43. Summertime

Three years later…

Midsummer 1398

“Oh, come on, Frodo, you need to have more fun!”

“We’ve been having fun all day,” Frodo retorted, rubbing his arm where Folco had punched him good-naturedly. “I was in the middle of a particularly interesting book when you waylaid me, too.”

“Always the scholar, aren’t you,” Folco teased, but there was a note of admiration in his voice. Frodo’s imaginative games had sometimes gotten him into scrapes when he was younger, but among those hobbits who didn’t dismiss the residents of Bag End as completely cracked, he was reckoned to be one of the most well-educated and learned tweenagers in Hobbiton. And those who couldn’t abide putting foolish, fanciful notions about elves and wizards into a young hobbit’s head would at least admit that Frodo was as generous and well-mannered as anyone could wish.

“You need to spend more time with other young folks and less with dusty old books,” Folco continued, mopping his brow. The late afternoon sun was beating down on them mercilessly. “Besides, it’s only tea. You’ll know everyone, and your precious book will still be there when you get home.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” Frodo smiled. “And here I was worrying a pack of wargs would stop by in my absence and rip it to pieces.”

Folco laughed and slung an arm around Frodo’s shoulders. “I’m glad to see your scholarly activities haven’t diminished your sense of humour, my friend.”

Frodo grinned. He supposed it would seem to Folco that he spent all his time with Bilbo’s books. But he passed plenty of hours out of doors in the fresh air, walking and thinking, or reading, or climbing trees, or keeping Samwise company in the garden. Frodo was content. He liked the young hobbits Folco went about with, and he always had an enjoyable time with them, but he had no need to be surrounded by a gaggle of friends at all hours of the day.

Folco began to whistle tunelessly as they approached the door to the Bywater Inn. He pushed open the heavy door and Frodo followed him inside.

The weather was hot even at this time of day, and all the windows were open. The innkeeper wouldn’t light the lamps while there was still daylight. Frodo’s eyes were still adjusting to the relative darkness when he heard Gordo Grubb call out, “Hoy, Folco! Frodo! We ordered you food. Come sit down before it goes stale!”

The two lads needed no further urging. They hurried over to the large table in the corner and dropped into the empty chairs.

“Glad you could make it, Frodo,” Heather Proudfoot said warmly.

“Yes, good on Folco for dragging you out of that dark hovel you live in, Frodo,” Will Bracegirdle said dryly, then resumed trying to light his pipe.

“Here, silly! You’re supposed to puff on it,” Emerald Bracegirdle said helpfully to her chagrined brother. Will was the eldest at the little gathering and Emerald the youngest after Gordo, but she never hesitated to make it known when she thought someone wasn’t doing something right.

“I heard you can do it by waving the thing about in the air,” Gordo put in earnestly. At twenty-five he was four years younger than Frodo, but already clearly smitten with Emerald Bracegirdle.

“I’ve never heard that,” Emerald said scornfully, reaching across the table for a scone.

“I suppose everyone has their own way to go about it,” Heather said with a tranquil smile. She would be of age in a year, and often took it upon herself to be peacemaker among her younger and more hot-headed friends.

The tweens’ chatter soon decreased to the occasional comment as they began to address their food in earnest. The back of Frodo’s shirt was still sticking to him but in the dim, breezy room he soon forgot about the discomfort of the heat. The food was good, as was the company.

The two lasses glanced over at the bar in annoyance as a burst of raucous laughter disrupted the quiet hum of conversation.

“That fellow is so rude!” Emerald pronounced, tossing her sandy curls irritably.

Gordo was nodding automatically in agreement when he paused and said, “Isn’t that old Fatty Bolger with Lotho? I didn’t know they were friends.”

Frodo, surprised, turned quickly to look at the hobbits over by the bar.

“Don’t know how they can drink ale on a day this hot,” Will muttered, shaking his head and taking a big swallow of his iced tea.

Sure enough, Frodo recognized Lotho Sackville-Baggins holding up a half-pint mug, and Fatty, Ted Sandyman and another lad were with him. Frodo was about to turn back to the table when Lotho happened to glance up and see him. The older tween looked startled for a moment, then grinned sourly and raised his mug in a sarcastic salute.

Frodo sighed and looked away. He had seen Lotho in town many times in the years since their last altercation, when Lotho had come upon Frodo in the woods behind Bagshot Row; Hamson Gamgee had happened along and stopped Lotho’s mischief. Lotho usually held his temper in check now, and made every effort to appear civil to Frodo in public, but Frodo knew he still carried a grudge. And now apparently Frodo’s and Folco’s old friend, Fredegar Bolger, had fallen in with Lotho. This news distressed Frodo more than he might have expected, given that Fatty had shunned their friendship years ago and hardly spoken to them since.

“I’m sure Fatty will come to his senses soon enough,” Heather said, casting a glance Frodo’s way. They all knew of Lobelia’s longstanding desire for Bag End, and the more personal animosity Lotho held for Frodo.

“He will if he ever stops listening to his father,” Folco grumbled. “That fellow always did put the most unfortunate notions in Fatty’s head. And have you ever seen him cozying up to old Otho? No wonder poor Fatty is so mixed up.”

Frodo looked at his friend sympathetically but said nothing. Folco and Fatty had been the best of friends once upon a time, and Folco never seemed to give up hope that they would be again. Frodo missed his old playmate, too, and it rankled to see him with Lotho’s crowd.

Most everyone who had any close contact with the Sackville-Bagginses knew they valued nothing but themselves and learned to steer well clear. But there were many who sought favour with the S.-B.’s, simply because they were perceived to be a family of wealth and power. Frodo knew better, of course, but Lobelia in particular went to great lengths to appear influential; she had fooled many over the years, including Fatty’s father, no doubt.

Otho, by all accounts, had been an unremarkable hobbit before Lobelia married him and took things in hand. It was said he never would have realized his present station if not for his ambitious wife. Lotho took after his mother in his love of the finer things, but he had a cruel streak that the meddlesome and petty Lobelia had never exhibited. Lotho enjoyed flaunting his power over those less fortunate than he, and seemed to take no pleasure from anything unless he could torment someone in the bargain.

The others had turned back to their food and Frodo was just about to do likewise when a shadow fell across his bowl.

“Good day, everyone,” Lotho said. Over the years he had mastered the trick of keeping just enough sneer in his voice to show his disdain without being openly insulting.

“Lotho,” Will replied stiffly. The others nodded reluctantly in greeting. Frodo saw Fatty and Ted trailing behind, with the other lad, and realized that Lotho and his friends were leaving. He wished Lotho would hurry.

“Hullo, Heather,” Lotho continued, grinning as he spotted her seated on the other side of the table. “It’s been far too long.”

Heather eyed him coldly and said nothing, which only made Lotho’s smile grow. Other than Frodo, no one in the group had much history with Lotho, but they all knew him well enough to dislike him.

“Oh, Frodo, I didn’t see you there!” Lotho said with an exaggerated smile, looking down at Frodo as though he’d only just seen him.

“Hullo, Lotho,” Frodo said gravely.

Lotho made a great show of peering around the table. “I don’t see that young Gamgee with you, Cousin. Decided to leave the servants at home? Thought you could do for yourself today, did you?” He laughed at his own remark, and his companions joined in. Except Fatty, Frodo noticed. His old friend just looked uncomfortable.

Frodo refused to rise to the bait; he knew Lotho only wanted to anger him. “Sam has more important things to do with his time,” he said evenly. Emerald smiled at Lotho’s annoyed expression, and Folco toasted him with his mug of tea.

Lotho’s mask of congeniality slipped for the first time. “I see you continue to disgrace your ill-gotten name,” he said dangerously. “Maybe one day I’ll teach you how to act like a gentlehobbit.”

“I doubt you’ll ever have the opportunity, but thank you for your concern,” Frodo said mildly.

Lotho slammed his fist down on the table beside Frodo, infuriated by his inability to intimidate his cousin.

Frodo did his best not to react as Lotho hissed “You never know—situations can change,” right by his ear.

Will had stood up angrily when Lotho’s fist made their tableware rattle, and Lotho glanced at him briefly before storming from the inn.

Fatty looked awkwardly at Frodo for a moment before following suit.

“I don’t know how you keep your temper with that beast, Frodo,” Heather shook her head angrily.

“You’re a cool one, all right,” Gordo said admiringly.

“He gets a good deal of practice,” Folco sighed. “Lotho is the one who could use instruction on proper behaviour from you, Frodo.”

“He never gives up, does he!” Emerald exclaimed. “Does he still suppose his family has any chance of getting Bag End?”

Frodo frowned down at his tea. He had thought maybe Lotho had abandoned that hope, but his last remark said otherwise. Frodo had heard a clear threat there; Lotho still thought there was a chance their fortunes would reverse.

“I suppose he does,” Frodo said in answer to Emerald’s question. “I wish they would just move on. Bilbo will never give them Bag End; he hates the thought of them living there!”

“Well, Lobelia is never happy unless she has something to scheme about,” Heather said with a smile.

A little later, Frodo and Folco were headed home. Frodo had decided to walk with Folco to the Boffin smial so they could talk longer, even though it took him a little out of his way.

“I can’t believe you’ve never been to the Fair!” Folco was saying.

“Well, the White Downs are a good distance from Buckland,” Frodo replied. “Most of my kin didn’t want the fuss of bringing children along; I was not the only one left at home!”

“You’re in for a treat, my friend,” Folco enthused. “All the sights you’ll see! The folks you’ll meet! And then, of course, there is the food…”

Folco’s eyes were shining at the thought, and he licked his lips.

Frodo couldn’t help laughing at Folco’s expression. “I can’t wait,” he assured his friend as they turned down the road to Folco’s home. “Even Bilbo seems excited about it. I don’t think he’d have let me stay behind had I wanted to!”

“I knew that old fellow had some sense,” Folco grinned as he approached his front door. “Would you like to come in awhile, Frodo? Maybe stay to supper?”

“Thank you, no,” Frodo said. “Bilbo has been working on his book today; he’s liable to forget all about supper if I don’t get home and remind him.”

"Another time, then,” Folco said cheerfully, and they parted with a wave.

Back on the road, Frodo turned toward the Hill. Folco lived near Hobbiton, so besides the village he only had to pass a few farms and some large smials.

Including Sack Top, Frodo suddenly realized as he came within sight of a familiar-looking garden. He doubted Lotho was home yet, but one never knew. And he was in no mood for more of his cousin’s ire. Frodo quickened his pace and turned his eyes away from the imposing residence of the Sackville-Bagginses. He could go back and take another way, but he couldn’t help but feel it was ridiculous to change his route merely because Lotho detested him for no good reason.

Frodo didn’t hear a sound or see a hint of movement in the windows. He was just beginning to feel silly for being so cautious when the hot stillness of the summer afternoon was shattered.

“Oh, Frodo, dear!” a voice shrilled. “Wait a moment, if you please!”

Lobelia.

Frodo halted in his tracks; it was no use pretending he hadn’t heard that. Ears as far away as Overhill were probably still ringing. He turned slowly and saw Lobelia’s dumpy figure standing in the garden. “Good day,” he said reluctantly as she came bustling over to him. He hoped he could get this over with as quickly as possible.

“It’s been too long, you sweet boy!” Lobelia cooed as she seized his arm. “Come inside, come inside! You must have a cup of tea with me!”

Frodo looked at her, so startled he didn’t even notice that her claw-like fingers were digging painfully into his arm. Lobelia had never, ever spoken to him in this fashion before. She was more likely to box his ears than call him a ‘sweet boy.’ What was she up to?

“Ah, thank you, but I’ve already had my tea, ma’am,” Frodo said hastily, looking about in his desperation to escape whatever new trouble Lobelia had in mind.

“Oh, no, no!” Lobelia cried, hauling him towards Sack Top’s grand entrance despite his protests. “A fine, growing lad like you? I must be allowed to feed you!”

Frodo’s mouth hung open as he was tugged into the foyer, too shocked was he to come up with any further excuses. Before he could get his wits about him, Frodo found himself sitting in the fanciest armchair he had ever seen, a cup of tea in his hand, and an enormous selection of biscuits laid before him.

Frodo snuck a glance at his hostess, sitting in the opposite chair. Yes, she definitely appeared to be Lobelia Sackville-Baggins. The same person who had terrorized him his very first week in Bag End, and who had refused to discipline her son for attacking him.

That person was now watching him with beady eyes, smiling in the most sickening fashion.

“Is the tea all right? Shall I blow on it for you?” Lobelia asked sweetly.

“No!” Frodo exclaimed. “No. It’s very good, thank you,” he felt compelled to add. He absently stirred his tea and noticed with a start that the spoon Lobelia had given him was one of Bilbo’s. One of the set he had several missing from.

As he stared dazedly at the spoon, he heard Lobelia say, “Marvellous! And how is dear Bilbo? In good health, I hope?”

“Yes, thank you,” Frodo answered automatically.

“Good!” Lobelia beamed. “And yourself?”

“I’m quite well.” Frodo wondered if she would ever get to the point, for he didn’t believe this bizarre act for a moment.

“Delighted to hear it!” Lobelia shrilled. “I ask after you constantly with my darling Lotho, of course, but it is good to hear it from your own lips.”

Frodo attempted to mould his face into a polite smile.

“Lotho is so fortunate to have a friend such as you, dear,” Lobelia continued, pursing her lips as though tasting something sour. “Yes, I am relieved you are in good health. It is fortunate indeed that Bilbo has the means to take such good care of you.”

Frodo waited, hardly daring to imagine what she would say next.

“We are not quite as fortunate, as I’m certain you know,” Lobelia sighed dramatically, “but we muddle through as best we can.”

“Er, yes,” Frodo said noncommittally. He thought he knew where this was going, and he was not to be disappointed.

“We never complain, of course,” Lobelia continued.

“Of course,” Frodo replied flatly.

“I’m sure you’ll put in a good word for us with Bilbo, yes? You’re such a good boy,” Lobelia gushed.

“I really should be going, Cousin Lobelia,” Frodo said, sensing that she might allow him to leave now. “Thank you for the tea.”

“Oh, very well,” Lobelia said, and rose to her feet, peering at him calculatingly.

Frodo hastened back to the foyer, but it seemed Lobelia was not finished being friendly.

“I suppose you and Bilbo will be going to the Fair,” she sniffed as she followed behind him.

“Yes, ma’am,” Frodo replied.

“We shall be going as well, although we can scarce afford such an expense,” she added pointedly.

Frodo said nothing. He knew Bilbo would help his least favourite relations if they were really destitute, but living far above their means merely out of pride hardly qualified.

“I suppose you’ll be going for the opening?” Lobelia continued, although she seemed to be running out of steam at last.

“We’ll be going a few days early, actually,” Frodo said. “Hamson Gamgee is getting married before the Fair begins, and we want to be there for the wedding.”

Lobelia paused in the act of opening the front door and stared at him, aghast. “You—you would be seen at such an event?” she exclaimed.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Frodo said cheerfully, enjoying the way Lobelia’s face was turning red with her efforts to control herself.

Lobelia glowered at him as she opened the door, muttering under her breath “Why you impudent little… Brandybuck trash… no sense of decorum at all…”

“Good day to you, Cousin Lobelia,” Frodo said pleasantly. He was far more at ease with her familiar behaviour.

But Lobelia recovered herself and rallied for one more effort. “Take care of yourself, sweetheart!” she cried, and kissed him firmly on the cheek. Her lips were dry and papery, and her grip on his shoulder was fierce as it propelled him out the door.

Then, miraculously, Frodo was outside again, breathing the free air. He restrained himself from running to the road, just in case Lobelia was watching, but as soon as he was safely around the bend, he gave in to his feelings.

“Ugh!” Frodo exclaimed. He wiped his cheek with his sleeve, shuddering at the thought of being kissed by Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, of all people, and trotted on down the road at a rapid pace.