Mayfair starts, pulling back from Mr. Bilbo so quickly she's in danger of toppling off the mattress. She turns her face towards the direction of the sound, torn between freezing or scrambling off the bed, but Mr. Bilbo moves first.
He catches one of her hands and gives it a squeeze. "Stay put," he orders in a calm voice. "Without a doubt it's one of the neighbors and I will deal with it."
She watches him rise up and tug his vest, run hands through his tousled hair, plucking a stray feather out of it and the sight of that little plume brings up giggles that Mayfair tries to smother down. Mr. Bilbo shoots her a cheeky look and points at her in mock-warning before stepping out and leaving her in the bedroom.
Mayfair waits a few minutes, and then slips closer to the door, trying to focus on the dim sound of voices drifting through the halls. Cocking one ear, she strains to listen, curious and worried about what the discussion might be about. It's not exactly a polite thing to do, but then again, she doesn't want poor Mr. Bilbo to suffer on her account either.
" . . . Quite th' blow weren't it?" comes an unfamiliar voice. "Anyway Hannah wanted me to step 'round and make sure you were all right. Two of the south pastures are more lake than grass, and Titus Noakes is still looking for his bench. Saw your window; everything all right is it, Mr. Bilbo?"
"Yes, yes," she hears Mr. Bilbo say with a calmness she herself doesn't feel. "Although if you see my water butt rolling about, I'd be most grateful to have it back. Anyone flooded out?"
The conversation goes on for a bit about people and places Mayfair doesn't know, and when she hears the door close, finally, new tension rises in her stomach. Carefully Mayfair backs away from the door, knowing her face is hot and her hands, cold.
How do I face him after . . . Mayfair thinks in a flush of squirmy embarrassment. She can still feel the softness of his mouth on hers, a ghost memory of lingering sweetness, like traces of honey. Even now Mayfair wants to lick her lips but stops herself and keeps her eyes on the floor.
Feet come into view, furry and large. "Right, then. Porridge I think, and maybe a rasher of bacon. Don't know if you're hungry but it's best to start a journey on a full stomach and I have no intention of walking to Needlehole without one."
Mayfair starts, looks up into Mr. Bilbo's face for signs of teasing but his expression is mildly serious; all except the slight upward quirk at the corner of his mouth the sight of which sends a little pulse of desire through her. She swallows. "You . . . you can't go with me."
She watches one of his eyebrows rise. "I certainly can, and what's more I fully intend to. It's not a difficult journey and I've promised your father that you'd come home safely."
"I'm not helpless!" Mayfair blurts, half in embarrassment and half in defiance. "I'm not some fancy elf princess who needs an escort, Mr. Bilbo. I've hauled nets and mended them; I've taken full barrows of fish to market and back all on my own. Nobody needs to watch over me!"
The minute the words are out of her mouth she regrets them, deeply. They're rude, unkind words, hurtful words, and the very last thing she wants to do to this gentle man is cause him pain. She sucks in a breath, horrified at herself, and it takes serious effort to hold back the tears building up.
"You're right; you're not helpless," Mr. Bilbo tells her, his words slow. "I never thought you were, Mayfair. But—and I say this with all respect, dear—I know the way, and you don't. I know the turnpikes and shortcuts and paths through this part of the shire. If we could take the river I'd let you lead the way and gladly, but the Water doesn't run the straightest route and in any case it's flowing away from Needlehole."
Everything Mr. Bilbo says is true and Mayfair knows it. Worse, he's saying it in such a gentle, reasonable voice that she feels ten times more the idiot. In an effort to avoid those kind blue eyes she turns and rubs her nose.
"I don't want to be a burden," she blurts out. "Ever since I washed up you've done nothing but look after me and it's high time I was out of your hair, Mr. Bilbo."
The little pause then feels like a chasm, and Mayfair is afraid to look at Mr. Bilbo, afraid to see what his expression must look like now.
"Mayfair Orrins Lillyroot, you listen to me," comes his no-nonsense tone. "If I had been the one to wash up on the shore near you I have no doubt that you and your father would have taken me in, cleaned me up, fed me and made sure I had enough pipe-weed, fish pie and biscuits to be comfortable on the road home. How can I do anything less than that for you, eh? And I have no idea where you've gotten this ridiculous notion that you're a burden. You've helped me all through the last two days and been lovely company to boot, so I won't have any more of this stuff and nonsense. So, I think we'll have first breakfast then I'll tend to what needs straightening, and we'll see about getting on the road in time for second breakfast."
Mayfair tries not to smile, but she feels her lips curl up as she risks a sidelong glance at Mr. Bilbo. He has his head cocked and is waiting for a response, and she thinks he's completely confident, but then he strokes his tongue over his top lip in a quick flick.
It's a sweet little sign and Mayfair suddenly knows he's as nervous as she is; that he feels the attraction too. This should make her more nervous, but oddly, it doesn't. Instead it's giving her the giggles, and she bursts out laughing, snorting against her palms in a very unladylike way.
When she peeks again at Mr. Bilbo he looks torn between confusion and wry understanding, his arms crossed in front of him. He also looks as if he isn't going to move until he gets agreement and it's so very, very hobbit of him that Mayfair nearly laughs again.
"I should know better by now than to argue with a legend, shouldn't I? Breakfast sounds lovely, and after that I'd be happy to help tidy what needs righting around the place. After that we shall see; I can't promise any more than that. You may be needed here," she points out quietly, holding up a hand to forestall any further protest.
Mr. Bilbo looks slightly mutinous but nods once and leads the way to the kitchen.
-oo00oo-
Breakfast is generally one of his favorite meals but Bilbo hardly tastes any of the food he's eating at the moment. The bacon is some of his best—smoked and sugar cured—and the porridge steams in the bowl, thick and fresh, but his appetite barely registers anything. Across the table from him, Mayfair eats slowly, her eyes downcast. It's uncomfortable to be left wondering what she's thinking, and worse that he's not sure he can ask. That only leaves the food between them until he takes a breath and pushes his bowl away.
"Mayfair," he begins softly. "I'm sorry I kissed you—"
"You are?" she looks up, eyes wide, and Bilbo has to swallow because the look on her face is so vulnerable.
"No, I'm not sorry, not because of the kiss. Kisses," he corrects himself quickly. "They were lovely. The best I've ever received, truth told. I'm sorry because I shouldn't have taken them. It wasn't my place to . . . to do that. You're my guest, and younger than I am."
Her chin comes up again and Bilbo knows what that means now. He fights against smiling as Mayfair holds his gaze across the table, a small smear of porridge on her bottom lip. "I'm not sorry either. And they were freely given, so you didn't actually take them, so there's that, you know. And I'm not that much younger than you anyway. I'm nearly thirty five, you know."
"All of thirty four," he muses lightly, and earns himself a swat on the wrist from her even as she grins.
"Indeed, so I won't listen to any nonsense about being a child. I'm no child and I haven't been for ages, not since-" Mayfair stops a moment and he reaches across the table for her hand, covering it with his own, larger one.
"She'd be very proud of you," Bilbo assures her. "This, I know." Mayfair says nothing but looks at their hands and shifts her grip to squeeze his back and the moment is quiet and full of something sweet.
He leaves her to the dishes, which are minimal, and goes out to look around the hill, noting clusters of folk out across the pastures and meadows. The air is fresh and a little breeze herds traces of clouds across the beautiful breadth of the sky. Bilbo takes a deep breath and looks around, feeling a surge of love for this particular view of the Shire.
It's a beautiful thing to be able to see the near and the far all in one gaze, and Bilbo lets his gaze turn northward, to the dark emerald patch of Bindbole Wood and the general direction of Needlehole. To anyone else in the Shire it would be considered a major trip, and worthy of a wagon or ponies at the very least, but Bilbo knows first-hand what a real journey is, and this will be a refreshing little jaunt compared to those. He could hire ponies of course, but already he knows Mayfair would fret at the expense, and that sort of provisioning would bring questions from folk.
Bilbo prefers not to give rise to gossip, certainly not at Mayfair's expense. Strange girl, washing up ashore in a storm—that news alone would be scurrying over fences and across the pub tables, but the added knowledge that she'd stayed holed up for days with the daft old bachelor of Bag End—neither of them would live it down, Bilbo knows.
It's funny to think that he's faced far greater terrors than the local busybodies, but none of that matters at the moment, not when Mayfair's reputation is at stake. He lives here, makes his home here, and while Bilbo doesn't give a badger's furry behind what most think of him, he knows full well he won't risk the same for Mayfair.
Underfoot is the usual after-storm clutter of broken branches and waterlogged leaf debris amid lingering puddles. Bilbo makes his way to the potato patch, glad to see that despite the thrashed look of the vines most of the plants seem fine. The window is another matter, and he carefully pulls the rest of the broken glass out of the sill, collecting the pieces along with the large oak branch that lies on the ground at his feet.
He smiles.
Here is the perfect justification for a trip north; panes of glass are dear and certainly not found locally. Nobody will think it odd for him to make a trip to fetch a replacement. Whistling now, Bilbo makes his way back to the front door and picks up a rake, determined to show anyone watching that he's doing his bit to keep up appearances.
After a while he goes inside to find Mayfair has changed all the linens, swept the floors and is now dusting the parlor. He stops, surprised and shoots her a stern look. "You didn't have to do this!"
"Felt like it," she tells him with a shrug. "Besides, it needed doing. I figured if you were tidying the outside, the least I could do would be the inside."
"Still," Bilbo protests, trying not to smile. He can't help his nature, and having things tidy and in their place does appeal to him. "It's too much, my dear."
"It's no such thing," Mayfair flicks her dust rag at him and grins. "And thanks to your muddy feet I can do the floors too."
"My . . . oh," Bilbo grumbles looking down. "Drat. Still, I'll do it. Things outside are set to rights, and we can be off in a while if we take the tunnel down to the water and make our way from there."
"All right," Mayfair agrees, giving a last pass of her rag over the mantelpiece. Bilbo stiffens and moves closer, nudging her away from it and taking the rag from her hand.
"It's fine, it's all very well done," he mutters to her. "Why don't you go and see if I've got a small cheese in the larder and I'll take care of these tracks, eh?"
Puzzled Mayfair goes, and when she's out of sight Bilbo moves a hand to where the trinket lies hidden back behind the matchbox, touching its cool surface. As his fingers pass over it, he holds his breath, expecting the usual prickle of covertness to stir within, and yet this time—
Nothing.
Bilbo let his index finger circle the topmost edge of the ring for one long moment, and then he pushes the trinket deeper into the darkness, pulling his hand free and absently wiping it on the dust rag. It's safe; hidden away, not visible.
He turns to the little clods of drying mud on the floor, scrubbing at them with more force than necessary.
She won't find it, Bilbo mentally tells himself.
I won't let it find HER.