50. Passing the Time

September 7, 1398

Frodo lifted an edge of the curtain over the kitchen window and peeped furtively out at the garden. He didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, but one never knew. The tiny orange blooms in the nearest flowerbed seemed to glow in the early afternoon sunshine, and the longer grass at the path borders moved gently in the breeze.

Azure eyes narrowed suspiciously. It was all a little too peaceful. And then he heard it—the distinctive snip snip snip of garden shears. Over near the front door, and getting nearer.

Frodo leaned a little closer to the open window, until he could see the Gaffer’s bent form coming into view. Hamfast straightened up to dispose of the trimmings, and Frodo let the curtain drop back into place. He leaned against the kitchen table with a sigh. It had been seven days since Bilbo’s departure, and the Gaffer was still performing his new duties as diligently as ever.

That morning a week ago, Bilbo had told Frodo he was writing to their cousins in Tookland and in Buckland, and leaving a note for the Gamgees. Frodo had been too groggy to be curious about the contents of that note at the time, but he had wondered about it plenty since.

At first, everything had gone as it normally did when Frodo preferred not to accompany Bilbo on some errand, and chose instead to stay home by himself. Hamfast performed his regular duties, sometimes with Samwise in tow, and knocked on the door before he left every day to see how Frodo was faring and ask if he needed anything. Sometimes Bell would send Samwise or May up with a plate of muffins, if she had been baking. Normally, that was all. And it was enough.

The last several days, however, Hamfast had gone beyond the call of duty, in Frodo’s opinion. Perhaps this was because Frodo had never stayed alone longer than a few days.  Then again, perhaps Frodo should have asked to read what Bilbo had written in that note.

In any case, every time Frodo stepped out the door now, the Gaffer would appear, seemingly rising right out of the hedge sometimes, to ask where he was going, who he would be with, and what time he expected to return. All this was asked very respectfully, of course, this being Hamfast Gamgee, and none of it was anything Bilbo wouldn’t want to know if he were here, but Frodo was rapidly wearying of the scrutiny. He was nearly thirty years old, after all.  Hobbits just a few years older sometimes married, in fact. Waiting until at least the late thirties was far more common, but still.

Frodo, still perched on the edge of the table, heard the dreaded garden shears pass by directly under the kitchen window, and decided he ought to get some fun out of this. The tween straightened out of his slouch and went to Bilbo’s room, on the opposite side of the smial. Also, conveniently, the room with the largest window. He ought to have a good few minutes before the Gaffer and his shears made it this far.

“Sorry, Bilbo,” the tween muttered as he clambered up on his uncle’s bed. He stepped gingerly over the headboard and opened the window. That was one of the many showpieces of Bag End; the finest artisans of Hobbiton had crafted winding green vines and leaves out of stained glass to make this one-of-a-kind window. Frodo took care not to leave dirty smudges on the glass panes as he hoisted himself out through the opening.

He paused awkwardly in the half-in, half-out position. Listening intently, he detected the telltale snip snip over by the vegetable garden. Just around the corner. Frodo began to wriggle the rest of the way out. He tried not to think about how appallingly embarrassing it would be for Hamfast to catch him in this undignified position.

When Frodo was lying mostly on his stomach across the window sill, he peered down at the two holly bushes directly below. “Now or never,” he muttered, envisioning himself gracefully swinging his legs over the sill and dropping noiselessly to the ground between the hollies.

Unfortunately, the tween failed to take his latest growth spurt into account, and wound up with both legs stuck in the window. “Confounded awkward phase!” Frodo said under his breath, exasperated. He tried shifting his weight again, but only whacked his left foot on Bilbo’s window frame.

Snip! Snip!

Frodo estimated that his window of opportunity, no pun intended, was about to close. He redoubled his efforts, wriggling frantically the way one wriggled a wide book from a tight shelf.

At last, at last, when it sounded as if the Gaffer and his well-meaning questions would be upon him any moment, Frodo’s legs came free. The tween shoved off the window ledge, landing clumsily with one foot firmly in the holly, just as Hamfast Gamgee strolled around the corner.

The only happy result of this misadventure, Frodo would decide later, was the expression on Hamfast’s face when he caught sight of the disheveled young master standing in the holly.

Frodo watched the expressions chase themselves across the old gardener’s face. Surprise, confusion, concern, and finally, exasperation. “Good afternoon, Mr. Frodo,” Hamfast said with a polite nod.

“Afternoon, Master Gamgee,” Frodo replied, standing casually, as though he loitered in the shrubbery every day.

“Heading off, then?” the Gaffer said nonchalantly.

“Yes, I’m meeting a friend at the Green Dragon,” Frodo said before Hamfast could ask.

The gardener nodded and reached up to scratch his neck. “Been a week today, Mr. Frodo.”

Frodo studied the Gaffer. He wasn’t following their usual pattern of exchange now. “Yes, a week,” the tween said cautiously.

“Will ye be writing to your cousins soon, then? The master never meant ye to stay on your own so long, if you follow me.”

Frodo frowned. “He said if he wasn’t back after a week or two, Master Gamgee, I should consider going to stay in Buckland or Tookland.”

“Aye,” the Gaffer said noncommittally.

“He left it to my discretion,” Frodo added.

Hamfast merely picked up his gardening shears. “T’ain’t my place to tell you otherwise, young master.”

“Thank you for your concern, Master Gamgee,” Frodo said, trying not to feel irritated by the old gardener’s stubbornness. Well, Frodo could be stubborn too. He wanted to stay right where he was. All his things were here, and his friends, and Bilbo’s books. This was his home.

True, he hadn’t seen Merry or Pippin in awhile, but he could do that any time, in theory. It wasn’t every day he got to be Master of Bag End, sole arbiter of his fate, coming and going as he pleased (Hamfast Gamgee notwithstanding, of course).

He knew the Gaffer, and likely Bell as well, didn’t approve of leaving a tweenager to his own devices for a prolonged period of time. But Frodo was certain he could handle it, and determined to prove it.

Frodo got to the gate and made sure to latch it behind him. He sighed absently and picked a stray holly leaf off his trousers.

The tween walked very fast into town, head down, navigating unconsciously through the mid-afternoon crowd of hobbits around the Green Dragon, and perhaps that explained why he didn’t notice the person coming toward him until it was too late.

“Why, Frodo Baggins!”

Frodo’s head jerked up in surprise when the shrill voice exclaimed almost directly in his right ear.

“Where are you off to in such a rush, sweetie?”

“Good day, Mrs. Sackville-Baggins,” Frodo said politely, suppressing the annoyance he felt at yet another delay. Heather might as well give up on him. “I’m bound for the inn,” the tween added, remembering Lobelia’s question.

“Splendid, splendid,” the hawk-nosed lady said. “It is good to see you’re keeping busy... dear.”

“Ah, thank you.” Frodo wasn’t quite sure what to say. Lobelia was being her usual syrupy self to him, as she had been for years now, and Frodo dutifully minded his manners in any encounter with her. He hoped she truly had reformed after her cruelty to him seven years ago. Sometimes she seemed to despise him still, but Frodo was convinced it was just her generally unpleasant manner. Surely no one could hold a grudge for the better part of a decade.

“I’ve heard about Bilbo going off again, you poor thing,” Lobelia cooed solicitously, brushing a bit of dust off the shoulder of his coat. “Any word on the date of his return?”

This last was said casually, but the tone of voice caused Frodo to look at her sharply. Oddly enough, most of the conversations around them had paused as well, and Frodo became aware that the hobbits around the door of the inn were watching curiously.

“No,” Frodo said at last, seeing no reason to lie. “I do not know. He could return at any time, I suppose.”

Lobelia was watching him carefully, and seemed satisfied by whatever she saw. “Poor dear,” she said in a motherly tone. “Well, if you need anything, anything at all, you tell me immediately, all right... sweetie?”

”Thank you,” Frodo said, staring.

“Well, go on in and find your little friend,” Lobelia prompted with a smile when Frodo showed no sign of moving.

The tween nodded dumbly and pushed the inn’s heavy door open. The hobbits standing nearby resumed their conversations, Lobelia stalked off down the street, and Frodo slipped into the pub.

Once his eyes had adjusted, Frodo quickly spotted his friend at a table along the far wall.

“There you are, Frodo!” Heather Proudfoot exclaimed as Frodo slid into the seat across from her. “The Gaffer didn’t give you too much trouble, I hope?”

“No, not really,” Frodo replied with a smile. “I know he means well. But I ran into Lobelia Sackville-Baggins just outside the door.”

“And was she her usual charming self?” Heather took a sip of her ale.

“I know you’re joking... but she was charming,” Frodo said in exasperation. “I cannot figure her out at all. I fear she must be up to something.”

“She usually is,” Heather agreed.

“I don’t know why everyone is so interested in Bilbo’s affairs,” Frodo went on, shaking his head. “You should have seen how many folks paused to listen when Lobelia spoke to me.”

Heather tucked a lock of curly hair behind one ear and passed her tankard to Frodo. “Bilbo is different, and that makes him interesting,” she said.

“I suppose,” Frodo replied, taking a quick drink.

“It’s true,” Heather persisted, holding Frodo’s gaze. “Most folks find you Hobbiton Bagginses fascinating. You naturally capture attention. Nobody else I know goes on adventures, or knows Dwarfish history, or can speak Elvish.”

Frodo was uncertain whether she was speaking of Bilbo or himself now, and he started to push the ale back toward Heather to cover his confusion.

“No, no, you finish it,” Heather stopped him with a light touch on his wrist. “I wanted tea, anyway. The proprietor confused my order in the afternoon rush.”

Frodo returned her smile and toasted her with the tankard before downing the last bit of ale. “Shall I try again to order tea for you?” he offered.

Heather considered for a moment, then shook her head. “I should be getting on home, I’m afraid. It’s late.”

“Then allow me to see you home,” Frodo said, putting down a few coins for the ale. “I still haven’t asked about your recent stay in Overhill.”

“That would be lovely,” Heather said.

September 15, 1398

“Thank you, Mrs. Gamgee,” Frodo said, accepting the steaming cup gratefully.

“Not at all, Mr. Frodo,” Bell replied, sitting across from him with her own cup of tea. “I’m always happy ta see you, and that’s a fact.”

Frodo smiled and looked down at his tea, because he knew Bell wasn’t just being polite; he didn’t visit often, not wanting to intrude, but she honestly did seem happy to see him. This time, in fact, he had only stopped by to ask Bell for a recipe. Frodo could cook as well as any young hobbit, but after a fortnight on his own, he was rapidly tiring of his small repertoire.

Of course, when Bell had invited him to take tea with her, he hadn’t put up much of a fight. Frodo had always enjoyed spending time with Mrs. Gamgee; he didn’t remember his own mother very well after all these years, but he liked to think she was something like Bell Gamgee. He would never reveal such thoughts to anyone, naturally, but he had no qualms about enjoying Bell’s motherly attentions whenever the opportunity presented itself.

“And how have ye been faring, Mr. Frodo?” Bell interrupted his thoughts.

“Well enough,” Frodo said.

“I expect you miss Mr. Bilbo somethin’ fierce...”

“Yes,” Frodo sighed. There were not many he would admit this to. “And I worry about him.”

Bell reached out toward his hand, then seemed to remember whom she was talking to. She had another sip of tea instead.

Frodo was surprised by the flash of disappointment he felt when Bell withdrew her hand. He supposed he had grown accustomed to Bilbo’s fond touches and affectionate hugs, but surely he was too old now to miss such physical reassurances.

“I can’t say I blame you for worryin’,” Bell said. “But you’d best remember that your uncle can take care o’ himself. Some folks might think him a mite... odd, but I for one wouldn’t doubt his good sense when it counts, if ye follow me.”

Bell refilled Frodo’s cup without asking. “I would say, if ye don’t mind, that Mr. Bilbo wouldn’t like ye to be moping about the place all this time. You’ll be off to stay with your cousins before long, surely?”

Frodo couldn’t bring himself to feel irritated in the face of Bell’s obvious concern. “I... not yet,” the tween said. “Please don’t concern yourself, Mrs. Gamgee,” he added, suddenly anxious that she understand. “I just... this is my home now.”

Bell smiled gently. “Well, you’re nearly of age, Mr. Frodo, and it’s your decision, o’ course. I just hope you’ll remember you have us Gamgees down the Hill, and come to us with any problem, large or small.”

Frodo looked at the proud lady in her plain, well-patched dress, and was moved. “Thank you, ma’am,” he said. “That means a great deal to me, truly.”

“Oh, sticklebacks,” Bell said briskly, and this time she did give his hand a quick pat.

The front door opened just then, and Daisy Gamgee strode in with Samwise and Marigold in tow.

“Strange goings-on in town today, Ma!” Daisy exclaimed. She walked right past Frodo, who was still sitting quietly at the kitchen table.

“You know I don’t like gossip, love,” Bell said, getting up to take Marigold’s coat. “Don’t wrinkle that, Mari,” she added to the youngest Gamgee.

“I got mud on my skirts, Ma,” Marigold said pitifully.

“You certainly did, love,” Bell sighed.

“Mr. Frodo!” Samwise exclaimed, the first to catch sight of the visitor.

“Hullo,” Frodo said with a smile, politely ignoring the comical sight of Daisy whirling in surprise. “How are you, Sam? I’ve missed you in the garden lately.”

Sam grinned, his round face beaming with honest delight. “I’m well, thankee. My Gaffer says there isn’t much work for me at this time o’ year.”

Bell was steering Marigold to the back room to get the dirt off her dress, and Daisy was still carefully avoiding him, so Frodo took the opportunity to study his young friend. He hadn’t seen much of Sam in the last few weeks, and truthfully, he missed the lad’s cheerful presence.

“Why don’t you come up and visit me sometime, Sam?” Frodo asked impulsively.

“Oh, I’d love to, sir, but I wouldn’t want to be a bother...” Sam glanced at the doorway, clearly imagining what objections his mother might raise.

“You’re never a bother, Sam,” Frodo said firmly. “You’d be doing me a kindness; it gets a little lonely up there by myself, you know.”

Sam’s smile returned. “Tomorrow, Mr. Frodo?”

“With pleasure,” Frodo replied. He saw Daisy fiddling with the kettle out of the corner of his eye, and wondered what sort of news would cause such impatience. “And what happened in town, Daisy?”

The eldest Gamgee daughter came back to the table, clearly delighted to have an audience at last. “You’d never guess such a thing, Mr. Frodo,” she said in a low voice, glancing over her shoulder to be sure Bell had not returned. “There was a fire in Michel Delving, three days back, at the mayor’s office.”

“Oh,” Frodo said in surprise. “I hope no one was hurt?”

“No, no,” Daisy gestured impatiently. “Happened at night, it did. In the records room.”

“I see.” Frodo was puzzled now. Official copies of legal documents were kept in the records room. Marriage certificates, wills, contracts... but any sensible hobbit made more than one copy, if the document was very important. “I suppose someone left a candle burning in there—”

“Well, that’s the interestin’ part, Mr. Frodo!” Daisy whispered excitedly. “They’re sayin’ someone set that fire on purpose.”

Frodo looked at her, aghast. “Why would anyone do that?”

“I don’t rightly know.” Daisy shrugged. “The fire didn’t even destroy very much before it was found and put out. But folks are coming up with the wildest notions about it!”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Frodo said. He had plenty of firsthand experience with the rumours that could be perpetuated by overly curious hobbits.

“I heard Old Flourdumpling set the fire himself, tryin’ to get rid of some record he didn’t want comin’ to light.”

“Daisy-lass, you know better than to spread such stories,” Bell said disapprovingly. “And you’ll regret it if I ever catch you speakin’ of the Mayor that way again. What would your dad say if he heard you talking such nonsense?”

Daisy started guiltily, not having noticed her mother come back in the room. “Sorry, Ma,” she said sheepishly.

Frodo had risen to his feet, realizing he’d stayed longer than he meant to. “Thank you for the tea, Mrs. Gamgee.”

“Leavin’ already? Well, you come back anytime you like, dear.”

“Thank you.”

“You have those recipes ye wanted?”

“Yes, right here.” Frodo showed her the leaf of parchment on which he’d written her instructions. “I look forward to trying them.”

Bell smiled and nodded as she looked at the paper, although Frodo knew she couldn’t read. “Good. You have yourself a nice evening then, Mr. Frodo.”

Frodo wished the same to her, and after quick good-byes to Sam and Daisy, he was walking briskly up the path to Bag End. Dusk had fallen and the windows were dark because he hadn’t thought to leave any lights burning, but Frodo could have found his way home with his eyes closed.

He breathed in the crisp autumn air and firmly squelched a sudden surge of anxiety. “He’s all right,” Frodo said firmly to the silent green door. “He’ll be back soon, you’ll see.”