Still curled in a tight bundle inside Esmeralda's shawl, Frodo glanced up anxiously when she returned, small bowl of apple pie and custard in her hand. A smile lit up his face as soon as he recognised her and when she held out her hand he gathered the shawl about his shoulders and clambered down readily to join her, his smaller hand fitting neatly into hers. His smile broadened when Esmeralda told him they would be heading for the peace of her own rooms.
Once there, Esmeralda settled him in a chair at the table and turned to the little kitchen, setting the kettle to boil for tea. When she returned she found Frodo looking about the room interestedly. A pang of guilt hit her as she realised that she and Saradoc had not invited him here more than a couple of times since Drogo's death and only then in the company of other fosterlings.
Frodo's large blue eyes slid up to meet hers and Esmeralda tore herself away from his face to return to the kitchen. There she tied some ginger shavings in a muslin square and popped it in a cup, adding hot water from the kettle. While she waited for it to steep she considered again why Frodo Baggins had been fostered at the Hall. There should have been someone closer who could have taken him in and given the lad the individual attention he needed. For the umpteenth time in the past few months she considered the Baggins family.
The Sackville Baggins' she dismissed as guardians at once. Even were it not for the fact that they had a child of their own, Esmeralda had heard enough about the family to know that Frodo would be better off at Brandy Hall than with that pair; even assuming that they could be persuaded to take him on. There was Odo Proudfoot, but he was a rather crude and self-opinionated man whose wife was a real mouse. Frodo would be miserable there.
Falco Chubb Baggins was too ill. The poor hobbit seemed to stagger from one illness to another and the last thing he and his wife needed was a youngster to look after. Posco and Gilly Brownlock were a gentle pair but as poor as could be. Unless the Brandybuck family made some settlement on them they would not have the wherewithal to feed Frodo. There had been some family disagreement, lost in the mists of time, which had meant that such a settlement was highly unlikely however. Dudo Baggins was in the same situation.
Esmeralda sighed as she fished out the muslin bag and spooned honey into the ginger tea. The Baggins family seemed to have more than its share of oddbods. She carried the cup to the table, placing a mat and saucer upon the carefully polished wood and setting it before the child.
"There now. You get this down and then we'll see how your tummy feels about that apple pie."
Frodo picked up the delicate green cup and took a sip, smiling when he got the first mouthful and swallowing gratefully. "You've put honey in it. Thank you. Auntie Marina never puts honey in it."
Esmeralda ruffled his curls and returned the smile, before turning back to the kitchen to make herself a cup of mint tea. It seemed that she would just have to develop the knack of caring for children. She felt woefully inadequate and wished she had the experience of children of her own. But there had been no sign of that yet between her and Saradoc. She swallowed a smile. It had not been for the want of opportunity.
Esmeralda pushed her thoughts away from such pleasantries and back to Frodo's relations. There were only two others . . . Dora and Bilbo. Dora's parents had left her comfortably off but she had never married, having a somewhat vinegary temperament. She would be torment. Oh, the lad would be clean and well fed, with the best of education, but every moment of every day would be planned for him. Such a sensitive lad would be totally stifled, assuming that Dora had even been considered. It was not thought proper for a maiden aunt to bring up a child, particularly a lad. That left one other option . . . Bilbo Baggins.
Esmeralda brought her cup to the table and sat in the chair next to Frodo, who was sipping his tea absently and staring out of the window. He always seemed to be looking towards the horizon, as though wandering what was beyond, or perhaps searching for an escape. A dreamer or an adventurer . . . rather like Bilbo.
Under other circumstances Bilbo could have been an ideal solution for Frodo but he had rather blotted his copybook by running off with dwarves and wizards and meeting elves and the like. In fact, not only had he done so, but he had not even the common sense to keep quiet about it upon his return. The fellow was notorious for regaling all and sundry with the tales of his adventuring. Bilbo would definitely not be approved of, although Esmeralda could not resist the sneaking feeling that Frodo would enjoy hearing those tales of far off lands, and it was rumoured that Bilbo Baggins kept an excellent library.
Frodo set down his empty cup and peeped at the little bowl across the table, his blue eyes showing a definite interest in the contents. Esmeralda pushed it towards him.
"Don't you go spilling custard on my table now," she warned with a wink. "We brought it all the way from Great Smails." She was rewarded with a genuine gap-toothed smile that would have put the brightest summer day to shame and she blinked in its dazzle and glanced down into her cup.
"I won't, Auntie Esme." He tucked in with no hesitation, all thoughts of tummy upsets gone. "Why did you bring the table all that way," Frodo asked with a child's curiosity.
The sun was dipping and Esmeralda rose to light the oil lamp with a taper from the fire, closing the window against any curious moths it would invite. "That's where I used to live before I married your Uncle Saradoc. My grandmother gave us the table as a wedding present." Returning to her seat she watched him, all his attention now upon the food . . . a normal hobbit lad at last.
Curiosity easily satisfied Frodo said, "Oh." Only when the last drop of custard was scraped up and the spoon licked clean did he sit back with a satisfied sigh and look up at her.
"Feeling a bit better now, Frodo?"
"Much better, thank you, Auntie."
"It's not far off your bedtime," she observed, glancing towards the mantle clock. Catching him in a grimace, she smiled.
"Oh? I had not noticed." The words came out in a rush and brought a high flush to his cheeks.
This lad was obviously not used to telling untruths but Esmeralda decided to let him get away with it, just this once. He had not had a good day and she knew there was no schooling scheduled for the youngsters tomorrow so he could sleep late if he needed to. Besides, she found she quite liked having him here.
Frodo latched on to something to say to distract his Aunt's attention from the clock. "I like your brooch. Is it an oak leaf?"
Esmeralda lifted her hand to her breast. "Yes, it is. It's a silver oak leaf."
"You always wear it. Was it a present?"
"What makes you think that?"
"Mamma had a little gold pin with a green sparkly stone that she always wore because she said Papa gave it to her. Did someone give the brooch to you?"
Esmeralda sighed. There were not many lads who would notice such a small thing and his large blue eyes invited confidences. She unpinned and laid the small broach upon the dark wood of the table between them.
"It was given to me by my Aunt Petunia."
Frodo reached out an ink-stained finger and stroked the tiny silver leaf tentatively, as though afraid it would crumble if he pressed too hard. "She's the lady buried in the yard, isn't she? I looked at the stone."
Esmeralda swallowed and tried to keep her voice even. "Aunt Petunia was like a mother to me. I miss talking to her very much."
The small hand moved from the broach to slip beneath hers upon the table. "I'm sorry, Auntie Esmeralda. Was she very old?"
Wrapping her fingers lightly about his, Esmeralda smiled. "She was quite old and I suppose that should make it hurt less. But it doesn't."
Esmeralda sniffed and brushed away a tear that threatened to spill down her cheek. Suddenly Frodo was scrambling into her lap and surprisingly strong arms wrapped themselves about her neck, this time offering her the comfort. Thick soft curls nestled against her cheek and a soft voice whispered in her ear . . .
"I'm so sorry, Auntie. You must be sad too." There was a pause and then . . . "It would have been my Mama's birthday today."
There were no tears, and Esmeralda wrapped her arms about Frodo, breathing in the sunshine smell of the boy, finding that her own tears had dried too. In their embrace was the comfort of a pain understood, shared and accepted.