The afternoon of the twenty-fourth brought a clatter down the lane as a great big cart drawn by a full-grown horse lumbered into view from the parlour window.  It was empty.  Dad got up from where he was sitting and peered out to see who was driving it as it pulled to a stop in front of the door.

“Lily, me dear?” he said.

“Yes?” said Mum.

“Do you know if any of the guest rooms are made up?”

“Why?”

“We may be having company.  Rosie, go and find Mr. Frodo and tell him that his cousins are here.”

Rosie had seen Captains Merry and Pippin, of course, after the battle and the other times that they had come over to visit with their cousin, but she still didn’t quite know what to make of them.  On the one hand they were gentry, much more obviously gentry than Mr. Frodo, with their fine airs and their gallantry and their mail that glinted so bright in the sun (at least Sam had taken his off as soon as things were safe!).  But they behaved in such a free and easy manner with Tom and Jolly, who had nothing but good words for them; and sometimes even with her, even though she had hardly seen them in her life!  And perhaps they could be excused with her brothers, since after all they had fought together, but she was increasingly afraid that this was how they acted around everyone.  They must cut a fine swath among the lasses, she thought.

She had to knock three times before Mr. Frodo answered, and when he did his voice sounded distant.  Hesitantly she opened the door; he was sitting in a chair and had his finger thrust into the pages of a book.

“Please, Mr. Frodo,” she said, “your cousins are here and I was sent to tell you.”

“My cousins?” he said.  He blinked.  “Really?”  A smile spread across his face.  “Whatever for?”

“I don’t know,” said Rosie, “but they were driving a large cart.”

“Did it have anything in it?”

“Not as far as I can tell.”

“Hum,” he said.  “Ah!  They must have taken the furnishings from Crickhollow and moved them over!  That is splendid; it should mean I won’t have to impose upon your family much longer.  And perhaps when I’ve moved back home I’ll be able to start putting more pressure on Sam.”

Rosie wondered, not for the first time, if perhaps Mr. Frodo was taking Sam’s courtship a little too seriously.

“Well!” he said, marking his book with a bit of fabric, “I can’t be seen disappointing such illustrious personages as my two fair cousins, can I?  Would you care to accompany me to the parlour, Miss Cotton?”  He bowed and proffered his arm.

“Oh, Mr. Frodo!” she said, blushing quite furiously.  “Don’t be ridiculous!”  And she batted his arm away and scampered down the hall to help her mother.

By the time Merry and Pippin actually entered the Cotton home, Rosie was buried in the larder helping her mother find a few morsels to set out for the guests, but that didn’t keep her from hearing the boisterous greetings as they came inside.

“Frodo!”  She could hear laughter; it seemed at times that Mr. Frodo’s cousins did nothing but laugh.

“Heavens, Pippin!  Can’t you learn to hug a fellow without knocking the wind from him?” 

“Oh, don’t tell me the Cottons have softened you up that much, Cousin!”

“No, I think I’ve rather improved for all the peace and quiet, no thanks to you!”

“Fine, I know when I’m not wanted.  Merry, let’s just go back—”

“Actually, I don’t think Frodo raised any objection to my being here.”

“Indeed I did not, Merry.  Pippin, on the other hand—”

There was more laughter; Rosie found herself imagining that Mr. Pippin had contorted his face into some sort of grotesquery in response to his undignifying treatment.  When she came out a few minutes later to set out the plates and pewter the conversation had settled into amiable chatter.

“Really,” Mr. Pippin was saying, “Crickhollow has been such a blessing to us; I can’t thank you enough for letting us have it.  Ah!” he said, seeing Rosie setting a plate before him.  “Miss Rose!  Does that mean what I think it means?”

“I—I don’t know, sir.  What do you think it means?”

“Really, Pippin,” Mr. Merry said, “you should learn how to be a better houseguest.”  He inclined his head towards her.  “Thank you, Rosie.”

“You’re quite welcome, Mr. Merry.”

Merry gave Pippin a smile that would have sat better on a wise and benevolent schoolmaster.  Rosie would have laughed had she not been made a part of the joke—instead she got a queer feeling in the pit of her stomach which she tried her best to ignore as she finished her task.

When she got to Mr. Frodo’s place, he quietly thanked her, and for a moment it was as if his cousins weren’t even there.  Her smile was genuine, then, heartfelt and relieved of she knew not what.  Then the moment passed and Mr. Frodo returned to his kin.

“Tell me, Merry,” he said, “how did things go on the fifteenth?”

“How do you mean?”

“Was anything wrong?”

“Well—I was a bit sad, if that’s what you’re talking about.  But nothing beyond what I rather expected.”

“Good.”

And as Rosie left the parlour, she was able to hear Mr. Merry, with more than a touch of suspicion in his voice, asking, “Why?”

*  *  *

Rosie did not take tea with them, but after supper when the whole family gathered round the hearth Mr. Frodo asked her to pull her chair next to his and she had not the heart to gainsay him.

“Hullo again, Rosie,” said Mr. Pippin.

“Really, you didn’t say ‘hullo’ to her the first time,” said Frodo mildly.

“I didn’t?  I’m terribly sorry, Rosie—that was rather rude of me, I’m afraid.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Merry, “you had better be polite to Miss Rose or you’ll never hear the end of it from Sam.”

Rosie blushed a pretty shade and twisted her hands in her skirts.

“He talked about you on the way back home,” said Pippin.  “You’d have thought he was never going to see you again.”

He wasn’t, Rosie thought, for she had heard enough from Mr. Frodo to know, not when he was in the Black Land.

“Has he spoken yet?”

“Mr. Merry!”

“Merry,” said Mr. Frodo, “please.”

“Well, if he hasn’t, I’ll have to pound some sense into him.  With words, of course,” he added at Rosie’s alarmed look.  “I’m just shocked he hasn’t married you already.”

Rosie lifted up her chin and tried very hard not to think of how these gentry folks she had seen so little knew so much about her Sam, and so much about her, nor how much she had wished someone would have done the very same thing Mr. Merry was offering to do to Sam in the past.  “He’s been busy,” she said.

“Very busy, no doubt,” said Mr. Pippin, “and so have we all.  But—”

“And it’s not very polite to go off marrying a lass when the Shire’s still broken.”  She shut her mouth, quickly and firmly, and her eyes darted round to see if Mum or Dad had noticed her misspeaking.

“Be that as it may,” said Merry, “if I were you I’d be getting rather impatient.  First he up and leaves you for a year, and then—”

But whatever else he said Rosie did not hear.  This hit too close to the mark, and she felt a great big something welling up inside her, though it was mixed with so many other things she could not tell exactly what it was.  She durst not let it out, either, not with those two looking on, nor Mum and Dad, nor least of all Mr. Frodo.  Staring at one of the flagstones, she clamped her will down over the roiling emotions, refusing to let them out of heart and gut and into the eyes.

“Rose.  Rosie?  Are you well?”

Slowly she became aware that there was a hand on her shoulder, and a pair of keen brown eyes resting on her face.

She still did not dare to speak, but she gave the tiniest of nods.

“Perhaps it’d be best if you retired to your room for a time.”

Another nod.

“Do you need any assistance?”  And before she could answer, a pair of hands helped her up, and footsteps guided her into the hallway.  As soon as they were out of the company’s line of vision, she felt a little push and turned around, startled.

She did not quite understand the look that he gave her, whether it was sympathy or urgency or irritation or something of all three, but she did understand the one word Mr. Frodo mouthed at her: “Go!”

And so Rosie ran down the hallway into her room, and did not stop until she had landed on her bed, face down in the pillow, and had had a good long cry about Sam and gentry folk and everything.

*  *  *

She had been afraid that after she had had her cry someone—it didn’t matter who—would come knocking and ask her if she wanted to talk about it or if she felt better now.  But no one came, and Rosie sat in her room for a good hour and thought and thought until she had come to the conclusion that it had really been quite foolish of her to get so upset.  If she was anxious for Sam, well, he had been gone all month and all the thinking and wishing wouldn’t do nothing until he came back.  And Mr. Frodo’s cousins had only been trying to be nice, she supposed—after all, they agreed with her about Sam taking his time—and if they talked to her differently than they ought, well, they could do that, being gentry and all

But it was still mighty queer how they acted as if they had known her most of her natural life, and how even if she were able she could never do the same with them, because they weren’t working class.  And, come to think of it, if Sam really had spoken of her they probably knew much more about her than she had ever known of them.  Dear Sam.  How she missed him.

At length she opened her door and stepped out into the hall again.  She did not know how much time had passed, and the house seemed so different, so quiet, that she wondered if everyone had got to bed already.  But, no—it was too early for that, wasn’t it?

There was still light flickering in from the parlour, so someone must have kept the fire up.  Tiptoeing closer, she heard voices and saw vague figures through clouds of smoke.  Quietly she slipped in the room and sat down next to the hearth.

Her father and brothers were there, as well as Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin, who were regaling them with tales as they all smoked.  Rosie smiled in spite of herself: Mum would have a few sharp words with Dad after all this was done if the room still smelled of weed in the morning.  Nibs was sitting closest, at Mr. Merry’s feet, his face rapt with wonder, but there was outright scepticism on Jolly’s face.

She had really only listened to their tales with half an ear before, thinking that they must have stretched the real events a good deal before they became good tales, but she found herself hanging onto their words now, and almost believing them.  After all, if what Mr. Frodo said her Sam had faced was true, why not these wild fancies of trees and wizards and draughts of water that made your hair stand on end?

When at last the tale-telling was done, the lads all rose and began to put the chairs they had moved from the dining table back where they belonged.  Rosie was pleased to see that her father was, even as he remarked on the queerness of the tales, opening the shutters to air out the room.  She got up and was about to leave when she heard her name.  It was Mr. Merry—he had gone to the hearth to tip out the contents of his pipe and he must have noticed her.

“Rosie?  I didn’t realise you had come in.”

“Was it all right for me to?  I heard your voices.”

“Of course, of course—though I might’ve tempered my words a little if I’d known you were listening in.  Are you—”  He checked himself.  “Might I have a word with you?”

“Of course, Mr. Merry.”

He motioned her to sit back down, and he squatted on the floor next to her.  For the first time he was at her height.

“I wanted to apologise,” he said, “for my behaviour earlier.  I’m afraid I made you feel quite uncomfortable.”

Rosie shrugged.  “You didn’t mean no harm.”

“I know, but I still caused a good deal.  You must understand, with my cousin and me—we’ve seen a great many things out there, and we’ve learned that the Wide World is far too serious for our own liking.  So we often jest, with matters we know are serious, and we tread too boldly where we ought to take more heed—especially when a lass’s feelings are involved.  After hearing so much of you from Sam, I really didn’t know how to treat you and I’m afraid I was more familiar with you than our acquaintance warranted—at least, more than you were comfortable with.  It was a grave error, and it shall not be repeated.”

Mr. Pippin had come over and sat on the floor next to him.  “I think we’d rather forgotten you’re a lass in your own right, and not just the person Sam wouldn’t shut up about.  And as for me—well, there are really no excuses for me—but I’ve been terribly curious about you and what in you could possibly drive him to think on you all the time, because”—here she could see shades of pink on his face, even in the dying light—“well, I haven’t been in love before, and that’s that.”  He shut his mouth firmly.

“You don’t need to say you’re sorry,” said Rosie, “neither of you.  I’m the one as should be apologising, for near losing myself like that—”

“Because we both goaded you to it,” interrupted Mr. Merry.  “No, we’re the ones at fault here.”

“If you say so,” said Rosie.  “Though—if I may be so bold as to say so, I hope this don’t mean you’ll be all formal and deferential-like around me.  ‘Twouldn’t be proper.”

“No, I think just a healthy amount of respect will do, don’t you, Pip?”

“Oh, indeed,” said Pippin.  “Frodo tells me you lay a marvellous spread for tea, and I respect any lass who can do that.”  He kept a straight expression on his face for as long as he could, but presently his lips began to twitch and Rosie found to her horror and delight that she was laughing along with him.

“Did you really mean what you said, Mr. Merry,” said Rosie after Pippin had caught his breath, “about pounding sense into him?”

“Absolutely.  You’re clearly the treasure of his heart—well, you and Frodo, that is—and you’ve waited for him this long.”

“Well, please don’t do anything until a while after he’s come back.  Mr. Frodo’s already got something up his sleeve and I don’t want Sam to be overwhelmed…”

“Frodo’s already got something planned, has he?”

“Yes…” said Rosie.

“Well, I suppose we’d better leave him to it, then!  Though, do ask if, you know, he needs a little more encouragement.”

“I hope it won’t come to that, Mr. Merry.”

“Yes, so do I.”

“It’s getting late.”

“I know.”

“And we’ve had a busy day behind us,” said Mr. Pippin.  “I do hope Sam comes back soon so we can make sure all of Bag End is in order.”

“We won’t mind putting you up in the meantime,” said Rosie.

“I know.  Still, as you said, it’s getting late.  Thank you, by the way.”

“For what?”

“For not being too upset at us.”

“Heavens!  You’re both heroes and good folks.  And Mr. Frodo’s kin.  I’m not supposed to be upset at you.”

“Not even when we deserve it?”

“Not even when you deserve it.”  Rosie sighed.  My, it was odd, having gentry folk around like this!

That night after she had gotten ready for bed Rosie went out down the hallway as usual, to Sam’s room.  It occurred to her that she hadn’t seen Mr. Frodo since dinner, which was not at all unusual for him, but she still thought she’d have a peep at him before going to bed.

He was lying down peacefully, his breathing deep and regular.  Good.  She turned back into Sam’s room, and was about to shut the door behind her when she found it wouldn’t budge.  A hand slid around the edge and held it back.  She nearly screamed.

“Hush, hush!”  Mr. Merry came from around the door, and set his hands on her shoulders.  Rosie realised she was still in her shift.  “What are you doing here?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Merry, sir; I was checking on Mr. Frodo.”

He sighed, heavily.  “Would you mind terribly if I took up that job?”

“I’m sorry—I know I don’t know him, and I know it’s not my station, but there was no one else as knew about it, and he has these terrible dreams…”

“I know.”  Merry’s voice sounded raw.  “I know, and I know your heart’s in the right place, Rosie.  Thank you.  But if you don’t mind…”

“No, that’s fine.  This room’s all made up if you’d like to use it.”

“It was Sam’s, back before New Row was finished, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“And—what, you’ve been sneaking out of your own room to go here?”

“Sam would want someone looking after him.”

“I suppose he would,” said Mr. Merry after reflection.  “Has Frodo had any nightmares since you learned about them?”

“One, yes.  I only realised he had them recently though.”  And she told him all about the dream she saw, and how she had figured out that he was having them, and somehow that spilled into his illness on the thirteenth, and how she really was concerned for the fellow even though she hardly knew him, because there was so much he had been through and he didn’t seem to have gotten over it all, not the way that Sam was, and she didn’t even know half his story nor why he was the way he was.

And when she was done and a couple of tears had been shed, Mr. Merry put his arm around her and said that she was a fine lass that would do Sam proud, and he thanked her for all that she had told him about his cousin, that Mr. Frodo wouldn’t tell him himself.  “I wish I could look after him more often,” he said.  “I hardly ever seem to get the chance, these days.  Someone else always beats me to it.”

“Well, I won’t take your chance from you, Mr. Merry.  Sounds as if you’ll be able to do a lot more to help him, anyway.”

“If anyone can,” said Mr. Merry.  “Goodnight!”