7. Secrets

“I still say we ought to have waited till next snowfall, Ham,” said Halfred Gamgee, slinging his snow shovel over his shoulder. “Why, there weren’t more than an inch on the ground!”

“Well, Widow Chubb disagreed with ye, Hal,” replied Hamson, clapping his younger brother on the back. “Besides, this way we get more work, if it snows again and all.”

“Aye,” said Halfred. “But I still don’t see why some folks want their walks shovelled after every snowfall. It’ll need another shovelling before next market day, certain sure! Why not wait for it to add up some?”

“Widow Chubb always was a fussy old thing,” said Hamson with a shrug. “Anyhow, we’re nearly home, and it’s about time for luncheon. What do ye reckon Mum made today, Hal?”

“Hmm...” Halfred smiled at the change in topic, as most hobbits do when the conversation turns to food. “A nice bit o’ pork, I’ll wager.”

“No, you won’t!” retorted Hamson. “You know our Gaffer frowns on wagerin’.”

Halfred joined his brother in laughter, picturing how the Gaffer’s face looked when he was in the middle of a really engrossing lecture. The two boys tramped merrily along the road, carefree and laughing after a hard morning’s work, as only tweenagers can be.

The peace of the quiet December morning was suddenly shattered when two other lads came pelting out onto the road from a branching path.

“Well, look who’s been up to goodness-knows-what,” muttered Hamson to his brother, for the hobbits coming toward them were none other than Lotho Sackville-Baggins and Ted Sandyman.

The Gamgee lads, expecting at least a snide remark from Lotho, stepped aside for the other two to pass. As it happened, Lotho and Ted were too preoccupied with laughing over their mischief to spare a thought for Hamson and Halfred, although Ted did call a cheery “Good morning to ye, lads!” over his shoulder.

“Wonder what that was all about?” Halfred said, as the brothers resumed their walk.

“Nothing good, you mark my words,” said Hamson darkly.

Just then, they passed the path that Lotho and Ted had emerged from: they could see a small, dark-haired figure walking slowly towards them.

“Why, Mr. Frodo!” exclaimed Hamson, stopping in his tracks.

The figure lifted its curly head in surprise. “Hullo, Hamson!” Frodo said a little breathlessly.

“What were ye doin’ back there?” blurted Halfred. Hamson shot his brother a look of disapproval.

“Er, I was bringing one of Bilbo’s cranberry loaves to the Boffins,” Frodo replied after a peculiar pause.

“We meant no disrespect, Mr. Frodo,” said Hamson apologetically, “only we saw Lotho and Ted come out of there just now. They didn’t give you any grief, did they? On account of your helpin’ our Sam yesterday?”

Frodo stared back at Hamson with unreadable blue eyes, which Hamson suddenly noticed were very red.

“Mr. Frodo, are you all right?” cried Halfred in alarm, taking in the other lad’s white face and tense posture.

“Oh...” Frodo said vaguely. “Yes... I’m fine, Halfred.”

“You’re not,” said Hamson suddenly, sounding quite odd. Halfred looked at his brother in surprise. Hamson was usually the most soft-spoken of hobbits. “They hurt ye, didn’t they?!” Hamson exclaimed.

Frodo seemed unable to look away, but his wide blue eyes filled suddenly with tears. “Oh no, I’m all right, Hamson!” he exclaimed in alarm. “Truly! You won’t tell Uncle Bilbo, will you?” The lad seemed nearly hysterical, which quite shocked the two Gamgees. They had never seen Frodo anything but calm and unflappable.

“If you’re sure you’re all right, Mr. Frodo, o’ course we won’t mention it to Mr. Bilbo if that’s what ye want,” Halfred said.

“Thank you,” said Frodo, looking relieved. He hurriedly wiped his eyes on his sleeve, seeming to collect himself with an effort. “Who was that friend of Lotho’s, anyway? Ted, he was called.”

Hamson smiled grimly. “Don’t let old Lotho catch ye sayin’ that, Mr. Frodo. He’d be right insulted to hear ye thinkin’ he might be friends with the likes of Ted Sandyman.”

“Why?” said Frodo, clearly puzzled.

“The miller’s son,” Halfred clarified, bemused by Frodo’s inability to grasp the obvious. “Poor Ted is big an’ stupid an’ does whatever Lotho says. But I’m afraid Mr. Lotho would consider friendship with the likes o’ him, or us for that matter, beneath his dignity.”

“Oh,” Frodo said uncomfortably, looking down at his feet.

“We’ll see you the rest o’ the way home,” Hamson said, exchanging a look with his brother.

Frodo nodded his agreement and the three resumed their walk. Frodo appeared relaxed and at ease, but Hamson continued to watch the younger boy with narrowed eyes. Halfred looked at his brother and realized suddenly that Hamson suspected there had been more to the encounter than Frodo was letting on.

After bidding farewell to Hamson and Halfred, Frodo went slowly up the steps to Bag End. He ached all over, but he had done his best to walk normally in front of the Gamgee brothers; he didn’t know what Hamson would do if he realized that Frodo was indeed hurt. He rubbed vigorously at his face to eliminate any remaining evidence that he’d been crying, and opened the round green door.

“Ah, Frodo-lad!” exclaimed Bilbo cheerfully from the dining-room, where he was dusting shelves. “Excellent, you’re back. I caught little Samwise poking around that big snowdrift outside the kitchen window, muttering about Dwarf caves, so I recruited him to help you with the last of the holly!”

“Oh?” Frodo said weakly. With an effort, he pasted a smile on his face, the one he had often used at Brandy Hall to avoid unwanted attention. “Is he here now?”

“Gone home. He’ll be back after luncheon. Ours is nearly ready, by the way.”

“I’ll just change my clothes, then.” Frodo untied his damp winter cloak, collected some dry clothes from his room, and closeted himself in the large bathroom. He lit the lamp and peered at his pale reflection in the looking glass. He ached so much, he just wanted to crawl into bed and be miserable in peace. Frodo slipped his braces off and slowly unbuttoned his shirt, shrugging it off stiffly. He gasped when he saw his reflection; there were dark, purpling bruises on his stomach and all over his ribs. Frodo turned sideways and saw that the bruises continued across his back.

Frodo moaned softly in dismay. How in middle earth was he to keep up this charade of normality for the rest of the day? And tomorrow? How long would it be until his bruises healed? Frodo had no idea. Hours? Days? This was far more difficult than it would have been at Brandy Hall, Frodo mused. When he was upset about anything at Brandy Hall, it was a fairly simple matter to stay out of everyone’s way and avoid notice.

Here at Bag End, on the other hand, there were only himself and Bilbo; he would have to be extra careful if he wanted Bilbo to remain ignorant of his difficulties. His resolve thus strengthened, Frodo put on his dry shirt and trousers. Then he went out to have luncheon with Bilbo.

That afternoon, Sam Gamgee trotted up the path to Bag End to help with the last of the decorating. He found Frodo hard at work in the parlour, and Sam set to helping him. Samwise, being the smallest person in the hole, soon noticed that Bilbo’s dusting had missed the baseboards and feet of all the furniture, and he took it upon himself to roust out a small rag and correct the oversight.

From his position crouched on his knees between two armchairs, Sam thought he heard Frodo groan softly. Sitting up, Sam turned to look at Frodo, who was still working on the mantelpiece. Sam narrowed his eyes. Now that he troubled to watch, he noticed that the usually graceful gentlehobbit was moving stiffly and clumsily.

“Mr. Frodo?” Sam said tentatively. “Are you all right, sir?”

Frodo turned slightly to look at Sam. “I’m fine, thanks, Sam.” Frodo’s normally expressive blue eyes were unreadable, but he smiled reassuringly. “I’m just a little tired, is all.”

Sam nodded and turned back to his dusting, but when Frodo went back to his own work, Sam lifted his brown eyes again, silently this time. He watched Frodo carefully, and suddenly noticed that Frodo hadn’t managed to tuck in the back of his shirt. Frodo reached across the mantelpiece then, balanced precariously on a chair, and the hem of his shirt lifted enough for Sam to catch a glimpse of discoloured flesh.

Samwise bit back a cry of alarm. Ham and Hal had been right. Sam stared at Frodo for a moment, quite amazed at the older lad’s ability to disguise his true feelings. What sort of upbringing had Mr. Frodo had, away over in Buckland, to make him so adept at feigning good cheer? But Samwise was not fooled any longer. He got to his feet and went over to the mantelpiece. “I know you’re not fine, sir,” Sam said.

Frodo looked at him in surprise and stepped down off the chair. “Whatever do you mean, Sam?”

“Your poor back is bruised,” Sam persisted. “I saw it just now, Mr. Frodo! Now tell your Sam the truth: that Lotho Sackville-Baggins did this, didn’t he!”

Frodo’s mouth dropped open. “How did you know?!” he exclaimed, too shocked to continue his denial.

“I heard Ham and Hal talking about you,” little Sam replied stoutly. “Now why won’t ye tell Mr. Bilbo?”

“No!” Frodo exclaimed in alarm. “Sam, you’ve got to listen to me. You must promise not to tell Uncle Bilbo!”

Sam folded his chubby brown arms and glared at Frodo. “Mr. Frodo, you got into all this trouble on account o’ me, and I already feel real bad about that! How can I promise not ta tell?”

“Sam,” Frodo began, sitting limply on the chair he had just been standing on. “None of this is your fault, truly! But I need you to promise.”

“Why, Mr. Frodo?” exclaimed Sam earnestly. He couldn’t bear to see Frodo in pain, and his honest brown eyes filled with tears. “Why won’t you let Mr. Bilbo help you?” To Sam, the problem was quite straightforward. Bilbo was Frodo’s guardian, just as the Gaffer was Sam’s; Frodo should go to Bilbo as surely as Sam would go to his Gaffer if he got in over his head.

“Oh, Sam, please don’t cry!” said Frodo, struggling not to cry himself. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll figure out how to handle everything, truly I will. There’s no need to trouble Uncle Bilbo.”

Sam stared at Frodo, unconvinced.

“Sam,” Frodo continued reluctantly. “I have to show Uncle Bilbo I’m not a nuisance, or he might send me back to Buckland!”

Sam’s eyes widened. He certainly didn’t want Frodo to be sent away, and yet he couldn’t picture kindly old Mr. Bilbo doing such a thing. But, Frodo was Sam’s elder by twelve years, and he did seem to know a great deal about everything. “No one could ever imagine ye to be a nuisance, Mr. Frodo,” Sam said softly. “But I won’t say a word ta Mr. Bilbo at present.”

“Thank you, Sam,” Frodo said, closing his eyes. “And after all,” he continued, trying to reassure Sam. “I always managed my own affairs when I lived at Brandy Hall, and I’ve done all right so far.”

“Yes, sir,” Sam agreed, and Frodo turned back to his task. Sam took up his dust rag again and got down to business, but his kind heart was touched with concern, and he knew he could not do as Frodo had asked. Oh, certainly he would say nothing to Mr. Bilbo; he had promised, after all. But he had promised nothing about telling anyone else, and little Sam was determined to relate the entire matter to his Gaffer as soon as he got home. The Gaffer would know what to do, if anyone did.