Chapter 52. About a year later

 ‘He’s been expecting you since yesterday, Mayor Sam,’ Hilly said as they reached the Thain’s study. He tapped on the door, opened it and motioned Sam to wait.

Pippin evidently had not heard the light tap. As the door closed behind Hilly, Sam craned to catch a glimpse of the Thain at his desk, head resting upon one arm, eyes closed, looking weary and ill.

When the door opened shortly after to admit the Mayor, the Thain was rising from his desk wearing a broad smile, already extending one hand in welcome. Sam might have dismissed the momentary glimpse as an illusion but for his experience with his beloved Mr. Frodo, who had also been adept at hiding his ills.

 ‘Well come, Samwise!’ Pippin said. ‘Have a seat!’ He sat down himself, nodding to Reginard.

 ‘Some ale, perhaps, Mayor Sam?’ Regi said. The stocks of brandy that Merry had sent for a Yuletide present were low; Pippin had decreed that all the rest be reserved for healers’ use, but there was no lacking of the Thain’s private stock, brewed as it was from Tookland’s own barley.

 ‘Don’t mind if I do,’ Sam said easily. He relaxed and settled in his chair.

The Great Smials was as shabby as ever, if you looked at the ancient furnishings and faded tapestries, but every surface that could be scrubbed shone: no dust was to be seen, no cobwebs survived the determined efforts of the servants, and the wooden surfaces gleamed with wax and polishing. When the Gamgees had pulled up in the courtyard the many windows had sparkled in the westering sun, and the stones of the courtyard themselves had been swept and scrubbed. What the Tooks lacked in materials they made up for in determination.

Pippin had brought Tookland through the year somehow, even surviving a disastrous fire that had burned half the crops between Tookbank and Tuckborough. The Thain had won the respect of the Tooks with his quick response to the fire, his organisation of the fight, and his foresight in bringing black powder to Tookland, which was given the credit for stopping the fire before it roared over the Great Hill and through Tuckborough.

The pile of coins did not quite make up for the loss of the All-Shire purses, but it helped, along with the Thain’s confession, and subsequent cost-cutting measures. As it was the road to Bywater had not been built, for some farmers had balked at a road running through their fields, but it was just as well. Pippin hadn't the coin to pay the workers anyhow. He and Regi had scrimped and saved and schemed to keep up with all the other expenses. Now that this year's harvests were beginning, they were starting to gain some breathing-room, but it had been a difficult fight. Still, another barley harvest was on the horizon, and better than last year’s, and another All-Shire race would be run soon...

 ‘How’s Ferdibrand?’ Sam said. ‘Though the hobbits of Longbottom wished us to stay over an extra week, we cut the visit short when we heard he’d fallen in the final Tookland Race and been trampled nearly to death!’

 ‘He’s on his feet,’ Pippin said, ‘and he was nearly trampled to death, ‘tis true; they got the words right but in the wrong order.’

 ‘Ah,’ Sam said, leaning back in relief. He accepted the glass from Regi and sipped appreciatively.

 ‘I wish I could say the same for Socks,’ Pippin said, sitting back and ignoring his own ale.

 ‘Socks?’ Sam said.

 ‘His racing days are over, I’m afraid,’ Pippin replied. ‘Old Tom was able to save him, but that knee will never stand up to serious effort. They had to put down the other pony, you know.’

Socks and a chestnut pony from the South Farthing had been running ahead of the rest in a semi-final race when they collided and went down with their riders, leaving one pony with a broken leg, the other lamed, and the two riders injured, though they survived by some miracle the pounding hoofs of the field running over and around them to the finish.

Ferdinand did not see his son go down under the thundering hoofs—he had passed on peacefully not long after the All-Shire Race, in proper hobbit-fashion, after a fine meal and a satisfying smoke.

 ‘And what of the Litheday cup?’ Samwise said, his glance going to the silver cup on the mantel, the trophy from last year’s All-Shire Race, which the Bracegirdles had unexpectedly presented to the Thain, though they'd kept the winner's purse. In all truth, their pony had taken fourth place, behind two ponies wearing Tookland's colours.

 ‘Penny will run; she is the fastest pony in Tookland, now,’ Pippin said.

 ‘Will Ferdi be well enough to ride her?’ Sam said.

 ‘He has a broken arm and got knocked on the noggin into the bargain,’ Pippin said, ‘but he’s determined to ride nonetheless.’ He smiled and seemed to change the subject. ‘You might congratulate me, Samwise; I’m to marry off one of my sisters.’

 ‘Pervinca found a husband?’ Sam said.

 ‘Not that one,’ Pippin replied. ‘Though I am sending her off... she’s gone through all the books to be found in the Great Smials, and now I will foist her off on the Brandybucks, to devour their library. No, it’s Nell.’

Samwise was surprised, for it was almost unheard-of for a widow to marry. ‘Pimpernel will marry again?’ he said politely.

 ‘Indeed she will be married, and to the hobbit she ought to have married in the first place. Ferdi!’ Pippin said, enjoying the Mayor’s surprise.

 ‘Ferdi!’ Samwise said, in astonishment and delight. ‘Wonderful news!’ The head of escort would no longer walk lonely; Pimpernel would bring six little hobbits to the marriage and Ferdibrand would be husband and father in one.

***

The little Gamgees held back upon beholding their “uncle” Ferdi at tea in the great room, put off by the arm bound up in its sling and the fading bruises on his countenance.

He grinned broadly and held out his uninjured arm. ‘Who will sit at the escorts’ table with me?’ he said. ‘Surely my little golden-haired lass will join me? Goldi?’

The tiny hobbit moved to take the outstretched hand. ‘Unca Ferdi?’ she lisped.

Ferdi picked her up and settled her in the crook of his good arm. ‘Uncle Ferdi, as I live and breathe,’ he affirmed, and she threw her little arms about his neck and burst into tears.

 ‘What’s this now?’ he said, mystified.

Frodo Gamgee said, ‘You know how the Talk goes... the hobbits returning to the South Farthing from the Tookland Races said...’

 ‘Ah,’ Ferdi nodded wisely, holding Goldi a bit tighter. He quoted the old tale about the son of a Took who went a wandering and returned to find his possessions auctioned off: ‘The reports of my death have been slightly exaggerated.’

At this the rest of the young Gamgees moved forward to embrace him, to be joined by half-a-dozen more little hobbits until it seemed the head of escort would drown in a sea of hugs.

Pimpernel, standing nearby with Diamond and Rose Gamgee, smiled at the sight.

 ‘It appears he’ll make a good father to your little ones,’ Rose said.

 ‘They already call him “Ferdi-da”,’ Pimpernel answered. Her face was bright with joy.

Tea was a happy affair, after which the littlest hobbits were sent off to bed. Faramir was allowed to stay up, to play with a few cousins and his friends Merry-lad and Pippin-lad Gamgee for a time in the Thain’s many-roomed suite. Ah but the joy of it, “I-hide-and-you-seek-me” with so many little hobbits!

The game continued until Eventides, with no one quite realising that it had been quite awhile since Farry had been found. This happened sometimes: the seeker would be chosen, the others would scatter and hide, only to be found one by one, but if a hider had found a particularly choice spot he might choose to stay hid into another round of the game.

Elanor had appeared to shepherd the remainder of her younger brothers to the Mayor’s suite, for the evening meal and bedtime, and Pimpernel came for her own young ones, but when the excitement of “good night” wishes died down it became apparent that no little Farry was in evidence.

 ‘Don’t disturb the Mistress,’ Sandy, Pippin’s personal hobbitservant said smoothly. ‘It’s possible he hid himself and fell asleep. Young hobbits sometimes do.’

No one had seen young Farry outside the Thain’s suite, and it would have been bad form for him to hide outside the suite of rooms in any event. Surely he was behind a sofa, or under a bed, or in a wardrobe... An hour of determined searching and calling, however, unearthed no small son of the Thain.

Ferdibrand had come in search of Pimpernel, for he’d taken on himself the cheerful task of telling her little ones a story at bedtime, every evening since the betrothal. He had sent her off with her older sons, to join the little ones already sitting at table, promising that he’d aid in the search and return to them with news “the moment we find the lad, the very moment, Nell-my-own!”

He organised the searchers, Tolly to take the sitting room, Meadowsweet the “blue” room, Sandy the “green” room, young Dobby the Thain’s study, and so forth. Ferdi searched the Thain’s bedchamber. At least this way the searching hobbits wouldn’t be tumbling over each other, searching one wardrobe two or three times while missing another.

He was almost certain that Farry was not here. He’d searched under the bed, in the little trundle; he’d unrolled the roll of blankets at the foot of the bed, climbed upon a stool to poke through the folded blankets on the shelf in one of the large wardrobes, patted the jumpers folded and lying upon another shelf, rummaged through the hanging garments, and still no Farry.

He stood up rather too abruptly and suffered a dizzy spell, his half-healed head swimming alarmingly. He tumbled forward into the wardrobe, putting out his good hand to catch himself. With his luck he’d break that arm and have no use of his hands at all!

But no... instead there was a soft click as his hand pressed something hard but yielding on the back wall of the built-in wardrobe. Dwarf-made he seemed to hear Pippin whisper in his ear, as the solid-seeming wall moved inwards and Ferdi tumbled, landing on something soft but small that gave an oof as he landed on it.

 ‘Farry?’ he said breathlessly.

 ‘Uncle Ferdi?’ Faramir said sleepily. (He’d been so pleased to learn that Ferdi would become his uncle upon his marriage to Auntie Nell!)

 ‘What is this place?’ Ferdi said. His voice echoed in the darkness.

 ‘It’s my hiding place; isn’t it grand?’ Farry said. ‘It’s where I come when I don’t want anyone to find me!’

 ‘Grand, all right,’ Ferdi said. He arose cautiously and reached behind him to find the “door” had closed silently once more. ‘How do we get out?’

 ‘Just push,’ Farry said nonchalantly, just as if he hadn’t been “trapped” here on an earlier occasion, pushed in panic at the stone wall, and tumbled into the wardrobe once more in an ecstasy of relief.

Ferdi pushed, and the wall yielded easily. Just to be sure, he told Farry to prop it open while he fetched a lamp (and called off the search). He was curious about this space. It appeared on none of the plans of the Great Smials that he’d seen, the door was disguised and smacked of dwarf-ingenuity, and though he’d heard mention of secret rooms and passages, he’d never seen one with his own eyes and had come to doubt the stories as wishful thinking on the part of young, adventure-seeking Tooks.

 ‘Have you never brought a lamp in here?’ he asked young Farry as he returned, lamp in hand.

 ‘Once,’ Farry said. ‘It’s deep in dust, just a lot of boring boxes and crates is all. I couldn’t get any of them to open.’

 ‘Ah,’ Ferdi said. Farry was just a little hobbit, after all, and lids of chests were often too heavy—a-purpose—for curious little hobbits to lift.

Faramir was right: the cavernous room was deep in dust. Ferdi saw a line of dust-filled footprints leading to the nearest crates, but the only recent disturbance in the dust was where Farry had sat, or slumped against the wall when he fell asleep after hiding.

He gave the lamp to Farry to hold whilst he wrestled with the top of the nearest crate. It was awkward, having only one good hand, but at last the heavy cover budged and allowed itself to be moved aside. Ferdi and Farry peered in wonder into lamp-washed brightness...