The characters and events in this story do not belong to me. They were beautifully conceived by JRR Tolkien. This is a not-for-profit fanfic.

CHAPTER 1

Esmeralda closed the gate quietly behind her . . . a difficult task for the hinges were sadly in need of oiling . . . but she felt that she had at least to try. There was an air about graveyards that always made her want to be quiet. It was not a need to leave mourners to their thoughts . . . hobbits were not, in general, ones for sitting around in graveyards. It was more a want not to disturb the permanent residents.

As a tweenager Esmeralda had nearly caused a scandal at an aunt's funeral by developing a fit of the giggles. She had sneezed and her over active imagination had conjured up an image of all the graveyard's occupants sitting up and shushing her.

The memory of those distant, carefree days teased a small smile from the corners of her mouth. There was no one else around to see so she did not suppress it as she strolled to her favourite spot beneath an ancient oak. Sitting upon a thick root that delved into the rich loam of Buckland beneath the outspread branches, Esmeralda allowed her eyes to roam the small graveyard.

Unlike some communities, the occupants of Brandy Hall did not go in for big funerary monuments . . . a simple stone showing a name, date of birth and date of death marked most graves. Some did not even have this, their occupants only known to remaining relatives and indicated by a shrub or some flowers. Aunt Petunia's grave was in the far corner, its stone marker only newly erected, now that the ground had finished settling . . . Petunia Longfoot . . . 1291 to 1379. Uncle Longfoot was not buried here of course. He had died three years before his wife and his marker was in a graveyard at Newbury.

The sun slipped behind a passing cloud and Esmeralda glanced up to check the weather. It was a not a long walk back to Brandy Hall but long enough to get thoroughly wet if it decided to rain. She had been so completely absorbed in her own thoughts that she had not considered checking the weather until now and she chided herself. It was with some relief that Esmeralda found that the cloud was the solitary occupant of the impossibly blue sky.

Well . . . perhaps not impossibly blue. Old Aunt Petunia's eyes had been just that shade of sapphire . . . that turned to the deep purple of woodland bluebells if she got angry . . . which was not often. Esmeralda let her lids drift closed and tried to visualise those eyes, set in a sharp boned face. She leaned her back against the solid trunk of the tree and remembered the feeling of resting against her aunt's shoulder as a tweener . . . comfortable and loved. How many summers had she spent in Newbury, away from the clatter of Great Smails?

Aunt Petunia had not liked Saradoc when he first came to call on Esmeralda. She had considered him too serious. That was before he had pulled the prank with the pepper and Petunia's old cat. Cordelia was a cat of very imperious mien. When she decided she was going to "go" in a favourite flowerbed that was what she would do, regardless of how many times she was chased off.

Saradoc had come courting most weekends for several months and Aunt Petunia believed in making people sing for their supper. She had therefore wasted no time in setting the lad to weeding her rose bed. Esmeralda used to sit by the window, giggling at the epithets that drifted in as Sara stuck his fingers into something rather unsavoury, yet again.

He had suffered this for at least two months. Then Aunt Petunia had spent a morning wondering about the smial, muttering about a lost pepper pot and Cordelia had shot in through the front door and under the settee in a most un-imperious manner. There she had hidden for the rest of the day, the only indication of her presence the occasional sneeze. She never did use the rose bed as her personal repository again.

Startled out of her memories by the squeak of the gate hinges, Esmeralda looked up to see who else had found her retreat. She was surprised to find it was a child and was so lost in her memories that he was half way across the yard before she realised that it was one of her wards. At first she wondered if he were up to some mischief as the graveyard abutted a small orchard. There were no apples this early in the year but the trees had been under-planted with strawberries and some of the early fruits were just starting to ripen. Something about the lad's manner made her wait before challenging him, however.

Frodo closed the gate carefully and glanced about before walking slowly to a mound, near Esmeralda's hiding place. In common with most hobbits Esmeralda could make herself nearly invisible if need be and the youngster did not notice her. In his hands he carried a bunch of wild spring flowers, some of them already drooping and obviously gathered on the way here from the Hall.

His face was downcast so that all she could see was alabaster skin and thick shiny curls the colour of roasted chestnuts. Esmeralda could not remember any of the Brandybuck clan having hair that dark, nor could she remember seeing any hobbit as slender as this child. There was hardly any meat on him, and that, combined with his pallor, made her wonder when he had first come to the Hall with his parents, whether he was ill. Yet there was nothing in his movements to suggest illness . . . in fact he moved with a lithe grace unusual in one so young.

Folding to his knees before a mound of recently excavated earth, not yet fully grassed over, Frodo laid down the flowers, tenderly. Esmeralda heard him sniff lightly and watched him wipe his shirtsleeve across his eyes and then her heart lurched as, with no warning beyond a soft sob, he threw himself face down to hug the healing ground. His guardian sat still, wondering what to do . . . whether to stay quiet or to try and comfort him. He obviously believed himself to be alone and Esmeralda did not want to startle him. And yet everything within her screamed to gather those tiny shuddering shoulders into her arms and console the child . . . so raw was his hurt.

In the end it was her own pain that made the choice, rooting her to the ground. Esmeralda found her grief rising up in answer to his and had to swallow hard and clench her hands, to force down the hurt that lay just beneath the surface of her outward calm.

As she bound it up and locked it away Esmeralda watched Frodo do the same . . . lifting himself to hands and knees and wiping his face on his sleeve once more. Then he leaned back on his heels and brushed ineffectually at the mud on the front of his shirt and breeches, sniffling all the while. It was the sniffling that finally brought a response from Esmeralda's body and she fished about in her skirt pocket for her clean handkerchief. Moving forward on hands and knees, she sat a little way behind him and leaned in to offer the hanky.

"Here," she whispered softly. "Your Mama surely told you not to wipe your nose on your sleeve."

He gasped and turned around, and Esmeralda's heart forgot how to beat.

Bluebells. She had never noticed before, but his huge eyes were the colour of bluebells when he was sad.

"Oh . . . I'm sorry, Aunt Esmeralda."

He had made no move to accept the hanky and Esmeralda opened it and wiped his small red nose for him.

"It's all right, Frodo. I'm not cross with you." She moved on to dab at his cheeks.

He made no attempt to pull away from her ministrations, rather tilted his face up so that she could work more easily . . . welcoming her attentions. This was a new role for Esmeralda. She had been farmed out to her aunt and uncle at an early age, only returning to Great Smials for festival days and the occasional visit. So she had never been pressed into caring for young ones.

Somehow, when she and Saradoc had married and returned to Brandy Hall she had been too busy making a little home for them that she had no time left to socialise. Then Aunt Petunia had become ill and she had been sent for.

While she was away Primula and Drogo had drowned . . . goodness knows how . . . and Rorymac had decreed that Esmeralda and Saradoc become Frodo's guardians. Esmeralda could hardly refuse, although she had little experience with children. As the wife of the future Master of Buckland, however, such things were expected of her.

Esmeralda had been so wrapped up in her own grief at losing the aunt who had done so much to raise her, that she had paid scant attention to Frodo. And now she felt guilty as she realised that he had also lost those dearest to him. Looking into those impossibly blue eyes she found her heart aching with understanding.

It was obvious that he was hurting very deeply and of all the people in Brandy Hall, Esmeralda should have been the one who could sympathise with that. But she had been so wrapped up in her own pain that she had not even considered his. How much more bitter and frightening must his parent's death have been to Frodo? In addition, he had the rumours to fight. Oh . . . he was a child but he must have heard them.

As no one had witnessed the deaths of Drogo and Primula there had been some rather unsavoury rumours going about regarding the reason for their boat capsizing. Most sensible people paid the stories no heed but there were always those who thrived on such gossip and children, in particular, could be very cruel. He could not be unaware of their words.

Esmeralda smiled as she finished wiping his face and tucked the hanky back in her pocket. She held out her hand and the little waif slipped an ink stained and slightly grubby hand shyly into hers. "Come on. Let's go home." Esmeralda hugged him briefly.

He stiffened and his guardian got the briefest of impressions that he was afraid to surrender to the touch. Esmeralda would have considered the matter further but a breeze stirred Frodo's glossy curls and a shadow chased across the grass. Looking up they found that the single cloud had brought company and the blue sky was rapidly turning grey. Esmeralda scrambled up, dusting off her skirts and little Frodo followed suit . . . although his dusting made scant impact on his clothing. Esmeralda held out her hand again. "We had better head back to the Hall before we get wet. I think it's going to rain."

There was a moment's hesitation, then the small hand slipped into hers once more and Esmeralda smiled down as she led him to the gate.

The walk back to Brandy Hall was made largely in silence and Esmeralda did not press the child. Once or twice she looked down to find him looking up at her. She smiled and he returned it shyly. What she saw in his eyes was not happiness though, but sadness and just the slightest hint of something else. It took her a long time to place it and when she did she was surprised.

Hope?

They were still some distance from Brandy Hall when the rain started; a heavy summer storm that had them both soaked to the skin within minutes. As soon as they got indoors Esmeralda shooed Frodo off to change and ran to her own room to do likewise, earning several tuts from Brandybuck matriarchs on the way.

Once behind her door, Esmeralda let her fears loose. Could she be a mother to this child? Should she be? Or was it her role only to be a guardian . . . someone who kept a distance? It was clear Frodo wanted a mother figure but was Esmeralda capable of filling that role?

She decided to discuss it with Saradoc when he returned from the dairy.