They linger, and by the time they are on the road it's nearly mid-day. Mayfair knows her own reluctance stems from how wonderful this time with Bilbo has become. This little trip of necessity has now become a sweet journey for the pair of them, and she is loath to let it end.
Over and over she considers Bilbo's words, feeling caught in a whirl of trepidation, shyness, alarm, delight, and frustration. How one mild-mannered Hobbit can manage to set such a tipsy tumult within her is a marvel, and in such a short time as well. This must be how he took on an Adventure, she thinks. This streak of pragmatism bound with a thread of optimism.
As for herself, well it's difficult not to entertain hope, but there are so many real-world complexities standing right at the gate of Needlehole, foremost of which will be her father of course. He'll fuss about her and pump Bilbo's hand and tell everyone in earshot about how grateful he is that such a prominent Hobbit has saved his little Mayfair . . . and after that there will be his keen-eyed assessment that makes her throat go a little tight with misery. She knows her father will be asking questions without asking them, his every stare and gesture demanding to know if and when and what do you intend now, Mr. Baggins as they all have tea around the old kitchen table in the cramped little Hole in the dyke.
And she'll be ashamed. Not only of what her father is implying—even if it's, well, true a bit—but also of the shabby little place with the flour sack curtains and rag rug full of ember holes by the fireplace. Embarrassed by the smell of fish and the chipped dishes on the shelf; the whole of the house held together by stubborn pride above all.
Her home is clean—or at least it was when Mayfair last saw it—but altogether the entire place is smaller than Bilbo's potato cellar if it comes to that, and although it's been a good home, it's hardly the sort of place she wants him to see.
It's one thing to tell a beloved that you're poor, and quite another thing when they see it first-hand, Mayfair thinks. Especially with her father complicating matters.
She loves her father, she does. Mayfair knows he's done his best in raising her and used to spend the first of every coin he earned to care for her, but over time matters have changed between them. She earns their keep over and above his management of the docks, and has for years now. Parson Lillyfoot is content to sit in the shade at the head of the town's pier and collect the berth rent pennies as the fishermen come past. Mayfair is the one hauling nets and bringing home the catch, bundling it into barrows and haggling with the marketmen heading north to Hardbottle.
Mayfair has never had time to consider her life before; she did what was needed, what she was good at doing and tried not to want for the more that would never happen. Every lucky thing—a penny in the river, a hidden patch of strawberries on the bank—was eventually offset by a torn net, or a hole in her skirt. Life balances out, and there isn't any point in yearning for the moon just because you can see it, she thinks.
And still, every time she looks over at Bilbo, something deep in her chest squeezes hard, making her blush. She catches herself studying his profile in the mild mid-day light, remembering how it felt to kiss his cheeks and chin. The flutter of a dangerous thought flashes through her mind: our sons would look like him, I wager.
Very dangerous, and to drive it off, she turns her gaze towards the river. There is still a lot of debris from the storms, and the banks here are thick with downed branches. Mayfair recognizes boat planks too, and feels a chill at the sight, at the realization that Needlehole too, will probably be in disarray. Suddenly guilt rushes in like a chiding aunt, and Mayfair finds herself walking more quickly and swallowing hard.
"Yes?" Bilbo asks, making his stride match hers.
"The storm," she manages. "Hard here too, I see."
Bilbo looks towards the water and gives a nod. He reaches for her hand, gives it a squeeze and lets Mayfair set the pace. He doesn't let go, and the steadying warmth comforts her as familiar landmarks begin to come into view a few hours later. They pass the Leaping Rock that juts out over the river and Mayfair tells Bilbo about how she used to swim there on hot summer days.
Old memories. Good ones. Now the road is hard-packed and wider; there is a signpost within view and Mayfair knows it well. She slows down and turns to Bilbo, drawing up her shoulders. "Nearly there now. We shall probably see Hawthorne Pie chasing his two goats 'round the green, and we might even catch the last of the noonday market. And be ready; once your name goes out I expect most of Needlehole will know of it in an hour."
"I shall mind my manners," Bilbo assures her calmly, "truly I shall."
"Your manners will be fine," Mayfair sighs, "but mine will probably need polish, especially after showing up in trousers. You know how people talk."
"Yes," Bilbo agrees in a wry tone. "Still, the main thing is that you're back safely, and that ought to go a way towards smoothing matters over, yes?"
"Maybe," Mayfair hedges. "It depends on how put out my father is."
Twenty minutes later they stroll into the humble square of Needlehole, looking around cautiously around the storm debris. A few souls look back, eyeing them in return, making no move forward. Mayfair straightens a little and calls to one of them; a round young man with his arm around a billy goat.
"Oi Hawthorne!"
"Mayfair?" he bleats back, looking at her oddly. "Great bouncing bunnies! We thought you were dead too!"
"Well I'm not," she informs him, and then his words catch up to her thoughts. "What do you mean, too?"
The young man swallows hard, his gaze shifting to Bilbo and back to Mayfair, and his grip around his goat tightens enough to make the animal bleat a protest. "Mayfair," he begins, his voice more of a croak now. "It's just that . . . well . . ."
An old woman, wizen and bent comes hobbling forward from near the town well, her gnarled fingers reaching out to Mayfair, her expression a twist of sympathy as she grips the girl's hands. "Your father's dead, child. Two nights ago when the south wall of the dyke crumbled in the storm."
Mayfair blinks, and feels herself sway a bit, but the little hands in hers and the sudden strong hands on her shoulders keep her from falling down right there in the square.
-oo00oo-
Bilbo stays with her like a shadow, all through the rest of the day and into the night.
People have come and gone, offering sympathies, herding Mayfair to the Inn and pouring tea into her, telling her in hushed tones about how her father and two others—a pair of brothers called Ned and Nort Hartsdale—had died, caught in the malevolence of the storm's dance. The villagers sit with her, making awkward promises and trying to assure her in ways that don't matter because Mayfair is silent and bowed.
When folk ask about himself, Bilbo murmurs vaguely that he's from Hobbiton, and could he please have another cuppa?
They refill his tea and forget him, leaving him to sit beside Mayfair quietly in the gloom of the Inn's parlor.
He watches her, staying close.
The day shifts, and the rain that Mayfair predicted begins to fall, softly at first, and then with growing heaviness, making a soft susurration outside the door. It's the hour just before supper, and everyone has gone, leaving Mayfair in Bilbo's care. The Innkeeper, a dour hobbit with sideburns as bristly as an old ram is eyeing them, and Bilbo can read the man's thoughts easily enough. Girl's got no money and no place to stay; how do I get her out of my establishment without looking heartless?
After a few moments Bilbo pads over to him and speaks softly, his words measured and low. "Right. We need a room for tonight, and a cold meal from anywhere we can get it. Here's enough for that and a bit more for yourself if you bring it along in the next hour."
The innkeeper speaks gold quite nicely and accepts Bilbo's coins quickly enough. "Right you are, sir. Bread, cheese, and quail good enough?"
"Yes, and wine if you have it. After the long walk and now this terrible news Mayfair needs a good rest before tomorrow, so I'd be grateful if she wasn't disturbed."
"Oh aye," the innkeeper agrees. "The wife and I will see to it no one disturbs you tonight, Mister . . . ?" the statement trails into a slightly challenging question. Bilbo fishes out another pair of coins and presses them into the man's palm.
"Baggins."
Not waiting to see if the man recognizes the name or not, Bilbo turns and makes his way back to Mayfair, lifting her chin with one hand and forcing her to meet his eyes. "Mayfair, you need to lie down."
She nods, weary with grief. Bilbo slips an arm around her and they both follow the innkeeper up the stairs to their room at the top of the landing.
It's pleasant enough, but chilly, especially with the rain falling out beyond the shuttered windows, and the innkeeper lights the candles by the bed and along the sconces before slipping out again. Bilbo waits until the man's heavy tread down the stairs fades before turning to Mayfair and pulling her into a hug.
She's stiff and unyielding for a long moment, and then strength flows through her arms and they tighten around him, clinging desperately, ferociously.
Bilbo holds her. He strokes her back and soothes Mayfair as his collar grows wet from her tears. After a long while, when her sobs have slowly died away into breathy hitches and her cheek is resting on his shoulder, Bilbo presses a kiss to her brow and whispers to her. "I'm sorry, love."
"Me too," she snuffles. "Oh Bilbo, he's gone. He's gone and I wasn't here, and now I'll never even be able to say good-bye!"
He soothes her as best he can, not able to counter her observation, but acknowledging it quietly and feeling empathy resounding through his chest. Grief; he knows about that, yes. It's an insidious emotion, stealing up on a person in unguarded moments, striking pangs that echo through even the best of memories.
Right now, though, it's huge and raw in Mayfair, full of guilt, pain and loss. Bilbo guides her over to the bed and makes her sit; he brings the washbasin and sponges her feet clean, moving purposefully. "Food's coming. I know you're not hungry but I want you to promise me you'll have four mouthfuls at least, all right?"
"Wh-what?" she murmurs, distracted by his words, by his touch. Bilbo towels her feet dry, dropping a quick kiss on one ankle before rising up again.
"Food. We've had nothing since elevenses on the road and you need to keep your strength up."
"Not hungry," she murmurs, flopping sideways in a face dive on the pillows. If circumstances weren't so sad Bilbo would laugh. Instead he dumps the sandy water into the chamber pot and rinses out the washbasin, speaking softly.
"I want your promise. Four bites, that's all, sweetheart. After that we'll get some sleep."
Tomorrow will be hard enough, Bilbo knows. Tomorrow Mayfair will have to face the ruins of her home, the scrutiny of the town and the aching reality of her losses. But for now and tonight, he can hold her through the darkness and give her what comfort she needs. What comfort he needs in this strange, sad turn of events.
There's a tap at the door and when Bilbo answers it the tray is outside in the hall. He carries it over to the nightstand and lets it sit there as he unpacks their knapsacks, hoping the scent of warm bread is as tempting to Mayfair as it is to him. She's sitting up when Bilbo returns, and obediently takes a slice when he gives her one.
"Open up," he orders her, and quick memories of just that morning, of popping a bit of breakfast into her smiling mouth flash through his mind.
Simpler times only hours ago.
Mayfair chews absently, her gaze focused inward, her very stillness unnerving. Bilbo gives her a glass of wine and takes one himself, wincing a little at the tang of it; not one of the better vintages, but strong enough to help with sleep, surely. He speaks softly, reminding her to take another bite, and another one after that, getting food into her and washing it down.
He pulls undresses Mayfair, who slowly helps, and when she's down to her thinnest shift Bilbo moves to blow out the lights, returning to the bed in his nightshirt, climbing under the musty coverlet into the cold sheets. Mayfair slides into his arms with a soft sigh, and this time Bilbo feels her relax against him. She snuggles down and again deep in his chest comes that tender sensation that makes him want to flex his toes with joy.
Odd thing, love, Bilbo muses. Like grief it sneaks up on you, but it turns you around to step out of the shadows and face the sun.
Exhausted, they sleep in the warm nest they've made in each other's arms.