8. Various Visitors

That evening after supper, Bilbo Baggins sat smoking his pipe in the dimly lit kitchen. The supper dishes were all cleaned up, and it was only six thirty. Bilbo sighed and blew another smoke ring. It had never before occurred to him how dull his evenings had been before he’d adopted Frodo.

Having a child around with an imagination as lively as Frodo’s, and an intellect to match, was truly a blessing. Bilbo had been delighted and relieved to find Frodo shaking off his former melancholy and settling in cheerfully at Bag End these last few weeks. The lad had been unpardonably neglected at Brandy Hall, and he’d really seemed to blossom under Bilbo’s care.

But lately, Bilbo had been worried. Just in the last week or so, Frodo had been increasingly withdrawn and quiet. Bilbo couldn’t help but wonder; was the boy becoming homesick for Brandy Hall? He wanted what was best for Frodo, of course, but the old hobbit was sure his heart would break if he was forced to send the child back to his Buckland relations.

Bilbo clenched his teeth around the stem of his pipe. He didn’t like to think of Bag End without Frodo. The old place would be unbearably dreary.

Nevertheless, Bilbo was worried. Was the child afraid to tell him he wanted to go back to Buckland? He sighed again. Few would guess it of old ‘Mad Baggins,’ but Bilbo really understood his young nephew quite well. He knew that Frodo was a kind-hearted, thoughtful lad who could be too serious for his own good sometimes. Keeping silent through fear of hurting Bilbo’s feelings or making him worry was unfortunately exactly the sort of thing that Frodo was capable of.

And now the dear boy was resting in his room. He had seemed dreadfully pale at supper, and said scarcely two words. Bilbo had suggested they read together by the fire as they often did after supper, but Frodo, pleading exhaustion, had gone to his room. Bilbo shook his head. He hoped the lad wasn’t coming down with something.

Frodo lay stretched out on his bed, staring at the ceiling. He hadn’t wanted to disappoint Bilbo, but he really didn’t think he could sit up all evening and pretend nothing was the matter. His bruises ached most abominably now, so much that he was forced to take shallow breaths to avoid hurting his tender ribs. Surely he would feel better soon?

The twenty-three-year-old hobbit sat up gingerly. He was beginning to fear that Samwise had been correct; perhaps this was too much for him to handle and he should have told Uncle Bilbo about the trouble with Lotho. Frodo glanced at his closed bedroom door. Bilbo was likely still in the kitchen. If he told and promised very earnestly never to get in any trouble again, perhaps Bilbo wouldn’t even be angry enough to send him back to Brandy Hall?

Frodo shook his head and got carefully to his feet. He opened the door noiselessly and slipped out into the hall. He would go and see what Bilbo was doing... and then maybe he would make up his mind.

When he was just approaching the kitchen, Frodo heard a loud knock at the front door. Bilbo came out of the kitchen and went to answer the door, never looking down the hall to where Frodo was standing like a startled rabbit. Thinking quickly, Frodo slipped into the kitchen to wait for Bilbo. Hopefully the visitors wouldn’t stay long.

Bilbo suppressed a groan when he saw who was standing on his front step.

“Otho! Lobelia!” he exclaimed, trying to sound happy, or at least not too dismayed. “To what do I owe the... pleasure?” Bilbo was rather proud that he’d managed that last sentence without smirking. The Sackville-Bagginses weren’t nearly as vitriolic when he managed to appear civil.

“We must have words with you, Bilbo!” Lobelia fairly shrieked. She and her husband pushed past Bilbo and swept imperiously into the parlour. Bilbo followed his unpleasant cousins reluctantly. At least Lobelia wouldn’t find any spoons in there to pocket.

Otho and Lobelia were both scowling far more than usual, which indicated that this evening’s visit was going to be particularly disagreeable. Bilbo sighed. At least Frodo was in his room and wouldn’t have to witness whatever unpleasantness was coming.

The two visitors had seated themselves, uninvited, on the best couch in the parlour; they each wore an identical glare that would freeze a boiled tater. Bilbo took the chair across from them.

“Well then! How can I be of assistance?” Bilbo said genially. It would never do to show apprehension in front of these two. Sackville-Bagginses were like dragons; they could smell fear. Bilbo fought a smile at the image of the squat, sour-faced Lobelia as a dragon, but her next words drove all humour from his mind.

“We’ve come to see that justice is done!” Lobelia cried. “That brat of yours must be punished!”

“I see,” said Bilbo calmly. “And what, may I ask, have you to accuse Frodo of?”

“He has insulted our good name!” said Otho, urged on by vigorous nodding and elbowing from Lobelia. “The little monster maliciously slandered our family, in front of our poor Lotho.”

“Is that so?” Bilbo raised an eyebrow. This was almost as creative as the time the S.-B.’s had accused young Hamson Gamgee of stealing a valuable vase that was later discovered to have been smashed by none other than Lotho Sackville-Baggins. As far as Bilbo was concerned, Lotho was the only ‘little monster’ in the conversation, but the old hobbit was far too refined to say as much.

“Yes! And the impudent boy must be punished!” Lobelia’s face was turning red with anger at Bilbo’s lack of reaction.

“What exactly did he say?” Bilbo inquired mildly.

“He said—” Lobelia began in a furious shriek, but then moderated her voice slightly. “He said our family was no better than—the Gamgees, those dirt-grubbing gardeners of yours. Can you imagine such cheek?”

Bilbo raised his other eyebrow. He had thought for many years that if there was any justice in the world, the S.-B.’s would be worse off than the Gamgees, but Bilbo knew perfectly well that Frodo would never say such a thing, regardless.

“Honestly, Bilbo, I can’t believe you would choose such a malicious child as your heir,” Lobelia continued, shaking her head in contrived bewilderment. “I can only hope that you’ll reconsider the wisdom of that thoughtless decision.”

Lobelia spoke with the air of a virtuous parent, regretfully admonishing a particularly wilful and foolish child. It made Bilbo want to gag, but of course he knew well enough what was taking place. One of the S.-B.’s, most likely Lotho, had manufactured the charge against Frodo in an effort to convince Bilbo to reinstate Otho as his legal heir.

Of course, if Lobelia had been aware that Bilbo had known the boy all his young life, and knew from experience that Frodo was one of the least malicious children alive, her scheming would likely have taken some other direction. Bilbo sighed. He had never thought such trouble would come of his adoption of Frodo. Certainly he had expected some amount of resentment and bitterness from the S.-B.’s, who tended to be resentful and bitter regardless of the circumstances, but he hadn’t thought they would be so low as to involve a young tweenager in their mercenary schemes. Bilbo rubbed the bridge of his nose. Frodo mustn’t hear of any of this, Bilbo mused. He was a sensitive boy, and he was too young to understand.

“Is that so?” Bilbo answered finally, and anyone who knew him well would realize that Lobelia had nearly pushed him too far.

Lobelia nodded indignantly, then smiled at Bilbo slyly and said helpfully, “You know, if you don’t think you’re up to punishing the little beast, Otho will be happy to give him a good, sound thrashing for you.”

“Just what the boy needs,” Otho said agreeably.

Bilbo fixed the pair with a baleful eye, suddenly looking more dangerous than any doddering old hobbit had a right to. Bilbo had been raised to be well-mannered in any social situation, but he did not tolerate malice kindly. Bilbo got to his feet, signalling that the interview was over, and Otho and Lobelia did the same.

“You most certainly will not touch that boy,” Bilbo said, controlling himself with an effort. When Lobelia looked about to protest, a little imp prompted Bilbo to add, “I can assure you, I will most definitely punish Frodo... as severely as he deserves.”

Lobelia glared at him suspiciously, rusty wheels slowly turning in her head, but there was no way she could hear Bilbo continue mentally, ...meaning I won’t punish the dear boy a jot, so she sniffed in disgust and flounced out the door, her husband trailing after her.

Bilbo dropped weakly back into his chair. Despite the act he had put on for the S.-B.’s, the thought of anyone beating his young cousin made him feel ill. Bilbo sighed and closed his eyes. He simply had to think of some way to convince Lobelia and Otho to leave poor Frodo be. What had he done to deserve such abominable relations?

Frodo tiptoed back to his room, white and trembling, and so very sore. He hadn’t really meant to eavesdrop, but from his position in the kitchen he had been able to hear the entire conversation between Uncle Bilbo and Lotho’s parents. Well, mainly he had heard Lobelia’s shrill voice. Bilbo’s remarks had been too soft to really make out, but Frodo had gotten the gist of the discussion.

Despite Frodo’s best efforts, Bilbo was going to reconsider his adoption, and from the sound of things, punish him as well. Frodo didn’t understand why Lotho would make up such a story, but he shuddered at the thought of another beating. Would Bilbo believe him if he said that Lotho had lied? Frodo thought he probably would... but then surely Bilbo would take the word of two adults over a twenty-three-year-old boy’s.

Frodo closed his bedroom door behind him and crawled miserably into his bed. He was crying now, frightened and angry that he was going to lose Bilbo after waiting so long to have him. Frodo curled up into a ball under his blankets, struggling to contain his sobs. Crying was making the bruises on his ribs hurt dreadfully, but eventually Frodo fell into an exhausted slumber.

Meanwhile, Bilbo returned to the kitchen and took up his forgotten pipe. He had just gotten settled when he heard another knock at the door. The old hobbit sprang to his feet, ready to give Lobelia a piece of his mind if that was she coming back again, and hang good manners.

But Bilbo flung open the front door to see a rather startled Gaffer Gamgee standing there this time.

“Master Hamfast!” Bilbo exclaimed in relieved surprise. “Do come in! I have a good fire going in the kitchen.”

Hamfast nodded and followed Bilbo inside. Bilbo insisted that Hamfast sit at the table while Bilbo made a pot of tea, much to the Gaffer’s consternation.

“Now then,” said Bilbo, pouring the tea and taking a seat across from his gardener. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Well, Master Bilbo,” Hamfast said, fingering the ties on his sleeve. “I just wanted to ask you, how is Mr. Frodo this evenin’?”

“Frodo?” Bilbo asked in surprise. “Why do you ask?” Bilbo leaned forward, wondering what this was all about. Did Hamfast know something about Frodo’s recent behaviour? Had the lad confided his homesickness to Samwise, perhaps?

The Gaffer hesitated briefly, then looked up to meet Bilbo’s anxious brown eyes. “Sir, I wanted to tell ye how grateful we are for Mr. Frodo’s comin’ to the rescue of our Sam yesterday. That’s a right fine boy you’ve got there, if ye don’t mind my saying so.”

Bilbo stared back, bewildered. Frodo certainly hadn’t mentioned anything about rescuing the gardener’s youngest son. “Well, naturally, I don’t mind, but I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re referring to, Master Hamfast.”

“Aye?” Hamfast said, clearly surprised. “Well, sir, that Lotho Sackville-Baggins was tormenting young Samwise out on the road to town yesterday, and Mr. Frodo came along and told ‘im off proper-like. You oughta be real proud o’ him, sir.”

“I am!” said an astonished Bilbo. “And I always have been.”

“At any rate, sir, I’m right sorry that Mr. Frodo’s kindness got him in trouble with that Mr. Lotho,” Hamfast continued, watching Bilbo anxiously.

“What trouble?” Bilbo sat up straight. He knew Lotho to be one of those children who could be disarmingly sweet to adults but a savage bully to those younger and weaker than himself.

“Master Bilbo, I’m worried, from what my lads ‘ave told me, that Mr. Lotho and Ted Sandyman might’ve given Mr. Frodo a thrashing this morning, to teach ‘im a lesson for helping Sam,” Hamfast said.

Bilbo’s face drained of colour. “Wh-what?” he said weakly. “My boy?” Time seemed abruptly to slow down, as shock battled with horror.

Hamfast waited patiently, watching his master with worried eyes.

Bilbo ran a hand through his greying curls and finally looked up at his gardener. “Hamfast, you have children of your own. Please advise me! What do I do?”

“Well, sir,” the Gaffer said gently, “if you’re askin’ my opinion, I’d say ye oughta talk to Mr. Frodo before ye do anythin’ else. I might’ve been wrong.”

“Talk to him?” Bilbo repeated desperately. “He would have told me if any such thing had happened, surely!”

“Aye,” said Hamfast steadily. “Sir, it ain’t my place to say so, but from what young Sam ‘as told me, Mr. Frodo might need a bit o’... reassurance from ye.”

“Reassurance?”

“Little ‘uns are like that sometimes, Master,” said Hamfast with an embarrassed shrug. “Ye move ‘em to a new home an’ they can feel unsure o’ their place, if ye follow me, sir.” Hamfast watched Bilbo carefully, determined that he understand.

Bilbo stood quickly, and Hamfast followed suit. “I must speak with Frodo,” Bilbo muttered, half to himself.

The Gaffer nodded in agreement, looking relieved that he wouldn’t have to make any more such appallingly forward speeches. Satisfied that his mission was accomplished, Hamfast took his leave, and Bilbo hurried to Frodo’s room. He knocked on the door and waited. Might Frodo be asleep already? No, it was just barely eight o’clock. Bilbo waited a few long moments, and just when he was about to knock again, the door opened slowly.

Frodo stood in the doorway blinking up at him in the light of the hall. Bilbo saw that Frodo’s room was dark.

“Oh dear, I’m sorry, lad,” Bilbo said. “Did I wake you?”

Frodo shrugged. “That’s all right, Uncle. I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I still need to put on my nightclothes.”

Bilbo hesitated. “I must ask you something, dear boy.”

Frodo looked up at Bilbo with those startling blue eyes and waited.

“Hamfast told me how you helped Sam yesterday, but he said you might have had another run-in with Lotho Sackville-Baggins today,” Bilbo began. “I need you to tell me what sort of trouble Lotho gave you.”

Frodo looked confused by his question, as though he had been expecting something else entirely. “Oh...” Frodo said finally. “Well, nothing, really. He just wanted to scare me.”

Bilbo sighed in relief. “Well, I’m glad you’re all right, dear boy.” Frodo looked as if he were about to say something else then, but changed his mind and looked down at the floor.

Bilbo ruffled the lad’s dark curls affectionately and kissed him on the forehead. “We can talk about this more tomorrow. Why don’t you go on back to bed then, Frodo-lad. You do look tired.”

Frodo nodded and smiled weakly before closing the door. Bilbo sighed. That dreadful Lotho had given Frodo a scare; that could explain the boy’s odd behaviour today, although it didn’t really explain the past week. But at least he knew Frodo hadn’t been harmed. Bilbo, feeling somewhat better about the situation, went to his study to work on his book a little before bed.