Fic: The Grand Annual Four Farthings Show
♥Happy Birthday, Bilbo and Frodo!
Title of Part: GAFFS - Show Day the Third - Early Evening (24/26)
Summary: In which there is much sorting and moving to be done; Sam makes an offer which is both accepted and reciprocated; and it is not only the conclusion of the Show that draws ever closer…
Rating: R - but purely for R♥mance
A/N: I know I promised Schmoop (and really, it depends on your definition of Schmoop) but this chapter - setting aside the purely practical aspects of the Show - is quite simply R♥mance with a capital ♥ *sighs & melts*
The gifting of Sam’s corsage was one of the very earliest scenes I wrote for GAFFS, 5 long years ago, and it hasn’t changed much in all that time. Beloved Beta aka notabluemaia has always loved it - enough that she has drawn a most wonderful picture to accompany it, also a gift to Frodo on his Birthday. I hope you too will like the chapter - I know you’ll love the pic! *squishes BB to pieces*
For those who read S/E, Chapter 42 of The Heart of Ciara is also a Birthday post here
You could say what you liked of the wiles of unwed lasses - and sisters, Sam thought. When they made up their minds that a thing’d be done, then done it was - even if they weren’t up to doin’ the whole job theirselves.
He paused at the edge of the bustle they’d set in motion, his arms full of proof of the persuasive powers of his own eldest sister. At least he weren’t alone in feeling their effect, for Daisy had got Lin Oldburrow working with the best of them - though he’d an entirely different reason for the fetching and carrying, o’course.
By tradition, even those lasses without benefit of a family wagon may, with propriety, sleep over in order to attend the Celebration Ball, for a dormitory of sorts was provided tonight. Not for them, of course, the rough and ready conditions that satisfied the lads, no rows of blanketed sausages sleeping on errant batts of straw; hence the level of frenzied activity at one end of the vast Produce and Handicrafts tent.
Most of the foodstuffs that had been laid out there so proudly for inspection were gone already, loaded onto trays and dispatched to the refreshment tent, there to play a central role in the feeding of this multitude of hobbits. Another of the many long-held, cherished customs that surrounded the Show said all items remaining edible on the final day may be sold for consumption, to the increase of GAFFS funds; either at teatime past or the supper to come (some very few being tactfully disposed of, as necessary). Admittedly, one or two may be a trifle past their best, and not every exhibit warranted the same degree of admiration; but the standard of expertise (and edibility) was reflected in the asking price, and what little remained of the baked goods after tea was despatched swiftly enough by the teen and tween washers up. Any hobbit who seriously mistrusted the culinary skills of his or her friends and neighbours (or, in fact, of complete strangers) was, after all, at liberty to purchase instead of the additional - and necessarily copious - supplies from Botham’s Bakery (“Bywater’s Best - Purveyors of Breads and Fine Confectionary to Gentlehobbits and to the Grand Annual Four Farthings Show”).
Vegetable exhibits would find themselves cooked up later, to accompany the porkers that had been roasting so aromatically for what seemed like hours already; whilst the fruits (those, at least, which had survived their time on display without donning furry grey jackets) were combined into a vast salad to be eaten with cream, skimmed from the day’s milk before the pigs received their share. Any entry of real value to its owner was exempt from donation, of course, unless by choice - there being a vast difference between a plate of butterfly buns or a pair of pasties, and a large and very rich fruit cake that had been lovingly dosed with brandy over a period of weeks; between a prettily garnished helping of soft cheese in a small dish, and a vast wheel of good hard yellow cheese that’d help feed a hobbit family for a month and more. Bottles of sloe gin, apple brandy and such would likely travel home with their makers, whereas the wines - some of them a mite sharp by now, it must be admitted - were lined up for drinking with the meal.
For Sam, today’s teatime had been rather less enjoyable than he’d hoped. He arrived to discover that the cosy occasion to which he’d become accustomed - himself quite at ease with only Mr Bilbo and Frodo, outside the small striped tent - was not to be. Today, a good many of the judges had also gathered there - understandably so, as a much less fraught alternative to joining the fray in and around the huge and suddenly crowded refreshment tent. The selfsame chairs that’d served to rest their aching feet between classes were now drawn up close to well-furnished tea trays - brought by spouse or friend or relative, as Frodo had done - laid at intervals along the very tables that’d held their clipboards, rosette boxes, bowls for washing and the like. It was a cheerful gathering - lively with talk of standards and placings, and redolent of the satisfaction of a job well done (and one which could thus be avoided for at least another year); but Sam felt to be as out of place as a Sackville-Baggins in the rush-floored taproom of a country inn.
Frodo had saved a seat next to him - which were right lucky, Sam thought, for if Frodo hadn’t been waving him to join the throng, he’d likely have taken to his heels at once. It weren’t that he didn’t know quite a lot of the hobbits here to speak a polite Good day to; he just didn’t know most of them well enough for anything more. And even if Mr Underwood weren’t amongst them, there were more than a few who shared his attitude when it came to servants knowing their place… Even Mr Bilbo’s kind, ‘Ah, there you are, Sam!’ and Frodo’s valiant attempts to include him in the ongoing conversation couldn’t make him feel at ease. And it definitely weren’t no place for hand-holding - that were a fact.
He’d felt naught but relief when Daisy beckoned him - a timely as well as a necessary reminder of his family responsibilities, and of how he’d normally spend this gap of time between tea and the evening’s activities. She and Lin had obviously finished their tea already, and were on their way back from Lin’s wagon with a selection of bags and bundles, and the odd cushion or two Sam recognised as coming from the sofa in the parlour at Number 3.
For the first and only time in the whole of the Show, he was truly relieved to be out of Frodo’s company, and he couldn’t but feel guilty about it, because it weren’t Frodo as such, at all. Sam caught his eye as he was gathering the empty crocks back onto the tray he’d brought, and nodded toward Daisy, to tell where he was off to. A glance back, though, just before he went into the big marquee, said Frodo would not soon be following, to lay claim to his own entries. He and the other younger hobbits from their teatime were collapsing the trestles and stacking them, as their elders, for the most part, carried away such judgely belongings as might be their own.
Even without Daisy’s peremptory summons, Sam could scarcely have expected to sit at ease much longer anyway, for this was now the busiest part of the day; all must be done and dusted before the fun could begin. The usual late afternoon bustle and hum were rising to a positive hubbub, the widespread rush of industry spurred on by a bubbling anticipation. The customary chores were still to see to, of course - stalls and booths to pack away, more carefully for being the very last time, though hopefully with very little left to pack. There were still youngsters to pack off to bed after a good supper, and livestock, as ever, to tend - on top of the many and varied preparations for the night’s activities.
Carts and carriages a-plenty were leaving the Showground even now; quite naturally, since not every hobbit retained a youthful taste for dancing. With maturity, many gained instead a considerably enhanced respect for the comfort of their own beds, especially those exhibitors who had already spent several nights on a surface a good deal less yielding than the plump of feathers. With home perhaps not more than an hour or three away at best, such hobbits reckoned it to be fully worth the effort of travelling now - often leading or driving their livestock - for the blessed collapse when they arrived at last and all was settled, for the night and for the year.
Nevertheless, quite a number of today’s visitors were intending to remain on the Showground until late, relying on a still mostly full moon to get them to nearby homes; and not a few reckoning to stay over on this final night. Temporary beds were the order of the day, set down wherever - in wagons and carriages already furnished with bedclothes from home, and the lads’ tent full now, almost to overflowing. Between leaving and staying, the effect was most clearly to be seen in and around the vast marquee in which produce and handicrafts from across the Shire had been so proudly displayed.
Hobbits of every age, size and girth were bustling in and, most of them, quite quickly out again. It was noticeable that those of marriageable age - or at least an optimism thereof - tended to enter carrying bulky bundles and filled baskets and remain; whereas older or younger ones mostly went in unencumbered and emerged fully laden. These last had reclaimed, from beneath the tables, the boxes, baskets or bags brought on the first day, now carefully repacked with their own, their families’, and many an absentee exhibitor’s precious entries. There was much pausing, of course, to exchange last words with friends and with acquaintances who may not be met with again until the next year’s Show; and it was a rare hobbit indeed who did not contrive to ensure that any and all rosettes won remained perfectly visible atop the burdens they carried.
The burdens being brought into the tent, of course, were of an entirely different nature. They were mostly new-brought onto the Showground this day, and belonged to excited, chattering lasses, each one eager to set them down and lay claim to a chosen bed for the night. Almost every lass was attended by at least one lad, keen as mustard to assist, and thus, perhaps, to secure a prospective dancing partner. In addition to the optimistic tweens, there was a solid core of older hobbits, like Lin, with a sweetheart of their own to provide for. All of them proved quite amenable to the direction, encouragement or enticement - as required by the transformation now underway - which the lasses were perfectly content to supply.
On either side of the tent, now, a hobbit was perched on a chair - one fixing a wire just above head height, the other waiting to pull it taut across the width, once well-secured. A line of sturdy lads stood ready with the heavy canvas partition that would be hooked onto it - the entire marquee being too large and inhospitable for a bedroom, even for this single night. A few of the emptied trestles were being re-grouped in one corner, where the provision of ewers and bowls would soon make a small washroom; others were swiftly (and quite noisily) collapsed, and flipped over to lie flat upon the grass. With batts of straw laid snug within their underframes, these makeshift beds, Daisy had told Sam, were surprisingly comfortable.
Lin’s own bed would be set up already in the back of the wagon he’d come in, of course - in the remotest part of the Showground he could find, Sam would safely wager. He knew fine well the pair would make good use of that afore ever Daisy slipped in here, for appearances’ sake, to take the pallet Lin lovingly set out for her. And, surprisingly comfortable or not, hers would be far from the only one to lie empty half the night.
Sam paused for a hard look at Jem Whittier whom he suspected of taking to himself a mite too firmly May’s every word. But Jem only looked back at him, serious-like; giving Sam to believe he were maybe interested in more than an evening’s fun with his sister. Sam nodded, hopefully indicating his watchfulness and care for her. When all were said and done, though, both lad and lass were several years older than him, and it was to be hoped they knew their own minds as well as he knew his.
Blankets, pillows and well stuffed packs laid each lass’s immediate claim to a temporary bed just as soon as it was laid down. If Sam had not sisters of his own, he'd have reckoned they’d everyone of them fetched finery enough for a month of balls, let alone the single overnight stay. He’d always been amazed at the amount of baggage Daisy and May would bring - they’d spend hours assembling and discarding what they may or may not need, while Mari looked on disconsolately. Clean clothes for all four days made for Sam a pack less than half the size of any one of theirs. Being wise in the way of lasses when vanity was even whispered, he kept his mouth prudently closed on the subject of the sudden rash of squares of looking glass in wooden frames. These were far more accurate than the ones he and Frodo had laughed at themselves in. Hung at a suitable height for prinking, they would see much use once the partition was firmly in place, the lads shooed away, and the serious business of adornment could begin at last.
‘Set that lot down there, Sam, and then get on with the rest of the stuff. May’ll have put all ours together, ready for you - it only wants fetching,’ said Daisy, in her element and at her most brisk. ‘You'll only need to sort out Gaffer’s things and your own.’
The product of May’s collecting was a cluster of baskets, clearly labelled GAMGEE, flaunting more than one rosette apiece and flanked by two large plants - Mari’s and Daisy's. The luxuriant Mind-your-own-business had been beaten to a third place yellow, but Mari’s scarlet easily matched her geranium’s own blossoms. The edibles were gone, of course - Sam thought with no small regret of a certain plate of curd tarts, rightfully awarded a first rosette, thus affirming quite definitively that Bell’s recipe was more than safe in the hands of her eldest daughter - but Show entries had also their attendant items for display. The baskets were still quite heavy enough with emptied plates and dishes to carry home, and with jars of the various jams and chutneys from the pantry at Number 3. The very lightest contained the girls’ needlework; Sam weren’t exactly sure what may be in there, but its wicker handle bore two green rosettes and a blue, and he found himself hoping that at least one may be May’s, to balance out the luck.
There weren’t much to find of Gaffer’s. His entries had all been fruits and veg, so Sam had only their boxes and baskets, and the velvet-covered tray - with a pleasing haul of rosettes, of course - to add to the collection. No, there was his little box of tools for last minute finnicking, too - and woe betide Sam if that got left behind.
It took three trips apiece for him and Lin to take all to Lin’s wagon, what with Lin’s Ma’s stuff too. She and his Dad had only come for the first two days, for the Jam and Ingenuity classes and then the livestock. Sam could almost feel Lin’s relief at that, since it meant his wagon could be drawn up, as Sam’d suspected all along, at the far end of the farthest field. It was arranged that he would drive Daisy and May home early next morning, bedding, baskets, bundles and all. Sam thought, but didn’t say, that the shifting could as well have waited till then, being far quicker and easier with the wagon right outside. It seemed Daisy didn’t want it all underfoot, though, when she’d better things on her mind; and, of course, she hadn’t the carrying of it.
Family duty done at last, he thought next of Frodo’s entries, for he’d still not arrived - inveigled into yet another job for the Show Secretary, like as not, Sam reckoned. Then there’d be his own things. He supposed he should by rights have taken them with Gaffer's, but he wanted… well, he couldn't rightly put into words what he wanted, not yet, but he wanted Frodo there when they were collected, and that were a fact.
The crowds had thinned appreciably by this time, and many of the tables left standing had a forlorn air about them, often as not with no more than a lonely entry or two at either end, waiting to be reclaimed. Impatient tweens lingered in pairs for these last few items to be cleared before pouncing on the table, to collapse its legs and haul it up onto the growing pile that would be taken back into storage on the morrow. They made a competition of it, of course, and tallies were strictly kept.
Paintings and the like had needed no tables, and were hung or pinned by classes from a specially constructed zigzag of panels that ran down the centre of the tent (extra points for the lads that’d get to fetch that down). It was the work of a minute to collect Frodo’s entries, but took rather longer to string all three frames safely together and contrive a somewhat thicker handle at the top, so Frodo wouldn’t lose the circulation to his fingers in the carrying. Sam left them by the corsage class to make a quick trip for the tobacco jar and his carved otter, and all were done - just as quick and easy as that.
Carefully, he re-folded the swirling, watered silk with the pink satin cushion cover, hoping he could prevail on one of the girls to give each a cautious wash-and-iron before he returned them to Bag End. The silk was unmarked, of course, but the satin showed spots from the regular spraying he’d given the corsage - his buttonhole, too of course, but the hanky being his own, any watermark it bore could matter only to him.
Sam retrieved his tray from beneath the table, empty now of the plant material it had brought. It was fashioned after a knife box, the central handle enabling it to be carried in one hand. His little box of tools fit neatly into one side, and in the other lay his otter - loosely wrapped in silk and satin for safekeeping - with Frodo’s wooden jar. He grinned ruefully but, short of squashing them unforgivably into the minimal space between trimmers and sprayer, there really weren’t no other place to put their small but satisfying haul of rosettes than to tie them to the handle, allowing the tails to flutter brightly all around.
He collected his buttonhole next, pushing and tugging until the flower and its accompanying twist of fern sat firmly in the top hole of his waistcoat, in place of the button. ’Twere a pity he’d not thought to bring his jacket, to set it off proper, but never mind; it looked perfectly presentable still, which were a lot more’n could be said for Mr Meridew’s abandoned rose. He’d been quite right about it winning the red rosette for him, with Sam’s carnation taking the blue - but Sam’s assessment had also been correct. All that was left on the square of black velvet, of that proudly golden flower, was a sad knot of withered stamens amid a scatter of petals, dry brown edges already crisping into the softly sueded yellow. It were fit for naught but the compost bin that stood in the horticulture section, almost full already. Well, a plucked flower were a dying flower soon or late, choose how, and at least this one’d had its moment of glory.
Last of all, he turned to take up the corsage, pleased it still showed so well. He’d somehow found a minute each day, to damp down the tissue wrapping on his two entries, and to spray lightly against the drying air, so even on this third day both were more than fresh enough to wear. The unfurling buds he was sure had captured the judges’ hearts and won him not only the red rosette of which he’d dreamed, but the tri-coloured Special, too, were near to full-blown roses now, their mate the promising one. And the perfume was well nigh intoxicating, up close… Shut your eyes, breathe deep, and the dizzying thoughts roamed far beyond velvet kisses, to warm nights and warmer bodies-
‘Sam?’ Frodo’s voice - sounding just a little tight maybe - startled him back into the present. ‘It’s very beautiful, still. Do you-do you have a lass in mind to present it to?’
He turned slowly. ‘Nay, sir. I wouldn’t want any of them getting the wrong idea.’
‘But it is the custom, Sam.’
Sam could not look at him, but riffled the fingers of his empty hand through the rosette tails dangling proudly round his tray. ‘I said, sir - I said no lass.’ They’d teased and-and, yes, flirted long enough, he realised. This was more, far more than that - far more even than a simple rousing of the blood. Now it came to it, though, he weren’t sure he could-
But it were past time, now, for flirtation or for tease. Time now, he knew, for full truth between them at last, one way or another. What had happened here - when they'd ventured a little to one side of the real thing, as Frodo called it - could not be left this way. An end - or a beginning - must be found.
These few days of the Show, their attraction had been a bit like the figures of a country dance, he thought. Forward, back, circle and cross hands, forward, back, and again; never a commitment to holding close and closer, no match of steps to the needs of mind and body; the needful words never actually spoken. He understood now that he weren’t the only one to feel unsure. They were both afraid an advance too far may meet only rebuff, and a retreat that’d never end. Hope and yearning could take you only so far, and if Frodo had decided on this time out of time to reveal himself to Sam, then Sam must leave him in no doubt as to his feelings.
Their time out of time was drawing inexorably to its close.
He needed only the courage to risk that final step.
‘It would be a pity to waste it,’ Frodo was saying, as he reached a gentle finger to one smooth petal. ‘None of the others can match it for beauty.’
None of the flowers, mayhap. Summoning every last bit of daring he possessed, Sam held out the tiny bouquet. ‘Would-would you like it, sir? It looks well against your coat.’
This was no more than truth, for Frodo’s velvet jacket held the shadowed blue of late evening skies. Its colour called to the darkness of the rose, yet gleaned every last scintilla of its crimson; the cornflowers sang vividly to their darker kin beneath, and tiny points of light danced a nimble haze over all.
But Sam’s hesitant offer went far beyond the flowers, and Frodo would surely not mistake its import, now.
He stilled, and for a long moment he said nothing. Sam wondered if this was, at the last, an advance too far - if Frodo may yet refuse him.
The noise and bustle of the hobbits around them faded suddenly, and for Sam there was no-one but Frodo, speaking softly now, and smiling.
‘Thank you, Sam,’ was little more than a whisper, but each word slithered keenly over Sam’s skin, dipping low and silky. ‘I shall be the finest-decorated hobbit at the ball.’
Sam had to drop his eyes from the brightness of Frodo’s gaze. He blushed at the implied accolade, but more for the silent mayhem that eyes and husky voice were rousing in his blood. Needing a refuge, he grasped at practicality. ‘Oh, but it needs pinning, and may spoil your coat, sir!’
‘I have other coats, Sam, but only this one chance to wear such beauty as a gift from you.’
Sam gave up all notion of practical. ‘I would wish always to give you beautiful things, Mr Frodo.’ He heard echoes in his own voice of the soft rasp of Frodo’s that inflamed him so. Would Frodo?
He looked up, but Frodo’s eyes were veiled now, lashes smudging black lace shadows on flushed cheeks; unfathomable, as he asked, ‘Would you gift me the most beautiful of all, Sam?’
‘Whatever I have to give is yours, sir, if you only wish it.’ Ask, sir, please ask it of me - please let this be true!
‘And if-’ Frodo hesitated, ‘-if I wished the giver to be the gift?’
‘Then the gift would be well-given, and gladly.’ And with so much love. He dared not speak the last, not yet.
‘Sam, I would offer in return, to give as I receive - but my gift would be given in love.’ A question without words, hopeful upon the air.
Sam’s heart leapt and sang within him, even as he murmured his answer. ‘Given and received in love again…’
Frodo’s eyes flicked wide, their blue as dark and deep as ever Sam had seen. And there was that within which called urgently to Sam, taking the shadowed heart of the rose’s promise - warm nights, warmer bodies - to a pledge of desire beyond any dream, now.
‘Thank you, my Sam,’ he said, and raised his hand once more to the corsage that lingered almost forgotten in Sam’s grasp. This time the gentle finger slid unhesitatingly from dark velvet petal onto skin, and Sam shivered beneath his touch. This could still be neither time nor place for more - not yet - but still they were coming, and very soon. The smile was warm and quiet between them, the knowing enough, for now.
‘Frodo? Samwise! Ah, there you are! Oh, yes indeed - and still full worthy of every accolade it has received,’ Bilbo said of the corsage in Frodo’s hand. He looked quizzically at the pair of them but made no further comment. ‘Do you have pins?’
‘Pins?’ Frodo seemed not to know the word, but stood, looking at Sam.
‘To pin it on with, lad! Do buck up!’ Bilbo said impatiently. He marched over to where a last gabble of matrons was collecting up crafts and rosettes with more words than haste - to the disgust of a pair of hovering tweens, waiting impatiently for the table against which plump hips rested as their final tales were told. He asked for and was given a paper of pins, and when he came back to them, Frodo and Sam had neither moved nor spoken, only their eyes making promises that were no-one else’s to hear.
Bilbo prodded Frodo’s shoulders this way and that, to get the corsage to sit to best advantage. ‘Keep still, Frodo! How do you expect me to do this without pricking you, if you wriggle so much?’
But Frodo was still, his eyes on Sam’s, and Sam read quite clearly there the disappointment that it was Bilbo doing this, his hands on Frodo, not Sam’s; his head so close that, had it been Sam, there may well have been an almost accidental brush of hand to cheek, and his palm would have tingled to the softness he found there. One of them may have begun to say something perhaps, and the other turned to listen - into an accidental slide of mouth on mouth, sweet and damp and hasty…
‘There! Yes, indeed, well done, Sam - and to think that rose was bred at Bag End!’
‘All the best things come from Bag End,’ Sam said, half in jest and wholly in earnest as he looked at Frodo.
Bilbo turned and eyed him closely.
Sam realised how forward he had spoken, and stammered, ‘S-sorry, Mr Bilbo, sir, I j-just meant-’
‘I know perfectly well what you meant, Sam Gamgee.’ Bilbo looked from one to the other. Sam weren’t sure about himself, but he rather thought he might be glowing; he knew Frodo was. ‘Frodo?’
‘Uncle Bilbo?’ Frodo said no more, but in his smile was all that was needed. ‘Do you have another pin?’ he asked, then.
Bilbo passed one to him carefully, and Frodo reached to take out the carnation from Sam’s button hole. ‘I think this would look much better just here,’ he said, laying it gently above Sam’s heart. He pinned it deftly to the waistcoat, his hands perfectly steady, though he was close enough for Sam to feel the quickness of his breath. Then he laid his fingers to either side of it and said, very quietly, ‘For you, my Sam,’ and Sam could only look back at him and smile.
‘Well, it took the pair of you long enough, I must say! Now, just be-’ Sam could have sworn that he was going to say ‘careful’, in exactly the tone the Gaffer used to admonish their lasses before a night’s festivities. It seemed that he remembered at the last minute that neither of them was a lass to need such a warning, for he smoothly substituted, ‘sensible, both of you!’’
He nodded to the entries Frodo and Sam were gathering up, with attendant rosettes, and said jovially, ‘So, we shall be celebrating on several fronts, tonight! There should be another cask of Triple from the Toad and Bucket to do it with, too - though I’d not have more than the one, if you’re thinking of dancing. I think I may safely indulge, however, since I’ll not be driving.’ Despite the closeness of Bag End, Bilbo had opted to share Will Whitfoot’s room at the Farthing Stone Inn rather than drive home so late and alone.
To the relief of a pair of lads just waiting to snatch up the emptied table, they set off for the entrance to the marquee. It may look to be almost deserted now by all but a handful of determined gossipers and the industrious tweens, but a great chatter of feminine voices readily contradicted appearances. A very real bustle was concealed by the newly erected partition; a deal of serious prinking was under way at last, and if that meant missing some (or even most) of the final ceremony, well, few if any of the lasses would know themselves to have the chance at a trophy. Only the need to support a family member there would drag most of them betimes from the sharing of finery and turns before a looking glass.
As they emerged into the early evening air, Sam said, ‘I were thinking we’d put all our bits and pieces in the trap, sir, and see to Beechnut at the same time, but with the Bolger lads taking him this morning, I’m not rightly sure where he’ll be.’
‘There’s no time for that now!’ Bilbo said in shocked voice. ‘The prize giving will be starting at any moment - I have to be there and so do you two. But you needn’t worry about the pony, Sam - I paid Tad and Gerol extra to settle him for the night, move his picket and so on. He’ll be fine until morning.’
Sam looked at Frodo; he weren’t sure what he may be thinking, but for himself, Sam had been rather counting on a long, quiet stroll through the gathering dusk to find Beechnut - and maybe a bit of privacy too, once their bits and pieces were safely stowed. Frodo returned his look with a rueful grin that showed he’d had much the same idea.
Bilbo regarded both of them. ‘If you could just contrive to look just a little less lovesick,’ he said, ‘it might be less of a giveaway, you know!’
They laughed together then, and made haste to join the many hobbits now converging for the very last of the formalities of the Grand Annual Four Farthings Show of the year 1400.
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Chapter 25: Show Day the Third - Evening
Chapter 24 was here, and the story began with the Prologue
~~~~\~~~/~~~~
Title of Part: GAFFS - Show Day the Third - Early Evening (24/26)
Summary: In which there is much sorting and moving to be done; Sam makes an offer which is both accepted and reciprocated; and it is not only the conclusion of the Show that draws ever closer…
Rating: R - but purely for R♥mance
A/N: I know I promised Schmoop (and really, it depends on your definition of Schmoop) but this chapter - setting aside the purely practical aspects of the Show - is quite simply R♥mance with a capital ♥ *sighs & melts*
The gifting of Sam’s corsage was one of the very earliest scenes I wrote for GAFFS, 5 long years ago, and it hasn’t changed much in all that time. Beloved Beta aka notabluemaia has always loved it - enough that she has drawn a most wonderful picture to accompany it, also a gift to Frodo on his Birthday. I hope you too will like the chapter - I know you’ll love the pic! *squishes BB to pieces*
For those who read S/E, Chapter 42 of The Heart of Ciara is also a Birthday post here
You could say what you liked of the wiles of unwed lasses - and sisters, Sam thought. When they made up their minds that a thing’d be done, then done it was - even if they weren’t up to doin’ the whole job theirselves.
He paused at the edge of the bustle they’d set in motion, his arms full of proof of the persuasive powers of his own eldest sister. At least he weren’t alone in feeling their effect, for Daisy had got Lin Oldburrow working with the best of them - though he’d an entirely different reason for the fetching and carrying, o’course.
By tradition, even those lasses without benefit of a family wagon may, with propriety, sleep over in order to attend the Celebration Ball, for a dormitory of sorts was provided tonight. Not for them, of course, the rough and ready conditions that satisfied the lads, no rows of blanketed sausages sleeping on errant batts of straw; hence the level of frenzied activity at one end of the vast Produce and Handicrafts tent.
Most of the foodstuffs that had been laid out there so proudly for inspection were gone already, loaded onto trays and dispatched to the refreshment tent, there to play a central role in the feeding of this multitude of hobbits. Another of the many long-held, cherished customs that surrounded the Show said all items remaining edible on the final day may be sold for consumption, to the increase of GAFFS funds; either at teatime past or the supper to come (some very few being tactfully disposed of, as necessary). Admittedly, one or two may be a trifle past their best, and not every exhibit warranted the same degree of admiration; but the standard of expertise (and edibility) was reflected in the asking price, and what little remained of the baked goods after tea was despatched swiftly enough by the teen and tween washers up. Any hobbit who seriously mistrusted the culinary skills of his or her friends and neighbours (or, in fact, of complete strangers) was, after all, at liberty to purchase instead of the additional - and necessarily copious - supplies from Botham’s Bakery (“Bywater’s Best - Purveyors of Breads and Fine Confectionary to Gentlehobbits and to the Grand Annual Four Farthings Show”).
Vegetable exhibits would find themselves cooked up later, to accompany the porkers that had been roasting so aromatically for what seemed like hours already; whilst the fruits (those, at least, which had survived their time on display without donning furry grey jackets) were combined into a vast salad to be eaten with cream, skimmed from the day’s milk before the pigs received their share. Any entry of real value to its owner was exempt from donation, of course, unless by choice - there being a vast difference between a plate of butterfly buns or a pair of pasties, and a large and very rich fruit cake that had been lovingly dosed with brandy over a period of weeks; between a prettily garnished helping of soft cheese in a small dish, and a vast wheel of good hard yellow cheese that’d help feed a hobbit family for a month and more. Bottles of sloe gin, apple brandy and such would likely travel home with their makers, whereas the wines - some of them a mite sharp by now, it must be admitted - were lined up for drinking with the meal.
For Sam, today’s teatime had been rather less enjoyable than he’d hoped. He arrived to discover that the cosy occasion to which he’d become accustomed - himself quite at ease with only Mr Bilbo and Frodo, outside the small striped tent - was not to be. Today, a good many of the judges had also gathered there - understandably so, as a much less fraught alternative to joining the fray in and around the huge and suddenly crowded refreshment tent. The selfsame chairs that’d served to rest their aching feet between classes were now drawn up close to well-furnished tea trays - brought by spouse or friend or relative, as Frodo had done - laid at intervals along the very tables that’d held their clipboards, rosette boxes, bowls for washing and the like. It was a cheerful gathering - lively with talk of standards and placings, and redolent of the satisfaction of a job well done (and one which could thus be avoided for at least another year); but Sam felt to be as out of place as a Sackville-Baggins in the rush-floored taproom of a country inn.
Frodo had saved a seat next to him - which were right lucky, Sam thought, for if Frodo hadn’t been waving him to join the throng, he’d likely have taken to his heels at once. It weren’t that he didn’t know quite a lot of the hobbits here to speak a polite Good day to; he just didn’t know most of them well enough for anything more. And even if Mr Underwood weren’t amongst them, there were more than a few who shared his attitude when it came to servants knowing their place… Even Mr Bilbo’s kind, ‘Ah, there you are, Sam!’ and Frodo’s valiant attempts to include him in the ongoing conversation couldn’t make him feel at ease. And it definitely weren’t no place for hand-holding - that were a fact.
He’d felt naught but relief when Daisy beckoned him - a timely as well as a necessary reminder of his family responsibilities, and of how he’d normally spend this gap of time between tea and the evening’s activities. She and Lin had obviously finished their tea already, and were on their way back from Lin’s wagon with a selection of bags and bundles, and the odd cushion or two Sam recognised as coming from the sofa in the parlour at Number 3.
For the first and only time in the whole of the Show, he was truly relieved to be out of Frodo’s company, and he couldn’t but feel guilty about it, because it weren’t Frodo as such, at all. Sam caught his eye as he was gathering the empty crocks back onto the tray he’d brought, and nodded toward Daisy, to tell where he was off to. A glance back, though, just before he went into the big marquee, said Frodo would not soon be following, to lay claim to his own entries. He and the other younger hobbits from their teatime were collapsing the trestles and stacking them, as their elders, for the most part, carried away such judgely belongings as might be their own.
Even without Daisy’s peremptory summons, Sam could scarcely have expected to sit at ease much longer anyway, for this was now the busiest part of the day; all must be done and dusted before the fun could begin. The usual late afternoon bustle and hum were rising to a positive hubbub, the widespread rush of industry spurred on by a bubbling anticipation. The customary chores were still to see to, of course - stalls and booths to pack away, more carefully for being the very last time, though hopefully with very little left to pack. There were still youngsters to pack off to bed after a good supper, and livestock, as ever, to tend - on top of the many and varied preparations for the night’s activities.
Carts and carriages a-plenty were leaving the Showground even now; quite naturally, since not every hobbit retained a youthful taste for dancing. With maturity, many gained instead a considerably enhanced respect for the comfort of their own beds, especially those exhibitors who had already spent several nights on a surface a good deal less yielding than the plump of feathers. With home perhaps not more than an hour or three away at best, such hobbits reckoned it to be fully worth the effort of travelling now - often leading or driving their livestock - for the blessed collapse when they arrived at last and all was settled, for the night and for the year.
Nevertheless, quite a number of today’s visitors were intending to remain on the Showground until late, relying on a still mostly full moon to get them to nearby homes; and not a few reckoning to stay over on this final night. Temporary beds were the order of the day, set down wherever - in wagons and carriages already furnished with bedclothes from home, and the lads’ tent full now, almost to overflowing. Between leaving and staying, the effect was most clearly to be seen in and around the vast marquee in which produce and handicrafts from across the Shire had been so proudly displayed.
Hobbits of every age, size and girth were bustling in and, most of them, quite quickly out again. It was noticeable that those of marriageable age - or at least an optimism thereof - tended to enter carrying bulky bundles and filled baskets and remain; whereas older or younger ones mostly went in unencumbered and emerged fully laden. These last had reclaimed, from beneath the tables, the boxes, baskets or bags brought on the first day, now carefully repacked with their own, their families’, and many an absentee exhibitor’s precious entries. There was much pausing, of course, to exchange last words with friends and with acquaintances who may not be met with again until the next year’s Show; and it was a rare hobbit indeed who did not contrive to ensure that any and all rosettes won remained perfectly visible atop the burdens they carried.
The burdens being brought into the tent, of course, were of an entirely different nature. They were mostly new-brought onto the Showground this day, and belonged to excited, chattering lasses, each one eager to set them down and lay claim to a chosen bed for the night. Almost every lass was attended by at least one lad, keen as mustard to assist, and thus, perhaps, to secure a prospective dancing partner. In addition to the optimistic tweens, there was a solid core of older hobbits, like Lin, with a sweetheart of their own to provide for. All of them proved quite amenable to the direction, encouragement or enticement - as required by the transformation now underway - which the lasses were perfectly content to supply.
On either side of the tent, now, a hobbit was perched on a chair - one fixing a wire just above head height, the other waiting to pull it taut across the width, once well-secured. A line of sturdy lads stood ready with the heavy canvas partition that would be hooked onto it - the entire marquee being too large and inhospitable for a bedroom, even for this single night. A few of the emptied trestles were being re-grouped in one corner, where the provision of ewers and bowls would soon make a small washroom; others were swiftly (and quite noisily) collapsed, and flipped over to lie flat upon the grass. With batts of straw laid snug within their underframes, these makeshift beds, Daisy had told Sam, were surprisingly comfortable.
Lin’s own bed would be set up already in the back of the wagon he’d come in, of course - in the remotest part of the Showground he could find, Sam would safely wager. He knew fine well the pair would make good use of that afore ever Daisy slipped in here, for appearances’ sake, to take the pallet Lin lovingly set out for her. And, surprisingly comfortable or not, hers would be far from the only one to lie empty half the night.
Sam paused for a hard look at Jem Whittier whom he suspected of taking to himself a mite too firmly May’s every word. But Jem only looked back at him, serious-like; giving Sam to believe he were maybe interested in more than an evening’s fun with his sister. Sam nodded, hopefully indicating his watchfulness and care for her. When all were said and done, though, both lad and lass were several years older than him, and it was to be hoped they knew their own minds as well as he knew his.
Blankets, pillows and well stuffed packs laid each lass’s immediate claim to a temporary bed just as soon as it was laid down. If Sam had not sisters of his own, he'd have reckoned they’d everyone of them fetched finery enough for a month of balls, let alone the single overnight stay. He’d always been amazed at the amount of baggage Daisy and May would bring - they’d spend hours assembling and discarding what they may or may not need, while Mari looked on disconsolately. Clean clothes for all four days made for Sam a pack less than half the size of any one of theirs. Being wise in the way of lasses when vanity was even whispered, he kept his mouth prudently closed on the subject of the sudden rash of squares of looking glass in wooden frames. These were far more accurate than the ones he and Frodo had laughed at themselves in. Hung at a suitable height for prinking, they would see much use once the partition was firmly in place, the lads shooed away, and the serious business of adornment could begin at last.
‘Set that lot down there, Sam, and then get on with the rest of the stuff. May’ll have put all ours together, ready for you - it only wants fetching,’ said Daisy, in her element and at her most brisk. ‘You'll only need to sort out Gaffer’s things and your own.’
The product of May’s collecting was a cluster of baskets, clearly labelled GAMGEE, flaunting more than one rosette apiece and flanked by two large plants - Mari’s and Daisy's. The luxuriant Mind-your-own-business had been beaten to a third place yellow, but Mari’s scarlet easily matched her geranium’s own blossoms. The edibles were gone, of course - Sam thought with no small regret of a certain plate of curd tarts, rightfully awarded a first rosette, thus affirming quite definitively that Bell’s recipe was more than safe in the hands of her eldest daughter - but Show entries had also their attendant items for display. The baskets were still quite heavy enough with emptied plates and dishes to carry home, and with jars of the various jams and chutneys from the pantry at Number 3. The very lightest contained the girls’ needlework; Sam weren’t exactly sure what may be in there, but its wicker handle bore two green rosettes and a blue, and he found himself hoping that at least one may be May’s, to balance out the luck.
There weren’t much to find of Gaffer’s. His entries had all been fruits and veg, so Sam had only their boxes and baskets, and the velvet-covered tray - with a pleasing haul of rosettes, of course - to add to the collection. No, there was his little box of tools for last minute finnicking, too - and woe betide Sam if that got left behind.
It took three trips apiece for him and Lin to take all to Lin’s wagon, what with Lin’s Ma’s stuff too. She and his Dad had only come for the first two days, for the Jam and Ingenuity classes and then the livestock. Sam could almost feel Lin’s relief at that, since it meant his wagon could be drawn up, as Sam’d suspected all along, at the far end of the farthest field. It was arranged that he would drive Daisy and May home early next morning, bedding, baskets, bundles and all. Sam thought, but didn’t say, that the shifting could as well have waited till then, being far quicker and easier with the wagon right outside. It seemed Daisy didn’t want it all underfoot, though, when she’d better things on her mind; and, of course, she hadn’t the carrying of it.
Family duty done at last, he thought next of Frodo’s entries, for he’d still not arrived - inveigled into yet another job for the Show Secretary, like as not, Sam reckoned. Then there’d be his own things. He supposed he should by rights have taken them with Gaffer's, but he wanted… well, he couldn't rightly put into words what he wanted, not yet, but he wanted Frodo there when they were collected, and that were a fact.
The crowds had thinned appreciably by this time, and many of the tables left standing had a forlorn air about them, often as not with no more than a lonely entry or two at either end, waiting to be reclaimed. Impatient tweens lingered in pairs for these last few items to be cleared before pouncing on the table, to collapse its legs and haul it up onto the growing pile that would be taken back into storage on the morrow. They made a competition of it, of course, and tallies were strictly kept.
Paintings and the like had needed no tables, and were hung or pinned by classes from a specially constructed zigzag of panels that ran down the centre of the tent (extra points for the lads that’d get to fetch that down). It was the work of a minute to collect Frodo’s entries, but took rather longer to string all three frames safely together and contrive a somewhat thicker handle at the top, so Frodo wouldn’t lose the circulation to his fingers in the carrying. Sam left them by the corsage class to make a quick trip for the tobacco jar and his carved otter, and all were done - just as quick and easy as that.
Carefully, he re-folded the swirling, watered silk with the pink satin cushion cover, hoping he could prevail on one of the girls to give each a cautious wash-and-iron before he returned them to Bag End. The silk was unmarked, of course, but the satin showed spots from the regular spraying he’d given the corsage - his buttonhole, too of course, but the hanky being his own, any watermark it bore could matter only to him.
Sam retrieved his tray from beneath the table, empty now of the plant material it had brought. It was fashioned after a knife box, the central handle enabling it to be carried in one hand. His little box of tools fit neatly into one side, and in the other lay his otter - loosely wrapped in silk and satin for safekeeping - with Frodo’s wooden jar. He grinned ruefully but, short of squashing them unforgivably into the minimal space between trimmers and sprayer, there really weren’t no other place to put their small but satisfying haul of rosettes than to tie them to the handle, allowing the tails to flutter brightly all around.
He collected his buttonhole next, pushing and tugging until the flower and its accompanying twist of fern sat firmly in the top hole of his waistcoat, in place of the button. ’Twere a pity he’d not thought to bring his jacket, to set it off proper, but never mind; it looked perfectly presentable still, which were a lot more’n could be said for Mr Meridew’s abandoned rose. He’d been quite right about it winning the red rosette for him, with Sam’s carnation taking the blue - but Sam’s assessment had also been correct. All that was left on the square of black velvet, of that proudly golden flower, was a sad knot of withered stamens amid a scatter of petals, dry brown edges already crisping into the softly sueded yellow. It were fit for naught but the compost bin that stood in the horticulture section, almost full already. Well, a plucked flower were a dying flower soon or late, choose how, and at least this one’d had its moment of glory.
Last of all, he turned to take up the corsage, pleased it still showed so well. He’d somehow found a minute each day, to damp down the tissue wrapping on his two entries, and to spray lightly against the drying air, so even on this third day both were more than fresh enough to wear. The unfurling buds he was sure had captured the judges’ hearts and won him not only the red rosette of which he’d dreamed, but the tri-coloured Special, too, were near to full-blown roses now, their mate the promising one. And the perfume was well nigh intoxicating, up close… Shut your eyes, breathe deep, and the dizzying thoughts roamed far beyond velvet kisses, to warm nights and warmer bodies-
‘Sam?’ Frodo’s voice - sounding just a little tight maybe - startled him back into the present. ‘It’s very beautiful, still. Do you-do you have a lass in mind to present it to?’
He turned slowly. ‘Nay, sir. I wouldn’t want any of them getting the wrong idea.’
‘But it is the custom, Sam.’
Sam could not look at him, but riffled the fingers of his empty hand through the rosette tails dangling proudly round his tray. ‘I said, sir - I said no lass.’ They’d teased and-and, yes, flirted long enough, he realised. This was more, far more than that - far more even than a simple rousing of the blood. Now it came to it, though, he weren’t sure he could-
But it were past time, now, for flirtation or for tease. Time now, he knew, for full truth between them at last, one way or another. What had happened here - when they'd ventured a little to one side of the real thing, as Frodo called it - could not be left this way. An end - or a beginning - must be found.
These few days of the Show, their attraction had been a bit like the figures of a country dance, he thought. Forward, back, circle and cross hands, forward, back, and again; never a commitment to holding close and closer, no match of steps to the needs of mind and body; the needful words never actually spoken. He understood now that he weren’t the only one to feel unsure. They were both afraid an advance too far may meet only rebuff, and a retreat that’d never end. Hope and yearning could take you only so far, and if Frodo had decided on this time out of time to reveal himself to Sam, then Sam must leave him in no doubt as to his feelings.
Their time out of time was drawing inexorably to its close.
He needed only the courage to risk that final step.
‘It would be a pity to waste it,’ Frodo was saying, as he reached a gentle finger to one smooth petal. ‘None of the others can match it for beauty.’
None of the flowers, mayhap. Summoning every last bit of daring he possessed, Sam held out the tiny bouquet. ‘Would-would you like it, sir? It looks well against your coat.’
This was no more than truth, for Frodo’s velvet jacket held the shadowed blue of late evening skies. Its colour called to the darkness of the rose, yet gleaned every last scintilla of its crimson; the cornflowers sang vividly to their darker kin beneath, and tiny points of light danced a nimble haze over all.
But Sam’s hesitant offer went far beyond the flowers, and Frodo would surely not mistake its import, now.
He stilled, and for a long moment he said nothing. Sam wondered if this was, at the last, an advance too far - if Frodo may yet refuse him.
The noise and bustle of the hobbits around them faded suddenly, and for Sam there was no-one but Frodo, speaking softly now, and smiling.
‘Thank you, Sam,’ was little more than a whisper, but each word slithered keenly over Sam’s skin, dipping low and silky. ‘I shall be the finest-decorated hobbit at the ball.’
Sam had to drop his eyes from the brightness of Frodo’s gaze. He blushed at the implied accolade, but more for the silent mayhem that eyes and husky voice were rousing in his blood. Needing a refuge, he grasped at practicality. ‘Oh, but it needs pinning, and may spoil your coat, sir!’
‘I have other coats, Sam, but only this one chance to wear such beauty as a gift from you.’
Sam gave up all notion of practical. ‘I would wish always to give you beautiful things, Mr Frodo.’ He heard echoes in his own voice of the soft rasp of Frodo’s that inflamed him so. Would Frodo?
He looked up, but Frodo’s eyes were veiled now, lashes smudging black lace shadows on flushed cheeks; unfathomable, as he asked, ‘Would you gift me the most beautiful of all, Sam?’
‘Whatever I have to give is yours, sir, if you only wish it.’ Ask, sir, please ask it of me - please let this be true!
‘And if-’ Frodo hesitated, ‘-if I wished the giver to be the gift?’
‘Then the gift would be well-given, and gladly.’ And with so much love. He dared not speak the last, not yet.
‘Sam, I would offer in return, to give as I receive - but my gift would be given in love.’ A question without words, hopeful upon the air.
Sam’s heart leapt and sang within him, even as he murmured his answer. ‘Given and received in love again…’
Frodo’s eyes flicked wide, their blue as dark and deep as ever Sam had seen. And there was that within which called urgently to Sam, taking the shadowed heart of the rose’s promise - warm nights, warmer bodies - to a pledge of desire beyond any dream, now.
‘Thank you, my Sam,’ he said, and raised his hand once more to the corsage that lingered almost forgotten in Sam’s grasp. This time the gentle finger slid unhesitatingly from dark velvet petal onto skin, and Sam shivered beneath his touch. This could still be neither time nor place for more - not yet - but still they were coming, and very soon. The smile was warm and quiet between them, the knowing enough, for now.
‘Frodo? Samwise! Ah, there you are! Oh, yes indeed - and still full worthy of every accolade it has received,’ Bilbo said of the corsage in Frodo’s hand. He looked quizzically at the pair of them but made no further comment. ‘Do you have pins?’
‘Pins?’ Frodo seemed not to know the word, but stood, looking at Sam.
‘To pin it on with, lad! Do buck up!’ Bilbo said impatiently. He marched over to where a last gabble of matrons was collecting up crafts and rosettes with more words than haste - to the disgust of a pair of hovering tweens, waiting impatiently for the table against which plump hips rested as their final tales were told. He asked for and was given a paper of pins, and when he came back to them, Frodo and Sam had neither moved nor spoken, only their eyes making promises that were no-one else’s to hear.
Bilbo prodded Frodo’s shoulders this way and that, to get the corsage to sit to best advantage. ‘Keep still, Frodo! How do you expect me to do this without pricking you, if you wriggle so much?’
But Frodo was still, his eyes on Sam’s, and Sam read quite clearly there the disappointment that it was Bilbo doing this, his hands on Frodo, not Sam’s; his head so close that, had it been Sam, there may well have been an almost accidental brush of hand to cheek, and his palm would have tingled to the softness he found there. One of them may have begun to say something perhaps, and the other turned to listen - into an accidental slide of mouth on mouth, sweet and damp and hasty…
‘There! Yes, indeed, well done, Sam - and to think that rose was bred at Bag End!’
‘All the best things come from Bag End,’ Sam said, half in jest and wholly in earnest as he looked at Frodo.
Bilbo turned and eyed him closely.
Sam realised how forward he had spoken, and stammered, ‘S-sorry, Mr Bilbo, sir, I j-just meant-’
‘I know perfectly well what you meant, Sam Gamgee.’ Bilbo looked from one to the other. Sam weren’t sure about himself, but he rather thought he might be glowing; he knew Frodo was. ‘Frodo?’
‘Uncle Bilbo?’ Frodo said no more, but in his smile was all that was needed. ‘Do you have another pin?’ he asked, then.
Bilbo passed one to him carefully, and Frodo reached to take out the carnation from Sam’s button hole. ‘I think this would look much better just here,’ he said, laying it gently above Sam’s heart. He pinned it deftly to the waistcoat, his hands perfectly steady, though he was close enough for Sam to feel the quickness of his breath. Then he laid his fingers to either side of it and said, very quietly, ‘For you, my Sam,’ and Sam could only look back at him and smile.
‘Well, it took the pair of you long enough, I must say! Now, just be-’ Sam could have sworn that he was going to say ‘careful’, in exactly the tone the Gaffer used to admonish their lasses before a night’s festivities. It seemed that he remembered at the last minute that neither of them was a lass to need such a warning, for he smoothly substituted, ‘sensible, both of you!’’
He nodded to the entries Frodo and Sam were gathering up, with attendant rosettes, and said jovially, ‘So, we shall be celebrating on several fronts, tonight! There should be another cask of Triple from the Toad and Bucket to do it with, too - though I’d not have more than the one, if you’re thinking of dancing. I think I may safely indulge, however, since I’ll not be driving.’ Despite the closeness of Bag End, Bilbo had opted to share Will Whitfoot’s room at the Farthing Stone Inn rather than drive home so late and alone.
To the relief of a pair of lads just waiting to snatch up the emptied table, they set off for the entrance to the marquee. It may look to be almost deserted now by all but a handful of determined gossipers and the industrious tweens, but a great chatter of feminine voices readily contradicted appearances. A very real bustle was concealed by the newly erected partition; a deal of serious prinking was under way at last, and if that meant missing some (or even most) of the final ceremony, well, few if any of the lasses would know themselves to have the chance at a trophy. Only the need to support a family member there would drag most of them betimes from the sharing of finery and turns before a looking glass.
As they emerged into the early evening air, Sam said, ‘I were thinking we’d put all our bits and pieces in the trap, sir, and see to Beechnut at the same time, but with the Bolger lads taking him this morning, I’m not rightly sure where he’ll be.’
‘There’s no time for that now!’ Bilbo said in shocked voice. ‘The prize giving will be starting at any moment - I have to be there and so do you two. But you needn’t worry about the pony, Sam - I paid Tad and Gerol extra to settle him for the night, move his picket and so on. He’ll be fine until morning.’
Sam looked at Frodo; he weren’t sure what he may be thinking, but for himself, Sam had been rather counting on a long, quiet stroll through the gathering dusk to find Beechnut - and maybe a bit of privacy too, once their bits and pieces were safely stowed. Frodo returned his look with a rueful grin that showed he’d had much the same idea.
Bilbo regarded both of them. ‘If you could just contrive to look just a little less lovesick,’ he said, ‘it might be less of a giveaway, you know!’
They laughed together then, and made haste to join the many hobbits now converging for the very last of the formalities of the Grand Annual Four Farthings Show of the year 1400.
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Chapter 25: Show Day the Third - Evening
Chapter 24 was here, and the story began with the Prologue
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