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Sharing Sam  by Celeritas

The next day dawned bright and clear, and Rosie awoke with the sun.  After a hasty breakfast she set about to her early morning chores: milking the dairy cow and collecting the eggs from the hens.  By the time nine o’clock rolled around she was helping Mum with baking the day’s bread.

The gentry folk had not yet arisen, which would not have surprised Rosie had Mr. Frodo not been their houseguest for the past few months.  Since she hardly knew his cousins, and they had been moving furniture all morning yesterday, she could excuse them their sloth; but Frodo always rose at eight o’clock on the dot unless he was feeling ill.  And yet as the minutes rolled by there was no sign of him.

By a quarter past ten her misgivings had turned into genuine worry (quite silly of her, she knew) and she got together a tea tray to bring into his room, ostensibly for his missed meal.  But her concern was unfounded.  Just as she was about to take the food in to him, he appeared in the kitchen doorway, fully dressed and quite himself.

“Good morning!” she said, more out of surprise than anything else.

“Good morning!” he rejoined, smiling broadly, and striding into the kitchen, he actually took her by the arms and kissed her on the brow!—and then went on to do the same to her mother, who was finishing the last touches on their second breakfast.  “It’s a beautiful morning, the sun is shining, and one year ago this very day I stood at the Fire and wanted nothing so much as to let it take me.  But Sam said ‘no’ and we left that place, and so we were found and so we were saved.  And for such a day as this!  It’s New Year’s Day in the lands of Men, you know.”

“Mr. Frodo, are you sure you’re quite well?   You’ve slept in past your wont.”  Rosie went over to where he was now sitting, quite content, at the kitchen table and checked his brow for signs of fever.

“Quite well,” he replied, “and very happy.  Clothes are of little loss if you escape from drowning, eh?”

“Mr. Frodo,” said Mother, “if you’ll just sit tight a few minutes I’ll have some breakfast out for you.”

“And I’ve got a bit to start with,” added Rosie, who was not wholly reassured by Frodo’s reply.  “I was going to bring it into your room, since you hadn’t gotten up yet.  Are you sure—”

“Yes,” he said firmly.  “Nothing’s been the matter.  Heavens!  If this is how you react when I’m in high spirits I’d hate to see—but never mind that.  I should like to celebrate the occasion of my survival if I can: perhaps a fishing trip with my cousins will do?  Have they gotten up yet?”

“No,” said Rosie.

“I thought not—they’d have been pounding on my bedroom door if they’d awoken before I did.  I suppose I’ll have to return the favour, or we’ll never get anywhere.”  And with that he got up and walked down the hallway, taking care to make as much noise as he could.

“Mother,” said Rosie, “has he gone mad?”

“No,” said Mum, “maybe a little cracked, but not enough to do no one harm.  I’d be right glad, too, if I’d’ve seen the things he’s seen and lived to tell the tale.”

And after some muffled shouting from the other end of the house Mr. Frodo returned in triumph, two bleary-eyed cousins in tow in their dressing gowns.  “Now, Mrs. Cotton,” he said, “for that breakfast you so kindly offered earlier!”

Rosie rang the bell and Father, Tom, Jolly and Nibs all came in from the field to eat.  During the meal Mr. Frodo detailed his plans, and Rosie’s brothers were more than willing to lend them their fishing poles and other necessities.  After they had washed and cleaned up, and packed away enough food to last their houseguests the day, Frodo drew Rosie aside and handed her a scrap of paper.  “We shan’t be back till after dark,” he said, “so you’d best give this to Sam when he arrives.  I’d start work on that cake if I were you.”

And before she could ask him to elaborate he was with his cousins again, and then they were off.  Rosie sat down, exhausted, in a chair, and turned the note over in her hands.  She found herself wishing she could read so that she knew what it said.

Then, not knowing quite why she did so (for nobody knew what day Sam would be back from his tree-work) she asked Mum if she would let her free for a day when Sam returned, and might she bake a cake for sometime later today?

And as she got the ingredients together Rosie realised that she was following the receipt for the Midyear’s cake, which rose on egg whites hand-beaten till they were stiff.  It was reserved for special occasions for very good reason, and as Rosie whipped them into a froth she found herself hoping against hope that Mr. Frodo had known something she didn’t know and that today would be the day that Sam proposed.

*  *  *

At one o’clock, just after she had put the cake in the oven, she heard the back door open and shut twice, and two voices in conversation.  Her heart beat just a little faster.

At last Nibs came in the room, dust on his feet and water on his hands, grinning.  “Sam’s back.”

“Really?”  Rosie found a smile spreading across her face in spite of herself.

“Yes, and he’s tired and sore from all the travel.  He’s in the washroom—I just drew his bathwater.  So if you try and get a peep at him I’ll tell Dad and he’ll switch you within an inch of your life.”

Rosie threw a tea towel at him.  Hoping that Sam would not take his sweet time in bathing, she sought out Mother and reminded her of her promise, and then set about gathering together some of the meat, bread, and cheese from the pantry.

After an hour’s nervous waiting he finally showed up in the doorway, hair still damp, in a clean shirt and trousers.  “Hullo, Rosie,” he said.

“Hullo, Sam.”

“I’m back.”

“So I see.”

He walked the rest of the way in and sat down in one of the chairs; Rosie was busy at work on a cold chicken salad.

“Where all did you go this time?” she asked.

“West,” he said, “and North.  I’m right glad you haven’t seen the state of Michel Delving since the ruffians came, though of course it’s much better than it was last autumn.  I just hope I’m doing enough help to make any difference.”

Rosie held back a snort of laughter.  “Of course you are, Sam.  You’re the only one as won’t admit you’re the best gardener in the whole Shire.”

“Well—maybe, but a tree takes an awful long time to grow.”  He sighed.  “I’ve caught myself wishing once or twice that all the damage had been done right here, just so I wouldn’t have to go nowhere.  I’m sick and tired of travel, Rosie, and I’d like to settle at home, where I can keep an eye on my Master and—”  She looked across the room into his eyes, but he was looking at his lap.  “And be near you.  And everyone else, of course, but—”

Rosie wiped off the knife she was using, then walked over to where Sam was sitting and pulled out another chair to sit in.  She took his hand in hers and squeezed it.

“I was hoping I could see him today,” he added, “but Tom said he’d gone fishing with his cousins and wouldn’t be back for a while.”

“Not till late evening, he told me,” said Rosie.

“Well, then,” said Sam, “I suppose I’ll have to bide here a while waiting for him, or else go home and then come back.  I ought to see the Gaffer, and I’m sure the garden hasn’t been on its best manners while I’ve been gone.”

“All right, but before you make up your mind, you’d better have a look at this.”  Rosie handed him the note.  “Mr. Frodo told me to give it to you in case you came back today.”

Sam opened the note, and read it, his eyes widening as he did so.  He let out a long, slow whistle at the end.  “I guess I’m staying here,” he said.  “Mr. Frodo says he’ll fire me if I do any work afore sundown, and he knows I couldn’t go back home without fixing the garden, even a little.”

“He can’t be serious!” said Rosie, whose alarm at the prospect that Mr. Frodo had both known and planned this all along was rising.

“Maybe he is, and maybe he ain’t,” said Sam.  “Whether he means to sack me or no, he does want me to take the day off, that much is plain.  But I don’t know what I’ll do here in the meantime, not with all of you working.”

“Oh, you needn’t worry about that,” said Rosie.  “I asked Mum if she’d let me go the day as you got back, though we didn’t think it’d be today.  All we’d need is Tom to keep an eye on us and make everything proper, and we could go wherever we want.  I’ve been getting a picnic basket ready, just in case.”

“Well, let’s ask him and your dad, then, seeing as I can’t do nothing else.  Where were you thinking we’d eat?”

“I don’t know,” said Rosie.  “Maybe down by Bywater Pool, where we always used to play?”

“Bywater Pool,” said Sam, and a smile spread across his features.  “Yes, I’d like that very much, Rosie.”

It was not hard to secure her father’s permission, nor even to get Tom to come along, though he should have been working too.  Rosie brewed some tea at home, which she poured in a jug and then set down in the water’s edge to cool it off, so they did not miss tea by making their meal outdoors.  There was the cold chicken salad, which they spread on that morning’s bread, and large quantities of farm cheese and cured sausages.  It was early yet for cultivated greens, but on the way down Sam spotted a number of dandelions that hadn’t begun to flower and they made themselves a feast off their leaves.  All the while Tom was clearly enjoying himself and his unexpected break from work, even as he continued to tut at every moment that could be construed as romantic.  Sam and Rosie paid these moments little heed; since Tom was still paying court to Sam’s sister Marigold they both knew he had little room to talk.

As for Rosie herself, she had to content herself with hearing Sam’s voice, and seeing his eyes, for it was unseemly to sit too close to him and not to her brother.  But every few moments as they reached for the tea, or as he passed her the cheese knife, their hands brushed.  When at last, done with eating for a time, she leaned herself upon her hand, it ended up not an inch from his where it rested on the ground, and as she shifted herself just a little bit closer she could feel his warmth radiating out to her.

Eventually she noticed a spider crawling up the hem of her skirt.  She did not say anything at first, because it was quite small and harmless, but the creature brought to her memory some of Mr. Frodo’s tales, and despite the sun’s rays she shivered.

“Sam,” she said eventually, because she wanted to see what he would do, “there’s a spider on my skirt.”

“Is there?” he said.  “Where?”

Rosie pointed it out to him.

“All right,” said Sam, and very carefully he picked it up and let it run down his hand back onto the grass.  “All better now?”

“Yes,” said Rosie, looking keenly into his eyes to see if there were any traces of that dreadful memory in them.

“What, were you worried?” he said, noticing her scrutiny.

Rosie coloured a little.  “I’m sorry, Sam,” she said, “but I heard a few things from Mr. Frodo—”

“—And likely you were a mite concerned on my behalf because of them.”  He sighed.  “No, I can’t say I was ever fond of spiders to begin with, but it don’t seem right killing them out of doors when their webs don’t catch more than flies.  And anyhow they’re not the same when they’re small like that.  No, I’ve had plenty of baths and plenty of days in the wild—and in the garden—since then to be frightened of a spider that small.  A big one, on the other hand—” and he held his hands apart about two fists’ width.

Rosie’s eyes widened, even as she looked up and saw the spark of genius in Tom’s eye.  “Whatever you’re planning, Tom, don’t do it, or I’ll let Mari know all about that incident at the Free Fair ten years ago.”

“Goodness!” said Tom.  “I was only thinking.  What’s all this talk about spiders, anyway?”

“Sam faced one down,” Rosie said stoutly, “in the wild lands Outside.  Big as a house or larger.”

“Now, come, Rosie,” said Tom, “I thought you weren’t one for all these tales the Captains tell when they’re over!”

“It’s true,” said Sam quietly, “and if you don’t believe me you can look at the mark on Mr. Frodo’s neck.  He was stung by the thing there—poisoned—and I’d say the spot where she did it’s as big as a penny, if not bigger.  Shouldn’t ought to have happened to him.”

And Tom looked at his friend and saw the memory in his eyes.  “Lor bless me, Sam!  What did you get up to while you were away?”

“A lot,” said Rosie, “from what I’ve heard from his master.  And a lot of great things, too, things he’s too shy to speak of himself.”

“Well, I knew they said you was a hero out there, but—”

“And I think he was greatest of the four that left.”

“Now that’s not fair, Rosie,” said Sam.  “You’ve been hearing all your tales from Mr. Frodo, and he’s right bad about not giving credit when it’s due to him.”

Rosie and Tom tried their best not to laugh.  They knew exactly who that reminded them of.

“But he put up with a great deal, and suffered a great deal, and no one thinks much of it because it couldn’t none of it be seen.”

“Then maybe you should tell us sometime, Sam,” said Tom.  “I’m sure you know how it is with Mr. Frodo’s cousins, they make it all seem like a tale and nothing as really happened, but—”

“Well, it was a tale, and no mistake; like walking into one of those great picture-books that Mr. Bilbo used to have.  It was strange finding yourself a part of it, too, as if you couldn’t believe it was you doing all them things and not some great hero; and you kept on wondering, wondering, if folk got sick, or tired, or scared in the old stories just as you were and if they did, however could they go on.”

“Well,” said Rosie, “I think Sam is a great hero, and when he finally has the time to sit down and tell all of us of his adventures—for you will, Sam, won’t you?—I’ll make sure he doesn’t leave nothing of his great deeds out.”

Sam sighed heavily and ignored the compliment Rosie was giving him, though she was aware of his eyes resting on her face.  “Yes,” he said, “I will tell it all, sometime, but please, not today!  It’s too fine a day for such a dark tale, and I’m still worn thin from all my journeying.  We still have afters to eat, don’t we, Rosie?”

“Yes,” said Rosie, “we have cake, and I hope the ants haven’t eaten it with all our talking!”  She drew forth the half she had wrapped up from the basket, and carefully cut it in thirds.  Tom took one look at it, and his eyes widened as he realised which receipt she had used, but she quelled his question with a glance and turned to see Sam’s reaction to the first bite.

He chewed slowly, very slowly, as if (she hoped) to savour the taste as long as possible.  After swallowing he turned and looked at her.  “That’s your mum’s Midyear’s cake, isn’t it?”

“Maybe,” said Rosie.

“What’s it for?  I thought it took an awful load of work.”

“Your return,” she said quietly, twisting her hands in her skirt.

“You couldn’t have known I’d be back today!”

“And Mr. Frodo couldn’t have known to write that note.  He’s a very strange fellow, your master is.”

Sam turned this over in his head for a few moments.  “Yes,” he said.  “Yes, he is.  I worry about him sometimes.”

“I know,” said Rosie.  She laid her hand on top of his.

Tom coughed.

Rosie glared at him.  “Eat your cake, Tom.”

Tom took the hint, and another bite.  Sam slid his hand out from under Rosie’s and followed suit.  And Rosie, satisfied that she had done the best that she could, turned to her own bit of dessert and the three of them ate in companionable silence.

When at last all was done Tom lay down on his back and put his hands behind his head.  “Ah,” he said, “that was marvellous.  You need to come back more often, Sam.”

Sam snorted.  “Better not to push my luck.  Your arm’s going to be sore tomorrow, Rosie.”

Rosie shrugged.  Sam took a calculated look at Tom, who was still staring up at the sky, and shifted closer to her and put his arm around her.  When he spoke she knew he did not intend to be overheard.  “I’ve treated you right terrible, haven’t I, Rose?”

She could not think of a suitable reply to that, but he saved her from the need to.  “No, don’t answer that, for I won’t make you lie to make me feel better.  I have treated you terrible, and I’d like to make it up to you, if I can.”  Slowly he lifted his free hand to her hair.

“I’ll have you recall that’s my sister,” said Tom from far away.  Instantly they sprang apart, faces beet-red, to find him sitting up once more and looking at them.  He laughed.  “No, Sam, I know you haven’t been with her in a while; and you’re a trusty fellow.  How about if I turn my back on the two of you for a bit, and as long as I don’t hear nothing I’ll guess accordingly.”

“Thank you,” said Rosie, eyes shining, and then Sam turned to her and looked her straight in the eye; and his face was a mixture of wonder and love.  With only the slightest glance to make sure Tom really did have his back turned, he took her in his arms and clasped her to his breast; she, gasping, clung to him tightly and buried her face in his neck so that every breath she took smelled of him.  Tears pricked at her eyes, though she couldn’t say why for she wasn’t sad, unless it was the way he said her name as he stroked her hair over and over again, or the way he squeezed her even tighter as she held onto him.  “Oh, Sam,” she said, “you know I can’t stay angry at you, not for long.  I love you too much.”

He leaned his head down to rest on hers, and when he spoke his breath tickled her ear.  “Then all the more reason to make it up.  I can’t say as I understand why you’ve stuck with me all this time, but at least I’d better try and deserve it, even if I can’t.”

Rosie laughed at this, though she did not lessen her hold on him.  “Don’t be a ninny, Sam.  I’d have been a fool to let go of you when you went off and I’d be a greater fool to do it now.  Besides, whatever would you do without me?”

He laughed, too.  “Likely die of a broken heart,” he said.  “I don’t know what I’d have done if—no, there’s time for that later.  And anyhow we don’t know when your brother’s going to turn back round and see us like this.”  Rosie reluctantly nodded; somehow she had managed to slide onto Sam’s lap when he had pulled her to him.  Hugging her one last time, he whispered, “I love you” in her ear and they parted.

Tom must have been listening quite closely, for he turned around just afterwards and together the three of them walked down to the water to wash up.

“D’you remember,” said Tom, “when we used to go wading here, when we were little?”

“All the time,” said Sam.  “I never did think water tasted so sweet as it does here.”  He cupped some of it in his hands and drank.  “Well, maybe that’s just memory talking.”  He had another drink.  “Light, and water,” he said, more to himself, Rosie supposed, than anyone else, “and—”  He turned and looked at her, and for the briefest moment Rosie thought she could see somewhat of Mr. Frodo in his eyes.  A chill ran down her back.

“Tom,” she said, “why don’t you see if Jolly and Nick and Nibs can spare a few minutes and come over?  It’s been years since we’ve all played here.”

“Why would—”  The light of comprehension dawned in Tom’s eyes.  “Oh, I see.  You just want me to leave the two of you alone for a little while longer, is that it?”

“No!” she said.  “Only, it’s been so long since those days—and I’ll bet it feels even longer to Sam.  I’ll bet he never thought he’d get to go wading here again while he was Outside.”

“Hum,” said Tom.

“And we shan’t do anything improper, neither; you know us both well enough for that.  Please, Tom?”

Tom sighed and headed back towards the farm.  “Dad’ll have harsh words for all three of us when he finds out about this,” he said.

“Thank you, Rosie,” said Sam when Tom was out of sight.

“You haven’t been able to come back here much?”

“No.  I’ve been too busy.  Did Mr. Frodo tell you?”

“Did he tell me what?”

“How much I’d longed for Bywater Pool again, under the Shadow.”

“No,” said Rosie, “not as such, but he said you needed light, and water, and that you kept on remembering in spite of yourself all the times you’d seen and tasted them.”

“There were a lot of them,” said Sam, “but that was the one that came up most.  Funny places your mind can go in a land like that.  It helped, even if it hurt.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I knew I couldn’t have none of those things again, but at the same time I knew they were still there, untouched, and I’d had them once upon a time and maybe that’d be enough to keep me going.”  He sighed.  “Light, and water.  And you.  I don’t think I missed you so much as when I thought I’d never see you again.”

“Sam—”

He rolled up his trousers and inched forward until his feet were in the water, worming them as far down into the mud as he could.  After a few moments she did the same, though she was careful to keep her distance since she had promised Tom.  The sunlight sparked on the rippling water and it hurt her eyes somewhat, but Sam did not seem to notice as he looked into its depths.  At length, a little smile playing on her face, she dipped her hand into the water and flicked it over at him.

He looked up and over at her, startled.  She demurely studied the hairs on her feet, until all of a sudden one of them kicked up and sent water spraying all over his legs.

“Rosie—”

“Yes, Sam?” she said, calmly splashing at him with her hands.

“I thought I said I liked the pleasant memories of this place.”

“Yes, and you said you liked water, too.”  Another splash.

“You know, one of my dearest memories from this place was that day when we kept on dunking your head under, just to keep you from talking so loud.  Why don’t we relive that one?”  Suddenly he got himself up, and she nearly slipped as she tried to run away from him.  Hitching up her skirts, she was in about knee deep before he caught her and began tickling her most mercilessly.

“Sam, you brute!  I—”  She wrenched herself away from him, but in doing so lost her footing and the water closed in over her head.  When she resurfaced, wet and sputtering and incredibly cold, Sam was looking down at her solicitously, the sun shining from behind his head.

“Rosie, I’m sorry; I didn’t mean for you to fall—”

“Sam Gamgee, if you ever do that again you can think twice about my ‘sticking with you’ or however you want to call it!”

Sam, looking duly contrite, held out his hand to help her up.  Rosie took it, and yanked hard, and down he fell next to her with an enormous splash.  He lifted his head back up, shaking the water from his hair like a dog, and he was laughing and she was laughing too.

“Rosie,” he said when they had caught their breath.  “We should stop and get out of the water.  We’re neither of us children no more.”

She slowly nodded and stood up, for he was right and she knew it.  He was in his shirtsleeves, and she could see the muscles in his chest through his sodden clothing.  Belatedly she looked down at her shift, also soaked through, and she turned bright red.  “I’m sorry, Sam,” she said.

“Well,” he said slowly, “there's no real harm done, right?  Not if we can convince Tom that nothing untoward happened.  And I’d say it’s another good ten minutes before he and the others come back.  That should be enough time for us to give them a nasty surprise, shouldn’t it?”

Rosie nodded.

And so it was that when the Cotton brothers came to meet them they were greeted by bowlfuls, platefuls, and bottlefuls of the icy water of the pool dumped upon their heads; and with all six of them together sporting in the water the years melted away in their minds and hearts, and Sam’s was considerably lightened.

“By the by,” said Nick, when lounging on the meadow in the sun had done enough work to make them only damp, “Mum says we’re to have honeycakes with supper tonight.”  As if on cue his stomach rumbled.

“What time is it anyhow?” said Tom.

Sam rolled onto his stomach and looked at the westering sun.  “Save us!  It’s almost six o’clock!”

With a cry Nibs sprang up from the grass and began jogging his way back home.  “Last one to the table’s got a goblin’s nose!”

Jolly and Nick were almost immediately behind him, but Sam and Rosie made their way home, hand in hand, at a much more leisurely pace.  Tom made a point of matching it.

“Third time pays for all, Tom,” said Rosie, more to see what he’d say than anything else.

“Hah!”  Tom held his hands behind his back and strode alongside them, looking almost patriarchal.  “Don’t think that your little surprise threw me off one bit.  You were both of you a good deal wetter than you ought to have been, ambush or no.”

“She splashed me,” said Sam, matter-of-factly, “so I got even, as you know I used to when we were young, only she slipped and fell and when I offered to help her up she pulled me in after.”

“She pulled you in after and—”

“And nothing,” said Rosie.  “Heavens, Tom, we’re not married!”

“I wasn’t saying that you were,” said Tom smoothly.  “I just wanted to know what happened, is all.  And, by the way, Sam, I do believe that you owe me one, if not several, for my behaviour today.”

“Do I, now?” said Sam.

Supper buzzed by beautifully for Rosie, and with all the gentry gone it was almost as if the past two years had never happened.  Mother seated Sam at Rosie’s left, for which she was most grateful, and when all had eaten their fill there was more talk at the fireside, and eventually since it was such a fine day the lads decided to go outside to smoke.  There was still a good deal of washing up to do, but when she moved to help her mum out she said, “No, Rose, dear; why don’t you go outside and see if you can find Sam?” and she gave her such a significant look that Rosie’s heart soared.

So she did, and she managed to pry him off the group well enough that they could sit apart and gaze at the beauty of the Shire in the half-light.  They spoke only a short while before settling into silence, he puffing away contentedly on his pipe and she resting her head on his shoulder.  When at last all the stars were alight, he knocked the weed out onto the grass and stood up.  “I’d best be going,” he said.  “My master’s not back yet, and I haven’t even stopped at home yet to see the Gaffer and Mari.  I’ll need to get Bill, of course, from the stables—”

“Of course,” said Rosie.

“Do you want to come with?”

“Certainly.”

So she did, and she sat and watched as he saddled his pony—imagine that, Sam Gamgee having his own pony—and saw him walk off down the road to Hobbiton.  “Good-night, Rosie,” he said as he left.

And it was only when he was out of sight that it dawned on her that he had still not asked her to marry him.

Her heart plunged down into her stomach with the shock, and her hands went cold.  For a few moments she stood there, staring down the road, fists clenched so hard at her side that her thumbs hurt.  Then, almost too calmly, she turned around and went back into the kitchen.

“Well?” said her mother.

“Nothing.”

“He didn’t—”

“No, he didn’t.”  Rosie sat down heavily.  “I don’t even know why I thought he would.”

“Well, Sam Gamgee can have a rather thick skull when it suits him.  The next time I get my hands on him…” and she scrubbed particularly hard at a stain on one of the pots as if she had her hands on him right then.

“No, Mum,” said Rosie.  “I’d rather have him ask of his own wanting than for fear of you.  Or Dad, or Tom, or Mr. Frodo’s cousins, or anyone.  I had hoped—”

“You know, he did just get back today.”

“I know.  I’d hoped a good deal too much.”  She sighed.

“Would you like a cup of tea, love?”

“That’d be nice.”

Mother got out the teakettle and put it on the hob.

“The thing is,” said Rosie after a few minutes, “it’s just like last time, those months before he went away; and I knew—I knew—each time he was going to ask, only he never did.  And then he knew he was going away, and then he really never did, though he wouldn’t tell me why he was keeping me hanging on, nor why things had changed, and I was so angry each time and then he came back and it started all over again.”  She sighed.  “I’m not making particular sense, am I?”

“He’ll come round in time, love.”

“I don’t want time,” said Rosie, looking up almost guiltily.  “I want now.  I want two years ago, and a nice little garden of our own, and a fine strong lad and maybe a little lass on the way.  I want children, and I want his; I—”  She broke off, reddening.

“I know, sweetheart,” Mother said, quietly.  “Though you might rethink that when you’re carrying them.”

“If I ever do.”

“Now you’re just being silly, dear.”  She came over to sit next to Rosie, took her hands in her own, and patted them.

Just then the front door opened and shut again, and they could hear voices and footsteps drawing near.  “Well, there’s the lads come back in,” said Mum.  “I’ll tell them what happened if you’d like.”

“That’s all—” right, Rosie was about to say, but just then the kitchen door opened and she found herself staring Frodo Baggins face to face.  It was too much to bear.  She burst into tears and swept past him, through the open door, and ran into her room.  She slammed the door behind her and sat against it.

She could hear voices from the hall, and it burned as much as the tears running down her cheeks to know that everyone knew that she had been expecting Sam to ask her and he had not.  She could almost imagine Tom making threats, real and fictional; Dad promising to give a stern talking to; Nick handing two precious farthings over to Jolly for a lost bet; and then Mr. Frodo’s cousins, shocked and then joining Tom to plot revenge on her behalf.

Eventually the bustle died down, and it was then that she heard and felt a knocking at her door.  “Rose?”  It was Mr. Frodo.

She said nothing.

“Rose?  I’m terribly sorry for what happened; I—”

“Go away,” she said.

“I have the tea your mum made for you.”

“Please go away.”

“She said I wasn’t to leave till you’d gotten it.”

“Then you can open the door a hair and put it on the floor.”

She could feel him pushing at it.  “I’m afraid you’ll have to move a bit for that to work.”

Sighing, Rosie shifted forwards a few inches.  Frodo opened the door and set the teacup inside, then closed it.  “Better?”

“No.”

“I am sorry.”

“I trusted you!  I held onto your note, and I even made that fool cake for you, just because—”  She paused to wipe her nose on the back of her hand.  “I wish I’d never talked to you,” she said.  “I wish I’d never talked to you, and I wish you’d never talked to Sam, nor even met him.”  She sniffed and gulped in air.  “Maybe then things would have turned out normal, the way they ought to be.”

There was a pause from the other side of the door.  “I hope you do not really mean that, Rose,” came the reply finally, calmly, “for then you would be wishing my death.  And I, too, thought that he would speak to you today.  Forgive me that I was wrong.”

*  *  *

As Frodo walked back down the hallway to rejoin the others, the words of the Lady echoed in his head: Some never come to be, unless those that behold the visions turn aside from their path to prevent them.  Could it indeed work the other way, that in his eagerness to fulfil what he saw he had actually condemned Rose, if only for one night?

His cousins made to greet him, but he waved them off.  “Leave me be,” he said.  “I have much to think on.”

*  *  *

Rosie sat on her bed, sipping at her tea and sulking.  There it was again, that little niggling feeling that told her she should have been kinder to Mr. Frodo—only it had been his idea after all, and she had been so sure it would work!  But why trust him, after all, him whom she hardly knew, who was trying to win her over simply for Sam?

There was a pounding at the front door.  She didn’t know who it was at this hour (she didn’t even know the hour) and she didn’t care, though it did register as a mild annoyance.  She heard footsteps, the door opening, then shutting, then silence.  Good.

Five minutes later the pounding started again, and this time no one came to answer it.  She stopped up her ears, but it helped little.

“Somebody get the door!” she heard from the kitchen, but there was no response.  Which meant it probably meant, “Rosie, get the door!”, as if someone was trying to lure her from her chambers and make her more sociable.  With a vexed sigh she opened her door, about to head over to the kitchen for a nice talking-to, but the pounding really was insistent and if it kept up she feared she’d get a headache.

Grumbling to herself all along the way, she stalked down the hallway to the main door, and opened it.

It was Sam.  He was in a clean-pressed shirt and trousers, and he was holding a large bunch of flowers, freshly picked from his garden.  Nervously he thrust them into Rosie’s yielding hand.

“Marry me, Rose,” he said.

For a second or three she stared dumbly at the bouquet in her grasp, crocuses and hyacinths and one early daffodil, all large and beautiful.  Then she nearly dropped it as she leapt into his arms.  They tightened about her instinctively, and she could feel from the comfort of his embrace the world and the proper order of things falling back into place.

And all was forgiven.





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