Bilbo has learned over time to present a calm face to unexpected situations, and although this particular one isn't dangerous, he knows staying serene is the best way to make matters easier. The girl in his bed—actually that's a bit of a dangerous thought right there he admits to himself—seems to be all right, and certainly a lot healthier than she'd looked the night before, even with the cut on her upturned nose and bruise on her temple.
She's definitely not from this side of the Shire, though, not with that sable-colored hair. It's as curly as his own, but longer, and in need of a good scrub. That brings his thoughts back on track and he clears his throat. "When you're feeling up to it, I've got a proper bath down the hall, and some clean clothes for you, although I afraid they're trousers, since I haven't any dresses . . ."
"Oh I've worn trousers before," Mayfair assures him, adding, "thank you."
"You have?" he asks before he can stop himself, and gives a little wince because it sounds judgmental even to his own ears.
"Mostly on days when I bilge out the boat or dry dock and repair it," comes her reply between bites of toast. "Father doesn't like it, but it's got to be done sometimes and he's not strong enough to do it anymore. Oh this is lovely toast."
It sends a little note of pride though him because Bilbo knows he does a good breakfast. Part of it is training; his mother always insisted on doing things right, and part of it is a natural tendency to be a good host.
He still is, despite having had that aspect severely tested in the past.
"Thank you. I'm partial to the heel myself," he tells her. "Anyway, you're a long way from home, and with this weather and your injuries, I think it would be best if you stayed on a few days, until to get your feet under you again."
The girl considers this as she munches a sausage and gives a reluctant nod. "I don't want to be a bother, though, Mr. Baggins," she tells him softly. "You've been very kind already."
He makes an impatient shake with his head and gives her a half-smile; she's a pretty thing and Bilbo has no doubt someone is worrying about her at this very moment. "It's not a bother, Miss Lillyroot. I'll just send a bird to Needlehole and let your people know you're all right, shall I?"
Her stricken expression makes Bilbo pause. "But that's expensive . . ."
"Tug the miller's boy owes me a favor, so it won't cost anything," Bilbo assures her quickly. It's true, actually, but the relief in the girl's face is very telling, and Bilbo adds the note to his thoughts. Poor, but proud. I'll have to tread carefully here. "Besides, it will give me a chance to check on my potato patch and see if the skies are going to clear up. Now just let me know who to put on the note, and you rest up while I step out for a bit, eh?"
Reluctantly she tells him, "Parson Lillyroot, north bank of the Water, Needlehole. All you need say is I'm all right and I'll be walking home shortly, though; he'll understand. And thank you."
Bilbo gives her a quick smile and rises. "Fair enough. The bathroom is just down the hall behind us; the door is open so you'll spot it right off. Fire's on and the towels and clothes are laid out there for you."
Her face goes pink and Miss Lillyroot bites her lips, giving another little nod so he nods back and turns, padding his way out, pleased with himself. Bilbo dons an oilskin cloak, pulls one of the umbrellas from the stand near the door and then heads out into the wet gloom, trying hard not to think about her taking a bath in his tub.
It's not easy to do though; while Bilbo may be middle-aged he's still capable of appreciating a pretty girl, and Mayfair Lillyroot certainly fits the bill. However he puts aside thoughts of her and looks out beyond the rim of the umbrella, not at all encouraged by the sight of dark, dirty clouds still thickly covering the sky. The wagon ruts in the road are filled with water and small lakes have sprung up in the low-lying pastures around Bag End. Bilbo grits his teeth and makes his way down the winding path, noting that nobody seems to have made it back from the festival yet, and probably won't for a while.
He ends up in the dove cot far down at the foot of Bagshot Row and chooses a bright-eyed messenger in one of the little holes marked 'Needlehole'. After composing a note—To Parson LillyRoot, North bank of the Water, Needlehole: Miss Mayfair safe in Hobbiton; will return soon—Bilbo attaches it to one of the bird's legs and sets the dove free, pleased to see it head in the right direction despite the gusts of wind.
That done, he takes a moment to clean out part of the dovecot and put grain out for the other birds who barely peep over their wings at him as they curl up back to sleep. Bilbo feels like doing the same, and reluctantly steps out into the rain again, avoiding the biggest puddles but still getting his feet wet up to the shins. By the time he passes the potato patch, he's ready to rinse his legs off and settle in next to the fireplace, preferably with a nice mug of wine to take the chill off.
Back inside the front door he uses the watering can to get most of the mud off his feet and dries his soles on the mat, glad to be out of the wet. The unexpectedly sweet sound of singing carries through the rooms, and Bilbo cocks his head, listening as his guest sings a verse of The Daisy and the Rose in a low voice, the melody true. It sends another pang through him, and Bilbo hums under his breath, unable to resist joining in. His mother used to sing this when she was putting laundry on the line in high summer, and the sound of it on the breeze brings back memories long unvisited.
Good ones.
He makes noise, just to alert her though, moving to the fireplace and adding wood to the flames and poking the embers to bring the blaze up, feeling a warmth that has nothing to do with the fire at all.
-oo00oo-
The clothes are big, but Mayfair rolls up the sleeves and adjusts the braces, feeling pleased to be clean again. The shirt carries the faint scent of its owner; something she doesn't mind at all. She spends some time brushing her hair and debates about braiding it. On the boat, loose hair can be dangerous, but at the moment she figures it's a minor issue and leaves it hanging over her shoulders, black and thick. Her mother's hair, her father reminds her, a legacy of River Folk blood.
She tidies the bathroom and steps out, listening for sounds of her host, and heads in the direction of creaking, going right, past other doors and rooms until she reaches a beautiful parlor made all the more welcoming by a cheery fire and a few lamps. In the rocking chair, her host, Mr. Bilbo looks up from a book and gives her a smile.
"Better?"
"Much, thank you," Mayfair admits, coming in shyly, like a cat in a strange room. She sees family portraits on the walls in gilded frames; stacks of books and vellum on end tables and ledges; wicker chests and leather boxes amid the horsehair furniture. It's all very fancy and the room holds the faint smell of lemon oil. The fire beckons though, hissing a bit as wind down the chimney hits it. She reaches out her hands and savors the radiating heat. "Thank you for the clothes," Mayfair remembers to say politely. "They're very nice."
"I wasn't entirely sure of your, um, size, so I took a chance," he tells her with a nervous smile. "There were a few things of my mother's, but they would have been miles too big. She was sincerely stout, in the end."
Mayfair giggles before she can catch herself. "In the end, end or at the end of her days?"
She's caught him off-guard, and for a moment his eyes widen—they're so blue, Mayfair marvels—then he breaks into a delighted laugh, clearly amused at the double meaning and not offended in the least, thank goodness.
"Both," he blurts out, adding, "She'd be the first to admit it too. Mother always did have a good sense of humor."
Mayfair nods, feeling a little embarrassed by her remark, and concentrates on absorbing the warmth of the fire. "I'm glad. I didn't mean to say that. It's a bad trait I have, just saying what's on my mind. Gets me in a lot of trouble sometimes."
To her surprise, he nods, still smiling. "It's all right. No offense taken, believe me. How's your head?"
"Sore. I'm lucky to be alive thanks to you."
He shrugs, and Mayfair feels a rush of liking, simple and sweet at the gesture. "I'm glad to have been able to help."
They talk easily after that, sharing who they are and who they know the way folk in the Shire have done for ages. Families come forth, and when Mayfair learns Mr. Bilbo's mother was a Took, she's impressed. Tooks are far more prominent than Lillyroots when it comes down to it.
She asks him what he's reading and he blushes.
"Just something I wrote a while back," Mr. Bilbo mumbles, and she's delighted both because he's so accomplished and humble about it.
"A writer! That's marvelous," Mayfair tells him earnestly. "Papa and I have three books ourselves, and sometimes I borrow the ones left at the Inn—at least the ones written in Westron. There's one written in Khuzdûl that some of the dwarves passing through take down and look at, but I can't make head or tail of it. Oh, and one in Sindarin too, but it's damaged and there are only bits and pieces of it left. What's it about?"
Unlike her father, Mr. Bilbo doesn't have any problem following her questions and he gives a shy smile. "Just a bit of poetry; doggerel really, and barely worth the parchment."
She doesn't push, but smiles to let him know she disagrees. Writing takes a certain amount of pluck, and Mayfair appreciates people who follow through on things like that. Instead, she cocks her head wistfully. "May I hear a bit? Just a part you like?" He's about to refuse but she adds, "just a bit, please?"
It's enough to win Mr. Bilbo over, and with modest reluctance he reads off a section aloud. Mayfair listens. Ten minutes later, when he trails off she looks up, bright-eyed, and gives a satisfied nod. "I'm glad you wrote that," Mayfair tells him. "It's good."
"Really?"
it's funny to see how surprised he looks, and Mayfair chuckles. "Really. I wish I could write, but there isn't time, and it would be impossible on the boat," she sighs. "I do make up songs though. That's a bit silly in comparison I suppose, but there you have it."
"Songs are good," Mr. Bilbo tells her, and for a moment he looks off in the distance, his face quiet and still. Mayfair wonders what tune he's thinking of that makes him so melancholy. A few seconds later though, he shakes his head and manages a smile at her. "Fair's fair—I've read for you, so sing a song for me. Part of one you like," he echoes her words. Mayfair feels the heat flush over her cheeks, and she stammers a bit. "R-really? Well, I suppose I could do the dragonfly song . . ."
The dragonfly song is the one she sings when she sees them skimming over the water just before sunset, moving like glittering needles. It's a quick little ditty and Mayfair looks at the floor the entire time she sings it, but when she glances up, Mr. Bilbo is bobbing his head in time, his whole expression delighted.
"I quite like that," he murmurs. "Sounds sort of like them, bouncing and quick. Could you . . . could you sing it again for me? Please?"
She does, and he starts to join in this time. It helps, and by the time the song ends, both of them are grinning. "Foolish, I know," she tells him with more confidence, "but it just felt like the right tune for them. Faster than the duck song, and not as serious as the deep water song."
"Wait, you also have songs about ducks? And deep water?" he sounds delighted, and Mayfair nods, heat in her face again.
"I spend a lot of time on the boat," she offers by way of excuse. "Sometimes it's a bit . . . lonely, so I . . . make up songs."
He smiles at her then, and it's an amazing smile because it's kind and understanding and open. Mayfair feels her heart stutter a beat.