44. Something in the Air

Late summer 1398, White Downs

“I give you Hamson and Henna Gamgee!” cried the mayor’s assistant. “May they never be parted.”

The small group of hobbits arrayed beneath the massive willow tree burst into applause as the newlyweds turned to face their families and friends.

“Let’s have a kiss, then!” a voice shouted. It sounded suspiciously like Halfred.

Gaffer Gamgee frowned disapprovingly; he didn’t hold with public displays of affection. But Bell, standing beside him in the front row, laughed delightedly. “Yes, a kiss!” she cried.

Marigold Gamgee jumped up and down in her excitement, and May and Daisy cheered along with the rest of the crowd.

Frodo, standing with Bilbo right up front as honoured guests, grinned unsympathetically at Hamson, who was turning redder by the minute.

When at last he could stand it no longer, Hamson turned to his smiling bride and kissed her gently.

Wisteria Twofoot, Henna’s widowed mother, immediately burst into applause, and the other onlookers followed suit.

“All right, let’s have quiet now,” the harassed official tried to make himself heard over the racket. “Would the seven witnesses please come forward? The seven witnesses!”

Besides Hamfast, Bell, and Wisteria, there was Andwise, the roper from Tighfield who had trained Hamson in his trade. Andwise’s wife and son, Emerald and Anson, also came forward. Bilbo was the final witness.

A hush fell over the group at this most solemn part of the ceremony. Hamson and Henna signed the marriage contract first, then the seven witnesses added their signatures in red ink.

Wild applause broke out when the witnesses stepped back, and the group began to disperse.

A few minutes later, family and friends of the young couple had gathered in a back room of the Flying Squirrel Inn. It was time for the wedding breakfast; this was a simple affair, but the food was plentiful and everyone was in high spirits.

Young Samwise was in especially high spirits, for he had an enormous plate of hotcakes steaming before him. He licked his lips and stared around for the butter.

“Now, Hamson, dear, you did receive the things I sent?” Wisteria Twofoot’s anxious voice carried down the long table.

Sam glanced that way and saw his brother smile patiently. “I did, and I’ve put them in the kitchen already.”

“Don’t worry, Mum,” Henna said from her seat beside Hamson. “We won’t be running out o’ table linens, thanks to you. The hole is set up grand! We’ll be just fine.”

“I know, lass, I know,” Wisteria chuckled. “But I’ve worried and fretted over ye for 32 years! I shan’t be stopping on account of a mere wedding.”

Hamfast and Bell laughed, but Henna regarded her mother with a mixture of fondness and exasperation.

Fortunately, the Gaffer’s initial misgivings about the worthiness of the Tighfield Twofoots had proven baseless. The whole Gamgee family had warmed to Henna and her mother almost immediately. Henna was not strikingly beautiful, but her thick chestnut curls and sparkling hazel eyes couldn’t fail to please. She was as quiet and reserved as Hamson most of the time, but she had a way of putting even strangers at ease with her warm manner and gentle words.

Henna’s father had died when she was hardly more than a babe, and Wisteria had managed the family’s small inn ever since. Henna, as a consequence of working in an inn most of her life, knew how to do all sorts of things that interested the younger Gamgees. She could cook inn food, for one thing.

“What do you need, Sam?” the whisper reached Sam’s ears from across the table. Sam turned to see Frodo smiling at him. “Butter?”

Sam nodded, a trifle embarrassed that he had been so obvious about it. But then, Frodo always knew somehow what he was thinking. He had never ceased to marvel that the tweenager treated him more like one of his young cousins than the insignificant son of the gardener. It had been easy to take for granted when Sam was younger and didn’t know any better, but he was going on eighteen now and well aware that his family’s special relationship with the Bagginses was an unusual privilege.

It had been with a certain amount of diffidence that Sam’s parents had invited the pair to the wedding and breakfast, but Bilbo had accepted with alacrity. And here they were, dressed in their fine party clothes, cheerfully eating the simple wedding food and making easy conversation with the other guests.

Frodo put down his fork and took up Sam’s search for the butter. The cerulean gaze moved swiftly over half-empty platters and crocks of jam and honey. Sam couldn’t help a flicker of amusement at Frodo’s intense expression. The older lad finally located the elusive dish between Alar and Poppy Goodchild, and soon had the butter in front of Sam. Sam busied himself with his hotcakes, for he was even hungrier by this point.

He heard Frodo laugh at something Poppy Goodchild said. Sam did not know Poppy, although he knew her husband was a distant cousin of his mother’s, but the couple had greeted Frodo very warmly. Sam’s curiosity was aroused, and he decided he would ask Frodo about it later. When they first met, Sam had been in awe of the older lad. He still thought Frodo was quite the best hobbit he knew, but he also knew Frodo a good deal better after all these years.

He had seen those queer blue eyes dance with laughter at a good joke, and tighten with private anguish. He had seen Frodo’s eyes watching him with understanding and sympathy, and blazing with anger at a bully. Frodo’s life had not been easy, and anyone who knew his vulnerabilities could not help feeling deeply protective as well as fond of the kind-hearted tween. At least, that was what Sam thought. It was beyond him how some folks could know Frodo’s past and use it to hurt him whenever they got the chance. He was thinking of the Sackville-Bagginses, of course. He had never understood what drove such people, and he hoped he never did.

Later that morning, Frodo and Bilbo returned to their room at the Warbling Turtle, the largest inn on the White Downs.

“Frodo-lad, is that your best waistcoat?” Bilbo asked as Frodo began to change into his everyday clothes.

Frodo looked up in surprise. “I suppose so,” he said as Bilbo inspected the discarded garment.

“And these trousers!” Bilbo exclaimed, coming closer. “Why, they’re nearly worn through at the knees. When was the last time you had new clothes, my boy?”

Frodo had to stop and think. “A year?” he guessed.  He had been going through a growth spurt lately, and it was harder than ever to keep his clothes in good shape.

Bilbo shook his head. “I’m sorry I haven’t been paying more attention, lad,” he sighed. “And you never ask for anything, of course. What a dreadful guardian I’ve been!” The old hobbit put his arm around Frodo’s shoulders as he sat beside him on the bed.

It was said half in jest, but Frodo read something more serious in Bilbo’s expression. In truth, he had been concerned about his elder cousin the last few months. Never before had Frodo seen him spend so much time alone in his study, working on his book. Sometimes poring over his maps, sometimes merely staring out the window while he fingered his magic ring absently.

Frodo didn’t know what it all meant, and he couldn’t help his concern. There was no one alive on this earth he loved more than Bilbo. “You’ve already given me more than I could ever ask,” Frodo said finally. “You’ve done more for me than anyone!”

“Nonsense, boy,” Bilbo said gruffly. “It’s nothing to what you deserve. Besides, I can’t have my ward running about looking like a ragamuffin! You’ll come with me to a tailor tomorrow, won’t you? There are several good ones setting up shop here for the Fair, and we should be able to get you some nice things before we return to Hobbiton.”

“Tomorrow?” Frodo hesitated. “All right.” He had been planning to meet up with Folco Boffin, whose family was due to arrive tonight. They had counted on spending the first day of the Fair together. But he couldn’t bear to refuse Bilbo. He hoped this wouldn’t take too long and he could find Folco later.

“Oh, what a handsome young fellow!” cried Fern Tunnely. “This blue linen matches the colour of your eyes exactly.”

Bongo Tunnely murmured in cheerful agreement around the pins he was holding in his mouth as he circled behind Frodo.

The tween sighed inwardly. Bilbo had brought him to the best tailor in town, but after it had been agreed what clothes he needed and how many, Mrs. Tunnely had chased his uncle out the door, saying Frodo was more than old enough not to have his guardian hovering while he made his choices.

That had been almost three hours ago. Frodo shifted restlessly on the stool.

“Please hold still, young master,” Bongo reproached him immediately.

Frodo murmured an apology and made himself stand still. He would never be called fashionable, and he was not at all dissatisfied with his current wardrobe, but he supposed it was well to get new things before the old disintegrated. He tried to ignore the tugging as Bongo pinned up his new trouser cuffs and concentrated instead on the view out the window. Today was the opening of the Fair, so there was plenty to see.

Frodo’s fingers twitched at his sides, wondering if he’d get to see any of it today. He hoped at least Folco was having more fun than he was.

Folco smiled to himself as he bent down to examine a cart with six kinds of mushrooms for sale. He certainly was having fun today.

“Pity I couldn’t find Frodo,” the grey-eyed hobbit muttered to himself. “He would love this.” Folco picked up one of the largest mushrooms he had ever seen and wondered if he should buy it, just to show off.

“Best-tasting mushrooms in the West Farthing,” the vendor singsonged.

Folco frowned, unable to decide how many he should get.

A sudden crash interrupted his deliberations, and Folco turned his head just in time to see none other than Lobelia Sackville-Baggins at the next stall pull her hand back guiltily. A well-dressed lass about his own age, standing a few feet from Lobelia, turned in surprise just as he did.

It was a potter’s stall, and Folco judged from the fragments on the ground that Lobelia had dropped a large and probably expensive bowl.

The potter hurried from the back of his stall and exclaimed in dismay when he saw his shattered piece. “Will ye be paying for that, ma’am?” he asked pointedly, turning to Lobelia.

“I—certainly not!” the flustered lady exclaimed. “I didn’t break it. This girl here did!” She pointed a bony finger at the tweenager Folco had noticed a moment ago.

The potter turned to glare at the girl. “Well?” he said. “That was one o’ my best pieces.” He was a surly little fellow, and his messy curls were dusted liberally with particles of dry clay.

The girl looked shocked. “I—I was not involved, sir, I promise!” Her face had gone very white.

“Lying girl!” Lobelia screamed, and went on to say even worse things.

The potter then launched into an angry tirade about young folks today, thinking they can get away with anything because their parents have let them run wild.

Lobelia was smirking and nodding in agreement now, and other Fairgoers were stopping to see what the commotion was about. The girl was turning red with embarrassment or anger, and Folco noticed with mounting fury that tears were spilling from her wide green eyes.

Folco knew that if Frodo was here, he would intervene and have some clever way to handle both Lobelia and the potter while extricating the girl from the situation, and folks would listen to him. One couldn’t help listening to Frodo; he had the uncanny knack of thinking before he spoke, and meaning every word he said.

Folco didn’t think he had ever seen Frodo lose his temper, in all the years they had known each other. He hoped he wasn’t there if ever Frodo got really angry; Folco suspected it would be a frightening sight indeed.

Unfortunately, Frodo was not here, and thus there was no one to restrain Folco’s own rather quick temper.

He covered the distance to the pottery stall in three strides and interrupted the potter’s diatribe. “I saw the whole thing!” Folco exclaimed angrily. “Lobelia is lying. She is the one who dropped your bowl.”

Lobelia recovered from the unexpected interruption first. “Why, you impudent boy!” she cried. “How dare you call me a liar—the very idea!”

“How dare you blame an innocent bystander?” Folco retorted. “Pay this fellow and stop making a fool of yourself!”

The watching hobbits began to press in closer, eager to watch this new development.

Lobelia turned as red as a turnip, realizing that all eyes were upon her. “Well...” she said, reaching into her enormous handbag. “I didn’t break it, but I suppose I’ll pay for it anyway. Out of the goodness of my heart, of course.”

“Of course.” Folco glared at her.

Their audience were shaking their heads at Lobelia’s refusal to admit her guilt, but Lobelia put some money down on the table and hissed “You have made an enemy in me,” in Folco’s ear as she flounced away in a huff.

“Er, I’m right sorry about that, miss,” the little potter muttered, not meeting anyone’s eyes. “Right sorry I am. If there were some way I could make it up to ye...”

“That’s all right,” said the girl, drying her eyes on her handkerchief. “Just a misunderstanding, I’m sure.”

The surly potter bowed and returned to his stall, muttering in embarrassment.

“Thank you so much for your kindness,” the girl said then, and Folco realized she was speaking to him.

“Not at all,” Folco said automatically, for he had been distracted by the way her golden-brown hair shone in the sun.

“I shan’t forget it,” she said warmly, and extended her hand. “My name is Willow, by the way. Willow Loamsdown.”

“Folco Boffin at your service,” Folco replied, ashamed of himself for staring. He felt as if there was something in the air, slowing his mind. He took her hand and bent to kiss it. When he looked up again, she was watching him curiously. “Can I... er—I mean, if I may ask...” Folco hesitated, annoyed that his usual quickness with words had completely deserted him. “Would you have luncheon with me?” he finally got out.

Willow gently disengaged her hand, which Folco belatedly realized he was still holding, but she did not seem offended. “Thank you, I would like that,” she replied with a smile.

Folco grinned stupidly as he walked with Willow toward the food vendors. He would look for Frodo later, he decided.