1395, Before Yule - Bag End

The Bolgers stopped in Hobbiton on their way to celebrate the Yuletide festivities with the Tooks that year. Normally – especially due to the typically bad weather – the Bolgers were received among the Brandybucks for this feast. But the weather had been unusually fair, though chilly. The roads were not mired, for the rain had been little. They decided, for a change, to go to the Smials for the days of Yule. Odovacar, as usual, stopped only intermittently, riding off daily to tend to business in the area. The tenants had questions for him and wolves had been seen, so folk said. It was here, away from the familiar setting of the Bolger home, that Rosamunda discovered that Frodo's affections for her really had altered in the way she had feared. He now was twenty-seven and old enough.

The evening meal had been a convivial and pleasant one; the candles on the table burnt low as testimonial to the time they had spent at it. Still in festive spirits, the adults brought their glasses of wine with them into the hospitable parlour of Bag End; the children took their cider. The crackling fire in the great hearth made the colours and textures of everything richer in the glowing chiaroscuro – including Rosamunda herself. Not a few glasses of Old Winyards had been raised and all its drinkers were feeling its effects. Rosamunda's pleasure in the evening was all the greater for seeing her husband looking so well, as if quite restored to his former lively spirits. Freddy and Estella commandeered Frodo's attention for the most part, for a game by the fire.

The two hobbits took particular notice of Rosamunda, the only adult woman present, though she was not aware of it. Odovacar had been watching her with admiration, if not frank desire.

And Bilbo? Not only for the pleasure of looking at a fine hobbit woman, but also because of his life-long interest in the study of how folk behaved, Bilbo watched her too. And he watched Odovacar, watching her.

She was in fine spirits! Her colour was high from the wine and fire, her dark eyes radiant with enjoyment. Her golden-brown crimped hair caught the light as it spilled out of its pins as usual. Despite her efforts to keep it tidily confined, it made narrow gold-brown snaking trails down her neck, glossy in the fire-sheen. The wine had left a red jewel on her browned lips, a bit chapped, but full and generous. Throwing her head back to laugh at one of Bilbo's jokes, she displayed her gleaming teeth and the rosy interior behind them. It was not difficult for Bilbo to guess what Odovacar was thinking, now that his unhealthy colour was restored to its former bloom. Bilbo himself was thinking of it, though he no longer was inclined to act upon such thoughts. Those little affairs were past and done.

Then Bilbo noticed he and Odovacar were not the only ones watching her. Frodo watched, too – watched intently – from his stool by the fire with the Bolger children, still playing their game. But Frodo played with a growing lack of attention.

Yes, my lad, she's well worth watching, Bilbo thought to himself, his eyes glinting in the light of the fire. He looked back to the Bolgers: Odovacar had reached impulsively across and taken his wife's free hand, ardently pressing the centre of her palm to his mouth and holding it there for his kiss. His other hand slid up her throat under the strands of escaped hair, above her pointed chin, to cup the side of her face with his fingertips. Rosamunda showed a little embarrassment at her husband's impetuous gesture in the presence of Bilbo. But she nevertheless took her husband's hand from her cheek and, with obvious love and pleasure, just as impulsively pressed a kiss there in return.

Oh, dear. Did the lad see that?

Bilbo stole a glance back at Frodo. Frodo looked transfixed and motionless, except for the rise and fall of his chest as he took deep, measured breaths through his parted lips. His eyes, in that pale face, turned away from the fire, looked nearly black.

Oh, yes: he'd seen that.

Then the moment dissolved. Estella pulled on Frodo's sleeve, calling his name, reminding him that it was his turn. Rosamunda, having perceived her husband's intentions, with suppressed joy, rose and together they bade Bilbo and Frodo a fond goodnight. Yes, Estella and Freddy might stay up, but only for one more hour. Frodo turned back to his two young admirers and, with an effort, resumed the game. Bilbo stayed on, looking into the fire while he nursed his last glass, and then prepared a pipe.

x x x

The next day, quite brisk under the wan sun of year's end, the young folk went off in search of amusement. Bag End was quiet. Odovacar was off in Hobbiton wrapping up business but would return in time for dinner. Bilbo and Rosamunda, each in their own way, relished the respite. The winter light made the kitchen dark and Rosamunda had to kindle the lights to begin her work. Once at the Smials, Eglantine would want to oversee all the cooking herself, so Rosamunda promised to make their Yule treat here at Bag End. She would make two: one for the children and one to leave with Bilbo, for a gift. She had gathered her tools and ingredients onto the big central work table. Pushing up her sleeves, she went to work. She faced the interior of the house where wall sconces afforded a bit of additional light.

Frodo was the first one back. Through the side entry he burst infrom the late-afternoon coldrelishing the smack of warmth in the kitchen, full of the smells of good things cooking. Hepulled off his jacket and scarfand flung them over the hooks. The others still were in the outbuildings looking at livestock with the Gamgees, he told her. Frodo felt a bit giddy and breathless from the chill, clearlyin high spiritsForgetting for once the "new rules" he softly skipped up behind Rosamunda and gave her one of his old "surprise" embraces, throwing his arms around her waist and squeezing her tight. He laughed with delighted triumph at the start he gave her – just as he had done so many times before.

But almost at once Frodo sensed something was different. This was not like the other times. Once, his small laughing face would have pressed just above the small of her back; later, between her shoulder blades. The last time he had done this, he had almost been her height. But now his face was beside hers his cheek just brushing her own. His laughter made warm little puffs of air which assailed her ear and the back of her neck. Her fine-textured hair, spilling out of its pins, tickled his nose and cheek as his breath made the wisps and strands float away and back. His laughter faltered and suddenly ceased. She had always smelled good to him, but so close – especially here where her hair trailed upon her neck only inches from his eyes – Frodo found that her fragrance filled his senses. He held himself still.

Every other time Frodo had done this he would have released her by now.They would have performed the ritual mock-scolding,dissolving into mutual laughter. But not this time. Frododid not let her go; rather, he clenched his fingers tighterinto the fabric where his arms were twined about her waist. He pulled her closer and felt her stiffen against him. A sense of prohibition fretted at the edge of Frodo's mind, but he put it aside. Rosamunda did not speak or move but remained still, as if in suspense.

It was very quiet in the kitchen, with only the sound of hissing noises from the meat simmering on the stove, the lid making a skittering, metallic noise as moisture bubbled up and raised it from the rim of the pot. No, there was another sound: Rosamunda's breathing. Frodo could hear it clearly: exhalations like little jets of air, timed with the laboured in-and-out movement of the ribs of her back that he could feel tense against his chest. As he held her thus, his lips barely grazing the shell of her ear while his breath stirred in her hair, he felt her gathered tensiondraining away. Now she felt yielding and pliant. Frodo drew her to him till he could feel her body all along his own.Acutely conscious of the planes and rounds and dipping places that made up the back of her, Frodo felt all the heat in the room gather there until he felt melted into the closeness of their fit. He heard a sigh and felt a shudder but did not know from whom they issued. He let his mouth – hovering – not quite touching ­– skim along the surface of her neck, warm and fragrant, pausing to linger in the angle of her shoulder where the turn of her collar brushed his nose. He returned to the place where her hair made its silky trails, on the back of her neck just behind her ear. There the scent was best. He closed his eyes to breathe it in: Ah, wonderful! Letting his lips alight at last, he savoured the spot with a tender kiss.

The feel of that kiss jolted Rosamunda out of her trance. Her eyes flew open: when had she shut them? She lurched rather violently aside, spinning round to face him with such speed she had to grab onto the table edge for balance. The wooden spoon clattered as it hit the hard floor. She felt her face scald and heard the sound of someone's ragged breathing – his or hers – or both? She gaped at Frodo: his face was flushed, his eyes wide – the pupils so dilated they seemed nearly black. His eyes looked stripped clean, stunned with new knowledge as he stood riveted by her stare and she by his. He tried to speak but no speech came.

It was then she heard a discreet noise from the door. A figure stood there in the shadow, very still. Bilbo. Frodo sprang even further away from her. With a great effort Rosamunda managed to recover herself, as she bent to scoop the spoon from the stone flags. She attempted a jest but it died before it was articulated. Frodo only looked dismayed. He muttered something before he stumbled past and down the hall.

She could not see Bilbo's face, where he was standing in the shadows. When he stepped into the kitchen toward her, she could not read his expression.

What had he seen? A succession of images flooded her mind. From the doorway he would have seen – what? She thought of how she must have looked, her hair coming down, head tipped back, eyes closed, lips parted. Looking down at the spoon she now gripped firmly, she pictured her hands then – lying palm upwards on the table surface, acquiescent and trembling, like bitch dogs showing their bellies to be scratched. She felt revolted. He would have seen his nephew behind her, glued to her back, his fingers digging into the cloth of her dress, his face buried in her hair, his hair mingled with hers. And he must have heard their breathing all the way to the door!

Bilbo made no comment, though he and Rosamunda exchanged glances as he came to the table. Then they put their joint energies into the task at hand, finishing up the preparations for the evening. Their talk, usually so easy and amiable, was strained and sparse. When he had finished his own tasks, Bilbo made ready to leave, but turned back to say, "Have a care, Rosa."

She attempted a light tone, saying, "Oh, Frodo will regain his equanimity!"

Bilbo answered, "I am sure he will. But in fact, I was thinking of yours."

x x x

Rosamunda now was very much on her guard. There would be no such opportunities in future. She should sit Frodo down, have a talk with him. He was old enough to know - he must know - what he was doing now. But she did not talk to him. Why not? Sheknew why not. But she would not think about it. No.

But she did think about it. She thought of what had passed, thought of it over and over. Not how she had experienced it – that was a blur – but from Bilbo's perspective: Frodo pressed up behind her, oblivious, and her own response so . . . transparent: a voluptuary. Her face burned all over again, just recalling it. No. No, it wouldn't do. And she would not have it. Double bother.

Frodo kept his distance that eveningbarely meeting her eyes – norOdovacar's when he had returned from his last errands. But Odovacar, Rosamunda could see, was too full of his own news and business to notice. Somewhat relieved, she tried with partial success to behave as though nothing had happened. Bilbo took it all in, his expression veiled.

Everyone had an early night and the Bolgers left for Tookland early in the morning. Frodo and Bilbo rose to see them off. Frodo allowed Freddy and Estella to claim all of his attention, Bilbo noted.

x x x

1396, Summer - Bag End

After Lithe, having escorted the children to Tookland for their visit at Great Smials, Rosamunda returned but first stopped at Bag End. It was late when she arrived, almost sunset. When the trap pulled up, she saw one figure standing by the gate. Just as she might wish, she thought. Frodo, she knew already had left the Smials and gone ahead into Buckland. There would be no risk of seeing him here. She meant to have a talk with Bilbo – or to try.

Her attitude was most fortuitous, Bilbo thought, as soon as she made her meaning clear. He, too, had been hoping for a little talk.

When she was settled, the pony taken care of and her things inside, he plied her with a tray of late refreshments. Perhaps over a glass of wine or a pot of tea, she might be induced to tell him what he wanted to know. Bilbo wanted to confirm it, for himself: had he really seen what he thought he'd seen when he'd walked in that afternoon?

They ate in near silence, their meal barely sprinkled with speech, but they were silent in an easy way. Bilbo sipped his wine, Rosamunda, her tea. They shared a sweet and the meal was finished. Then Rosamunda appeared to brace herself, Bilbo could see. Taking a deep breath, she plunged in first.

"I will admit, Bilbo, I did not order things, then, as I might have. I ought to have shown better self-command," she said.

Bilbo's eyebrows rose. Rosamunda was proving more forthcoming – and more quickly – than he had anticipated! He poured her a fresh cup. But Rosamunda, watching the liquid pour – grown somewhat tepid now – said she might have some wine, after all.

Bilbo obliged her and waited while she drank most of it. He watched the crest on the goblet rotate as she turned it around in her hands between sips. She set it down and with a napkin, blotted her lips.

"I was . . . caught off guard . . . taken by surprise, I think," she said. "By Frodo, that is. His behaviour to me, I mean." She had begun to make a twist of her napkin end but stopped at once, noticing Bilbo's glance.

Bilbo remained silent, his face attentive.

Rosamunda smoothed the napkin then, pressing it flatter as she spoke. "I have been . . . uneasy as to what might be the state of Frodo's feelings towards me, at times – but, well, it shocked me, nonetheless – as indeed, it must have shocked you, Bilbo."

"I wasnot shocked," Bilbo corrected her, but gently. "I have been alive a long time, Rosa. That Frodo, at his present age might become . . . excited by the close proximity of an attractive lass, is a thing not unheard of."

Rosamunda had been folding the napkin into smaller and smaller squares, but stopped. "But I am not a lass, and not a beauty!"

"Do not underestimate your charms, Rosa," Bilbo checked her.

Rosa rolled her eyes.

"No, no," Bilbo went on, "I am in earnest. What you think of your own powers and what lads and men think are quite different things. You might consider it, at least. Frodo was attracted not to any woman's body, as far as I could tell, but to yours. And if not to you, yourself, then to what you exude."

Rosamunda held the little square tightly under her palm against the table, and looked at the back of her hand upon it.

"Let the two of us be frank, as old friends may be, eh, Rosa?" Bilbo moved closer, leaning slightly across the table.

Rosamunda restrained an impulse to shrink away, but lifted her eyes to meet his gaze.

"Odovacar had been quite the lad in his youth, had he not? And once he'd come of age, he showed no sign of letting up, did he?"

"That was something known to everyone, I think," she answered cautiously, not sure whither Bilbo was leading.

"Do you know, Rosa? Many doubted that Odovacar would conform to wedded life the way he did, after he married." Bilbo paused, his gaze very keen upon her as he continued.

"As for me, I had no doubts. For I could see, quite well, that Odovacar had chosen wisely in a wife: He had found a woman whose nature answered to his own."

Two red spots formed on Rosamunda's cheeks; she dropped her gaze. Bilbo took her firm hand between his two soft ones and peered at her with acuity, but not without tenderness. She looked at him again.

"Come, come!" Bilbo soothed. "It is only the truth, is it not?" Bilbo patted the top of her hand, adding, "I can see quite well that you and Odovacar are very happy – in that way. It is plain to anyone with eyes in his head! So, why," Bilbo urged, "should it not be plain to Frodo, also – now very naturally taking a keen interest in such matters?"

Rosamunda still said nothing, but returned his gaze levelly.

"I realize you love the boy, Rosa. Has not your entire little family, ever since Frodo's parents died, treated him with special friendship, almost as one of your own? Have I not heard Frodo sing your family's praises these seven years since I brought him here to Bag End? He cares for you. And I know you have cared for your young friend, Rosa, almost as a son."

Giving her hand a squeeze he said, "and Frodo has loved youtoo. As a friend and somewhat as a mother. But, I think, as a friend no longer. Or, at least, this new feeling has been added to the rest. Am I wrong, Rosa, do you think?"

"I wish you may be," she said, sighing, "but I fear you are not."

He sipped his wine and filled her glass again, then delicately pressed ahead.

"And would I be wrong, Rosa, to think that you yourself see Frodo, now . . . differently?" He saw her swallow, as if to speak, but she did not.

"It is not inconceivable to me, you see, that you might respond to Frodo in this new way, yourself." He did not see but sensed her flinch, her hands cupped tightly round her glass.

"It is true," Bilbo mused, "that Frodo's sort of looks are not universally appreciated by every lass who sees him. His colouring makes him look a little frail, perhaps, though he is not. Still, does not Frodo possess a kind of beauty which strongly speaks to those who can see it – in fact, to you?"

Rosamunda rallied at this and said with fervour, "I am perfectly aware, Bilbo, that I find Frodo beautiful to look at. I have always found him so, from the moment that I met him when he was just a little lad. There is nothing new in that! You are mistaken, Bilbo," Rosamunda insisted, "in putting so much meaning on the thing you saw. That is not the sort of friendship we have had. For Frodo, it surely was a matter of the sudden close proximity, a thing that might have had the same effect on any other youth. But that was all it was."

She recounted, then, to Bilbo the efforts she had made to distance Frodo from her, out of the recognition that he was growing up.

Bilbo listened patiently as she had her say.

"I am as anxious as you, Bilbo, that Frodo should overcome this incident. If, as you seem to think it possible, Frodo should harbour some stronger sort of feeling, that would be a very ill thing, indeed. It would certainly be undesirable for him to be nurturing a fruitless fantasy. Especially about a person already married – happily married."

Bilbo sat back in his chair then drew himself up.

"That is exactly what I should wish to hear, Rosa." He took her hand again, saying, "It reassures me, it comforts me to hear you say it. For I do not anticipate – I shall not be here – for very much longer."

"What do you mean? Are you ill, then, Bilbo?" Rosamunda swiftly asked, thoughts of her father entering her mind.

Bilbo laughed and then smiled, giving her hand a squeeze. "No, I'm not ill, Rosa, though I am beginning to feel my years at last. I know I don't look it. I have had good fortune in fending off the toll the years take. But it cannot keep up indefinitely, can it? I may have Elvish friends, but I am not an Elf myself!"

Rosa produced a smile in return, feeling relieved. It would be very hard for Frodo, if anything should happen to Bilbo, she thought.

Bilbo got up from the table and Rosamunda thought the interview was at an end. But he merely stood to say, "It pleases me to hear you say you want what's best for Frodo; so do I. For I do love him, Rosa. I love him as a son. Indeed, he is my heir, as if he were one."

Bilbo strode to the window and gazed out into the deepening dusk outside.

"When I am gone, Frodo will become the Master of Bag End. And, although I did not manage to do my duty in that way, it remains my dearest wish that Frodo might live here after me." Bilbo turned to her to say, "I wish to see him happy, Rosa, with a good wife who will fill this place with children – my grandchildren."

Rosamunda returned his level gaze and rising said, "That same wish for Frodo has ever been mine."

Bilbo strode up to her and taking Rosamunda's hand, he clasped it, as if to seal a bargain. "Good," he said. "Then we are of one mind in this, you and I."

Together they cleared away in thoughtful silence.

When they were finished, Rosamunda would have retired to her room but Bilbo invited her to join him by the open door. "Come, Rosa, it is beautiful tonight. We might enjoy it for a little while, I think."

Outside, Bilbo smoked and Rosamunda sipped her glass of wine as they sat in companionable silence under the starry sky. But the seats grew chilly at last and they retired for the night.

x x x

The next morning brought a post rider: Odovacar was dead. Stopping to assist a fellow traveller to mend a slipped wheel, he had been stricken while holding up the wagon box. Odovacar collapsed, they said, and never spoke again. Shortly thereafter he had died.

So, he had been ill! He had just turned seventy-six – just four years older than Frodo's father had been when he had drowned. Seventy-six was not yet old, not at all.

Rosamunda, after the first shock had receded, remembered her life with Odovacar and she spoke of it to Bilbo, to whom she already had confessed much only the night before. The more intimate details of her thoughts she did not speak of, but much he guessed. She told him she would miss her husband terribly, in so many ways. But to herself she admitted: yes, especially as her lover. Bilbo, however, did not need to be told this after their little chat the night before.

Bilbo said no more of their talk but uttered only the customary courtesies, though truly felt. He had liked Odovacar very well, though they had little in common in terms of their wider interests. Bilbo knew Estella and Freddy would be deeply bereft, as would Frodo who had loved his "Uncle Odo," in spite of his recent discomfiture over Rosamunda.

"Too young to die," was the overwhelming sentiment. But Rosamunda . . . so early widowed. It gave Bilbo pause.

x x x

Later that morning, Rosamunda prepared to start for Tookland where she would collect Estella and Freddy once again. She had a spare, practical conversation with Bilbo before leaving, trying to keep herself in check and remain clear-headed.

She would not stay on in Budgeford, no. She would have Shady Bank looked after by a caretaker – or let it. The home would be kept for Freddy upon his coming of age, of course. But there was now no reason to return there. She would come back to the West Farthing, to her own part of the country. Bilbo suppressed a start. Just out of Hobbiton, she continued, she could take the little hunting box and have it fitted up. It would do very well, snug and just big enough.

Bilbo sounded non-committal as he tried to show her that such a radical change of residence might not be for the best, not so soon, anyway.

She listened, and allowed herself to be persuaded. Well, then, Bilbo was right. Shady Bank, with so many friends nearby in Buckland, still was Freddy and Estella's home. She mustn't be precipitate. They would stay in Budgeford, after all. Thanking him for his advice and kindnesses, she drove off.

Bilbo's shoulders relaxed a little. A look at the garden might be nice. He saw the Gaffer's son at work and hailed him, "Samwise!" Bilbo strode down to meet him and watched the lad as he smoothed a new bed with the back of a rake. It had been a close thing, but it had passed.

x x x