Chapter 8

(8/14)

***

Outside, the three conspirators were still lying in the lush grass. The fresh smell was invigorating. Pippin started to squirm against the firm hands holding him down.

"Thmer'f wno need." He spoke defiantly from under the pressure of Sam's hand.

"We both think there is, Pip," Merry whispered back. "We don't want everything to be discovered because of your laughter."

"Hm, hm," came the muffled reply. "'M wnot lmghing, 'm I?"

"No. But you would."

"'Wbm't!"

"Will you be quiet now?" Merry hissed. "You can't even shut up when there are four hands blocking your big mouth."

They were so caught up in their little banter that they didn't realise a shadow had fallen over them right away.

Only when Sam whimpered ever so softly, and Merry watched the usually so stout-hearted gardener turn even redder then his most treasured roses, did Merry look up.

A skirt met his eyes. A bodice. And a lace-trimmed apron. Plus a bonnet.

All nicely wrapped around the shapely form of ...

"Miss Rosie!" Sam whispered, choked.

"Well, lads. This is getting more and more interesting."

Her face softened a bit when she took in the lowered lashes of Bag End's gardener and the fierce blush in his cheeks.

"So you are in this, too, dear Sam?"

If it was possible at all, Sam turn an ever darker shade of red at the word dear.

Without missing a beat, Merry was the first to recover from the shock. He let go of Pippin and reached for Rosie Cotton's arms, pulling her to the ground right next to Sam.

The sounds that reached his ears next were enough to make Pippin struggle for breath when a new fit of laughter seized him. A surprised squeak from Rosie, and a most charming whimper from Sam. Merry's hand pressed down tighter on his cousin's mouth. The youngest among them shook with laughter, so hard in fact, that they all could feel it.

Rosie Cotton blinked. Pippin giggled. Sam blushed even harder. Merry tried to calm his hiccuping cousin without choking him.

Then, suddenly, a most heartfelt cry of deep, deep anguish reached them and made Sam jolt up:

"SAM!"

***

After all the things that had happened on this fell day -- the Lobelia-Chasing, the Flower Trade, the Frog Hunt -- now finally was the moment when Frodo was at ends with his wits. He stood in the middle of his kitchen, dried mud crumbling from his best clothes, and knew he would lose the last poor remnant of his sanity any second.

He was unable to move. He couldn't even bring himself to walk over to the bowl with pastry -- which would certainly taste uglier than rotten apples. Frodo felt the wish to simply resign in every fiber of his body. Everything was messed up! The meal wasn't ready, he looked like some foul creature directly out of Bilbo's tales and he didn't even dare have a look at the bird. He already had a clear vision of it diminished to a piece of black coal.

That was how Sam found his master. Frodo heard the approaching footsteps and slowly turned around, facing his gardener, who nearly dropped his jaw at the sight presented to him. Frodo's face screwed up in deepest misery, sending more clumps raining onto the floorboards. Sam stared for another split second, but eventually he got a hold of himself and walked over to his master without saying a word. It was one of the many occasions in which Frodo learned to value Sam's discretion.

"A trial is Mistress Lobelia and no mistake," the humble gardener said softly.

Frodo nodded wearily. "Yes. Sam, I . . ." but to his profound distress he found he didn't even know where to begin. Once again Sam helped him out so gently and effortlessly that Frodo didn't really notice how the burden was carefully taken from his shoulders.

"Do you want me to help with the meal?" Sam asked, cautiously. "I know you wanted to cook it yourself, but..."

"Oh, Sam!" Frodo sighed and managed a crooked grin. "I doubt there is any meal at all. I'm afraid I spoiled the good food entirely. Even the mushrooms." He shook his head, sending a wistful glance to the oven. "You can rightly call me a fool for trying to cook such a meal. I never cooked anything nearly as great before. Oh, what indeed was I thinking."

"I don't think it is that bad," Sam soothed him and walked over to the range. There he took up a spoon and dipped it into the pot with the soup. Frodo watched in horror, waiting for the inevitable cough of disgust.

"Well," Sam said, nodding contentedly, "this is quite fine, if I may say so."

"What?" Furrowing his brows until a steep line coursed up his forehead, Frodo went over to Sam and took his own spoonful of soup. Indeed! This wasn't in the least awful, it rather tasted surprisingly delicious. Frodo swallowed in wonder, watching as Sam opened the goose pot. A spicy scent of mushrooms and baked meat immediately began to fill the room and as Sam rose, he shook his head in wonder.

"I don't see no problem, Mr. Frodo," he said. "It seems quite well prepared."

It took Frodo another moment to grasp what was happening, and then he slowly shook his head. "Indeed!" he murmured. "How strange, I never would have thought . . ."

"But that is good, isn't it?" Sam interrupted him quickly. "Now you will be ready in time. And -- and you have taken the rose back from Mistress Lobelia."

"Yes," Frodo agreed. He hesitated and looked down to his mud-sprinkled weskit and once again he threatened to lose his confidence. "But look at me! Goodness, will I ever get these clothes clean again? Or my face? This mud clings to simply everything." Which reminded Frodo acutely of his uncomfortable state. But just as he was about to fall back into his pit of distress, a shy hand patted his shoulder and Frodo looked up to met the friendly blue eyes of his gardener.

"Why don't you go and have a bath, sir?" Sam offered. "I can prepare the table and see to that everything is set. You can change into other clothes and will be ready even before your guests arrive."

A grateful sigh crept across Frodo's features and at last the notion of surrender retreated from his tortured mind. Sam's presence alone gave Frodo the odd feeling that everything could be fine, after all. Already he felt himself relax and some of the numbing tension left his body.

"A bath. That's a good thought, Sam," he said. He took one last look around the kitchen. "Maybe you should take the good porcelain? It's in the sideboard over there."

"I know," Sam reassured him with a smile and turned back to the range. His hands were already busy with the pots and spoons when Frodo finally started for the kitchen's exit.

"A bath . . ." he mumbled to himself, "soap. And a glass of Old Winyard. Yes, that would be good now." At the threshold, however, he halted once more and looked back over his shoulder.

"Will you be fine, Sam?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," Sam returned from his place of working, "never mind about me. I will see it down quite promptly."

"Good." Frodo nodded, and then he added as an afterthought: "Sam?"

"Yes?"

"Why are you wearing my apron?"

The pot's handle almost slipped from Sam's hand as his breath caught, his cheeks once more burning a brilliant red.

"I . . . uhm . . ." he desperately fumbled for words, not looking at his master and gripping the handle very tight. "I . . . there was . . . garden work . . . and I needed the apron. For the garden work. Because of the dirt. I -- I'll wash it later, if you don't mind."

"Fine, fine," Frodo murmured, his thoughts already occupied with visions of a comfortable, easing bath.

Considering that Sam was an awful liar, he really did a good job today.

***

TBC