Chapter 2 - Putting Two and Two Together
When he had regained control of himself to the best of his ability, Frodo considered his options. He certainly could not tell anyone about this. Would anyone believe him if he did? And even though Bramblethorn had not succeeded with his intentions, Frodo felt as if he were somehow tainted by the experience. It was as if something noisome clung to him now, and he was unable to brush it away.
Had he encouraged the attack somehow? No, he couldn't have! He had done nothing more than attempt to be civil. And Bramblethorn's accusation that Frodo had given him an inviting look at the Inn was absurd. A confused look, perhaps, but certainly nothing more.
Too tired and emotionally drained to think about it anymore, Frodo stood up and brushed himself off. His wrist hurt, and his face still stung from having been struck. How could he explain his injuries? He would have to think of something, he supposed. Sam would certainly say something about them, solicitous as he was. Frodo didn't want Sam getting mixed up in any of this foolishness, or anyone else who was close to him for that matter. He would have to think of something to tell them, and he pondered this as he wrapped the sprained wrist and went in search of a cold compress for the darkening bruise under his left eye.
~*~
Frodo spent the morning indoors, working on the elvish translation as he had planned. He usually reserved some time between luncheon and teatime for reading and saw no reason to change his normal routine. Emerging into the sunny garden with a book in his hands, he seated himself on a bench in the shade and began to read.
Troubled as he was by the events of the previous night, Frodo found himself thoroughly absorbed in the book in no time at all. He did not hear Sam approaching behind him. As Sam touched him lightly on the shoulder and said "Good afternoon, Mr. Frodo," in a cheerful tone, Frodo involuntarily leapt upward, dropping the book.
Sam had heard the phrase about 'jumping out of one's skin', but he had never seen Mr. Frodo do it. Frodo was always so calm, his motions sure and fluid. Sam gaped as Frodo stood staring at him, wild-eyed.
"Mr. Frodo!" Sam stammered. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you."
"No, Sam, it's all right. I'm sorry I jumped like that. I just didn't hear you coming, and I was reading. I'm fine, really," Frodo assured his gardener. He saw that look of deep concern he had been expecting beginning to cross Sam's features.
"Mr. Frodo, your wrist! And how did you get that awful bruise?" Sam's gaze lingered on Frodo's pale features.
"It's nothing, Sam," Frodo said, trying to sound confident and reassuring. "I slipped on some water while getting out of the bath this morning. No permanent damage has been done."
"A good thing, too," Sam replied, concern still written on his face. "Bilbo would come back and skin me if he saw what a state I let you get yourself into," he fretted.
Frodo mustered up a laugh. "Sam, I hardly think Bilbo expected you to watch over me night and day, although you practically do just that. It just wouldn't be possible. Now stop worrying and come in for tea."
Sam did his best to brush his worry aside as Frodo began to act and sound more like himself. Slipping and falling though? That wasn't like Frodo at all, nor was his unaccountably jumpy behavior in the garden. Try as he might, Sam could not keep those strange things from weighing on his mind for the remainder of the day as he finished his chores in the garden and headed home to supper.
~*~
A week later, having seen no more odd behavior from Frodo and being assured his master's injuries were healing well, Sam felt more at ease. The normal routine at Bag End had resumed, with only one minor change. Every morning since their talk in the garden, Frodo had found a soft bath rug had been added to his décor. There would be no more slipping on spilled bathwater at Bag End, if Sam had anything to say about it.
Sam had joined Frodo on the bench in the garden for a smoke when the garden chores were finished. Any barriers between gentry and working class dissolved with that regular ritual, leaving behind only a long time bond of genuine friendship. As he filled his pipe and reached for Frodo's, Sam looked at the garden with satisfaction. The growing season was nearly over, with autumn in full swing. There were still some late-blooming flowers to be tended and the pumpkins were looking fine. All was as it should be.
"Mr. Frodo, Halfred and I were planning to drop by the Green Dragon a bit later. Would you care to join us?" Sam looked at Frodo, hoping he would agree. It had been Sam's elder brother Halfred who had suggested the idea. Halfred didn't spend nearly as much time around Frodo as Sam usually did, but he too had noticed Frodo's reluctance to venture out much since Bilbo's departure.
The Green Dragon. Frodo hesitated. What if he ran into Bramblethorn again? He didn't think he could face that prospect. He would like to see Halfred again, though, and he didn't want to do anything that would make Sam suspicious that anything untoward had happened. He supposed he would be safe enough with both of the sturdily built Gamgees in his presence, and he absolutely would not leave alone!
"I - I suppose I could join you, for a short while at least," Frodo said quietly, regarding his pipe closely. He couldn't stay hidden in Bag End forever. Perhaps the incident with Bramblethorn had been solely the product of too much ale to begin with, and he need fear no further difficulty.
~*~
Another crisp autumn evening, with the inviting glow of lamplight though windows. But somehow, the glow seemed less inviting to Frodo than it had before. He knew it was just his nerves wearing on him, but the cold shiver that ran down his back had less to do with the chilly air than his companions would ever know.
As unobtrusively as he could, Frodo situated himself between Halfred and Sam. He disliked the idea of entering first, and especially disliked the idea of trailing in last. He didn't bother to try to decipher his reasoning for this, but just followed his instincts. So far he had managed to hide any agitation from his companions, or at least they weren't indicating that they had noticed any.
They entered the common room and saw a table near the roaring fire that was unoccupied. All seemed well so far. Frodo glanced around furtively, but saw no sign of Rushford Bramblethorn. He breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe the wicked creature was getting soused elsewhere that evening.
Rosie Cotton approached their table, deftly balancing a tray with three full tankards of Buckland's best ale. She greeted them with a smile and small talk, ever a friendly presence. "Frodo, I was sorry to see you leave so soon at your last visit," she said. Frodo was hard put not to wince at the similarity between her statement and what Bramblethorn had said to him a week ago. "It looked like you, Tom and Fredegar were enjoying yourselves. Tom said to send his greetings."
Frodo swallowed uncomfortably and fought his anxiety down. "Thank you, Rosie. I had some work to do at home. Otherwise I would have remained longer. Please tell Tom I hope all is well with him."
"Samwise and Halfred!" Rosie turned to the other two hobbits. "I hope this evening finds you well." She set the three tankards on the table and disappeared as quickly as she had arrived, tending to the needs of the other guests.
Sam shot a quick glance at Frodo when he was sure his master wasn't looking. Frodo had been at the Green Dragon a week ago? Did that account for him managing to fall down at home? Would he have been in such a condition by morning to have done so? Frodo was not at all a heavy drinker by any standard, Sam mused. It wouldn't take a great deal of ale to make him unsteady on his feet. But still, getting that tipsy would have been quite unusual behavior for Frodo.
"Well, Mr. Frodo," Halfred began. "I haven't seen you in a while. Been startin' to worry some about you hidin' away in Bag End like that."
"Oh, I know I've seemed a little distant," Frodo apologized. "But it's just - " He paused and looked into the flames in the fireplace. "With Bilbo gone, things are different. I suppose it will take some time for me to get used to the idea. I do hope he's all right, and I do miss him very much," he finished, looking back from the fireplace to his companions.
The conversation turned from Bilbo's mysterious disappearance at the party to speculations on where he had gone and why. Bilbo's colorful life was fodder for much discussion, and they passed a couple of hours recounting stories about him between them. Frodo found that he had relaxed in spite of everything. His fears were pushed aside for the time being by fond memories shared with friends.
As the tankards were emptied, Frodo rose from his seat and gathered them into his hands. "Rosie's busy. I'll get this round," he said, and turned away to the bar. He ordered three more ales and stood waiting for the barkeep to bring them around. As he did, the general din of conversation fragmented occasionally and voices stood out. Some he recognized and some he didn't. Talk of harvests just completed, last minute chores to be done before the coming of winter, and the inevitable but pointless debate regarding what sort of winter was in store for the Shire. Whatever sort of winter it was, it would come regardless of any so-called weathertelling expertise espoused by old-timers.
As he steadied the three frothing tankards in his hands and turned back toward the table by the fireside, he heard it. A coarse catcall from across the room. Without meaning to, Frodo froze in place, and his already pale face went paler still. Bramblethorn! Frodo fought the impulse to turn and look toward the source of the sound, and lost. He turned his head slightly, and saw Rushford Bramblethorn sitting at a corner table, regarding him with an expression somewhere between lust and murderous hatred. Frodo reflected that he must not have done any lasting harm to Bramblethorn when he had kicked him. How unfortunate.
Frodo continued on his way back to the table, steadying the mugs against the shaking of his hands. It wouldn't do to show any obvious reaction. He set the tankards carefully upon the table, not spilling a drop, and re- seated himself across from Sam.
Sam was looking over Frodo's shoulder, at the corner of the room. What in Shire had that been all about? He had seen the change in Frodo's demeanor and watched as the color drained from his friend and master's face. For a fraction of a second, Frodo had actually looked frightened. And then there was that leering Rushford Bramblethorn sitting in the corner. Had he said something to Frodo?
Sam pondered. He might be just a simple gardener, but he knew enough to put two and two together and have it come out four. Something bad was afoot, and no mistake! If that hideous lout in the corner had done any harm to Mr. Frodo -
"Mr. Frodo, are you all right?" Sam looked Frodo in the eye, searching for telltale signs of deception. Frodo was a terrible liar, and the truth always shone out through his eyes. "I'm fine, Sam." Frodo replied quietly, as if by saying it he could make it true.
"The look on your face just now," Sam began carefully, "it reminded me of how you looked in the garden a few days back. Are you sure you've nothing troubling you?"
"Quite sure, Sam. Honestly, if you spend any more time worrying about me than you already do, you won't have time for gardening." The attempt at playful admonishment sounded hollow even to Frodo's own ears. Sam did his best to react as he normally would, smiling slightly and looking away. Something was going on, and Frodo wasn't going to talk about it.
When they rose to leave, Sam placed himself to Frodo's right, effectively blocking Frodo's view of where Bramblethorn was sitting in the corner. He also managed to shield Frodo from the other hobbit's gaze by the action. Frodo looked straight ahead as he walked out the door with the Gamgees. Sam looked to his right and for the briefest of moments, he locked gazes with Bramblethorn, hating what he saw there. He couldn't put a name to it, but it was loathsome, twisted and wrong.
Sam would be watching. He wouldn't let Mr. Frodo out of his sight any time soon if he could help it. There was something going on, something Mr. Frodo wouldn't talk about. Sam would get to the bottom of it himself if need be. He continued out the door behind Halfred and Frodo.
When he had regained control of himself to the best of his ability, Frodo considered his options. He certainly could not tell anyone about this. Would anyone believe him if he did? And even though Bramblethorn had not succeeded with his intentions, Frodo felt as if he were somehow tainted by the experience. It was as if something noisome clung to him now, and he was unable to brush it away.
Had he encouraged the attack somehow? No, he couldn't have! He had done nothing more than attempt to be civil. And Bramblethorn's accusation that Frodo had given him an inviting look at the Inn was absurd. A confused look, perhaps, but certainly nothing more.
Too tired and emotionally drained to think about it anymore, Frodo stood up and brushed himself off. His wrist hurt, and his face still stung from having been struck. How could he explain his injuries? He would have to think of something, he supposed. Sam would certainly say something about them, solicitous as he was. Frodo didn't want Sam getting mixed up in any of this foolishness, or anyone else who was close to him for that matter. He would have to think of something to tell them, and he pondered this as he wrapped the sprained wrist and went in search of a cold compress for the darkening bruise under his left eye.
~*~
Frodo spent the morning indoors, working on the elvish translation as he had planned. He usually reserved some time between luncheon and teatime for reading and saw no reason to change his normal routine. Emerging into the sunny garden with a book in his hands, he seated himself on a bench in the shade and began to read.
Troubled as he was by the events of the previous night, Frodo found himself thoroughly absorbed in the book in no time at all. He did not hear Sam approaching behind him. As Sam touched him lightly on the shoulder and said "Good afternoon, Mr. Frodo," in a cheerful tone, Frodo involuntarily leapt upward, dropping the book.
Sam had heard the phrase about 'jumping out of one's skin', but he had never seen Mr. Frodo do it. Frodo was always so calm, his motions sure and fluid. Sam gaped as Frodo stood staring at him, wild-eyed.
"Mr. Frodo!" Sam stammered. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you."
"No, Sam, it's all right. I'm sorry I jumped like that. I just didn't hear you coming, and I was reading. I'm fine, really," Frodo assured his gardener. He saw that look of deep concern he had been expecting beginning to cross Sam's features.
"Mr. Frodo, your wrist! And how did you get that awful bruise?" Sam's gaze lingered on Frodo's pale features.
"It's nothing, Sam," Frodo said, trying to sound confident and reassuring. "I slipped on some water while getting out of the bath this morning. No permanent damage has been done."
"A good thing, too," Sam replied, concern still written on his face. "Bilbo would come back and skin me if he saw what a state I let you get yourself into," he fretted.
Frodo mustered up a laugh. "Sam, I hardly think Bilbo expected you to watch over me night and day, although you practically do just that. It just wouldn't be possible. Now stop worrying and come in for tea."
Sam did his best to brush his worry aside as Frodo began to act and sound more like himself. Slipping and falling though? That wasn't like Frodo at all, nor was his unaccountably jumpy behavior in the garden. Try as he might, Sam could not keep those strange things from weighing on his mind for the remainder of the day as he finished his chores in the garden and headed home to supper.
~*~
A week later, having seen no more odd behavior from Frodo and being assured his master's injuries were healing well, Sam felt more at ease. The normal routine at Bag End had resumed, with only one minor change. Every morning since their talk in the garden, Frodo had found a soft bath rug had been added to his décor. There would be no more slipping on spilled bathwater at Bag End, if Sam had anything to say about it.
Sam had joined Frodo on the bench in the garden for a smoke when the garden chores were finished. Any barriers between gentry and working class dissolved with that regular ritual, leaving behind only a long time bond of genuine friendship. As he filled his pipe and reached for Frodo's, Sam looked at the garden with satisfaction. The growing season was nearly over, with autumn in full swing. There were still some late-blooming flowers to be tended and the pumpkins were looking fine. All was as it should be.
"Mr. Frodo, Halfred and I were planning to drop by the Green Dragon a bit later. Would you care to join us?" Sam looked at Frodo, hoping he would agree. It had been Sam's elder brother Halfred who had suggested the idea. Halfred didn't spend nearly as much time around Frodo as Sam usually did, but he too had noticed Frodo's reluctance to venture out much since Bilbo's departure.
The Green Dragon. Frodo hesitated. What if he ran into Bramblethorn again? He didn't think he could face that prospect. He would like to see Halfred again, though, and he didn't want to do anything that would make Sam suspicious that anything untoward had happened. He supposed he would be safe enough with both of the sturdily built Gamgees in his presence, and he absolutely would not leave alone!
"I - I suppose I could join you, for a short while at least," Frodo said quietly, regarding his pipe closely. He couldn't stay hidden in Bag End forever. Perhaps the incident with Bramblethorn had been solely the product of too much ale to begin with, and he need fear no further difficulty.
~*~
Another crisp autumn evening, with the inviting glow of lamplight though windows. But somehow, the glow seemed less inviting to Frodo than it had before. He knew it was just his nerves wearing on him, but the cold shiver that ran down his back had less to do with the chilly air than his companions would ever know.
As unobtrusively as he could, Frodo situated himself between Halfred and Sam. He disliked the idea of entering first, and especially disliked the idea of trailing in last. He didn't bother to try to decipher his reasoning for this, but just followed his instincts. So far he had managed to hide any agitation from his companions, or at least they weren't indicating that they had noticed any.
They entered the common room and saw a table near the roaring fire that was unoccupied. All seemed well so far. Frodo glanced around furtively, but saw no sign of Rushford Bramblethorn. He breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe the wicked creature was getting soused elsewhere that evening.
Rosie Cotton approached their table, deftly balancing a tray with three full tankards of Buckland's best ale. She greeted them with a smile and small talk, ever a friendly presence. "Frodo, I was sorry to see you leave so soon at your last visit," she said. Frodo was hard put not to wince at the similarity between her statement and what Bramblethorn had said to him a week ago. "It looked like you, Tom and Fredegar were enjoying yourselves. Tom said to send his greetings."
Frodo swallowed uncomfortably and fought his anxiety down. "Thank you, Rosie. I had some work to do at home. Otherwise I would have remained longer. Please tell Tom I hope all is well with him."
"Samwise and Halfred!" Rosie turned to the other two hobbits. "I hope this evening finds you well." She set the three tankards on the table and disappeared as quickly as she had arrived, tending to the needs of the other guests.
Sam shot a quick glance at Frodo when he was sure his master wasn't looking. Frodo had been at the Green Dragon a week ago? Did that account for him managing to fall down at home? Would he have been in such a condition by morning to have done so? Frodo was not at all a heavy drinker by any standard, Sam mused. It wouldn't take a great deal of ale to make him unsteady on his feet. But still, getting that tipsy would have been quite unusual behavior for Frodo.
"Well, Mr. Frodo," Halfred began. "I haven't seen you in a while. Been startin' to worry some about you hidin' away in Bag End like that."
"Oh, I know I've seemed a little distant," Frodo apologized. "But it's just - " He paused and looked into the flames in the fireplace. "With Bilbo gone, things are different. I suppose it will take some time for me to get used to the idea. I do hope he's all right, and I do miss him very much," he finished, looking back from the fireplace to his companions.
The conversation turned from Bilbo's mysterious disappearance at the party to speculations on where he had gone and why. Bilbo's colorful life was fodder for much discussion, and they passed a couple of hours recounting stories about him between them. Frodo found that he had relaxed in spite of everything. His fears were pushed aside for the time being by fond memories shared with friends.
As the tankards were emptied, Frodo rose from his seat and gathered them into his hands. "Rosie's busy. I'll get this round," he said, and turned away to the bar. He ordered three more ales and stood waiting for the barkeep to bring them around. As he did, the general din of conversation fragmented occasionally and voices stood out. Some he recognized and some he didn't. Talk of harvests just completed, last minute chores to be done before the coming of winter, and the inevitable but pointless debate regarding what sort of winter was in store for the Shire. Whatever sort of winter it was, it would come regardless of any so-called weathertelling expertise espoused by old-timers.
As he steadied the three frothing tankards in his hands and turned back toward the table by the fireside, he heard it. A coarse catcall from across the room. Without meaning to, Frodo froze in place, and his already pale face went paler still. Bramblethorn! Frodo fought the impulse to turn and look toward the source of the sound, and lost. He turned his head slightly, and saw Rushford Bramblethorn sitting at a corner table, regarding him with an expression somewhere between lust and murderous hatred. Frodo reflected that he must not have done any lasting harm to Bramblethorn when he had kicked him. How unfortunate.
Frodo continued on his way back to the table, steadying the mugs against the shaking of his hands. It wouldn't do to show any obvious reaction. He set the tankards carefully upon the table, not spilling a drop, and re- seated himself across from Sam.
Sam was looking over Frodo's shoulder, at the corner of the room. What in Shire had that been all about? He had seen the change in Frodo's demeanor and watched as the color drained from his friend and master's face. For a fraction of a second, Frodo had actually looked frightened. And then there was that leering Rushford Bramblethorn sitting in the corner. Had he said something to Frodo?
Sam pondered. He might be just a simple gardener, but he knew enough to put two and two together and have it come out four. Something bad was afoot, and no mistake! If that hideous lout in the corner had done any harm to Mr. Frodo -
"Mr. Frodo, are you all right?" Sam looked Frodo in the eye, searching for telltale signs of deception. Frodo was a terrible liar, and the truth always shone out through his eyes. "I'm fine, Sam." Frodo replied quietly, as if by saying it he could make it true.
"The look on your face just now," Sam began carefully, "it reminded me of how you looked in the garden a few days back. Are you sure you've nothing troubling you?"
"Quite sure, Sam. Honestly, if you spend any more time worrying about me than you already do, you won't have time for gardening." The attempt at playful admonishment sounded hollow even to Frodo's own ears. Sam did his best to react as he normally would, smiling slightly and looking away. Something was going on, and Frodo wasn't going to talk about it.
When they rose to leave, Sam placed himself to Frodo's right, effectively blocking Frodo's view of where Bramblethorn was sitting in the corner. He also managed to shield Frodo from the other hobbit's gaze by the action. Frodo looked straight ahead as he walked out the door with the Gamgees. Sam looked to his right and for the briefest of moments, he locked gazes with Bramblethorn, hating what he saw there. He couldn't put a name to it, but it was loathsome, twisted and wrong.
Sam would be watching. He wouldn't let Mr. Frodo out of his sight any time soon if he could help it. There was something going on, something Mr. Frodo wouldn't talk about. Sam would get to the bottom of it himself if need be. He continued out the door behind Halfred and Frodo.
