Of All the Confounded Nuisances

Frodo is 31, Sam and Fatty are 20, Merry 18, Folco 15, and Bilbo is 109 (about 20, 13, 11, 9 and 71 in Man years)

Forelithe 1400 SR
 

The first sound to greet him that morning was not the happy twittering of the birds outside in the garden, nor was it the eager whistling of Samwise as the lad went about his work. It was not the sound of bacon sizzling in the frying pan or the contended humming of Frodo as he strolled down the tunnel to an early bath. No, the first sound to reach his ears that morning was the panicked cry, “Folco! Careful!” followed by the unmistakable crash of pottery hitting the tile floor.

An instant later came a meager, “Sorry.”

“Oh, Folco, that Bilbo’s favorite serving platter,” came Frodo’s softly reproaching voice, muffled by the closed door and the length of the tunnel, but clear and understandable all the same. The young heir sounded exasperated as he chided the accident-prone teen.

Next came the tones of Folco growing anxious and Fatty’s soothing, patient replies. Suddenly, feet pattered quickly down the tunnel - Frodo’s feet - and the back door swung open. Now Bilbo could hear Sam whistling, very faintly, far off in the lower side gardens. The door closed, and the whistling was gone. Then – THUMP!

“Folco!” Fatty cried, exasperated himself. After a long pause, he continued in forcefully calm tones, “Why don’t you sit down, lad?”

Bilbo sighed heavily, the first of several times he would do so throughout the day. He had better get up before the Boffin lad wrecked the smial completely. Had he known that Fatty and Folco would be coming to visit so early in the morning, he would have put all the breakables away last night. Now he would have to settle with telling the teen to be careful and hope that would suffice.

While he was dressing, he heard Frodo come back inside and he wondered why the lad had gone outside in the first place. He caught a brief snatch of whistled song, so he knew Sam was still working undisturbed. He went to the window as he pulled on his waistcoat and pulled back the curtains just enough to peek outside.

The sun was already high and the sky was cloudless. No breeze stirred the distant trees or nearby shrubs. The day would be hot again; he would have to remember to check on Sam later and ensure the lad didn’t attempt to work through the hottest part of the day again. With Hamfast at home with a strained back the last few days, Sam was getting his first taste of working the vast gardens by himself, and the young tween was getting more than a bit frazzled. Sam had gone home nearly falling over with exhaustion last night, and Hamfast had felt compelled to send Daisy up the Hill with a message.

In perfectly respectable tones, Daisy had informed Bilbo that Hamfast would appreciate it if his son, who could be “stubborner than a stuck pig and a ninnyhammer besides,” would be ordered to take his breaks when he needed them, or at the very least to work inside when the sun neared its high point. “It wouldn’t do no good for Sam to take ill, after all,” Daisy had said, her voice kindly but stern as she regarded her youngest brother’s employer. Daisy had always been more of a mother than a sister to Sam, and that showed in her protective stance and tightly crossed arms. “I know you’ve important things to be seeing to, Mr. Bilbo, but I’d of thought Sam’d be one of them.”

Bilbo had apologized profusely for overlooking Sam’s welfare and promised to keep a better eye on the lad today. He had better keep his word, or the Gaffer would have an earful for him when he returned to work next week.

Now Bilbo lowered the curtain back into place and crossed the room to the door. He rested his hand on the doorknob, took a deep breath, and opened the door. A second later, he was dashing to the kitchen, the smell of smoke and burnt food drawing him forward, until…

“Bilbo, be careful!” Frodo warned, holding out his arms to stop his elderly cousin’s forward progress. Frodo had heard Bilbo leave his room and had stood up from his sweeping, ready to explain and give apology for the platter. He only just prevented Bilbo from stepping onto a shard of broken pottery.

Bilbo looked down at what had been, as Frodo had stated earlier, his favorite serving platter, part of a set given to him by his Aunt Belba on her ninetieth birthday. It was the set he used only for the most special of occasions, such as Frodo’s adoption party. How in the Shire had Folco wrested that from the back of the cupboard?

“I’ll do my best to glue it back together, Bilbo,” Frodo offered, even though the damage was beyond repair. There were numerous small splinters and chips of pottery scattered about the floor, and a handful of large pieces that looked ready to break further. Had Folco thrown the thing at the ground? No one would be able to glue all the pieces together. The platter was lost.

Bilbo glanced around the rest of the kitchen and found Folco sitting guiltily at the table, his hands tucked safely beneath his legs and his eyes concentrating intently on the tabletop. Folco didn’t notice Bilbo’s angry glare, but Frodo did. The young heir returned to his sweeping, frowning at Bilbo’s behavior but knowing better than to say anything just now. He heard Bilbo take a long, slow breath and let it out steadily. He could almost hear Bilbo counting to ten under his breath.

Bilbo turned away from Folco and looked at the source of the smoke. Fatty was at the stove, waving a dish towel back and forth over a smoking frying pan of eggs that were so burnt, they looked more like charcoal than anything edible. Fatty noticed Bilbo watching him and shrugged.

“We were cooking breakfast and, well…” Fatty started to explain but trailed off. The scene really didn’t require an explanation.

Bilbo nodded his understanding but couldn’t hide his disappointment. Folco took it as a scolding and lowered his head further in shame, his lower lip trembling. Bilbo sighed and softened his gaze. ‘There’s no use crying over spilt milk,’ as the Gaffer would say. He was about to forgive Folco when he looked about and noticed someone missing. “Where is Merry?” he asked with a start. Whenever Merry was missing and quiet, disaster could not be far behind.

Frodo looked up from his sweeping and said, “He’s outside.” He used that too-innocent tone of his that meant he was hiding something. So, Merry had been causing some sort of mischief and Frodo had gone outside to stop him. As Frodo wasn’t offering up any explanations, Bilbo would have to guess.

“Playing with Samwise I suppose,” Bilbo ventured.

“No,” Frodo said and went back to sweeping. His answer couldn’t be clearer: Bilbo didn’t want to know what Merry had been doing.

“I know they’re friends, but Merry really should let the lad work,” Bilbo continued. “You know how Hamfast can get when he thinks Sam isn’t earning his wages.”

“I know, Bilbo,” Frodo said, his head still lowered over his task. “I’ll remind him again.”

Bilbo nodded and sighed again as the last large pieces of his cherished serving platter were swept into the dustbin. The shattered pieces were a sad sight to behold. Not being able to enter the kitchen, Bilbo backed up to the tunnel and said, “I’ll be in the study then. Call me when breakfast is on the table.”

Frodo looked up now and studied Bilbo carefully, his already concerned expression hardening even further. “You’re seeing a lot of that room of late, more than usual,” he stated, hinting himself.

“Yes, well, it’s a busy time of year, you know,” Bilbo said distractedly and waved his hand impatiently at Frodo’s concern. “Not a worry.” If Frodo could keep secrets, so could Bilbo.

At the stove, Fatty started scrapping the burnt eggs out of the frying pan, creating quite the racket as he did so. “I don’t think this is salvageable,” he stated unnecessarily.

Frodo shook his head at the mess. “No, I would think not.”

At the table, Folco wrinkled his nose at the smell. “Maybe if you add more milk.”

The scrapping stopped as Fatty turned to gape at his friend. Frodo just snickered and went back to sweeping. “Yes, that’ll do the trick: milk,” Fatty said dryly.

Bilbo left the kitchen and made his way to the study, peeking out of the windows along the way. He could see no sign of Merry. The teen must have dashed off to play elsewhere after Frodo had stopped him from doing, well, whatever it was he had been doing. He eyed the garden critically and could see no sign of damage or disturbance. Whatever Merry had been up to, it had not involved the garden at least.

He reached the study and gratefully closed the door behind him. The day had just barely begun and already he could feel a headache coming on. He was simply getting too old for so many youngsters in the smial. He sighed and sat down at his desk. As much as he loved young Merry, he sometimes wished the lad wasn’t so rambunctious.

The teen was visiting again, under the guise of having to give his mother some rest as she recovered from a summer cold. He had arrived just last night and was to stay for the week to attend the Free Fair. Merry had never been to the fair and Frodo was getting the lad quite excited about it, telling him about all the games and feasting to be had. Fatty and Folco were visiting their cousins Griffo and Daisy Boffin for the same reason, and the friends would be here every day until Lithe. Usually, they did not arrive until after second breakfast, but with Merry here, they had apparently decided to come early.

Bilbo shook his head at it all and picked up his register book. Frodo was correct in his observation that Bilbo had been spending a lot of time of late shut inside his study, but Bilbo could not tell the lad why. Not yet. He turned to the last written page to recheck all his calculations and figures from the day before.

Frodo would be thirty-two in just a few short months, and next year, he’ll come of age at last. Bilbo had been anxiously going through all his papers and documents, making sure all were in order and figuring out what exactly Frodo still needed to learn before taking over the mastership of Bag End. The Road was calling to Bilbo again, and he wanted to give himself and Frodo as much time to prepare for his departure as they might need.

He looked at the columns of numbers on the page. After almost sixty years, the gold from the dragon’s hoard was nearly gone. He had no intentions of leaving any of it to Frodo. The majority would be distributed to the poor families in one way or another, and the rest of it would be spent on the expenses for the Birthday Party he was planning. He had sent orders for gifts and party favors to Dale the last time Gandalf came through. He was already receiving notes telling him the dwarves would be pleased to make the gifts and deliver them personally.

Bilbo recalculated the figures on the confirmation notes and subtracted that from his total. That left a good deal of gold to be spent on food and gifts, and it wouldn’t hurt to have a gate built around the Party Field. There would be plenty of time for that later, but he needed to start his lists of gifts. The shopping for that would take quite a while, as this was to be a lavish party, bigger than any other that the Shire had ever seen. That meant a large number of guests, and therefore, a large number of gifts, and not all the gifts he had in mind could be found within the Shire. He wouldn’t really start shopping until next year, but he had to ensure he did not leave out anyone by accident. He checked his list of families and names to ensure all were accounted for, that all children were remembered and that he had their ages reflected accurately. He would have to start inquiring as discreetly as possible what these families needed and the children wanted when the time came.

He turned backwards to another page.

Of his own wealth, which was considerable, he would take very little with him for the journey. He would not need it where he was planning to settle down. The rest would go to Frodo and, of course, since he’ll then be of age, he would become sole benefactor to his parents’ wealth as well. That will see Frodo well provided for the rest of his days, as long as they may be. If and when Frodo ever took a wife, he would have more than enough to provide for her and a smial full of children and keep them as comfortable as they might wish to be.

That was the hardest part of leaving, knowing that once he did, he would never return. He would never meet Frodo’s future wife, unless Frodo miraculously took an interest in a lass within the next year and-a-half. He would never hold any of Frodo’s children in his arms. Would Frodo even marry? Bilbo sincerely hoped so. Living a bachelor’s life was all well and good, but Bilbo had been slightly selfish in adopting Frodo. He never would have had a family otherwise. He had not realized how empty and lonely his life had been until Frodo came to live with him, and he did not want Frodo to feel the same way. The lad had already had enough loneliness in his short life.

Yet for all his and Esmeralda’s efforts, Frodo never seemed satisfied with any lass. When he did show an interest, he double-guessed himself and stalled about until the lass lost interest and moved on to another potential suitor. Frodo almost seemed relieved when that happened, in between all his moping about.

The last time that had happened had been a year ago, and now Frodo had developed a habit whereby he humored Bilbo and Esmeralda but never became interested in any way with the lass he was being set up with. He was respectable and polite, and the lass never had cause to complain, but Frodo’s gentle formality was enough to tell her that the relationship would go no further. Bilbo couldn’t figure it out, and Frodo always managed to get away without having to explain his actions.

Bilbo rested his chin in the palm of his hand. He would simply have to trust Frodo to do what made him happy, and trust Frodo’s friends to make sure he really was happy. Thankfully, Frodo had many devoted and loyal friends and Bilbo could rest easy knowing Frodo was being looked after. If Frodo ever did find a suitable match and settle down, Gandalf would eventually carry the happy news to him.

Bilbo sighed again and opened another ledger, which held his will. He read it over, making certain there were no changes that needed to be made and that nothing in it could be disputed. He flipped to the next pages: Primula’s and Drogo’s wills. No fear of anyone disputing those. Not even Otho would dare attempt to make a claim to any of Drogo’s wealth, and Rorimac will be more than pleased to relinquish control of Primula’s modest estate to Frodo.

No, it was Bag End that would be the crux of any protests and Bilbo had been conscientious of that when he selected his witnesses, who included Master Rorimac, Saradoc, Thain Ferumbras III, Paladin, and Mayor Goodbeck. The current mayor, Will Whitfoot, had been a great admirer of the previous mayor and supported all that he had done for the inhabitants of the Shire. Any protest taken to him would fall on deaf ears and everyone knew it. The sixth and seventh witness were Posco and Ponto Baggins, both chosen for their positions in the family. Posco would have taken the title as head of the Baggins clan had Bilbo not lingered so long, a title not even Otho could lay claim to, for even though Otho was Bilbo’s next of kin, he was by all legalities a Sackville-Baggins. Posco never disputed the title being bequeathed to Frodo instead, and his son Ponto was of similar mind. The will was secure and Frodo would have no worries.

Bilbo lifted his head and rubbed his eyes and temples, trying to ignore the dull, persistent pulse that was pounding there. He stood up to open the window a crack and let in some fresh air, hoping that would help the pain until he had something to eat. He glanced behind him at the clock and wondered what was taking so long for breakfast to be prepared. He hoped that his young cousins hadn’t managed to burn it again.

Just as the thought entered his mind, a loud knock sounded on the door, doubling his headache. “Bilbo!” Frodo called and peeked inside. He took in the scattered piles of papers, books and ledgers without a word.

“Yes Frodo?” Bilbo asked, a little too happily. His cheer sounded forced even to his own ears.

Frodo’s brow instantly knitted in concern. “First breakfast is ready, though we may as well call it second. Are you feeling well?”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine. Don’t bother yourself with me, lad,” Bilbo said and closed his books tight. He had decided he would tell Frodo after the Free Fair, so as not to ruin Frodo’s time with his friends. He also wanted to wait until they were alone; he did not want anyone else knowing of his plans just yet. If Folco should overhear the news, then Bilbo may as well announce it at the Free Fair and be done with it. No, he would wait until after Saradoc and Esmeralda came to visit and took Merry home. By then, everything should be in order and Frodo would still have plenty of time to adjust to the idea before his coming of age next year.

“Bilbo?” Frodo said tentatively.

“Eh?” Bilbo shook himself. He had hesitated too long to follow Frodo and now the lad will really be concerned if Bilbo didn’t say or do something quick. Bilbo clucked his tongue at his young heir and shook his head, ignoring the throbbing. “Look at us, wool-gathering when there’s food on the table, and my stomach grumbling to beat the band. Show me the way, my lad. I take it Meriadoc is in by now.”

“He is,” Frodo said, with an expression and tone that meant he wasn’t going to forget Bilbo’s odd behavior, though he would let it pass for now. Either that, or he was attempting once again to refrain from mentioning any of Merry’s activities.

“You told him not to hang about Samwise while he’s working?” Bilbo hinted and followed Frodo from the room. He sniffed the air and thankfully could not smell anything burning.

“I did, and he won’t. He’s washing up now,” Frodo answered. “I was thinking that later we’d take a picnic by The Water. Wouldn’t that be lovely? The weather is perfect for it, and Fatty and Folco can paddle about while Merry and I swim.”

“That would be wonderful, lad,” Bilbo answered as they entered the kitchen, Bilbo in the lead. He was trying to ignore his headache, which he suddenly found very easy to do as he instantly stubbed his toes on one of the kitchen chairs. “Blast it! What is that doing there?” he growled, as he hopped up and down, his toes throbbing in protest.

“I’m sorry, Bilbo,” Fatty exclaimed. He dashed over from the stove and pushed the chair in. “We had to move the chair to sweep under the table. I was going to put it back, but then the tea kettle started whistling and, well, I forgot.”

Bilbo nodded and pulled out the offending chair to sit down.

“Do you want ice?” Frodo asked.

“No, I’ll be fine, so long as an anvil doesn’t drop on my other foot,” Bilbo said, attempting to keep his tones light, but sounding cross all the same. He looked across the table then to find Folco still sitting exactly as he had been previously. The teen was peeking up at Bilbo beseechingly. “Oh for pity’s sake, it was an accident well enough. I know you didn’t intend to break that platter, but please be careful from now on what you decide to help with. Now get your hands out from under you or you won’t be able to eat this delightful breakfast of… what are we having again?”

Fatty shrugged from the stove as he scooped out what appeared to be an omelet. “I’m not sure. I haven’t named it yet,” he said happily.

“Come again.”

“He had to experiment a little bit,” Frodo explained. “There wasn’t much left in the pantry; we’ll have to go to market soon. But it looks… interesting. I’m sure it will be fine.”

Just then, Merry made his first appearance of the morning. He sat next to Folco and waited expectantly for his food. “Good morning, Bilbo!” Merry greeted with a toothy grin. He was indeed washed up, from head to toe, though he had failed to change his clothes. There were dirt smudges on his waistcoat and what appeared to be either red paint or blood on his shirtsleeve. Bilbo wasn’t sure which he preferred it to be.

“Good morning, Merry-lad,” Bilbo greeted back and eyed the lad critically. “Did you fall in the garden?”

“No, sir!” Merry replied jollily, then turned to Fatty. “What’s in breakfast? It smells delightful. I hope you didn’t let Frodo help you, Fatty, because his omelets always taste funny.”

“Thank you for the vote of confidence,” Frodo said as he sat the first plate in front of Bilbo. “I'll have you know I’m quite a good cook, all the better for Sam spending this last winter giving me tips.”

“Then why didn't you make breakfast?” Merry asked innocently, but grinned mischievously.

“Didn't I tell you to change your clothes?” Frodo said.

“You did but these are new clothes, and they aren’t nearly dirty enough yet.”

“I like your shirt,” Folco stated and pointed to the stain. “Is that paint? Are we painting things? I like blue. Can we paint something blue?”

“Really Folco, where would I get paint from? Thank you, Frodo,” Merry said as Frodo handed him a plate.

“A very good question,” Bilbo muttered as he sniffed the concoction before him.

He heard Fatty shush Folco as he gave his cousin a plate, then Merry picked up his fork and dug into his breakfast. The teen’s enthusiastic chewing gradually slowed until his face grimaced, and he reached quickly for his glass of milk. He swallowed gratefully and wrinkled his nose at the food. “Ugh. You did let Frodo help.”

“I didn’t help,” Frodo said defensively. “Stop joking about and eat your food. There’s nothing wrong with it. See, Folco’s eating.”

“What is in this again?” Bilbo asked, looking down at the omelet uncertainly. If Merry didn’t want to eat it, that was telling enough for him. He looked up and watched as Folco ate without any reservations, but this did little to ease Bilbo’s concerns as Folco will eat anything put before him. Fatty went back to the stove and split the rest of the omelet between him and Frodo.

“Well, there’s ham, eggs, sour cream and cheese,” Fatty said. He and Frodo sat down and Frodo took a large bite. “Then I added potatoes, peppers, onions, garlic, parsley and chives.”

Bilbo, Fatty and Merry watched Frodo closely. The young heir suddenly stopped chewing and looked ready to gag. He schooled his expression with effort and forced himself to swallow, then reached for his tea. After a long drink, he looked at Fatty and asked, “Are you certain that’s all you put in here?”

Fatty nodded. “Just that, and pickle juice.”

“Pickle juice?” Merry cried. “You should have let Frodo cook.”

“What’s wrong with pickle juice? Mother uses pickled eggs all the time. It’s the same thing,” Fatty said and ate a bite of his omelet. He swallowed quickly and reached for his tea. “Maybe we can get something to eat in town.”

“That was delicious!” Folco exclaimed as he polished off his meal, oblivious to all else. He licked his lips and looked at Fatty expectantly. “Is there more?” Four full plates were pushed in his direction. He grinned from ear to ear and continued eating happily.

“I’m sorry, Bilbo,” Frodo said. “There’s still some ham and a bit of bread. I could make you a sandwich if you like.”

“I’ll take care of myself, lad,” Bilbo said and stood up, his stomach protesting its lost meal, not caring that it probably would have rejected it anyway. “Why don’t you make a list of what we need from market and take your friends with you into town? I’ll give you some extra coins so you can stop at the inn and get something to eat.”

Bilbo managed to scrape together a thin sandwich and diced up the last two apples to mash into a sauce. He took his meal and cup of tea into the study while Frodo, Merry, Folco and Fatty went through the pantries and made their lists. Bilbo was finishing the last of his meal when Frodo called from the entrance hall that they were leaving now. He waited for the door to close behind them and listened to the resounding silence that filled the smial, and sighed with relief. Finally, some peace and quiet.

He opened his ledger and pulled out his list of names of the working families. He turned to a fresh sheet and started jotting down ideas for gifts for each individual hobbit. He started with the Goodloves, who resided in Number One, Bagshot Row. They were a hard-working and jovial couple, with two lovely tween daughters. The lasses were always in want of clothes and pretty things. A new bonnet and parasol, with matching ribbons of lace, and perhaps a petticoat for the winter, would serve them both nicely.

Bilbo became absorbed in his work, or at least, he tried to. Every time he began to get involved with his planning, the headache would make itself known again, growing more persistent and demanding with every minute it was ignored. Bilbo found himself staring blankly out the window or glaring at the portraits on the wall just as often as he was struggling over his lists, yet somehow he managed to keep plugging away.

He finished with the Goodloves and went on to the Twofoots, completely unaware of the passing of time or the heat of the day that was pouring in through the window. He blamed his sluggishness on the headache and lack of a proper meal, and forced himself to keep up with his task. He was halfway through the Gamgees when he was interrupted by someone knocking rather persistently at the front door. He grumbled at the interruption and went to answer the call. He instantly forgot his annoyance as he looked upon his visitor, the most astounding sight to have ever greeted him there, including thirteen unexpected dwarves.

“Wi- Widow Rumble,” he stuttered in surprise, both that she had ventured from her home and up the Hill, and because she was holding a grey cat whose tail had recently been painted red. His stomach dropped at the sight, but he schooled his face into one of innocent curiosity. “How are you this fine morning?”

“I’ll tell you how I am, Mr. Baggins,” Widow Rumble started hotly. “Little Basil comes ta me this morn sayin’ as he saw me Misty here dartin’ from yer gardens as if she’d been set on fire. She squirreled herself up a tree and wouldn’t come down for nobody, so Basil comes ta fetch me. I finally get her ta come down and what do I find? Me Misty’s tail painted red! She was all but dipped into a paint bucket by the looks of it. Her tail’s completely covered over! She wasn’t like this afore she was in yer gardens, sir, so it could only have happened here to my way o’ thinkin’. I know that Brandybuck cousin o’ yers is stayin’ about. I saw the carriage come up the Hill yestereve, and everyone knows what a rascal that child can be, beggin’ yer pardon and meanin’ no disrespect, sir. But in my mind, there’s only one way this could o’ happened. I want something done about this, Mr. Baggins, and I want it done now!”

“Yes, of course,” Bilbo managed to say as his headache came pounding back, doubly strong. First Folco and now this. Frodo had known, of course, and hadn’t told him. Even Fatty had known. Yet as guilty as the lad appeared to be, Bilbo didn’t want to condemn Merry before he had a chance to speak with the lad. “As soon as they return from market, I’ll ask Merry what he knows about this.”

“He knows a great deal is my wager,” the widow said, not coddled in the least by the assurance of action. “I’ll expect me an apology at the very least, and I could use someone as can clean out me gutters. An honest day’s work is what that lad needs.”

“I’ll have a word with him, I assure you,” Bilbo promised, hoping that would be enough to send the widow away. She continued standing there however, and she and Misty scowled at him unpleasantly. “He could even cut the grass for you if you like,” Bilbo offered in desperation as he fingered his pounding temples. Maybe if he went down to the cold cellar that would help his headache.

“And what about me Misty’s tail?” Widow Rumble asked, and Misty meowed pathetically. “Is she just ta look like this then?”

Bilbo racked his tired brain for a solution and hoped his young cousins would not be long in returning. If he had to take much more of this, he just might have to strangle Merry when next he saw the child. He glanced at his pocket watch to check the time and winced. It was only noon and they had only been gone for a couple of hours. A second later, he was bolting out the door and down the garden path. It was noon!

The heat hit him full-force as soon as he stepped outside and he was sweating profusely by the time he reached the side gardens. He all but skipped down the stone steps to the lower garden, where he found Sam working still, in full exposure of the unrelenting sun, his shirt discarded long ago, his breeches soaked through with sweat, his tanned skin flushed red.

“Samwise, stop what you’re doing this instant!” Bilbo puffed, startling the young gardener out of his wits.

Sam jumped back from the weeding and looked up at his master with a mixture of concern and guilt. “I’m sorry, sir. Is it not to your liking?” Sam asked, squinting into the sun, then he looked past Bilbo as Widow Rumble came into view.

“I don’t appreciate yer runnin’ off like that when we’re havin’ words, Mr. Baggins,” the widow was hollering. “‘Tisn’t proper, not one bit.” The widow caught up with Bilbo and looked down at Sam’s flushed face. “You need water and a bit of shade, lad.”

“Precisely,” Bilbo puffed, catching his breath. “I didn’t mean to startle you, lad, but you must get inside out of this heat. I meant to fetch you earlier, but it slipped my mind I’m afraid. And I do apologize for leaving you like that, Amelia. I will see that Merry comes to you later to apologize if he was indeed the guilty party, and you can put him to any tasks that he is capable of completing.”

“And Misty’s tail?”

“Misty’s tail?” Sam asked, attempting to follow the conversation. He looked at the cat in Widow Rumble’s arms and seemed caught between wanting to laugh and not wanting to offend the widow. He eventually settled on saying, “Some soap and water ought to get that out right enough, and if not, then turpentine’ll work.”

“Turpentine!” Widow Rumble exclaimed. “That’ll take her fur off. This sun has made you mad.”

“It won’t harm her none. I used it on my Nibbler once when he got himself into some wood dye,” Sam said. “Just dip a rag in some and use that to wash it off. It’ll take a few tries afore it’s all off, I wager, but it’ll do the job right nice. I’ve some in the shed, along with soap.”

“Next to the red paint, I wager,” Widow Rumble said starkly.

“Yes.”

“Sam,” Bilbo interrupted. “Please, lad, go inside and take some rest. Get yourself some water. The weeds can wait until a cooler part of the day. I’ll take the widow to the shed and get the necessary supplies.”

“I’m fine, Mr. Bilbo, honest. I can take her sir,” Sam said. “There’s shade in the shed and you can’t be going in there, Mr. Bilbo. It isn’t proper.”

“Samwise, you are to go inside and sit in the parlor. I want you to drink one full glass of water immediately, and then sip on a second while you rest. I will not be argued with,” Bilbo ordered, and Sam cowed back.

“Yes sir,” Sam agreed, though he did not see the point in it. He really was feeling fine.

He put his tools down, reached for his shirt, and stood up. Almost immediately, his vision failed him and he swayed slightly. He managed to keep his feet, but it was several moments before his vision cleared enough for him to realize that Bilbo was gripping him by the arms rather tightly.

When Sam was able to focus and stand on his own again, Bilbo saw him to the smial, then took Widow Rumble around the back of the gardens to the shed. He looked around the cluttered outbuilding and scratched his head. How can Sam or Hamfast possibly find anything in here? After several minutes standing there and looking about, he finally spotted the can of red paint and moved toward it. He looked about on the shelves above it and found several other cans and jars. He looked through each can until he found the turpentine, not being able to locate the soap, then assisted Widow Rumble in holding her cat down to remove the paint with a soaked rag.

An hour later, Bilbo saw Widow Rumble and Misty to the gate. His shirt and waistcoat were drenched in turpentine and snagged in several places by sharp claws. The pungent fumes had not improved his headache in the slightest, and there were so many scratches on his arms, he could no longer tell the paint stains from the blood. At least Misty was now back to her normal colors and purring happily in her mistress’s arms, though she would need a bath when she returned home.

Bilbo went up to the smial, wondering if his cousins had returned yet. By the silence that greeted him, he knew they must still be at market. He walked down the tunnel, intending to wash up and change his clothes, when he caught sight of movement in the kitchen. He entered the room to find Sam at the washbasin, scrubbing the frying pan.

“Sam-lad, you’re supposed to be resting,” Bilbo reminded the young gardener.

“Aye, sir, I did rest and had some water like you said,” Sam answered, still scrubbing away, sweating almost as bad as he had been in the garden, though he was much more alert and clear-headed now. “Someone really did a number on this frying pan. Even boiling water in it didn’t break loose the food.”

“Leave that for Fredegar,” Bilbo insisted. “I want you to take it easy, lad. I don’t need to be scolded by your sister again on top of everything else.”

“Again?” Sam asked and looked up for the first time since Bilbo entered the room. He took in Bilbo’s disheveled appearance with a thoughtful hum. “Mayhap a brush would have worked better. Cats like getting their tails brushed, or most of them do anyhow. Would you like some luncheon, Mr. Bilbo? That’s easy.”

Bilbo sighed, not able to fight it anymore. This day was running him over and he hadn’t the energy to explain to Sam that wasn’t what he had meant by taking it easy. “Yes, lad, that would be nice, so long as you don’t put yourself out too much. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be washing up.”

“I can ready a bath for you, sir,” Sam said, putting down the frying pan to soak in the suds and preparing to head for the bathing room.

Bilbo shook his head sternly. “I can draw and prepare my own bath, Sam. You just worry yourself with luncheon, if you’re going to insist on doing something. Mind you, there isn’t much food about the smial. You may want to wait until Frodo returns from market.”

“I’ll manage it, sir. I’ll call when all’s ready.”

“Thank you lad.”

Bilbo grabbed some fresh clothes from his bedchamber and retreated to his bathing room. He closed the door soundly behind him and leaned against it for support. Was this day ever going to improve?

He drew a bath, keeping the water cool in light of the stifling day, and slipped gratefully into the tub. He stayed there for several minutes, just resting, letting his mind wander as it may. It eventually brought him back to the will and his decision to leave and his desire to see Frodo settled. There had to be at least one lass in all the Shire stubborn and persistent enough to break through Frodo’s shell. Why couldn’t he find her, why couldn’t he do this one thing for Frodo?

He pushed the problem from his mind and set to washing the blood and paint off himself. He was just finished bathing and was in the process of dressing when a light knock sounded on the door. “Mr. Bilbo, sir,” came Sam’s soft voice. “Your luncheon’s ready.”

“Thank you, lad,” Bilbo said, his stomach grumbling excitedly. Finally, he would get to eat some real food, though he knew he couldn’t hope for much. The silence of the smial told him that his cousins still had not returned with their provisions. What in blazes could be taking them so long? He could only hope that the delay didn’t mean there would be more irate widows pounding on the door.

Bilbo quickly finished dressing and let the water out of the tub. He shuffled down the hall and entered the kitchen, and gasped with surprise. A bowl of thick cream soup was sitting on the table, along with buttered muffins, sliced pears smothered in boysenberry jam, watermelon, water biscuits and cheese, and cooled tea. “Sam, I just might pull you out of the garden and hire you as cook,” Bilbo said cheerily as he sat down. “This is delightful. I didn’t think there was enough left in the pantry for all this.”

Sam blushed shyly and muttered something, then stood about nervously by the stove. “What are you wanting me to do, sir?” he asked as last. “I’ve already checked the potted plants and replaced the flowers in all the vases, and I trimmed back the fichus in the breakfast nook.”

“Stars above, sit down and eat, lad,” Bilbo said and patted the seat catty-corner to him. “Keep me company until that lazy cousin of mine comes back. Tell me how your father and sisters are fairing through this weather.”

So Sam sat down and enjoyed luncheon with Bilbo. He was slow to open up, as he always was, but soon enough he was rambling on about his father’s grumpiness at being bed-laid and his sisters’ various activities. Seems Daisy has found herself a suitor, the Woodrow’s youngest lad. Gaffer wasn’t certain he approved of the match yet, but he was willing to give it a chance seeing as Daisy was so happy. Gaffer made it clear they’d have another five years to wait before making any wedding plans though; he didn’t take with letting his daughters marry before they came of age like some other fathers did.

Sam was in the middle of recounting how the Gaffer had caught May swooning over one of the Proudfoot lads, when Frodo and his friends finally returned from market. Sam instantly jumped up and stirred the fire in the stove when he heard the front door open. “Are you hungry, Master Frodo? I made enough for all of you,” he called.

Frodo came into the kitchen, his arms loaded with a basket of fruit. He took in the food with an astonished look. “However did you manage to find anything to cook with, Sam?” Frodo asked incredulously. Across the tunnel, Bilbo could hear the other three lads cramming into the pantries, and getting into each other’s way as they put their purchases away.

Sam shrugged, blushing again. “There was enough for a small meal,” he answered, fidgeting uncertainly. “Did you want some food then, sir?”

“Of course,” Frodo answered. “Your cooking is always a treat.”

Merry came into the kitchen then and smiled at Sam. “You’re out of the gardens. Can you play now?”

“Nay, Master Merry, I’m still working.”

“Where did the pears come from?” Frodo asked.

“But you’re not in the gardens anymore. How can you still be working? We’re going to take a picnic by The Water. You’ll come, won’t you?”

“I’m certain there weren’t any pears in the pantry when we left.”

“Meriadoc, I need to have a word with you.”

“I can’t go on a picnic, Master Merry. I’ve weeding as needs to get finished as soon as Mr. Bilbo will let me.”

“Meriadoc, did you hear me?”

“We finished putting everything away, Frodo. Let me give you a hand with that fruit. Who made luncheon? Though I suppose it’s closer to tea now isn’t it?”

“I love cream soup! And pears! I love pears! But cream soup is my most favorite.”

“These muffins weren’t in the pantries either. Where did all this come from?”

“Then maybe Bilbo can tell you to go on the picnic with us. Then you’d still be working.”

“Merry, leave Sam be. He has responsibilities.”

“I brought a few things up from home, Master Frodo. It’s not a bother.”

“And creamed corn, and cream of wheat, and butter crème.”

“Is there anything with cream you don’t like?”

“You should not have done that, Sam.”

“Meriadoc, I am not going to repeat myself.”

“And whipped cream.”

“I thought we got two bags of apples.”

“It wasn’t a bother, honest.”

“Folco, be careful!”

THUMP!

“Sorry.”

“I want you to come with us though. Why do you always have to work?”

“MERIADOC! I am speaking to you!”

Five sets of eyes looked at Bilbo in blank shock. Merry edged over so he was slightly hidden behind Frodo, and Folco did likewise with Fatty. Sam tried to make himself as small as he could and backed into the countertop, out of the way. He probably should have left, but he hadn’t been given leave to go and he didn’t wish to upset Bilbo further. Silence settled over the previously noisy kitchen as Bilbo attempted to pull himself together, to little avail.

“I’m sorry to have yelled, my lad, but I do need to speak with you,” Bilbo said at last, his tone more even and tight, for all that he tried to sound gentle, and anger was still evident in his eyes.

“What has Merry done?” Frodo asked, taking his young cousin’s defense. He could feel Merry tightly clutching his hand.

“You know perfectly well what he has done, Frodo,” Bilbo said. “You’re the one who rushed outside this morning to stop him from painting that cat completely over.”

“Oh, that.”

“Yes, that. What do you have to say for yourself, Merry?”

Merry peeked out from behind Frodo and meekly answered, “I asked the cat if she wanted her tail red and she meowed. I thought that meant yes, but then she started kicking and hissing, so I figured it meant no. So I tried to wash it off, but she didn’t like the water either and kept running away.”

“Of course she didn’t like it,” Bilbo said. “Would you like it if someone came along and put your bum in can of red paint? I should think not. Not only that, but I had to endure being scolded by Widow Rumble for the mistreatment her cat took upon my property. You’re going to go down to her home and apologize, and you’re going to do whatever she asks you to do as punishment. And you Frodo, how could you not tell me something like this? I was ill-prepared for the verbal attack I received at Merry’s expense.”

“I didn’t want to bother you with it, Bilbo,” Frodo said. “You’ve been rather grouchy lately and I didn’t think it would do any good getting you upset over nothing. As for apologizing to Widow Rumble, we have already done so, Merry for his ill behavior, and I for not watching him as closely as I should have been. We stopped by on our way to market, but she wasn’t there, so we went again on our way back. She accepted the apologies, and we’ll both be doing chores at her home tomorrow.”

“Oh,” Bilbo said lamely. He fidgeted with his waistcoat and regarded Frodo and Merry dubiously. “I’m sorry. You’re right, Frodo. I am not feeling quite myself today. Perhaps I’ll go lie down for a bit.”

“You haven’t been yourself for a while, Bilbo. I really do think I should call for the healer,” Frodo said.

“No, no, I shall be fine. Call me when supper is ready.”

Bilbo left the still-silent kitchen and headed down the tunnel to his room. He closed the door softly behind him and went to his wardrobe. He opened the drawer where he kept his smallclothes, dug through them to the very back and pulled out a small box with a lock. He reached into his waistcoat pocket for the key and unlocked the box. Inside, lay a gold ring of simple make. Bilbo frowned down at it, picked it up and held it in his opened palm.

“Well, I tried to leave you be, but you wouldn’t let me,” Bilbo muttered to it. It glinted in the sunlight coming through the bedchamber window. Bilbo closed his fist around it and grudgingly slipped it into his pocket. Yes, it was definitely time to leave the Shire, and all that was in it, behind.

The End.
 

“It has been growing on my mind lately. Sometimes I have felt it was like an eye looking at me. And I am always wanting to put it on and disappear, don’t you know; or wondering if it is safe, and pulling it out to make sure. I tried locking it up, but I found I couldn’t rest without it in my pocket.” ~ FOTR, A Long-Expected Party
 

GF 2/17/06