sam, would you –”

Bilbo stopped himself mid-sentence and wheeled around to the lovers at the kitchen table, instead.

“Forgive me, Rosamunda. You have been tied to that chair the whole of the afternoon. Would you like to go? Stretch your legs for a bit?”

“Oh,” she sighed, “That would be lovely, Bilbo!” She scraped back her chair and stood, pressing her knuckles into the small of her back. Then she frowned. “But I don’t know…. Where do you–?”

“Of course, you don’t know where everything is! What a dunce am I! Frodo, show Rosamunda where things are kept down in the pantries, won’t you? You could help her bring it up. And you could probably use a stretch yourself.”

Bilbo chuckled to himself, watching them struggle not to exchange glances, their distrust mingled with gratitude. He wanted to laugh. But, really, he meant no trick. They deserved a respite! And they had been very well-behaved (especially Frodo, considering his behaviour the last time Rosamunda had been their guest). All day long, Frodo had been cheerful and sociable, and attentive to Marigold and Sam when he might have ignored them.

“Bring up several pots of honey, will you? And when you get the brandy – not the best, Frodo. The ordinary stuff will do for macerating cherries.”

They lingered another moment, then relaxed and turned to go.

“No – wait.”

They froze.

“Bring two brandies.”

“Oh – and Frodo…”

They stopped again.

“Yes, Bilbo?”

Such a look, nearly testy. Bilbo really must stop teasing.

“Choose a wine for tonight. Something refreshing. You’ll stay for dinner, won’t you, Rosa?”

Rosamunda's mouth crimped and puckered with indecision, but an encouraging lift of his eyebrows won her over. Her wariness receded and she smiled.

“Thank you, Bilbo! That would be lovely.”

Then they disappeared through the doorway. Just before they were out of sight, Bilbo saw Frodo’s arm slide around Rosamunda’s waist, giving her a squeeze. He hoped they would not be gone an age.

To distract the young Gamgees, Bilbo kept them busy with tasks – cleaning surfaces, measuring the honey and brandy already on hand, and stirring it into crocks. Hopefully, they would not notice the time it would take two grown hobbits to complete a simple mission.

But the lovers returned quite soon. True, they glowed, and, for a trip to retrieve a few pots and bottles they were breathless and notably rosy-cheeked. Still, they did not appear to have been making use of the flour sacks as a bed. Their clothes were not rumpled, nor was their hair askew. Bilbo was impressed.


When all the crocks of cherries had been sealed and everything put away, Bilbo insisted that Marigold and Sam stay to supper. The evening meal at the Gamgee’s would long since have been over.

“You’ve done enough, you wonder-workers!” Bilbo told them when they tried to help clear up, and shooed them away. “You shall want to get plenty of rest for the haying. Don’t worry. We’ll see to these.”

Sam and Marigold stood patiently while Bilbo paid them, pressing a handsome coin into the palm of each. But he tested them further, making them wait until he had fetched a bottle of last year’s cherry wine for the Gaffer (who loved sweet things).

“‘For lending you to me so graciously’, tell him,” Bilbo instructed. Marigold wrapped the bottle in her apron. When the children were sure he was finished, they catapulted down the hill like stones shot from a sling.

The three adults washed up, then all walked out together. Bilbo went empty-handed. Rosamunda, who typically carried no bag or purse, carried a leather reticule.

Frodo swung a heavy basket. “I’ve been eating her out of house and home,” he had explained earlier, when Bilbo had seen him stuffing it full of stock from the pantry. Now, over his shoulders, he also wore a pack.

“Camping?” Bilbo inquired, eyeing the pack as they walked along in the dusky light.

“No,” Frodo said, not rising to the bait, “clean towels.” Rosamunda coughed.

None of them spoke as they entered the cart track to the cottage. The evening light was soft and limpid, the air very fine. Every sound was distinct yet far away.

When they were out of view of prying eyes, Bilbo stopped.

“Good night, then, you two,” he said. “I shall see you in the morning.”

“Oh, but Frodo will be coming back,” Rosamunda said.

Frodo cut Rosamunda a look that made Bilbo wonder if things had gone amiss. She ignored Frodo and extended her hand. Bilbo took it and pressed it as they bade each other good night. Frodo, recalled to courtesy, also took Bilbo’s hand, but in a manner less forthcoming.

Had Rosamunda banished Frodo after all? It did not appear so, supplied for a fortnight as he was.

Before Bilbo started down the homeward side of the hill, he glanced behind him. They were just cresting the next hill. Their unencumbered hands swung between them, loosely clasped. No, Frodo had not been banished.

Bilbo pulled in a breath of air, redolent of flowers and grass, fragrant still from the accumulated warmth of the day. Overhead the sky was deepening to indigo and violet. The moon was a fat white shilling against the paler blue. It was far too nice to go inside just yet.

He would walk down to the Ivy Bush.

“Where’s Master Frodo?” Odo Proudfoot asked in his too-loud voice as Bilbo settled onto the bench opposite him. “Keeping himself fit for haymaking?”

“Erm, yes. I am sure you have the right of it!” Bilbo shouted back, unwilling to perjure himself further than that.

Frodo probably was “keeping himself fit.” A little more preparatory exercise could not hurt, Bilbo supposed.

“Will he be swinging a scythe again this year?” Proudfoot’s middle-aged son, Olo, asked courteously. A nice fellow, Olo, but one who had not yet come out from behind his flamboyant parent. One season Odo would be gone, and the Shire would learn more of the gentler-spoken son.

Bilbo, mid-swallow, merely bobbed his head affirmatively. As if Frodo would not.

Bilbo knew very well how Frodo loathed cutting hay, but also that he would rather sink into the earth than not be seen standing in the scythe-men’s midst. Frodo had been wielding the long blade for several years, since shortly after he had arrived in Hobbiton. No lad called himself a hobbit-grown until he could handle one, for the scythe-men were the heroes of any haying. Step and swing, step and swing, they advanced, keeping a steady rhythm, muscle sliding under summer shirting. They moved across a field like a line of country dancers, but their partner was the grass. It bent before their blades and fell with a sigh like lasses. And lasses watched. And sighed, too. A hobbit good with a scythe, it was said, was good in other ways.

“I used to be handy with the long blade, once, too, you know,” the elder Proudfoot boomed.

Bilbo raised his mug in salute to the deaf hobbit’s former prowess, shouting out appropriate remarks.

As Bilbo lipped froth from the rim of his mug, he thought of his own scythe-wielding days. He had not really been big enough to handle one well. Their long snathes were better suited to taller lads. But, as if to give the lie to this thought, the image of Folco Boffin came to mind: jaunty, bold: straw hat pushed back, scythe handle balanced against forearm, hand on hip, ready for the signal to start. Folco was no taller than Bilbo had been, yet Folco was very, very good.

No, Bilbo simply had not been strong enough when he was young. His strength had come later, he mused, patting the golden memento in his waistcoat pocket – strength to swing a sword – not a scythe.


An hour or so later, Bilbo was sitting at the table in the parlour. A sheaf of maps was spread out before him, maps of Bree and the road to Rivendell; to Mirkwood, Dale, and the Lonely Mountain; all illuminated by a lamp. But he had, in fact, been gazing through the open casement, staring into the circle of star-studded sky – yet not seeing it – or the land below it, lit by the waxing moon. He was still gazing, engrossed in recollection, when he heard the front door swing open. He turned and peered into the darkened entryway.

“What? Who? Is that you, Frodo?” he stammered incredulously.

It was. The light wavered in the draft. Frodo came and lounged in the parlour doorway.

“I thought I’d have an early night,” Frodo said matter-of-factly, biting on the end of a cerise-stained finger. One would think Frodo had slept at Bag End every night for the preceding month.

“An early night….” Bilbo repeated.

“Because of the hay-cut,” Frodo clarified. “I shall need the rest.”

Saucy remarks quivered at the tip of Bilbo’s tongue but he bit them back, saying only, “Ah. A prudent choice.”

Frodo sauntered off through the parlour for a last foray in the kitchen. Bilbo extinguished the lamp and went to bed.


Bilbo still had not believed Frodo really meant to sleep in his own bed, but, that morning, when the haying-horns roused Bilbo from a comfortable sleep, the smell of grilling bacon tickled his nostrils. Metal clicked and clanked on metal. Bilbo stumbled down the hallway to the kitchen to see Frodo, already washed and dressed, humming and shifting eggs around in sizzling fat. The table had been laid for two.

“Ah, you’re up, Uncle!” Frodo remarked, flashing a smile and a glance. “Splendid. Do bring the tea. Everything’s nearly ready.”

Bilbo blinked. Really, he must remember to send Rosamunda a gift.

* * *

Now the scythe-men stood arrayed along the border of the field, their backs to the not-yet-risen sun. Frodo was among them, looking resigned to his fate. Situated between the Brockhouse brothers and the Boffins, he even managed to look good-humoured. A hush had fallen. Bilbo did not wait. He lifted the blade, the ancient horn sounded, he sheered off a handful of grass, and held it over his head. The haying had begun.

At the mid-morning meal break, before elevenses, Bilbo saw Rosamunda under an oak, part of a work force made up of hobbit matrons, men too old to hay, and little children, supervised by Mrs. Boffin and Tina, Rollo’s North-Took wife. Tina sat in the shade on a milking stool nursing her youngest, but the children who could walk darted about everywhere while the grown-ups handed out food and drink.

“Thank you, Rosa,” Bilbo said, as he accepted a frothy mug of cider and a thick sandwich. He drank thirstily. After the glare of the sun, the green-grey shadows beneath the spreading limbs of the oak were especially welcome. In the verdant light Rosamunda’s face was velvety and dark. Her familiar smile seemed enigmatic, almost alluring.

“I had wondered where they had put you,” Bilbo said, blotting his mouth with his pocket handkerchief. “I confess, I had hoped you would be assigned to me again this year.” The previous summers since Rosamunda had come to live in the cottage she had worked his station, on the Party Field.

“Oh, I shall be there eventually,” she said as she refilled his mug and watched him drink. “The way workers keep pouring in, we’ll all be down there soon. Perhaps by tomorrow evening – the morning after at the latest. Which will be a very good thing, don’t you think?”

The broadest, richest swath of meadow grass lay along the gentler, northern banks of the Water, running from before the Mill all the way past Bywater.

Bilbo pocketed his sandwich for later, but munched a slice of damp, raisin-studded cake. When he had swallowed he answered, “Splendid! ‘Many hands make light work.’” Between discreet licks at the sticky sweetness on his fingers, he remarked, “Bonfire night will come early, then.” Rosamunda only smiled and nodded; the line of workers wanting food had grown.

Bilbo stepped away, wrapped the sandwich in a pocket handkerchief for later and slid his mug and plate into a washtub. He half-expected to see Frodo in her line, even though he knew Frodo’s team was somewhere else. Really, Bilbo was impressed.

It was not until the late afternoon, when Mrs. Boffin’s group had moved down two more stations that Frodo’s party came into view. Once more, Bilbo joined the women, who were serving beneath another pasture oak. He caught acorns tossed by Tina’s two older boys, but his eyes kept following the direction of Rosamunda’s gaze. There the scything team was taking its quarter-hourly break, to draw their whetstones over their blades. The Brockhouse brothers were clowning, throwing themselves in the grass, feigning exhaustion, and sending up comical groans. Folco’s voice rang out as he laughed, and the fabric of his white shirt billowed when the breeze lifted. He still looked quite fresh. But, even from where Bilbo stood, he could see that Frodo was flagging. Bilbo only saw his back, but Frodo’s shoulders drooped. His worn shirt clung to his shoulder blades, damp patches everywhere. Under his straw hat the back of his hair looked lank.

“Frodo is not much used to farm work, I fear,” Rosamunda murmured, lifting her hand to shade her eyes, narrowed against the field’s glare. Sun glanced off the men’s blades like white shards.

“No, he is not,” Bilbo agreed.

At that moment, lads and lasses bearing jugs of water were going into the field. The scythe-men playfully ruffled the children’s hair as a sign of gratitude, then snatched up the jugs and drank thirstily, splashing handfuls on their faces and down the backs of their necks.

Frodo’s eyes followed the children longingly as they made their way back to the shade under the tree. When he saw Bilbo there, he shrugged and gave a little wave. When he saw Rosamunda, he straightened up at once, offered a cheery smile, and touched his hat. Flipping his blade smartly over his shoulder he marched off, disappearing with the rest of his team beyond the next hedgerow. He had not looked back. Again, Bilbo was impressed.

“I wasn’t used to it, either,” Bilbo said, recalling Rosamunda’s comment. “Hard labour, that is, like haying. But neither are many here today,” he said, scanning the hobbits ranged about the meadow raking dried grass from windrows into haycocks. “Lads like that –” he said, indicating a group of Chubbs, Grubbs, and Highbanks, whose families were landowners or worked at skilled crafts; chandlers, harness-makers, weavers. “They don’t do this sort of work typically, either. But, when one is young, stamina builds up quickly. The first day is very hard. The second, nearly as bad. But, the third day – well, you will see – Frodo will be as fit and as hardy as any of them, if blistered and sore. Tonight, he’ll be all aches and pains, of course. But a good, hard rub will do wonders. Oh, he’ll complain – and loudly!” Bilbo chuckled. “But he really does benefit from a good – ”

Bilbo’s laughter trailed off. What was he saying? He would not be giving Frodo his rub at the end of the day, Rosamunda would. He glanced away, the surge of disappointment was so great; intense as it was inexplicable.

Images from past years’ hay-makings sprang to mind: Frodo lying on his stomach, freshly washed and smelling of clean hobbit-lad, sprawled upon a daybed draped in old towels, utterly exhausted and feigning a foul mood. Bilbo would begin the rub and immediately run the gauntlet of Frodo’s protests, challenging his expertise. He pressed like an Orc! He would pull his arm from the socket! But it was all in fun, really. Soon the protests would dissolve into merriment and they traded jokes and pleasantries, talking over the course of events: who had done well, who had fared badly, and who had shirked and never appeared at all.

Eventually, the lamplight – soft and warm and soothing to the eye – the fragrance of heated oil, the night sounds droning through the open window; all would work their magic. The rhythm of Bilbo’s still-strong finger-presses would soothe them both into a pleasurable sort of silence. Bilbo would work steadily, gratified by each loosening of a knot, until all the muscles of Frodo’s back and shoulders slipped freely under his hands. By the end of thirty minutes, Frodo would be drowsing and almost unable to stand. Bilbo would send him off to his room with an affectionate cuff, to fall upon his bed and sleep like only a young haymaker can.

Then Bilbo would gather up the towels, rub the oil from his hands, take some wine outside and sit and look at the stars and the dwindling campfires of the workers staying on the Party Field. When he would raise his glass or brush back a bit of unruly fringe, the fragrance of the oil would be there, a remembrance of the time they’d shared, time made rich and memorable by talk – and touch.

Bilbo barely could remember his own father’s and mother’s touch, although he knew that they had been affectionate parents. Later, when he had grown up, there had been trysts with lasses and widows, but that was a different sort of touching. Eventually, even that had become part of his distant past. Bilbo had not touched another hobbit with real affection in many years. Not until Frodo. With Frodo, little by little, Bilbo stumbled into touch again, in his developing role as foster parent.

It had been awkward at first. Bilbo had forgotten what to do and how to act with a child, and was stand-offish. But it had come back to him, what a child needed. Soon after singling the lad out in Buckland, he would guide Frodo’s small hand making Elvish letters, or learning to sketch from life. Or he clasped Frodo around the waist to heave him onto the backs of ponies, or up under the boughs of trees to reach pieces of fruit, or for an icicle hanging from the eaves of a shed. He would pat Frodo’s shoulder for a job well done, wipe jam from his cheek, or, gently, with the twisted end of a pocket handkerchief, lift debris from a smarting eye. He coaxed tangles out of Frodo’s hair, and, once or twice, pulled him bodily out of a fray. And, when the lad was broken-hearted over sorrows large or small, Bilbo pulled him close for a good cry. It was in such homely events that Bilbo began to know for himself the joy and pleasure he’d seen all his life on the faces of other hobbits simply caring for their children.

Frodo grew up, of course, and began to tend his own scrapes, and pull himself into the tallest trees without assistance. And it had been years since Frodo had wept disconsolately into Bilbo’s neck.

But, there still was the rubdown, a ritual after every haying and every harvest. All over the Shire, after the gathering of hay or wheat or apples, aching muscles of young labourers were pressed and pummelled away by someone close – usually a mother or father or elder brother. Someone with the heft and skill to do it. Bilbo’s father had done it for him, and Bilbo had done it for Frodo. Only now, at this moment of knowing he might never perform this service for Frodo again, did Bilbo realise how much it had meant to him.

Ah, well. Bilbo stifled an urge to pity himself and put it away. He turned to Rosamunda.

“Forgive me, Rosa, I had forgotten,” he said with self-deprecating cheer. “It is you, not I, who shall be saddled with that onerous task this year. But, do not despair!” he prattled brightly, “Frodo may be very uncooperative at first, but you will find he really does enjoy a rub, in spite of all the protestations. So, when you –”

Bilbo nearly laughed out loud at the unseemliness of his advice, considering to whom he was speaking. He dropped his eyes to her long-fingered hands and was pulled up short at the image of a prone Frodo groaning happily under their skilled application. He began to blush. This would not do at all. He pushed the image out of his mind.

“What a silly thing to say, especially to you, Rosamunda!” he nearly giggled. “I am sure Frodo will be most cooperative when you give him a rub!” He winked and Rosamunda blushed faintly. Bilbo could have struck himself. What a hash he was making of things! Heat pricked like little needles under his collar. Drops of perspiration beaded his lip.

“I did not mean – that is…. I should have – I ought rather to have said –”

He had become so flustered, it took the touch of Rosamunda’s hand on his arm to recall him. Her voice, low and clear, came to him through the tumult in his mind. She drew him away from the crowded tables until they were deep under the spreading boughs of the oak, in the shadow of its great bole.

“You needn’t go on, Bilbo,” she said smiling warmly. “I have grown quite used to your teasing.” She chuckled reassuringly. More seriously, she said, “but you do take me aback, sometimes, when I am unprepared. That is all. I know now you mean no real mischief.”

Her warm openness made Bilbo ashamed. Stooping, he picked up a couple of acorns and rolled them about in his palm like dice. He really must get a hold of himself, he thought. It was not as though he could keep Frodo forever….

Rosamunda had said nothing. She waited, watching with Bilbo as the brown nuts appeared and disappeared between his fingers. When he felt her observation, he stowed them in his waistcoat pocket, giving the cool gold nestled there a touch. A gust shook the upper boughs and sunlight pierced the leafy canopy. Bright shafts glanced and broke over Rosamunda’s features. In the shifting light her eyes seemed to glitter, canny and shrewd. Could she read his thoughts?

The breeze diminished and Bilbo pulled his fingers from his pocket. The leaves stilled, and they were enveloped in deep, velvety shade. Rosamunda’s voice still was low and discreet. How large and deep her eyes were in the shade. Light gleamed in them like afternoon sun in dark pools under river willows. He wanted to curl up beside them and trail his fingers in their shady depths. He wanted to lean into them, to fall, as he would into a bed of ferns in a hemlock grove, cool and lush and deep. The image refreshed and calmed him.

No wonder the lad was smitten, he thought, without any attendant anxiety.

At last she spoke. “You will need to bear your burden a little longer, I am afraid,” she said. She still smiled, but gazed at him steadily, waiting.

His burden? Bilbo raised his eyebrows. What had they been saying?

“Frodo will have to wait until some other time,” she said, as if in clarification.

“Some other time?” He still failed to see the connection.

“For a rub. A rub from me.”

Bilbo stammered, “But, I thought – do you mean – then, he won’t –?” He feared he would be babbling in a moment. Mercifully, Rosamunda intervened.

“No, he won’t,” she said, watching the progress of an ant making its way over the rough bark of the tree. “Tonight, Frodo will be staying with you, I am afraid. You must do as you have always done.”

“Won’t he – does he – have you…?”

Botheration! Could he not complete a sentence?

Rosamunda trailed her forefinger behind the wandering ant.

“No, I have not told him. But I shall, at the first opportunity.” She looked at Bilbo. “He will want to come to the cottage, as you have guessed, but it will be so late. I don’t want him trudging all the way there and back.” She gazed in the direction of the hedgerow where Frodo’s team had disappeared. “He looked so tired, when he thought we were not looking.”

When he thought you were not looking, Bilbo corrected her silently.

“Tonight, when he is utterly exhausted and sore, he will see that it is for the best. Then he will be glad to submit to your ministrations,” she chuckled. More matter-of-factly she added, “Besides, you are better at giving rubs, I have no doubt. I am out of practice. And Frodo will need the best.”

Bilbo peered at her, but she was absorbed with barring the ant’s path as it moved from spot to spot. She gave a little cry of delight when the ant climbed upon her finger. She lifted her hand for Bilbo to see as it made a circuit round her wrist. Then gently she urged it back onto the bark.

“You know best what Frodo needs,” she said, reaching up to pluck a leaf, which she slowly turned in her hand as she talked. “You have given him a rub for many seasons. Who could know his aches and pains better?”

Bilbo did not dare to look at her, so overjoyed was he at her remarks. He summoned a light tone, pulling the acorns from his pocket and shaking them in his palm.

“You do yourself a disservice, Rosamunda,” he protested airily, although his laugh sounded a little forced. “Odovacar did not complain of your rubs, surely!” he quipped, casting a sidelong smile.

“In fact, he did,” she grinned, giving the leaf a jaunty twirl.

Bilbo’s eyebrows rose beneath his fringe.

“Truly!” she said. “Oh, he loved to be petted and stroked, but when it came to working out genuine aches, he preferred his father’s hands – or his brother’s, when his father’s got too weak. My skills were found very much wanting.” She sighed mightily, but her eyes twinkled . “He was a terrible tease, you know,” she confided. “‘A woman’s hands are strong enough for pleasure,’ he’d say, ‘but not for pain!’”

Bilbo brayed a donkey’s laugh, turning heads. Either it was from release of tension, or the shock of hearing such a saucy expression on Rosamunda’s lips. Gallantly, she joined him in his noisy mirth.

After their last giggle and snort, she looked at him and said, “Anyway; that is the main reason I think Frodo should stay at home with you. The second day of haymaking is the hardest. You said so yourself. I don’t want him swinging a blade if he is not fit for it. I want him safe.”

What a shame, Bilbo thought again, that she did not suit as Frodo’s wife. Where would he find a better? He pushed the acorns about in his hand listlessly.

“You don’t mind him staying at home, do you, Bilbo?” she ventured.

“Mind! Why, no! I shall be glad of it.” He put the acorns in his trouser pocket.

Rosamunda’s look was all inquiring solicitude, but something else as well. Was it irony? A touch of pity?

He controlled a shudder. It occurred to him all at once that she might have manoeuvred the whole thing. Short of his laundress and the butcher’s sister, Rosamunda had the strongest-looking hands of any hobbit woman he knew. Her fingers were long and shapely, the nails always trimmed and carefully kept, but they were not delicate or weak. Was he supposed to believe all that balderdash about not having the strength to give a hobbit a decent rub? Why, she merely had seen his unhappiness (come, admit it), and was now indulging him. ‘Poor, lonely old Bilbo, clinging desperately to the child upon whom he long has doted….’

The thought shamed and repelled him. Well, if she imagined he would endure being made the object of pity for one moment, she had another—

An indignant glance towards Rosamunda threw his thoughts in disarray. Paying no attention to him, she leaned against the bole of the tree, and gazed across the field to the place where Frodo’s team had disappeared. She trailed the edge of the leaf across her cheek idly, but her look was one of such longing; anguished and piercing, Bilbo could not feel affronted.

If Rosamunda had given up her night with Frodo on Bilbo’s account and not for Frodo’s welfare, she had done it out of empathy for him, not pity.

Rosamunda seemed to feel Bilbo’s gaze. She straightened up, cleared her throat, and flung the leaf away. Bilbo, too, took a bracing breath.

“Well!” he said brightly. “As you wish. He shall come to Bag End. But you are very hard upon me, Rosamunda. He will be nothing but moaning and complaints the whole night.”

“Oh, I think you shall bear up,” she murmured, her smile spreading to her eyes.

Bilbo would have liked to embrace her. “Ah! But will Frodo? When the haying is over and done, he will be filling your ears with tales of how ill-used he was.”

“I shall look forward to the telling,” she smiled, but, looking out across the field, her brows knit. “I hope the haying moves forward quickly, though, or Frodo will not have the chance to fill my ears with tales of any sort.”

Bilbo quirked an eyebrow while Rosamunda plucked another leaf, but let it drop, watching it fall from her hand to angle in the grass.

“I got a letter from Freddy,” she said. “Surely you must have had one from Merry. The hay-cut is finished in Buckland. They are doing the cocking and stacking now. He and Merry will be coming any day, he says.”

“I’ve not yet read Merry’s latest letter, Rosamunda. But I’ve heard from the Master. Rory talks as though they won’t be finished for several more days. It’s true he has sent on the bulk of his migrant labour, as we can see. But there is still a lot to be done. Freddy is a lad. He’s only thinking of his part in it. The children are finished up, swimming and loafing about. But their parents are still working. Then there’s the Hall’s Bonfire Night. Merry wouldn’t miss that, nor would Freddy. He’s writing from a child’s point of view; that is all. Or else, he is just eager to see you.”

Rosamunda narrowed her eyes and glanced away. “I suppose you think it very ill of me, not to wish my children home sooner.”

Bilbo examined the leaf in the grass. He had been thinking that very thing, actually. But, in a way, he did understand. He chose his words carefully.

“I know what it is to feel time slipping away, Rosamunda,” he began. “Time – time to be with those whom we most love….”

He was chagrined to find he could not finish. Really, he had become quite womanish. How would he leave the Shire to travel again before he died, as he had planned to do for so many years, if he could not bear to think such thoughts? He would go. He must. To die in his bed in Bag End – never to see old friends or the wonders of the world again – Oh, it was an intolerable thought.

He straightened up. “Anyway, Rosamunda,” he said, pulling the acorns from his pocket. “One can’t help how one feels. One only can help what one does about what one feels.”

He flung the acorns across the field and watched as they arched high and disappeared into the uncut grass. “I know you will do what you feel you must. And so shall I.”

She peered at Bilbo. Her look felt so knowing, Bilbo felt a flicker of alarm. He had let her see too much.

Then, as if by design, an argument broke out across the field concerning the proper way to build a stack. He would intervene at once, before rakes and hay forks started flying.

Arriving at the scene, he looked back to the oak where the women and children worked. He could barely discern Rosamunda, so still was she in the tree’s deep shade. But Tina’s two eldest came and accosted her, laughing and tugging at her skirts, pulling her by the hands to drag her to the tables where their mother and grandmother were mixing punch. At the tables, Rosamunda picked up a large spoon but she paused, looking his way. Bilbo smiled and gave her a little wave. When she returned it, from the shadows he fancied he saw a twinkle in her eye, but of course he couldn’t have, at such a distance.

How well he liked her.

“Well, then, Andy!” he said, turning his attention to the argument escalating before him. “What’s all this about?” The Gaffer’s older brother Andy, down from Tighfield for the haying, stood arms akimbo and nose-to-nose with a piqued young Chubb from the other side of Bywater. The Chubb thought the hobbit from Tighfield officious, butting into local ways. Andy thought the Chubb should learn to mind his elders.

Bilbo tried to attend to their claims, but other sounds drew his ear, however distant. From under the great oak women laughed and punch trickled down the sides of earthen mugs. Down below, beyond the hedgerows, scythes were singing.


* * *


1400, July 23 ~ Bonfire Night.

There was much jubilation when the Hobbiton haying ended a day early. Workers had kept pouring in from the South and East Farthings, swelling the ranks so that they brought in the crop in record time, the richest in years. It would be a fat winter for local stock, with hay left over to sell or trade.

Merry and Freddy still had not returned from Buckland, so Frodo and Rosamunda were granted a reprieve. “A sudden summer squall,” Saradoc had written with displeasure. Thunderstorms had smitten the east side of the Brandywine, sudden heavy rain soaking everything thoroughly. The roads were mud; the stacking had been brought to a stand-still. He was very sorry, but no hobbit could be spared to bring the lads west. Not for a week. Perhaps, longer. The drenched haycocks must be spread and dried (and so on and so on), Saradoc explained. But, when all this was accomplished, might it be convenient for Merry to stop at Bag End, breaking his trip to the Smials?

Bilbo smiled and shook his head. Every year he received the same request, written in Saradoc’s neat, elegant hand. And every year Bilbo wrote the same reply: of course, Merry might stay. And the Hall’s driver needn’t wait, because, of course, Bilbo would take them. And (of course), Freddy would go with them. But that was Saradoc. From childhood he had been uncommonly formal and reserved (so unlike Saradoc’s boisterous father). Rory’s son was not cold, precisely. It was just his way.

Rosamunda had shown Bilbo her own letter from Saradoc, which was written in much the same style. Might Fredegar wish to accompany Meriadoc into Tookland? (As if Freddy ever went to the Smials except alongside Merry.) Saradoc and Esmeralda would be along, but later, of course. But, later (‘of course,’ Bilbo added as he read). Why, they would not miss the Tookland visit for anything!

Every year, every summer, after haying, the lawns of Great Smials were covered with children; not just Tooks, but children from all the intermarried clans. Droves, herds of children played at games from dawn till dusk and long into the long summer twilight. They roamed the fields, pillaging gardens and leaping from stiles. They rode on ponies; they went on foot, carrying packs stuffed with food from the Smial’s kitchens, sleeping out-of-doors in the rolling land that stretched to the south and west, or in the woods, where they played Orcs and Elves and hunted, pretended or real. The forests of the Green Hills still had plenty of game, large and small. Rabbits and squirrels could be taken with a good shot lobbed from a hand or a sling. Larger animals, such as deer or the occasional boar, were taken down with bows and arrows.

But hunting with bows was the province of grown-ups, who did not play at Orcs and Elves. The children’s parents loved to visit the Smials, too. After a hunt they refreshed themselves at Tuckborough’s inns, which served some of the best beer in the four Farthings. They lolled about the grounds, munching dainties and catching up on gossip. They strolled the gardens, comparing recipes for brining pork, opining which wools wore best, and exchanging remedies for thrush. And all the while, they patrolled the grounds, watching over children at play, as well as the bushes and sheds where children played other sorts of games. And as they did, they planned alliances – alliances of children, money, and land – as eager for the increase of their families as of their corn and sheep.

Bilbo never missed the annual summer fête in Tookland, although he seldom stayed for long. No observer of hobbit manners could bear to miss it. But it was too big, too sprawling, with too many hobbits he’d never met.

He preferred Hobbiton festivals such as Bonfire Night, now underway.

On Bonfire Night, hobbits that lived near to could wash at home, or in the homes of their kin, but the travelling workers did their bathing in the Bywater Pool. Wet-headed they came, their still-damp bodies plastered with clothes creased from having been stowed in travel-worn packs. A throng of local hobbits was already gathered round the fire, singing and laughing or softly talking as they gazed into the leaping flames. Every now and then, whenever the fire found a knot of sap, fountains of sparks would spiral into the night, occasioning bursts of glee and cheers. The mood was festive but rich, bone-deep tiredness giving extra sweetness to their respite. Only small children seemed unacquainted with fatigue. With shouts and whoops, they darted in and out of their elders, waving sticks with their ends alight. As they chased each other over the new-mown fields, trailing giggles, their sticks made streams of light that wove through the dark like drunken fireflies.

Freshly bathed and dressed, Bilbo had come down from the Hill with Frodo to join the crowd. As was expected of them, they worked their way along the perimeter, greeting folk, shaking hands, clapping backs, and uttering many a ‘Congratulations!’ for jobs well-done.

“We’ll have no need to worry about the winter, be it ever so fierce!” Farmer Cotton was proclaiming with a sweeping gesture. “Let it come, I say!” His listeners looked with satisfaction at the indicated meadows which rose from banks of the Water, everywhere dotted with fat, high stacks. Under the waxing moon, they cast long shadows against pale, new-shorn stubble. Narrow timbers, stacked like angled toothpicks, railed them round to keep off foraging beasts.

“Hear, hear!” Bilbo agreed, striding up to clink mugs. “Let come what may!” Drinks were raised to that, with many an, “Aye, Mr. Bilbo, sir!”

But the handsome farmer and ostler was just warming to his theme, feeling the benefit of previous mugs of ale. “And thanks be to soil and sun and rain!” Cotton enthused. “And to folk that’s willing to work hard to have the benefit of it!” Everyone standing near said, “Hear! hear!” and mugs were raised again. Then the farmer clapped a calloused hand on Frodo’s shoulder. He moved in close, grinned amiably, and said, “And you, Mr. Frodo! You did yourself extra proud this year! You’re swinging a scythe as good as any of them – lusty and bold!”

Bilbo saw Frodo give the slightest start, as if he suspected another meaning hidden under the effusive praise. But Farmer Cotton’s smile was guileless. “It was the grip I showed him that did it,” he informed his listeners. “It’s all in the grip!”

While the other farmers nodded their agreement, Frodo recovered himself.

“Yes! Indeed it was, sir,” Frodo acceded graciously; “all in the grip. ‘Not far enough down the snathe,’ you said, and you were exactly right, sir. You saved me hours of toil with little to show for it. I’ve fewer blisters this year, too.” Frodo lifted his smooth-skinned hands and turned them about before the eyes of his viewers in evidence. “You see? Raw places only here and there. I am in your debt, sir!” He bowed courteously.

Cotton beamed and flushed beneath his sun-browned skin. He had not really been fishing for compliments, but he was a hobbit who took great pleasure in passing on his store of knowledge. His eldest child, Tom, just Sam and Freddy’s age, was known to turn a deaf ear on his father’s store of wisdom. But he would learn sense eventually.

“T’was nothing but a pleasure, sir, showing you!” Farmer Cotton said, and meant it.

Frodo pressed the farmer’s burly arm and moved on. Well done, Bilbo thought. Frodo would make a Master yet.

As they made their way around the fire’s perimeter, Frodo did not notice, but Bilbo was eyeing him as he scanned the faces of those assembled. Bilbo spotted Rosamunda first. She was standing with her back to them at the edge of a group of noisy hobbits, well away from the fire, which had grown very hot. Only children still went near, dashing in to light their sticks. The group in which Rosamunda stood was nearly in shadow; the whites of their eyes and their teeth flashed as they talked and laughed. The voice of a Boffin (was it Marco? – no, it sounded more like Folco) an indecipherable remark, which was followed by general hilarity. The laughter of the Brockhouse brothers sounded above the rest; they bellowed like bulls being gelded. A clutch of Bolger cousins wiped their eyes and tittered; whether at the joke or at Marcho and Blancho Brockhouse, Bilbo could not tell.

With united purpose, he and Frodo made for the laughing group. But, before he could get there, Bilbo was drawn aside. Odo Proudfoot, his son Olo at his side, plucked at Bilbo’s sleeve, wanting a word. Frodo was keeping himself in check admirably, but Bilbo knew he was straining at the bit. Go, Bilbo told him. Go, and he’d catch up.

Bilbo attended politely as Odo shouted apologies for the alleged uneven quality of the fare. The old Proudfoot kept sheep and had sent a quantity of mutton to be roasted on the first day of the cut. Odo had been hearing complaints. Bilbo listened, but simultaneously watched Frodo being pulled into the group. After a round of embraces, back-thumpings, and cheek-pinchings, Frodo quickly insinuated himself next to Rosamunda, who still stood on the outside of the circle talking to the Bolger cousin opposite. Frodo glanced discreetly behind them, meeting Bilbo’s eye – his only observer. Frodo grinned, his eyes twinkling. Turning back to the group, he surreptitiously slipped an arm around Rosamunda’s waist.

“…But there was not a thing wrong with it at slaughter,” Odo was keening fretfully.

“Oh, dear,” Bilbo said, nodding sympathetically, letting the old hobbit unbosom himself.

Bilbo glanced again at the group. Frodo and Rosamunda were engaged in animated conversation with Marco and Folco, just across from them. Rosamunda was laughing at an apparent drollery when Frodo dropped his hand over the back of her skirts and burrowed it into the folds. From the sound of Rosamunda’s shriek, Bilbo could guess Frodo had found his objective.

The Boffins and Bolgers noticed nothing out of the way, thinking themselves funnier still, but Bilbo could not stifle a loud snort.

“Eh? What is that you say?” Odo importuned so loudly some of the Boffin-Bolger-Brockhouse group looked their way.

“Nothing, nothing at all – a bit of a tickle!” Bilbo coughed, assuring the old hobbit of his renewed attention. “You were saying about the tainted mutton, Mr. Proudfoot...?”

Bilbo glanced back. Rosamunda’s hand was groping behind her, seeking the culprit. She seized Frodo’s hand in hers to subdue it, but Frodo’s hand would not be subdued. With a twist, he seized hers instead. Leisurely, he pressed and squeezed and rubbed until it opened to him. Like an animal stretched on its back to receive its master’s attentions, her fingers flexed and stilled. He delicately stroked her palm with his fingertip, until her fingers quivered. Then his hand was captured in turn; she held it fast, giving it a hard press. Signalling his capitulation, his hand relaxed in her grip. She released his hand, but only to curl her fingers around his, squeezing them in a sort of rolling caress. As if soothing them into compliance, she ran the flats of her nails along their backs. When Frodo seemed thoroughly subdued, she interlaced her fingers with his and held his hand lightly to the hollow of her back. There it lay, meek and submissive. Only his thumb continued to move, which stroked the heel of her palm with soft, brush-like touches.

The sight of this exchange had been so sensual, Bilbo had thought to turn away. But the tenderness, the extreme intimacy of it had held him captive. A pang of unhappiness smote him, which took him by surprise; he clutched the brocade of his waistcoat. He felt unspeakably old, old and extraneous.

He gave himself a shake. This would not do at all. Unworthy sentiments. Unworthy. The two of them deserved their moment.

He looked about himself. Where had the Proudfoots got to? There they were, making their way towards the refreshments. Bilbo could not recall bidding them a proper good night but he must have done. Glancing down, he saw that he still clutched the brocade at his breast. As if were smoothing a wrinkle, he ran his hand down the embroidered satin. His palm skimmed over the circlet of metal in his pocket, and he felt encouraged. He seized a bracing breath, propelled himself forwards, and joined the merry group nearby.

He made his courtesies to the rest of the company, who shook his hand and gave him hearty hugs, offering jovially to “freshen his mug” for him. Bilbo graciously declined these offers, and, with a proprietary air, drew the pair he sought aside. “Come. Come walk with me, won’t you?” he said, taking the arm of each. “The moon is bright. We shan’t take a tumble.”

They waved to the others as they moved off into the new-shorn meadow and soon found the river path. Behind them, the flames of the bonfire leapt higher as more hobbits continued to arrive, each throwing on his token stick of wood. One of Bilbo’s songs rose from the children’s voices. Bilbo stopped to look, but he could not see them, on the far side of the fire. Then peals of laughter rang from the Boffins and Bolgers, and the Brockhouse brothers honked and brayed as they all lurched off towards the drinks and food, holding their sides and clapping each other on the back.

It must have been a good one, Bilbo thought, watching their stumbling progress.

Near the refreshment tables musicians had taken up their instruments. Fiddles, pipe and drum struck up a different tune that rose and crackled like sparks from the fire.

“Things are hotting up,” Bilbo remarked as they walked along.

“A dance! A dance!” a voice was calling out. Folco, again? Bilbo cocked his ear. No, too low-pitched. A Bolger. Loud assent followed.

“Would you like to go back? We could, you know,” Bilbo offered.

Frodo tipped his head back and closed his eyes. He filled his lungs with air, which still was sweet with new-mown hay. In the moonlight, his expression was euphoric. Softly he said, “No, Bilbo. Let’s just keep walking. This is so nice.” Frodo clasped his hands behind his back and leaned into a quicker pace, as if to emphasize his wish.

Bilbo cast his eye inquiringly towards Rosamunda. “There is music here, too,” she said.

They had walked on together in the quiet, but the further they walked, the less quiet it became. Away from the party, they could hear the sounds of night all around them. To their left the Water ran behind the poplars, whose leaves shook high above them whenever the breeze freshened. Beyond the willow break, frogs sang in the marsh grass high and shrill, or low like the thrum of bass fiddles being bowed.

Occasionally the chorus would stop, as if between musical selections, and suddenly the three could hear their own breathing. Then, as if at a given signal, a creature would rustle the leaves or a fish land with a plop and the frog chorus would strike up once again.

Finally they reached the place where the path ran up from the river to Bagshot Row and the Hill. Bilbo stopped. Frodo and Rosamunda followed suit.

“You could walk to the cottage from here,” Bilbo said, thinking out loud, “going round by the Row. Or you might save time cutting straight up through the fields and by-pass the Hill all together. You’d have to climb a few stiles, but you two could manage that, I should think.”

They looked at him abashed, saying nothing.

“Such faces!” he said. Good-humouredly he took their arms. “Come, you deserve to make an early night.”

“You – you would’t mind?” Frodo’s voice was hesitant, but his eagerness could not be hidden.

“Mind? Of course not! You know I always love a party! Besides –” Bilbo stopped and held his breath. They did, too. “Do you hear? They’ve just begun to play my tunes. Why, if I am not there,” he laughed, “they might make an awful mess of things.”

They continued to stand about, as if unsure.

Then Rosamunda stepped forward. “Thank you, Bilbo,” she said. She touched her fingers to the back of his hand, and leaned towards him to kiss his cheek. The press of her lips was light but warm, her hair and cheek fragrant.

He always enjoyed her shows of affection, but, somehow, not tonight. He wished she would leave him alone. Well, not quite that. It was not as though she was doing anything she did not usually do. But, for some reason, her every touch; the smell of her; the warmth of her proximity; all conjured up things he had put away years ago. It was as if she were raising the lid on a trunk full of memories long discarded or tucked away. Spectres from his amorous past rose up to haunt him. He wanted the lid shut tight.

Frodo had thanked him, and Rosamunda was stepping away, turning to go.

“Wait,” Bilbo said, “I almost forgot.” He drew forth a small vial, warm from its place in his pocket. “Here.”

Rosamunda extended her hand and Bilbo slipped it into her palm, closed her fingers around it, and gave them a press. “It is your turn tonight, I fear, Rosamunda,” he said with an exaggerated look of sympathy.

Emotion suddenly crowded the back of his throat, but he willed it down, saying with an avuncular tone, “Don’t forget, ‘a little goes a long way’.”

Rosamunda uncurled her fingers and held the bottle up the light of the moon, turning it to and fro. Frodo peered, too, glancing at Bilbo curiously.

“Why, it’s oil for the rub!” Rosamunda cried, illuminated. She unstoppered it and waved it under her nose. “Ah, how lovely it smells! Oh, Bilbo!” she enthused. “You are too good.”

He stepped back, in case she should throw her arms about him, but she did not.

“This is much finer than anything I have at the cottage.”

“It’s not very much,” he said apologetically. “But I thought you might like some to use tonight for Frodo’s rub. Someone must do it, Rosamunda, or this lad of mine won’t be fit company when I shall be forced to have him back again!” His laugh sounded strained, even to himself as he looked everywhere but at her. He dropped his shoulders and lifted his eyes to meet hers. So loving, so sad was her gaze, it was almost beyond bearing.

“Anyway,” he struggled, trying to feign even greater heartiness, “It’s the best! And I would wish him to have the best!”

“Thank you, Bilbo,” she said, the quietness of her voice making his seem that much louder. “I shall not waste what is precious.”

Bilbo did not miss the directness of her gaze.

Inwardly he breathed his relief as they bade each other goodnight and the lovers turned up the hill path.

“Oh!” Bilbo stopped. Bother! Would he never get away? But he would have to say something. “I should mention … there is in the oil the essence of a rather fiery plant from the far South. It works wonders on aching muscles and joints, but, well … erm …”

They looked at him, waiting. He felt his face heating. Thank goodness for the cloak of night.

“Well, the thing is … you may not wish to use it … everywhere.”

Frodo made a choking sound, but Rosamunda burst out laughing. Relieved, Bilbo laughed, too.

More seriously, Rosamunda looked at him and said, “You know, it is a very good thing you spoke.”

They laughed again, embraced, and went their separate ways.

Bilbo watched as Rosmunda and Frodo disappeared up the hill into the night. He sighed, turned, and headed back towards the party. Up ahead he could see the bonfire’s glow, although he could not yet see the flames. Ah, well, he would be in a fitter mood when he arrived. Merriment always was a tonic.

Over the fields a few random notes floated, reaching Bilbo’s ear slightly distorted by the distance and the noise of the Water. He listened harder, but the frogs were bowing and chirping. Suddenly their chorus ceased and he heard what it was.

Sweet and clear, two fiddles twined in close harmony, beautiful almost beyond bearing. Almost melancholy it sounded, aching with hopeful yearning.

It was his own tune, he realised, made when he was young and had thought himself in love. All at once he wanted to weep.

Stop it, he told himself. Was he returning to his infancy? Everything would be fine.

All would be well.

He marched ahead, but had to stop in the path to push his knuckles into his eyes. He stilled his breaths, measuring them; in and out, in and out; and was heartened beyond measure to hear the musicians switch to a sprightlier set.

* * *

Ch. 14 – Bilbo Observes.


1400, July 25 ~ The Dinner Party.

After Bonfire Night, invitations for the dinner party were quickly sent round. Bilbo managed to arrange for it only two days after the haying; he would have waited longer, but Rollo Boffin had sent an apologetic note. His stay in Hobbiton must be cut short. Alas, he and his must leave, he wrote; the North Farthing was ready to cut, typically the last part of the Shire to be ready.

The clan of Long Cleeve Tooks into which Rollo had married looked to their son-in-law for leadership. Tina was the only one of their children who had stayed put, her brothers and sisters marrying into the far corners of the Shire. One of the sons-in-law had planned to be on hand, visiting from the South, which had already finished haying, but he did not feel competent to direct so many hobbits he did not know. Rollo was needed, therefore, the very next day. Bilbo must celebrate without them. But, in a separate letter, Marco and Folco urged Bilbo to speed his plans, lest Rollo and Tina miss out.

As soon as Rosamunda had received her invitation, she sent word she would make cherry tarts, if cherries still could be found. Perhaps she could ask Folco if there were more, she wrote. Surely the Boffins had kept some in reserve.

Frodo, reading her note over Bilbo’s shoulder, had nearly snatched the letter out of Bilbo’s hand, and intervened at once. No, he wrote in an addendum to Bilbo’s reply, he would ask for the cherries. He would fetch them himself, if they were to be had. Cherries were still available, the Boffins wrote, begging them not to divulge their secret to any other.

Thus, on the morning of the dinner, Frodo tramped to Overhill to fetch a portion from the Boffins’ private store, and carried them to Rosamunda.

Recovered from the melancholy he felt at the hay-cut, Bilbo’s mood was merry when Frodo and Rosamunda arrived for dinner – well before the other guests, since they were bearing treats. Frodo swung a basket of the newly-made tarts from each hand, and Rosamunda carried an additional tray covered with a cloth. She tossed a laughing remark to Frodo over her shoulder as he shut the gate with his foot (his arms laden with tarts).

As she mounted the path, she seemed unaccountably breathless for such a good walker, as lightly burdened as she was. Ah, Bilbo observed, she was wearing stays: an article of clothing she wore only seldom, so uncomfortable were they, and impossible to lace by one’s self.

How fortunate, Bilbo thought, that Frodo had been there to pull them snug for her.

Bilbo was about to chastise himself for smirking, but the thought of lacing stays cast him back in time. Not to lovers, but to his mother, Belladonna Took Baggins. One of the great beauties of her day, she never went into society except wearing a corset, the laces pulled tight.

When Bilbo had been little, his father had been the one to pull the laces of his mother’s stays. Bilbo would perch on a stool, or watch from the floor as they got ready to go out. “Too many cream cakes!” she would laugh between groans, clinging to a bedpost as her husband pulled and yanked. Bilbo would laugh and groan, too, hugging his knees in sympathy as he watched the beautiful hobbit woman who was his mother being squeezed like a sausage. But every now and then his father would be unavailable when it came time for Belladonna to dress (there had been more fancy dress parties in the Shire then, especially in winter). Bilbo would leap up and offer, “I will do it, Mother!” She would smile and laugh and kiss his cheek, saying, “You are still too little, my sweeting! When you are bigger.” The kitchen maid or the gardener’s lass would be called in to perform the task. By the time Bilbo was big enough to pull the laces of her corset, he was too big to see her in it.

Bilbo grew up to unlace his share of stays, but seldom did he lace them. He rarely was with a lover long enough to do so.

Rosamunda’s laces had been pulled good and tight, Frodo had seen to that. How well she looked! Her skin was more golden-brown from the sun than ever, and her soft, light hair was coming down as usual, renegade tendrils springing from her temples and trailing down her neck (which only added to her charm, in his opinion). How splendid she looked in fancy dress!

Although Rosamunda’s day-to-day clothes were not positively unattractive, they were quite unremarkable for a hobbit woman of her means, even plain. But, this dress.... It was elegant yet simply cut, with a small floral design sprinkled widely over a summery cloth the colour of butter, its surface polished and soft. The bodice was properly high, befitting her widowed estate, revealing only the uppermost rise of her breasts. Her fine expanse of shoulder was modestly veiled by the requisite matron’s kerchief of lace, fastened in front with a brooch. Nevertheless, the respectability of her attire could not disguise her attractions. Perhaps because she rarely wore them, the sight of Rosamunda in stays was most inspiring, the way they lifted her full breasts into high mounds. They gleamed golden like summer melons, ripe and luscious. They rose and fell with every breath, like crescent moons rising and sinking behind a sprigged cotton horizon. Bilbo was reminded of a dessert: twin meringues, honey-glazed and shimmering on a high-stemmed plate.

Really! Bilbo chastised himself, but wanted to giggle. Three similes in a row! Next he would be composing an ode. Still – ogling his guest – how indiscreet. Then he chuckled. Could it be helped when lasses wore such things? Surely a hobbit was intended to gape.

Fortunately for Bilbo, Rosamunda had turned away to address a remark to Sam, who was gathering salad things down in the garden. Then she stepped up on the porch and Bilbo held the door. Frodo offered a greeting, but squeezed past them to take the baskets of tarts to the kitchen.

Rosamunda paused to greet Bilbo as she entered Bag End. He offered his cheek, which she brushed with her customary warm kiss. Bilbo suppressed a start. The hair beside her ear smelled faintly of Frodo. Bilbo knew the scent well enough, having woken Frodo so many mornings when he was a ‘tween. She could not know. He determined to think no more about it.

“You are looking very elegant this evening, Rosamunda,” he said, and meant it.

“Why, thank you, Bilbo,” she smiled, allowing him to take the tarts which he placed on the narrow table in the hall. “You are kind – and gallant. You make it almost worth the bother. Of dressing up, I mean. For you are far fonder of that sort of thing than I, I am afraid,” she confided.

Bilbo was a little disconcerted. Did she think him foppish? He had thought he looked very well in his summer-weight wools. The breeches were especially well-cut and the figured waistcoat one of his most handsome.

But she had meant no ill by it; next she said, eyeing his attire appreciatively, “You do justice to fine clothes, Bilbo. Everything looks well on you.”

He was very much mollified when she paused to offer him her own cheek. Thankfully, this side smelled only of Rosamunda and Shire soap. But when he leaned closer to bestow his kiss, his eye was caught by blue and gold winking in her hair. Nestled between the gold-brown waves were small, beautifully wrought combs: gold set with opal and lapis, obviously of Dwarf-make.

“Those are very beautiful,” he remarked evenly, unable to take his eyes from them.

Rosamunda reached for them reflexively as if she might pluck them out of her hair. She blanched faintly.

“You know them, I see....”

“Yes, I know them. They were Primula’s.” Rosamunda blanched further.

“She wore them often?”

“Almost never, I believe, if you are worried they will be recognized.” Rosamunda blushed hotly at that.

There. He’d put his foot in it again. Best to tell her all. “But I know them well. I gave them to her.”

Rosamunda looked at him stunned, rather horrified. “You? You gave them to her?” With a quick glance towards the kitchen she spoke low, but her voice was urgent.

“Frodo gave them to me, just this afternoon, to wear tonight. He meant it very sweetly,” she said, as if in appeal. “He has never given me a gift gift. I think he wanted me to think it special. Oh, but such a gift!” She pressed her palms to her cheeks then drew them down again and clasped them together over her skirt. “I had guessed they must have been Primula’s – whose else? I assumed Drogo must have found them … through the trader at Bree, or at the Overlithe fair at Michel Delving, perhaps. So cunningly made! Not like anything I have ever seen. I asked Frodo, of course. He said, yes, they were from his mother’s things; he did not know where they came from. But they were his, now. And it would give him pleasure, he said, to see them worn.” She stammered and her hands began to twist. “He … he entreated so warmly, with such feeling. His face was so….”

Poor Rosa. Bilbo knew that face, too.

“I should not have done, but I acquiesced,” she said firmly. “Frodo should not have given them to me.” Her eyes began to glisten as she murmured miserably, “He should have kept them for when he marries. I know that.”

“Yes,” Bilbo quietly agreed, “he should have kept them, but he has not. But he is right, you know: the combs are his to do with as he wills.”

Bilbo summoned her eyes with the gentleness of his voice. “It would be wrong, Rosa, to refuse a gift so graciously given, even this gift.”

Rosamunda looked as though she might have burst into tears but she produced a smile, relaxing as he continued to speak.

"Yes, they were Primula's. A gift from me upon the occasion of her conceiving, the second year after Frodo was born. I had had them made for Frodo's birth, but they hadn't been ready in time. Yes, she and Drogo did manage to conceive again, but the baby miscarried. You were barely a 'tween, living in your parents' hole near Whitwell. I am sure you would not have heard, even from the Tooks. Primula and Drogo told no one but me. I had meant the combs to bring her luck, for the gold and gems had been hard won, taken from the dragon's hoard under the Mountain. I had them made for her specially, for a hobbit woman's head is smaller than a Dwarf's. How she had wanted that second child, a companion for the first."

Now it was Bilbo's turn to falter and sigh. "It was a pity, but I never saw her wear them again, after she first tried them on. Primula never said so, but I think she thought them bad luck."

Rosamunda’s fingers flew to the combs, but let them hover there; tentative. Bilbo took her hands in his and drew them to the breast of his waistcoat.

“There is no bad luck in the combs, Rosa, no evil. The evil was in the dragon that seized them. The gems belonged to the Dwarves, who were good and brave. The combs were well-given to Primula and they are well-given to you. Wear them – if not for the beauty of the jewels, for the beauty of their giver.”

Rosamunda pressed the back of Bilbo’s fingers to her lips, picked up the tray of tarts, and disappeared inside.

Bilbo felt suddenly sad, sorry he had spoken. She would not wear the combs in company again. Perhaps she would wear them at home, for Frodo.


* * *

The dinner party went smoothly after all, even though Tina and Rollo’s children had come. At the last minute, Nana Boffin had not been feeling well. ‘Tainted mutton’, she said. Grandad Boffin would sit with her at home.

But the children had not been so terribly noisy. The eldest three had been very rowdy, but in an amiable way, demanding to be tossed in the air by their uncles and Frodo, engaging in shouting matches over the use of playthings, and being dragged bodily from the study, which then was shut and locked. At dinner, in spite of frequent parental admonitions, they entertained each other making amusing digestive sounds and eating their food in unusual ways. But they did not throw things, scream, or climb upon the table. The baby mostly slept. Bilbo thought them charming and far more engaging than their uncles-to-be, Marcho and Blancho Brockhouse (the brothers of Delphinium, Folco’s secret fiancée).

Once again, Bilbo had hired the youngest Gamgees for the festive occasion. He would have hired all four of the Gaffer’s children, but Daisy and May had been snapped up for a competing party at the Sackville-Bagginses. Lobelia did not trust Marigold and Sam with her good dishes. Thus it was Marigold and Sam – when they weren’t in the kitchen or waiting at table – who took turns distracting the children when they grew restive. Sam took them to visit the beasts in the sheds, down on the Row. Marigold led them in games of chase between the marrow mounds and bean rows. When dusk was deepening and the Boffin children finally came inside, they lolled about in laps or on the floor, and grew heavy-eyed while the grown-ups talked. Only one of them resisted drowsiness.

Little Halla was Rollo and Tina’s second youngest. Nearly weaned (still requiring the breast at bed-time), he was a forward lad with bright black eyes, and the sun-browned good looks, apple cheeks, and umber curls of all the Boffin brothers. He looked nothing like his Took mother, except for his stature (he was already notably tall for his age), but he shared her lively disposition. If his father Rollo was mostly close-mouthed and reserved in company, Tina was everything vivacious and open, more like her brothers-in-law, Marco and Folco. Rollo's brothers often teased their elder that he was a changeling from the Dwarves.

It had been clear to Bilbo all evening that little Halla, his eyes as bright with mischief as his uncle Folco’s, was the favourite with both parents. His good-natured naughtiness was greatly indulged. Now, as Tina nursed the baby in the middle of the sofa, seated between Rosamunda and Delphinium, Halla leaned against her knees, more and more put out. He pulled at his mother’s skirts to signal his impatience, a low whine rising until he dropped his head back to moan theatrically. When Tina continued to nurse the baby, he scrambled up between her and Delphinium, making petulant sounds of protestation as he sought to push the baby aside, trying to seize the breast that lately had been his and his alone.

Tina tried to muster a stern face but could not keep from laughing. “You are a greedy great boy!” Bending over the baby, she gave his nose a kiss. “Do get down, Halla, love. Your turn shall come.”

Delphinium gave Halla a kiss, tickled his ear and otherwise attempted to woo him from Tina’s lap. “Come and sit with me, Halla,” she said, pulling gently under his arms. “Such a pretty fellow! Almost as pretty as your uncle,” she said, with a side-long smile to Folco, who grinned. But Halla was having none of it, and resisted her. The baby, pushed against Tina’s breast, began to fret.

Rosamunda intervened, seizing the lad under the arms and simply lifting him onto her lap. She held him there facing her while he squirmed against her strong hands and began to protest. She hoisted him up to look him in the eye. “If you do not behave,” she said gravely, “I shall have to kiss you.”

The odd twist to the familiar threat intrigued the child. He forgot the nursing baby and matched her, gaze for gaze. Who would be the first to smile? He knew this game. Halla finally exploded into a cascade of giggles, dropping back onto her lap, his head dangling over her knees while he crowed his pleasure. Rosamunda clasped his hands and planted a series of noisy kisses on his belly, pulling him up and letting him drop between each one. When his giggles threatened to become shrieks, Rosamunda pulled him up to a sit and held him in a loose embrace, stroking his back.

“There. All finished. That is all the kisses for tonight,” she smiled. But Halla was not finished. He clambered up and stood in her lap, flung his arms about her neck, and gave her a noisy buss. She dropped back her head and laughed, then held him close, whispering something into his ear. Suddenly enervated, Halla collapsed against her, dropping his cheek upon her shoulder. As he quieted, he sucked his thumb while he watched the baby nurse beside him. Rosamunda nuzzled the dark mop of curls beneath her nose, threading them with the fingers of one hand, while she moved her other hand in circles over his back and neck. The child settled until he slid down into her lap, turning his head away from the baby. Still sucking his thumb, his cheek against her breast, he watched as the fingers of his other hand idly traced the floral patterns of her bodice. Finally the chubby hand settled over her other breast.

It was very quiet. Soft snoring was rising from the eldest lads who drowsed on a fat pillow thrown down near the hearth. Bilbo glanced around the room. In the low light the faces of his fellow hobbits were strangely beautiful, rapt as they beheld the picture of hobbit women and children before them. Indeed, how lovely they looked, how worthy to be cherished.

Delphinium, the youngest, not yet come of age, dark and diminutive, her head prettily inclined as she watched the infant Boffin nurse. Tina, the young mother, willowy and pale with the delicate loveliness of a Took, murmured endearments to the pink-cheeked infant suckling her breast: a rose feeding a rose. Rosamunda, the eldest, tall and statuesque, the ruddy-cheeked little lad splayed upon her lap, one dimpled hand in his mouth, the other softly curling and uncurling over her breast....

It was then that little Halla reached up lazily and wriggled his hand down the bosom of Rosamunda’s dress, apparently impatient with barring cloth.

The spell was broken. Marco Boffin chuckled, “Well, Tina, I see Halla is a real Boffin! But more like his uncle than his father. Already, he has Folco’s way with lasses.”

The Boffins and Brockhouses exploded with whoops and snorts. Frodo only smiled, not taking his eyes off the hobbit women on the sofa. The Gamgee children came in at the sound of the commotion, but, seeing no occasion for mirth, shrugged their shoulders and exchanged looks that said, “Grown-ups". The boys, who had been sleeping by the hearth, rubbed their eyes and looked about. Rosamunda looked unperturbed. She only smiled over Halla’s curls, as if unwilling to disturb the lad. He lifted his head at the noise, but drowsed again upon her breast.

Delphinium threw an embroidered cushion at Marco. “You are a naughty, libellous fellow!” she scolded.

“How, libellous?” Marco asked, ducking and feigning affront. “Is it not true? Hasn’t Folco got a way with the lasses? Surely you would not slight him in that area, Delphie!”

More snorts and snickers followed. The Brockhouse brothers hooted noisily. Everyone knew of the engagement, although it could not be mentioned. Another pillow came sailing, which glanced off Folco’s waistcoat and skidded across the floor. Surreptitiously, Samwise retrieved the tossed pillows, brushed them off, and tucked them into the corners of a chair.

Such a fine lad, Bilbo noted.

“Libellous, impertinent and incorrigible!” Delphinium cried. But she was laughing now, unable to hide her pleasure, since she was in complete agreement with Marco’s assessment of Folco’s powers. The two older children were up and tugging at Marco’s trouser legs, demanding to know what was so funny.

Tina, meanwhile, tried to shush them all, on account of the baby. Bilbo saw her flash Marco a very dark look, which the middle Boffin brother did not see. Then she appealed silently to Folco, discreetly signalling him with her eyes. Folco followed her gaze to where his older brother stood, silent, off to the side. Rollo looked abashed, even though a bland smile masked his discomfort.

Folco took the floor at once.

“Ah, you flatter me, little brother!” he proclaimed with a flourish. “If young Halla is a prodigy in matters of love, I may take only partial credit. Our elder brother,” he began, looking at Rollo with a wink and a saucy grin, “our brother may be reticent before the ladies in company, but, behind closed doors, he is bold enough!” Wheeling upon his sister-in-law and looking pointedly at the children in the room he asked, “Is that not so, Tina?”

Bilbo thought Tina might leap up to cover Folco with kisses, but she merely coloured and smiled, saying very archly, “That is no affair of yours, rascal brother-in-law.” But her smile warmed and her eyes grew soft as she turned to her husband to add, “I have had nothing to complain of.”

Rollo blushed, but his chest expanded and his shoulders relaxed. Shyly he returned his wife’s smile then looked at Folco with fierce affection.

As if declaring the affair closed, Tina rose and settled the now fast-asleep baby in its basket, took her husband by the hand and drew him outside. The rest followed, the older Boffin children streaming out ahead of them, ecstatic to be allowed outside again so late. From where he still stood in the parlour, Bilbo could hear the drone of their talk as it drifted in through the open windows, punctuated by the Brockhouse brothers’ honking shouts of, “Haw! Haw! Haw!” They might not understand repartee, generally, but they liked to enter into the spirit of things.

He should light more lamps, he thought, but, standing in the shadows, Bilbo felt suddenly tired. Perhaps they would all be leaving soon. He hoped so. As he leaned back against the mantelpiece of the cold hearth, fingering his cup of wine, he gazed through the open windows, deep blue rounds pricked with stars made faint by the risen moon. Rosamunda still sat on the sofa in the quiet dimness, holding the sleeping boy on her lap, her expression dreamy and distant with her cheek nestled in his mat of curls.

Frodo came back inside and leaned through the entryway. “Aren’t you coming?” he asked. He had not seen Bilbo.

At the sound of Frodo’s voice, Halla raised his head and looked about, befuddled with sleep, but the warm darkness was too much. He closed his eyes and dropped his head back down. As Rosamunda stroked his hair, she lifted her eyes, huge and dark, to Frodo’s. Bilbo could not decipher the glance they exchanged. Affection was there, but something else; something wistful, even sad. Rosamunda’s eyes glistened as Frodo stepped forward and stood waiting as she shifted the lad away from her bosom. His hair spilled like a dark cloud over the crook of her arm as his head lolled back. Frodo stooped and gently lifted the lad from her lap, supporting the drooping head against his shoulder. Before he straightened up, he paused to kiss her.

“Don’t,” he murmured, brushing his cheek against hers. More firmly, but almost too low to hear, he said, “I meant what I said: it doesn’t matter.”

Rosamunda stood and smoothed her skirts. “I’m going to freshen up,” she said, giving him a peck and a smile. But when she turned away, she blinked back tears. “You go,” she said, “I’ll come out in a moment.” As she moved towards the doorway, she saw Bilbo. She started a little, murmured a courtesy, and hurried past. Frodo stood looking after, the child in his arms, when he saw Bilbo.

Bilbo flashed Frodo a little smile before he turned to a stack of blankets kept on a bench beside the hearth. “We’ll make a pallet for him, shall we?” Bilbo said, gathering up a few. “Here on the floor will be best, I think. He might roll off a couch or bed, he’s still such a little lad.”

Bilbo bustled about, keen to be doing something. The sight of Frodo holding the sleeping lad; their dark heads close together, one large, one small, had moved him profoundly. What was wrong with him these days? He scolded himself for his new propensity for tears.

Outside, he found that the mood of his guests had begun to mellow. The stars were bright along the dark edges of the night sky, but faint where the moon had risen. The two older Boffin children had struggled to stay awake, but they were wilting against the chests of their uncles, who held them on their laps while they conversed. Rollo and Tina, who had taken the opportunity for a stroll around the gardens, returned to say that they should go. They must make an early start in the morning. Hands were pressed, embraces exchanged, gratitude expressed, and a general exodus followed.

“Just cover any left-over food,” Bilbo called over his shoulder to Marigold and Sam, after he had paid them. “You may finish up in the morning.”

Folco suggested he accompany the Brockhouses home. He would catch up with Marco and Rollo later. Bilbo saw Delphinium seize Folco’s hand behind the backs of her brothers, and give it a grateful squeeze. As for the rest, Bilbo suggested that all of them walk to Overhill. Rollo, Marco, and Frodo could carry the now sleeping boys, and Rosamunda could carry the baby in its basket between them. Tina could carry Rosamunda’s empty tart baskets, if she must carry something. A nursing mother, she should save her strength. After that, Frodo and he could accompany Rosamunda to the cottage. The moon was on its way to full, and a good walk would do them all, well – good.

At Overhill, as they bade each other farewell, Folco appeared at the last moment, panting from his sprint from the Brockhouse’s, just in time to moderate the greetings barked by Tip and his canine friends. Bilbo, Frodo, and Rosamunda strode away and into the fields. As if agreed upon in advance, as soon as they were over the first hill, Bilbo left the lovers and cut back to the lane.

He was glad to be alone at last. The gibbous moon rode higher now, spreading its milky light over the dark sky, as if it were a wedding veil sprigged with dots of white. He breathed deeply. The smell of new-mown grass wafted into his nostrils while the insects churred and a night bird sang from a copse. He could not be sad. He was not sad.

He sang under his breath as he went, first softly then more loudly – who would hear? – and the singing called to mind other walks, under other moons, in other lands: lands beautiful and far away, lands he wished to see again. He would see them again, one day.

He had just reached the last verse of his song when he rounded the curve and saw the great oak on top of the Hill looming black against the moon-washed sky, the oak under which the rooms of Bag End spread like tubers through good, Shire earth. Bilbo looked upon his home and loved it. What a lovely hole it was, he sighed, as he unlatched the gate and climbed the path.

But when he pushed open the door, the silence of his house oppressed him, the silence that at any other time he would find peaceful and welcome.

Bilbo poured himself a cup of wine, rummaged for his pipe, and carried them outside into the garden. He sat on the garden bench under the moon and smoked and thought until he could think no more. He did not remember falling asleep.


* * *

“Are you all right, sir?”

Mercifully, a voice came through Bilbo’s dream. A dream of fires and dragons and glooms; of deep, dark places under the roots of mountains, cold and dank; of pillared halls pierced with light but with no sound anywhere – no living thing, only silence.

“I say, are you all right, Mr. Bilbo?”

Bilbo tried to sit, but was terribly stiff and gratefully accepted Sam’s help. What was he doing out here? The garden seat had made a cold bed, indeed, and he was wet with dew. His pipe lay where he had propped it against a stone, but his cup had rolled away somewhere under a bush. It had left a dark red trail across the flags, as if a predator had dragged it off.

Embarrassed, Bilbo tittered self-deprecatingly, “Too many nightcaps, I fear!” He continued to chortle as he winced to the porch on Sam’s arm, feeling every bit of one hundred and ten. So full of aches did he feel, he allowed Sam to pour him a steaming bath. He was just sinking into it when he heard Marigold arriving, ready to get to work with her brother on the clean-up. The sound of their cheerful back-and-forth cheered him ridiculously.

After his soak, Bilbo felt immensely better and thought to take a proper nap. But he could not rest. He gave it up, threw back his counterpane, and padded down the hall to take a peep Frodo’s room.

Frodo was there, fast asleep, breathing evenly, just as he was every morning. Bilbo tut-tutted at himself, but was so pleased when he crept back to his room and into bed, he slept straight through until luncheon.


* * *

1400, July 27 ~ The Arrival of the Letters.

The following day, Frodo and Bilbo were sitting down to a late elevenses (which they might have called luncheon had it not meant scanting themselves of an extra meal), when Burrin Thornberry arrived with the post. “I’ll get it,” Frodo said, leaping up and heading to the door. Bilbo followed, always interested in the post, and watched from the parlour as the two talked in the hall. Frodo quickly shuffled through the small stack the young carrier handed him until he saw the letter he sought. Through the archway Bilbo could see the creaminess of the large envelope and the Hall’s mark.

“Oh – you may leave that with us,” Frodo said, pointing to an envelope of matching stock protruding from the carrier’s sack. Tipping an extra coin, Frodo enlarged, “I shall be walking to the Bolger cottage later today. I can take it along then.”

The postman handed it over without comment. Frodo had several times relieved him of letters addressed to Rosamunda, for the sake of a midday visit.

When Burrin had gone, Frodo came back to the parlour and handed the letters to Bilbo and hovered, waiting for him to examine the ones from Buckland.

The letter directed to Bilbo was hastily penned in large letters which said, “BILBO BAGGINS. Bag End. Hobbiton. URGENT.” The other, written in Freddy’s smaller, more careful strokes said, “Mistress Rosamunda Took Bolger. Grassy Cottage. Hobbiton. West Farthing. The Shire.” No doubt Freddy’s letter would bear the same news as Merry’s, but that would not be the purpose of conveying it to Rosamunda.

Inside, Merry’s letter was written more untidily still, mostly unpunctuated, scrawled in the haste of great excitement:

THE HAY IS ALMOST STACKED THE ROADS ARE DRY. WE WILL BE SETTING OUT AS SOON AS FATHER CAN SPARE SOMEONE. OH GLORY THE SMIALS AT LAST! WHAT FUN WE SHALL HAVE! WE MIGHT COME AS SOON AS THE DAY AFTER TOMORROW OR THE DAY AFTER THAT AT THE LATEST.

P.S. Estella says to say that she is looking forward to coming too.

Poor Estella, Bilbo smiled, always so keen to be included in the lad’s fun, but always an addendum, left to serve mud cakes to dolls with her lass-friends.

Frodo smiled at the writing, but could not hide his unhappiness at the content, after Bilbo had read it through. But, within moments his expression went from listless dismay to burning purpose. Bilbo knew what that purpose would be.

“Will you be off to the Cottage directly?” he asked. Bilbo had not finished speaking before Frodo pulled a pack off a hallway hook and trundled off with it towards the kitchen. “Yes!” he called out over his shoulder. Bilbo caught up and watched as Frodo stowed a thick slab of bacon into the rucksack, along with a few pots of jam, some bottles of sweet cider, a wheel of new cheese and a clutch of the first plums from the tree in Bag End’s lower garden. Gingerly he laid half the morning’s eggs in a shallow basket. He swathed the rest of their rolls from luncheon in a tea towel and put those to the side. As he rummaged for sweets at the back of the pantry shelves, Bilbo quipped, “Perhaps you’d like to take along a side of ham or a joint of mutton, in case you decide to stay for afternoon tea?”

Frodo had not heard the brittleness in Bilbo’s joke, for he grinned as he poked twists of Bilbo’s best toffee from Bywater between the eggs, tucking Freddy’s letter in amongst them like a greeting card. Bilbo was glad that Frodo had not noticed, for he regretted his sarcasm as soon as he had spoken.

“I’ll be back, though I don’t know when, precisely,” Frodo said as he slid his arms through the straps. “I thought Rosa might be able to use a few extra things, in case Freddy and Estella should arrive tomorrow early. And we have so much.”

Did they? Then why did Bilbo feel so bereft?

Enough!

“I am sure they will be here for every meal until we leave for Tookland, anyway!” Bilbo remarked broadly as he straightened Frodo’s pack, slipping a half-loaf of spice cake inside. “How will they be able to stay away? We shall be holding Merry hostage. Now, be off,” he said, waving Frodo out the front door, “or I shall take back those toffees!”

Frodo laughed, kissed Bilbo’s cheek, and was gone.


* * *

A few hours later a second post arrived. Bilbo had been trying to get back to work on Dwarvish Customs, idly twirling his pen in the inkpot with one hand, while he smoothed the back of the shell that Elrond had sent him years ago with the other. Through his study window he watched the carrier puffing up the path, with the interest only someone wishing to avoid his work can muster. To prolong the suspense, he made himself sit and wait until Burrin was actually on the step. He plopped the pen in its stand, gave the shell a pat, and went to open the door.

The young hobbit touched his cap and handed Bilbo another envelope from the Hall, along with a couple of tradesmen’s bills. Bilbo pressed a coin into his hand. But Burrin lingered, fingering the corner of another letter peeping out of his bag, as if undecided what to do. More Hall stationery. “Sir, I don’t suppose you’d….?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Bilbo replied, holding out his hand for the envelope. “You may as well give it to me.” Burrin looked very grateful. It was a long tramp to the cottage.

Back inside his study, where the light was better, Bilbo read the Buckland letter.

More scrawl from Merry, but the writing was even bigger. It was not bad news, anyway. Well, not precisely. “What luck!” the lad began. “Dobbs says he is free to take us tomorrow!”

“Tomorrow” was underscored several times.

And so on and so forth…. Ah, Merry came at last to the point: “Look for us by dinner time – we hope!!!”

“We hope” was underscored many more times. Bilbo looked again at the date. It had been sent the day before, like the previous letter. Oh, dear. That would mean the children would arrive that evening – perhaps in a few hours.

The lovers at the cottage must be warned.

Bilbo slipped Rosamunda’s letter into the pocket of his waistcoat, where it jogged the golden band that was his most treasured memento. “My lucky charm,” he had told Frodo when asked why he always kept it about him. And so it was. Wearing it had saved his life and the lives of his friends.

He took a last gulp from the mug of tea standing on his desk and strode out of Bag End, swinging the door shut behind him with a click.

Sam was on his knees nearby, weeding the beds below the arbour, now that the sun was on the other side of the Hill. He looked up at the sound.

“Ah! Sam!” Bilbo said. “I am just off to the Bolger cottage, but I shall return directly.”

“Aye, sir,” Sam said, before he returned to his task, his look unreadable.

Bilbo marched purposefully off, but stopped and turned.

“Ah! I should mention that the Bolger children will be coming back from Buckland, along with Master Merry. I’ve just had a letter. I’m off to the cottage to let Mistress Rosamunda know of it.”

“I thought Master Frodo already went to tell her. Leastways, that’s what he said.”

Really, Sam’s expression was far too knowing.

“Yes, yes, quite so, Sam! Frodo told you aright. But the bother of it is, now another letter has come. The children are arriving tonight – not tomorrow.”

Sam still looked at him.

“And, so, I thought I would just trot along and see about asking Mrs. Bolger to dinner – we could make a party of it!”

“Well, why don’t I go and tell her, sir? You needn’t walk all that way in the heat.”

“No, No!” Bilbo blurted.

Did Sam’s eyes narrow, or was it the bright light? Lightly, Bilbo told himself. Lightly. Smile.

“Thank you, Sam, you are kind to offer, but, really, I am in need of exercise. You saw how stiff I was the other morning! Ha, ha! And it is not that hot, after all, not like it was before the hay-cut.”

“Very well, sir….” The young gardener still did not look quite convinced, but his concern seemed only solicitude.

“Anyway, we should all be back in time. But, if the children do arrive before us, just … just have them stay put. We’ll be along directly. Give them something to eat, let them play outside, they’ll be right as rain. But keep them here.”

“I understand, sir. They’re not to go to the cottage. They’re to stay here.”

There it was again, that knowing tone. Well, Bilbo could drive himself to distraction plumbing Sam’s remarks for hidden meanings. And Sam wasn’t the sort for hidden meanings. The shadows were slanting; the afternoon was getting on. He should be on his way.

Bilbo bid Sam farewell and strode off.


* * *

It really was quite hot out on the hills, just as Sam had warned. It was the time of the afternoon when the wind routinely ceased. Everything was still except for the whirr and snick of insects. No birds chirped and the sheep dotting the distant knolls were silent. Why hadn’t he thought to bring a hat? He squinted up at the sky. White, puffy clouds drifted high above him but he could not feel the breeze that moved them. And where was his pocket handkerchief? He was forced to mop his brow with his sleeve.

He soon left the track to cut more directly across the hills. The stubble from the new-mown grass pricked the bottoms of his feet uncomfortably, tough as they were. The walking was better as he neared Rosamunda’s. There the grass was uncut and parted before him, treading down flat and soft under his feet. He stopped at the low well in the dip before the cottage and luxuriated in the cool air that hit his face when he lifted its wooden cover. He dropped the cover in the grass, knelt beside the well, dropped the cup on its chain, and drank thirstily, tossing more on his face and neck.

Refreshed, he stood up, but when he bent to replace the cover, Freddy’s letter fell from his waistcoat pocket. It sliced into the grass at a graceful angle, like a large cream-coloured wing. As he picked it up and tucked it into his waistcoat pocket, he noticed a glint of gold amid the green.

Hot and cold rushed over him. His keepsake. He snatched it up and clutched it tightly in his hand. To leave such a treasure lying in the grass! He thrust it into his trousers and held it there, as if doubly guarding it, his fingers curled around it within the pocket’s dark depths.

When Bilbo had recovered himself, he looked up at the cottage. A thread of smoke rose from the chimney, which promised habitation. A few flowers, daisies, yarrow and dying pinks, the descendants from some garden long past, struggled amid the weeds, along with a smattering of kitchen herbs and salad greens. Rosamunda obviously had not quite reclaimed the beds. He really should send Sam to see to them during the slack before harvest, as a little present.

The sun was behind the hillock into which Rosamunda’s cottage had been dug; its windows were cast in shade. The round door was flung wide. Odd, Bilbo thought. He rapped lightly then stepped through the entryway into cool darkness, blinking to accustom his eyes to the gloom. Frodo’s knapsack and basket stood on the kitchen table, still unpacked, but otherwise there was no sign of either Frodo or Rosamunda. Perhaps they had gone out walking?

Bilbo went outside and climbed the grassy roof. In every direction there was nothing but sheep like dots, puffs of clouds, hills of grass that rolled for miles, little copses, and the beginnings of woods to the north like a blue blur. Overhead a bird wheeled. Somewhere far off a Boffin dog barked.

No wonder Frodo liked to come here.

As Bilbo scrambled down the turves on the other side, the envelope again fell out. He checked his trouser pocket. Ah – it was still there. He held it in his hand, moving it about his fingers, reassured by its smooth warmth.

Bilbo was coming back around the hillock towards the front path, when he heard a sound. A snuff or huff of breath – then a stifled cry. Before he could think he turned and looked. He stopped and stared. The golden ring slipped onto his finger.

Through the open casement he saw them, making love on Rosamunda’s bed: Frodo’s body, pale as bone, stretched long and straight over her darker one. A round of breast, paler than the rest of her, spilled out from under his ribs. Frodo had drawn her hands high over her head, their fingers interlaced. Rosamunda’s knees were flexed and drawn up at angles, the soles of her feet pressed together somewhere beneath him. Frodo shuddered and strained, suspended in what must be his final ecstasy. He looked like a white arrow stretched across a dark bow, pulled taut, about to be loosed. Bilbo could not see their faces, but he heard their sounds. Rosamunda made soft noises like moans, breathy, rising in pitch. Frodo’s sounds were strangled, his neck arched, his damp hair quivering where it tumbled between his shoulder blades.

The arrow was loosed and Frodo’s body relaxed. Spent and trembling, he dropped his face into the side of Rosamunda’s neck. She twined her arms and legs around him, threading her fingers in his hair, crooning soft words while he panted, words which Bilbo could not hear but could imagine.

Bilbo tried to move, but his legs would not budge. He tried to shut his eyes, but could not. He looked, and as he looked images from a dozen trysts crowded his mind, and he could not shut them out. He saw other beds and other lovers, their arms and legs wrapped about each other. He heard other words softly spoken. Had such things ever happened to him? They had, and they had not.

From the bed in Rosamunda’s room, endearments were being murmured. “How I love you!” she was saying. “I cannot bear to live without you!” Frodo was saying in return. Had Bilbo heard such things? Said such things? He had, and he had not.

“I love you, Bilbo,” they had said. Had they meant it? “I love you, too,” he had said, but he had not. “Come back to me,” they had said. “I shall,” he said, but he had not. Perhaps they had loved him; probably they had not. He had not loved them, he was certain.

Suddenly Rosamunda’s face began to turn towards the window where Bilbo stood. Forgetting he could not be seen, he was seized by alarm and wheeled away. He caught himself before he fell, pressing himself against the wall beside the casement. He squeezed his eyes shut, but the images of their bodies together would not go away.

From inside, Frodo’s voice rose. Bilbo heard him plainly. “But how shall I bear it?” he was demanding. “If I cannot come here, you must come to me at Bag End!” Rosamunda’s answer was too low to hear, but Frodo’s answer made it plain. “Bilbo would not be hurt. He understands, Rosa, you will see. He wants us to be happy.”

Bilbo could bear to listen no more. His face burned and his eyes stung. Pulling the band from his finger, he stumbled down the hill, but stopped when he reached the well. He must go back. They still needed to be warned; the children would be coming.

He drew up water to wash his face, drank most of a cupful, and tipped the rest in the grass. He straightened his clothes – checking his pockets – and walked back down the path away from the cottage. When he had reached the top of the second hill he turned around and began slowly to walk back.

As he approached, he sang. Loudly.


* * *

After cheerily enduring a quickly-improvised afternoon tea at Rosamunda’s cottage, Bilbo arrived at home by himself. Frodo had stayed behind to help Rosamunda put fresh linens on the children’s beds, to draw water and bring in extra wood. “It might get too chilly for the children in the night, used now to Buckland’s heat,” Rosamunda had fretted. She would stay and await their coming at the cottage, she said, making new loaves and perhaps a cake. Surely they would not wish to stay up late – being tired from the journey.

Bilbo did not press them, or offer to wait. He was glad to walk back alone. He wanted no company.

As he rounded the Hill, he saw that Sam was standing in the lane, as if he had been looking out for him, expressly.

“The children haven’t arrived yet?” Bilbo asked.

Sam hurried to meet him as Bilbo reached the gate.

“No, sir. But Burrin come by once again. Another letter from Buckland! He gave you this one, too, for Mistress Rosamunda, thinking as how you’d asked for the other.”

Bilbo thanked Sam distractedly as he turned the letter over. The Hall’s mark, but a different hand. Saradoc’s. What now? Bilbo tore open the letter and turned aside. “My dearest Bilbo…” Saradoc began. Bilbo quickly scanned the rest.

When he looked up, he saw that Sam hadn’t moved, still awaiting further instructions.

“They aren’t coming tonight after all, Sam,” Bilbo said. Apparently, Merry had secured a promise from Dobbs without first checking with the Master of the Hall. “Dobbs cannot be spared, not until tomorrow or the next day,” Saradoc had written emphatically. For the sake of not having to write any more letters, Saradoc declared the children would arrive the day after tomorrow and no earlier.

“Well, that’s just as well, given the late notice and all,” Sam said, but added quickly, “not that I shouldn’t like to see them!”

“I suppose I shall have to go again and tell Rosamunda….” Bilbo hadn’t realised he had been speaking out loud until Sam piped up that he could run a message over to the cottage.

“No, no. Thank you, Sam, but Frodo will be along shortly. He can go back and tell her.”

Bilbo began to open the gate, but turned back. “What about the tip? The tip for Burrin?” Bilbo knew that Saradoc would have paid for the express rider to bring the third letter, but their local man would need to be compensated.

“Oh, don’t worry, sir. Burrin said tomorrow would be soon enough. You can pay him when he stops by, usual, like.”

Bilbo smiled, trying not to look as tired as he felt. He did not want Sam to take his ill-humour personally. Bilbo climbed toward the front door, only wishing to sit down with a pipe and a foaming mug.

“Oh, and, sir – ”

Bilbo dropped his shoulders and counted to three. When he turned he was surprised to see Sam’s face glowing with excitement.

“I almost forgot, sir! – what with the mix-up with Mr. Merry and the letters – but Burrin said the carrier from Buckland heard talk in Frogmorton that Gandalf was abroad – and heading this way! Folk said they’d seen him making camp near Stock, only last night. I thought you’d want to know, sir.”

“Gandalf! Then he might be here tomorrow – even tonight. Thank you, Sam,” Bilbo said with real enthusiasm. “That is good news!”

Sam lingered, his face full of hopefulness.

“Oh, don’t worry, Sam,” Bilbo laughed, suddenly filled with love for the young hobbit who stood before him, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “If there are any tales to be told, you shall hear them. I’ll want your help, of course, and Marigold’s. But whenever he starts, you drop everything and come and have a seat with the rest of us.”

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Bilbo, sir!” Sam cried, and sprang off down the Row.

Gandalf!

Bilbo’s heart surged. How he had longed to see his old friend, although he hadn’t realised how much until now. Just the sound of the wizard’s name was a tonic.

And, if Gandalf should ask after his plans, as he did at every visit, Bilbo knew what he would say.


* * *