Frodo's song at the end is dedicated to my cousins Emmy and Tam.

7. Trewsday

As far as Belle was concerned Monday was quite uneventful and 'most uninformative,' as Aunt Lobelia used to say. The two gentlehobbits returned to the smial by six o'clock, and then Largo spent the meal complaining about the price a smial had been given, Frodo ate only one plateful and a bowl of soup, and Belle felt like she was pulling eye-teeth to make any kind of a conversation. Halfway through the meal Largo mentioned that Frodo had offered to let them both stay in Bag End when they went to Hobbiton next week. Naturally she had agreed immediately, even to the ridiculous condition that they were not to treat 'Sam' and 'Rose' as servants (even though of course they were). She had hoped to spend the rest of the evening talking about the upcoming trip and learning about Bag End and its occupant, but instead Frodo purposely steered the conversation to any topic other than himself or his home. When he excused himself around eight o'clock to go write a letter she wanted to smash her head against the garden wall. Instead, she took her complaints to Largo, who listened with only half an ear as he always did. By the time she turned in for the night she was almost begging for something different to happen tomorrow.

The night slipped by peacefully and Trewsday morning dawned bright and clear. The hobbits left once again at quarter-til seven, but this time they were home by half-past five. She had given Largo a surprised look and her brother had snapped, "Ask him." (jabbing a thumb over his shoulder at Frodo, who was silently retreating towards his room.) "He's the one with the headache." The meal had been quiet, and a very disgruntled Belle noted testily that Frodo didn't seem to be particularly hungry that evendim. Frodo, who had forced himself through his soup and was now picking at his potatoes and asparagus, flushed slightly and began jabbing at the baked ham, but precious little of it seemed to find the path to his mouth. He looked even more pale than usual this evendim, and Belle's thoughts involuntarily flew to the letter she'd burnt. Please don't plague him about eating, and don't fix anything terribly rich. She found herself reluctantly admitting that maybe 'S. Gamgee' did know a little about taking care of his master. She found herself wishing that she hadn't burnt up the letter. What else did it say, something about putting lavender in the bath? Or was it 'lavender tea if he didn't feel well'...

After Largo excused himself Belle went to her room to fetch the little flute and the gloves that Frodo had given her for his thirty-third birthday, in hopes that he would recognise her. She re-entered the dining room with a coy smile on her face and then froze. Her guest was gone. She laid her mementos on the table and began hunting for him. She searched both parlours, the dining room, his bedroom, Largo's study, she even poked about the gardens. Nothing. He seemed to have well and truly vanished. The memory of the mysterious doings of Mad Baggins' eleventy-first birthday popped into her head and she sat down with a thump on the passage floor, her mind racing. Then she heard a fair tenor voice faintly singing an old childhood nursery song. Curious, she got up and followed the voice... two rooms down to the kitchen.

Frodo Baggins stood with his back to her, facing the window overlooking the garden. His arms were plunged into soapy water up to his elbows as he vigorously scrubbed at a plate, singing in a soft voice. A fresh pot of water was heating on the stove in preparation for the next load of dishes, and already there was a good-sized pile of wet but clean plates and pans gathering next to him. She stepped out of the shadows of the passage and he froze.

Well, the element of surprise is definitely gone.

"What are you doing, Mr Baggins?"

He turned to face her, the dripping hands and the large white dish towel which he had tied around his waist contrasting strongly with his look of sober politeness. She struggled to keep snickering out loud. "I am washing dishes, Miss Bracegirdle," he answered.

"Why, if I may ask so foolish a question?"

"Because they need doing and because I need something to do." He nodded politely and turned back to his dish-pan.

"I see," Belle murmured. She cocked her head at him for a moment, and then fetched a dish towel from the linen drawer. Frodo was silent as she began to bustle about, drying and putting away dishes. He only threw a quick look at her over his shoulder once when Belle dropped a pan, and barely looked up from the sink, except to add more dishes to it. Belle stole quick looks at him as she dried and noted the lines in his face and his furrowed brow.

"Do you still have a headache?" she asked.

He gave her a puzzled glance. "No."

"You look a bit...well, I don't know. Are you ill?"

"No, ma'am."

She gave him an appraising look. "Are you mourning Aunt Lobelia?"

For a moment there was a flicker of something in his eye, but then it was gone.

"No."

"Yes, you are."

If a look could be sardonic it was the look that Frodo gave her. "You know me that well, do you?" He wiped his hands on his dish-towel apron and began gathering another load of pans. "Very well, Miss Bracegirdle, as you wish."

Belle winced inwardly, but pushed ahead. "What's wrong then?"

He refused to look at her. "What makes you think that anything is wrong?"

She gave him a look. "Shall I list the ways alphabetically, or in the order that I first noticed them?"

He shot her a brief glare but made no answer.

Belle had to roll her eyes at his obstinance. "Fine," she snapped. "First of all you ate next to nothing at supper, instead stirring your meal into mush; you've been abnormally quiet since you came home; you look positively ill; you're standing in my kitchen washing dishes-"

"Stars above!" Frodo threw up his hands, accidentally showering Belle with water. "You're as bad as Merry!" He again returned to his dishpan. "I am fine, Miss Bracegirdle."

With a frown Belle dried herself. "That's why you're in here, isn't it? You didn't want me to see this." Belle thought that she understood now, but something didn't quite add up. "But if something is bothering you, isn't it best to get it out in the open where it can't plague you any longer?"

Frodo's eyebrows rose alarmingly. "That's what they told you, is it? he muttered at the dishwater. "Forgive the observation, but I don't believe that it's any of your business."

The room fell silent, with only the clatter of pans to break up the tense atmosphere.

Belle mentally kicked herself for letting her temper build such a wall between them and wondered what she could do now. Searching her mind she suddenly remembered an overheard conversation. "Why, today is Trewsday, isn't it?"

His shoulders moved in a deep but silent sigh. "Yes, Miss Bracegirdle."

She frowned thoughtfully. "Do you mind if I ask what happened?"

Frodo gave her a rather vexed look. "I beg your pardon?"

Hmm. That mask of politeness finally seems to be slipping. She wondered whether the look was for her, or whatever was bothering him. "Forty years ago today," she said clearly.

Frodo froze for a moment, and then his hands flew out of the dishwater sending water droplets spraying everywhere again. Belle started back, afraid that he was about strike her, but instead he grabbed the jewel on his necklace, hastily turning away.

"Excuse me," he growled, and flew out of the kitchen, tugging at the knot of the towel around his waist with his free hand in an attempt to undo the makeshift apron.

Belle stood astonished for a minute until the thump of the front door roused her. She wasn't about to lose her quarry this time, regardless of how badly he tried to scare her. She followed.

-fjfjfjfjf-

Outside the sky was stained with the flaming colours of the onset of evendim. The pinks of the heavens were the perfect frame for the darkening silhouettes of the old trees, their tops now turned to gold by the rays of the setting sun. Belle rapidly cast about for a glimpse of her almost-betrothed and noticed a dark-haired figure sitting on the side garden gate with his back to her. Stealthily she approached.

As she drew nearer she heard him softly crooning to himself, but the closer she drew the less intelligent the words became.

"'-thon sí nef aearon!

Le nallon sí vanwa di'-nuin!

A tíro nin, Fanuilos!' "

"Frodo?"

The hobbit paused and mumbled wearily to himself, "Just. Let. Me be."

"No," Belle said flatly. "I'm worried about you."

If he was surprised to be overheard he didn't show it. "What do you hope to gain by pursuing me?" he asked, this time in a more audible tone.

Belle looked at his stiff back, his firm gaze towards the darkening Eastern horizon, his entire attitude of rigid displeasure...

"Nothing," she answered softly.

Frodo slowly exhaled and then said quietly, "Well, it shouldn't be too difficult to appease you then."

Unsure of what to say Belle came to stand by him (albeit a few feet away) and leaned across the fence, gazing Eastward with him. After a few silent minutes she ventured to speak.

"Frodo...about that letter of yours-"

Frodo stiffened visibly.

"-I am truly sorry for what happened with it." He said nothing, so she continued miserably, "I - I did know that it was yours. I saw it fall out of your pocket. I'd been watching you write...and I was curious... That's when I overheard you saying what you did about 'forty years ago today.' I didn't mean to," she added hastily as he finally turned to look at her -with an intensity in those blue eyes that reminded her of his wrath Sterday night. She offered him a feeble smile. "You see, I have a problem similar to yours."

"And what might that be?" he asked quietly.

She swallowed hard. "I have extremely sharp hearing also. In fact, before I met you I thought that I had the best hearing in the Shire. I can't hear hobbit footsteps," here she gave him a quick smile which he didn't return, "but it is good enough that I heard you singing from the passage."

The Master of Bag End grew very still, his only comment being, "I see."

"Anyway," Belle continued, tugging nervously at her left earlobe, "I took your letter and read it, and it made me so angry that I gave it to Largo. I never should have done it. I-" she choked a bit on the words and looked at the ground, "-I shouldn't have even taken it, and I am truly sorry for - for everything."

Frodo said nothing for what felt several hours. Belle dared a glance up and saw that he was again gazing motionlessly at the horizon. Her curiosity piqued, she watched him in silence. The sun sank lower.

Abruptly Frodo swung around to face her, a queer light in his strange eyes and an earnest look on his face, but his tone was calm enough as he asked, "Do you have a river or a brook anywhere on your property?"

Belle blinked. Hesitantly she answered, "Well, we have a stream on the far boundary."

"Would you take me there?" When she still hesitated he added softly, "Please?"

Belle's resistance melted. How often had Frodo Baggins asked her for something? "Of course," she smiled.

-fjfjfjfjf-

The little stream was only a short walk across two fields and it didn't take long for the pair to reach the beltline of trees surrounding it. When they were only a few yards from the trees Frodo stopped abruptly. Puzzled, Belle stopped as well.

"Is it right inside those trees?" Frodo asked.

"Yes," Belle affirmed.

Frodo gave her a courteous bow and said, "Thank you for bringing me, Miss Bracegirdle. You needn't wait for me. I can find my own way back."

Belle raised an eyebrow. "Wait? I'm coming with you."

A look of pain briefly flitted across Frodo's face. "Miss Bracegirdle, I would prefer to have some privacy this evendim-"

"And you shall have it," Belle interrupted. "I'll keep quiet, and I'll never breathe a word of this to anyone, I swear, but I won't leave you down here alone with night coming on and foxes roaming about."

"Foxes?" Frodo chuckled bitterly. "Miss Bracegirdle, I am a fully grown hobbit, not a faunt. I sincerely doubt that a fox is going to give me much trouble."

"Nevertheless, I'm staying," Belle insisted.

"Miss Bracegirdle-" Frodo quickly checked whatever he had intended to say and instead turned to look at the setting sun. The golden rays were now peeping through the trees. Evendim was fast becoming night. With a sigh and a frown he turned back to her.

"If you insist on coming, then I ask that you keep your word and never speak of this to anyone."

"As you wish," she agreed, parroting back his previous reply.

He raised an eyebrow at her but made no comment and plunged into the trees, Belle right on his heels.

The light was already rather dim under the canopy of leaves, but here and there golden shafts of light still shot through the brushy tangle. Frodo paused for a moment, presumably to allow his eyes to adjust to the dark, and then resolutely moved towards to the stream. At the bank's edge he paused, and then began removing his jacket.

"Do you know how deep the water is?" he asked, folding up the jacket and laying it on the bank. Belle plumped down next to it and eyed the water critically.

"Well, where you're standing I think that it's...mm, probably knee-deep on me."

Frodo nodded and, after folding up the waistcoat he had just removed, moved to the bank edge and began rolling up the legs of his breeches to his thighs. Belle watched in fascination. "Are you going swimming?"

He shook his head and sat down on the grass.

"I was only wondering because if you were the water gets deeper only a little further downstream."

"Thank you, but this will be fine." So saying he withdrew a piece of paper from his breeches pocket.

Belle felt the tips of her ears grow warm. "The letter," she breathed.

Frodo shot her a look, but said nothing and began folding the letter into...

"Is that a cup?"

Frodo shook his head solemnly. "A boat."

That silenced Belle, and she watched as Frodo waded out to the middle of the stream. He held the little boat close with one hand as he trailed the other through the water, sometimes throwing a handful of drops into the air and watching them turn into glistening jewels before plunging back into the water with soft plops. He was murmuring softly to himself, but she couldn't catch any words. He wiped his face on his arm and Belle realised with a start that he was crying. This continued for a few minutes with Belle only catching a word here and there. Then Frodo carefully -almost reverently, Belle thought- smoothed all of the excess wrinkles out of the boat, ran a finger around the rim, and then placed it in the water. The laughing stream quickly whisked it away, bubbling merrily as the little craft manoeuvred the rocks and rills, speeding away from the two hobbits.

"How long, I wonder," Belle heard Frodo say, and then the rest was lost in a murmuring tone. He turned and sloshed back towards her. Plopping down on the edge of the bank he gazed blankly at the water, cradling one knee against his chest as he dangled his other leg in the water. Belle cautiously drew closer until she sat beside him. Both were silent for some time. Finally Belle could stand it no longer.

"If you don't mind my asking, why did you do that?"

Judging by the start that he gave he had completely forgotten that she was there. For just a moment as he turned towards her he looked...frightened, maybe? Then it was gone, replaced with that wary politeness that he seemed to assume whenever he was around her.

"I'm sorry," he apologised. "I'm afraid that my mind was elsewhere. What did you say?"

Belle smiled. "I was wondering why you did that with the letter.

Even in the dim light she saw him pale -except his cheeks, which had probably gone that lovely shade of embarrassed pink that he so easily assumed. Belle stifled a giggle.

"It's just an old tradition of mine," he hastily answered. "Nothing important."

"You're crying," she observed. She brushed a gentle hand across his face, wiping at the tears. He shuddered slightly under her touch and pulled back. She allowed him to go.

For the first time they had arrived at the stream Frodo seemed to take notice of their surroundings. To Belle's amusement he grew even paler as he realised where they were -and doubtless that they were alone together.

"Are you alright?" she grinned.

"I'm fine," he answered automatically. There was a moments hesitation as he looked around before adding, "However, I do think it time that we returned to the smial."

"Well, lead the way," she teased.

Frodo looked at her and then rose to his feet, looking around thoughtfully.

Still grinning, Belle followed his example. "The backs of your legs are covered in mud," she observed.

"Are they?" Frodo murmured, brushing at it absent-mindedly as he gazed towards the trees.

"Here, let me get that," Belle offered. She pulled out her handkerchief and began rubbing at the back of his thighs, admittedly enjoying the sensation of his firm flesh under her fingers. Frodo was still for a moment, but then gave a strangled cry and leaped away. Startled, she looked up at him. He stared back with wide eyes, breathing hard and grabbing at his chest.

"Don't touch me again!" he gasped, struggling to master his breathing.

"Yes, sir," Belle snapped back automatically, feeling slightly stunned. "Are you alright?"

He breathed a few more times and then said in a much calmer tone, "Yes, I'm fine. You merely startled me, that's all." The sound of a smile crept into his voice. "Just let the mud be. Doubtless I shall need a bath once we return anyway."

"Doubtless," she agreed as she rose to her feet, her own smile back. Frodo hastily unrolled his breeches and picked up his jacket and waistcoat.

"Come on then," he said. "Let's get back to the smial."

-fjfjfjfjf-

"So..." Belle ventured as they began crossing the first field, "what is this tradition of yours?"

"You already saw it," was the quiet answer.

Belle immediately had to stifle the impatience building inside her. "Yes, I know" she said, trying to keep her tone friendly and inquisitive. "You send little letter-boats down the stream. But why? Is there some significance behind it, or do you just do it, or is it some sort of Bucklander tradition?"

"It's my tradition," Frodo said sharply. He was silent for a moment and then said, "It's just something that I do to honour my parents' memory on the anniversary of their deaths. I will write a letter to them and send it down the Brandywine, or whatever body of running water happens to be most convenient."

Their deaths? No, no, no, she had not just intruded on his grief again, had she?

"How long ago was it?" she ventured.

He sighed softly. "Forty years."

Belle could feel her ears -no, her whole face- burning.

"How old were you?"

A pause. "Eleven."

"I'm so sorry," she murmured. "I can't imagine..." her voice trailed away. The pair were silent for a few moments, and then Belle whispered, "What were they like?"

He didn't answer and the two tramped on through the quickly darkening night. Just as they were reaching the garden he said, "Tall."

Belle, who had been pursuing her own thoughts, frowned up at him. "What?"

"They were tall," he repeated. "My father was taller than most hobbits, by about three inches, and my mother wasn't much shorter than he."

"Hmm." Belle wondered silently if there was a reason behind his comment.

Frodo moved to the garden fence and leaned heavily against it, gazing at the smial. "Strong, too," he added. "My father was a wright, and I often saw him heft chests and shelves all by himself in the woodshop."

Belle joined him at the fence. Well, if he wanted to talk, who was she to stop him? "Who do you favour?"

There was a slight snort. "My mother. My father was properly built, and he had light brown hair and keen grey eyes. I didn't inherit a thing from him beyond my height." His voice grew soft. "Mum had the dark hair and slight build. Dad used to wrap an arm around her waist and hold her close to him, growling that he'd never let go, no matter how much she squirmed." He chuckled hollowly. "He always tried to sound gruff and terrible, the way that we thought orcs did, but he meant every word."

"He could wrap one arm around her waist?" Belle exclaimed. "She must have been thin."

He gave another slight snort -or perhaps a snicker? "Well, it wasn't quite all the way around."

"Still, one arm is one arm!" Belle insisted. "Do your eyes come from your mum?"

There was a pause. "Yes."

Belle caught an undertow of sadness in the word and glanced up at him. "Do you still miss them?"

Frodo hesitated. "A little," he admitted.

She nodded slowly. "Me too." As he turned towards her she said softly, "Did I tell you about my mother?"

"You mentioned that you were twenty-five when - you lost her," he answered.

Belle nodded solemnly, but then realised that he couldn't see it and said, "Yes, I was. She was lovely. She always seemed to have an answer to every problem and could comfort every hurt. Sometimes I miss her so badly. Especially her council." She gave him a lopsided grin, invisible in the dark, "She was often the only one who could curb me when I became little too...interested in something."

"Ah, yes. The responsible hobbit mother," Frodo said knowingly. "We certainly can't have our little ones getting too curious, can we?" He chuckled and looked back at the smial. "My blessings on that dear hobbitess," he teased.

"Ha, ha," Belle retorted. "And just what did your mother teach you on that subject, Mister Curious-About-Elves?"

"Oh, you heard that, did you?" he muttered -although the sound of a smile belied the impolite words. "Dear Lobelia. My mother taught me nothing on that subject, ma'am. I was innately curious from birth, according to my relatives, and if my mother did anything she encouraged me."

"Encouraged?" Belle was surprised. Even with as odd as Master Baggins was she never would have traced it to his mother. Of course, she was a Bucklander-

"Oh, yes. I would ask all manner of questions and she -and my father- would always do their best to answer me, even referring me to Uncle Bilbo if they didn't know the answer."

"It sounds lovely," Belle murmured. As his head turned towards her she hastily added, "For you, I mean. I was given a proper education."

"Naturally," he murmured.

"Why, everything that I know I learned from my mum." And Aunt Lobelia, she added mentally, but given your reaction I'm not telling you that. "My father might have taught me reading and writing, but she was the one who taught me etiquette and running a smial, and how to cook for a household of hungry lads." Her tone grew wistful. "She was a wonderful cook, could make anything out of the simplest ingredients. If you gave her nothing but a potato and an onion she'd find a snip of this and a bit of that, and she could turn it into a dish worthy of the Thain. She taught me everything I know about cooking..." her voice trailed off as she swallowed back tears. Sometimes the pain seemed so close, as if it had happened yesterday.

"My mother was like that too," Frodo said softly. "Give her a bit of worsted and she could turn out an entire winter's wardrobe."

"An expert knitter, then?"

Frodo shook his head. "A seamstress would be more accurate. Knitting, sewing, crochet, embroidery, spinning, even a little weaving; practically the only thing that she didn't do was shear the sheep - and she would have done that too if we would have had any." He chuckled. "She was an artist, especially her embroidery. I was a child, of course, but as far as I was concerned the only thing that bested my mother's embroidery was my father's carving."

"He could turn out anything too, am I right?" Belle guessed.

"Anything," Frodo agreed confidently. "Whether it was large or small, decorative or utilitarian, he could make it, even something as tiny as a ring, and he always turned it into a work of art. He even made her promise gift."

Belle's eyebrows rose to the roots of her hair. "What was it?"

"A wooden heart on a silver chain. He carved ivy leaves and primula on it and set an emerald in the middle. She wore it all the time."

Belle cast her mind about for something polite to say and finally settled on, "It sounds very nice." Not exactly what she would have expected from a respectable Baggins with a pocketful of gold, but it did sound like a very nice trinket.

The Baggins was speaking again. "What about your father?"

Belle smiled. "He was a barrister, just like Largo. When we were all younger Largo became fascinated by Father's job, for some unknown reason. The two of them used to pour over documents for hours at a time, looking for loopholes to fix or studying the correct wording. Gandy would join them from time to time, but he loved his sheep, and ended up being a shepherd with no ambition." Her tone grew soft. "Da was slightly disappointed in him, I think, but he died soon after Gandy came of age, and so he never really spoke of it."

Frodo's voice became soft also. "Might I ask how he died?" he murmured.

Belle's breath caught painfully for a moment. "It goes back to my mother," she answered. "You see, she died of a wasting disease. It consumed her for nearly two years before she finally subccumed, and it broke my father's heart when she went, I'm sure. He was never the same after her passing. Oh, he still loved us dearly and took great care of us, but he never laughed anymore, and rarely smiled. We all knew that he was only staying here for us. No one was surprised when we found him dead one morning two months after Gandis came of age." Belle could feel the tears building up inside even as she spoke. "He had the most peaceful smile on his face," she choked, "more peaceful than we had seen in a long time. Even the neighbours knew that he'd left to be with her-" she couldn't go on and buried her head in her arms.

After some time she realised that a hand was gently rubbing her back as Frodo's soft tenor voice sang a meaningless babble that was somehow comforting.

"What are you singing?" she snuffled.

"Shh, shhh," he soothed gently, and continued singing.

At the end he fell silent for a moment and then said, "That was an old song that some friends of mine taught me. It is a cry to Iluvatar and the Valar for the healing of wounds. Sometimes it helps to sing it "

Belle sniffed again and fumbled for a handkerchief. "What does it mean?" she asked weakly.

He slipped his own kerchief into her hand and she hastily dabbed at her face. "Well, this is just a rough translation," he smiled. He paused for a moment and then spoke in a low, almost reverent tone:

"Oh, Iluvatar, the One who sees all, look on us now in our grief. We are wounded, Lord. We ache with the hurts of this world. Our loved ones are sundered from us, and the pain is yet great. We ask for the grace to bear it, for the strength to continue, and for the courage to move on. We thank You for the time which we had with them, brief as it was. We thank You for the precious memories we have of them. Our blessings on You, Iluvatar, for Your unfolding plan, which You bring to fruition in spite of us. Look on us, we cry!

"Námo, in whose keeping are the Halls of Mandos, look kindly on our loved ones. Give them succour and tend them gently if they be with you still. Speed them on to the Blessed Realm.

"Vairë, weaver of all things in time, weave her story gently. She has suffered much in this world. May the weft not be so heavy against her.

"Estë, healer, gentle Lady, bring healing to our souls.

"Our grief is deep and enduring. Nienna, Lady of sorrows, teach us your lessons. Help us to learn endurance and pity. Turn our sorrows to wisdom and hope.

Hear our cry!"

He fell silent.

Strangely comforted by his well-meaning efforts she turned towards him and saw that he was gazing at the stars. She gently touched his shoulder and he turned towards her. "Are you alright?" she asked.

Frodo was barely audible as he admitted in a tiny voice, "For some reason...it hurts more this year than it has for a long time."

"Oh, lad," Belle murmured, reminded so much of her brother Gandis. He had taken their parents' deaths hardest of any of the siblings.

Frodo must have heard that, for he shook himself (throwing off her hand in the process) and said, "Come, Miss Bracegirdle. It's time we returned to the smial."

Miss Bracegirdle. If there was one thing Frodo did that she was tired of it was being called 'Miss Bracegirdle.'

"It's Thrimidge."

Frodo withdrew the 'starlight' from his pocket and cupped it carefully in his hand. "We wouldn't want to trip," he said by way of explanation.

"Frodo," Belle tried again, "it's Thrimidge."

Frodo turned to her with a puzzled expression. "Yes, it is," he agreed cautiously.

Belle shook her head. "No, my name is Thrimidge." He frowned at her in puzzlement and she grinned. "One more secret for this strange night. My full name is Thrimidge Bell Bracegirdle. Thrimidge bells were my mother's favourite flowers, so when she finally had a lass she gave me the name Thrimidge Bell."

"I see," Frodo nodded.

"Not entirely, you don't," Belle said. "You see, I hated my name. Can you imagine what it's like to have to introduce yourself as a month?" Her voice took on a mocking tone. " 'Hello, I'm Thrimidge. No, I'm named for the flower, not the month.' You might as well be named 'Rethe,' or 'Halimath,' or 'Forelithe!' " Even after all these years she could still get worked up about her name. Forcing herself to breathe (and unconsciously imitating Frodo) she made herself calm down. "So when I was nine I changed my name to Belle, putting an e on the end so that it didn't seem so common, and refused to answer to Thrimidge."

Frodo nodded, a hint of sternness hardening his blue eyes.

"However," Belle continued, "if you dislike Belle so much you may call me Thrimidge."

He frowned. "I never said that I didn't like your name."

"You never call me by it," she pointed out. "It's always 'Miss Bracegirdle,' and truthfully, I would prefer Thrimidge to my last name." She glanced at him sideways. "Unless, of course, you would rather not be friends?"

She could see it in his eyes. She had him in a corner.

"Perhaps, given time, we could be," he hazarded.

"Well, don't you two look cosy," Largo snapped, stepping out of the shadows. The pair jumped. "Have you any idea what time it is?" he continued. "If you wish to keep my sister out this long, Baggins, you'd best either have a good excuse or be prepared to stand before the family heads tomorrow."

"What's the time?" Frodo wondered.

"Nearly eleven."

"Gracious!" Belle exclaimed. "Only eleven? What would you have done if we stayed out later?"

"Married the pair of you tomorrow. I just told you that."

"We were just turning in, Mr Bracegirdle," Frodo said quietly. "There's no need for such a marriage."

Largo turned an irate eye on him. "I'm not too sure of that, Master Baggins."

"I am," Frodo returned firmly. He turned to Belle. "Might I escort you to the door, Miss -Belle?"

Belle smiled at the hesitation, but before she could answer Largo snapped, "No. I need to speak with her alone. Good night, Mr Baggins." He laid a protective hand on Belle's arm, compelling her to remain by his side.

"As you wish, Mr Bracegirdle," Frodo returned quietly. "Goodnight to the both of you."

They both waited until the light of Frodo's 'star-bottle' disappeared into the smial and then Largo received a sharp elbow in his ribs.

"Ow!" he grunted. "What was that about?"

"I might ask you the same thing," she hissed. "What were you thinking? He asked to escort me to the door! That would have been a start at least."

"We can't make it too easy," he retorted, also in a low tone just in case. "He thinks that I don't approve now, so he will either step up his advances just to irritate me, or he will back off. You might say that I'm testing the water."

Belle opened her mouth but Largo continued. "And I must add, Miss Bracegirdle, that I do not approve of you running about after dark with him. We do have a reputation to keep up, you know. Am I going to have to lock the stable at night?"

"Of course not," she answered frostily. "Such a thought never entered my mind, and I am appalled that it entered yours."

"Bosh," Largo snorted. "We both know that's how Aunt Beila landed a Baggins, and we both know that you would do almost anything to land your own fish." He hissed the last word into her ear.

"Shut up!"

"I mean it, Belle. I don't want you out here after dark. Do your courting in the parlour."

"I never would have learned anything in the parlour," she snapped. "Out here at least he was comfortable enough to talk about his parents. We just spent the last hour actually talking. Not me asking questions and him answering; he was volunteering information. Do you realise how unheard of that seems to be?"

"I don't care. What if that Lilla had seen you? Or worse, Ard Brownwater?"

"Lilla wouldn't be caught dead outside after supper, and everyone would suppose that Ardlo was seeing ale dreams again."

Largo was insistent. "Some wouldn't. And your reputation would be ruined. Try and be sensible for a minute, Belle."

Belle had heard enough. She pulled away from his grasp and said icily, "I am going to bed now. If you have anything more to say to me you'd best save it for the morning. Goodnight."

She breezed away, leaving Largo alone in the dark.

-o-o-o-

Translation:

A Elbereth Gilthoniel

O Elbereth Star-kindler

O menel palan-díriel,

from heaven gazing afar,

Le linnathon sí nef aearon!

I sing to you here beyond the great sea!

Le nallon sí vanwa di'-nuin!

to thee I cry now lost beneath the shadow!

A tíro nin, Fanuilos!

O look towards me, Everwhite!

-o-

wright - old English for carpenter

Thrimidge bells - hobbit for harebells

-o-o-o-

credits for the fox idea go to Dreamflower, and Lobelia's questionable methods of landing her husband belong to Larner.