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Frodo Gardner was supposed to be walking back to Bag-End after playing with a few of his cousins down the hill, but he had gotten distracted when a crow alighted on a nearby tree. Its black feathers looked especially dark against the vivid autumn foliage, and Frodo peered up at its bright, canny eyes, wondering if it could speak like the birds in some of the tales he had heard from his father and uncle. Then a brash voice drew him from his reverie.
“Hey, you– d’you know why you’re named after Old Nine-Fingers?”
Frodo turned and found Ned Sandyman smirking at him. Ned was a slightly older hobbit of his acquaintance, though, really, all Frodo knew of him was that Elanor had once given him a black eye for teasing a friend of hers. Frodo didn’t know why Ned would ask him such a question out of nowhere, but he shrugged and responded.
“‘Course I do. He’s my Da’s best friend. And, you know, a hero, and all,” Frodo added as an afterthought.
At seven years of age, Frodo was old enough to know that his namesake was reckoned odd by most Shire-folk, and he supposed he understood why. Mr. Frodo had been to places most hobbits had never even heard of and done things they could not imagine doing. It made him strange, perhaps, but, more importantly, it made him interesting . Frodo had many friends, and not one of them had an uncle who could tell stories like Mr. Frodo’s.
And Mr. Frodo was very understanding, too. One time, Frodo had borrowed one of his maps so he and his friends could pretend they were using it to look for treasure, but, when an argument broke out regarding who was to lead the expedition, the map got ripped in half. Frodo had dreaded presenting the torn map to his uncle, but Mr. Frodo only laughed and said, “there are certainly worse ways for an argument over treasure to end. Do try to be careful, next time.”
Frodo knew his Mam would’ve given him an earful if he ruined something of hers, and Da probably would’ve assigned him extra chores to ‘teach him a lesson’. The worst was when he made Frodo help muck out Bill’s stable. That was what he did the time Frodo tried to teach his little brothers how to run properly and the three of them tore up a bed of variegated tulips, which happened to be at the finish line. Da had been raising those tulips for the Midsummer Exhibition, which only heightened his displeasure when he saw the destruction. Merry and Pippin made most of the mess, but Frodo got all of the punishment just because he was the oldest.
Frodo’s parents didn’t get upset with him often, but his uncle never seemed to get upset at all. Once, Frodo asked him why.
“All young hobbits misbehave at some point,” Mr. Frodo said mildly, straightening the books on one of the lower shelves in his study. That was where he kept the children’s books, and several were always missing. At least one of them was likely to be hidden under Elanor’s pillow on any given night. “I should know– I was an absolute little terror at your age.”
Frodo was unconvinced. Somehow, it was much easier to imagine Mr. Frodo meeting wizards and Elf-queens than it was to picture him stealing mushrooms, or hiding his father’s quills to avoid having to practice handwriting, or creating his own language composed entirely of swear words so he could curse with impunity, as he claimed to have done in childhood. For that matter, it was hard to picture Mr. Frodo as a child at all, he seemed so old and wise.
“Besides, Frodo-lad,” Mr. Frodo added, his eyes sparkling. “My only worry when it comes to mischief is that you might outgrow it completely. What a tragedy that would be!”
Secretly, Frodo sometimes wished he could have been named after one of his father’s more exciting friends, like Gimli, or Legolas, or even the king himself– a warrior rather than a soft-hearted poet. Still, Mr. Frodo was nice enough, as far as namesakes went. At least, that was what Frodo thought before Ned spoke.
“That’ll be what they told you, o’course, all that about Nine-Fingers being a family friend and so on,” said Ned with a superior air. “But the real reason you was named after him is ‘cause he’s your real father!”
“What? No, he’s not!” Frodo protested hotly. He was fond of his uncle, but he loved his father more than anyone in the world and hoped to be just like him someday. He was strong, and brave, and clever, too– it seemed there wasn’t a single plant in the Shire he couldn’t name or care for. Everyone knew and respected him, and they smiled whenever he passed by. Frodo was proud to be his father’s son, and he couldn’t bear the thought of being anyone else’s. “Why would you say that?”
Ned looked almost pitying. “Everyone says it.”
At this, Frodo felt stirrings of doubt. In truth, ‘everyone’ meant Ted Sandyman and no one else, but Frodo could not have known this. In his heart, he was fully convinced the whole Shire believed him to be the son of Frodo Baggins. He didn’t think this was so, but. . . well, he was only one hobbit, after all. Was it even possible for him to be right if it meant everyone else was wrong? That seemed unlikely.
Frodo crossed his arms. “I don’t even look like him,” he said, trying to convince himself as well as Ned. “His eyes are blue.”
“Yours are green,” said Ned swiftly. “That’s close enough, ain’t it? You can’t get green without blue.”
Frodo stared at Ned in silent horror. He had a point. Could it really be possible? If it was– “Then who’s my real mother?”
“Oh, your mam’s still your mam,” Ned replied. He lowered his voice. “She must’ve had an affair .”
“No, she didn’t! You take that back, Ned!” Frodo exclaimed angrily, throwing up his fists. He didn’t know what an affair was, but Ned said it as if it was the most scandalous thing in the world, and Frodo knew his warm, sensible mother would never do anything of the sort.
“Easy, easy!” cried Ned. Elanor Gardner could throw a harder punch than any lass in Hobbiton– and more than a few of the lads– and Ned was not anxious to discover if her brother shared her talent. “I’ll just be on my way, then,” he said, shoving his hands in his pockets and trying to regain some composure. He could not resist firing a parting shot over his shoulder. “And give your father my regards– your real father, that is!”
Frodo’s face burned with shame. “I hope you get eaten by a dragon!” he shouted after Ned.
Once Ned was gone, Frodo glanced gloomily at the crow, which had overheard every exchange. Hopefully, this one couldn’t talk– he didn’t need it telling all the other birds that his Da wasn’t even his real father and his mother was having an affair, whatever that meant.
Frodo trudged up the hill to Bag-End with a heavy heart. He found his sisters– aside from Goldilocks, who was too young to go anywhere without her parents or uncle in sight– playing just outside the front gate. Elanor was scooping up armloads of fallen leaves and showering them onto Rose, who shrieked with laughter. Already in a gloomy mood, Frodo was torn between jealousy and scorn as he watched them. It was such a baby game, and, yet, he would’ve given anything to be the one playing it with his older sister.
Elanor and Rose were the two siblings closest to Frodo in age, and the two he had the strongest feelings about. He knew he was supposed to love all his siblings exactly the same, but they weren’t exactly the same, so where was the sense in that? How was he supposed to love Hamfast, who he had, after all, only met a few months ago, as much as he loved Elanor, who he had known and admired all his life? Hamfast and Goldilocks were still just babies; Frodo felt a special connection, as well as a sense of responsibility, toward the twins, Merry and Pippin, as he was the only older brother they had to look up to, but Rose–! She was a nuisance, through and through, and it seemed the two of them were always at odds.
Scowling at the ground, Frodo saw opportunity in the form of a pale, bloated worm inching its way across the damp earth. He scooped it up and dangled it in Rose’s face. “It’s gonna get you!” he screamed. “Run, run, run!”
Rose shrieked and sprinted for the door as fast as her chubby little legs would carry her.
Elanor put her hands on her hips. “That was awful mean of you, Frodo,” she said, holding back laughter. “What’d you do that for, anyway?”
Frodo gently set the worm back on the ground before straightening up, brushing dirt off his knees. “I have to ask you something, and I didn’t want her around.”
“Well, ask away,” said Elanor, pulling a wayward leaf out of her hair. Then she grinned and started using the leaf to tickle her brother’s cheek.
“Ellie! Ellie, stop it!” Frodo laughed, trying to swat her hand away. “I have a question! It’s important !”
“Alright, alright,” Elanor relented, dropping the leaf. “Let’s hear it, then.”
“What’s an affair?”
“An affair?” Elanor looked puzzled, and, for a moment, Frodo wondered if she didn’t know what the word meant, either, but then she said, “it’s what happens when two hobbits are married, but one of them falls in love with someone else– you know, starts calling them ‘my dear’, and giving them gifts, and kissing them on the mouth, and such.”
Frodo’s heart sank. Was that what Ned meant– Mam didn’t care for Da anymore because she had fallen in love with Mr. Frodo instead?
“And– and when they fall in love,” Frodo began in a trembling voice, “do they ever. . . have children together? Can they, when they’re not married?”
Elanor pondered this. “I think so,” she said at last. “Though I can’t see how. Why do you ask?”
Frodo, who had been on the verge of tears, froze as a new horror swept over him. If Da wasn’t his real father, then Elanor wasn’t his real sister, either. Would she still love him, if she knew the truth? Frodo couldn’t risk it. He could never let her find out.
“No reason!” he said quickly. “I just read it in a story and was wondering what it meant, is all.”
Elanor eyed him suspiciously, but, before she could say anything, Mam appeared in the doorway, holding Rose’s hand. “Wee Frodo, get over here now! What’s this I hear about you tormenting your sister?”
Frodo groaned as he headed for the door. He had told his parents a million times that he didn’t want to be called Wee Frodo anymore. He wasn't wee– he was the second eldest, after all, and only a few years away from being ten, besides! How could he be wee when he was almost a decade old?
Mr. Frodo nodded solemnly throughout this explanation and had called his namesake ‘Frodo-lad’ ever since. Da called him plain Frodo when he remembered, but, more often than not, it slipped his mind. Mam did not even try.
“You’ll always be a wee lad to me, even if you live to be a hundred and ten,” she had said, pinching his cheek.
But Mam was not in a cheek-pinching mood just then– if the wooden spoon in her hand was any indication, that sniveling snitch of a Rose had interrupted her while she was making dinner. Now, she was sure to be even more upset with Frodo, despite it really being Rose’s fault for tattling.
“I wasn’t tormenting anyone,” Frodo tried to explain to his mother. “I just wiggled the worm in her face a bit.”
Mam sighed, shaking her head. Then she nudged Rose. “You run along– go play with your sister.” Rose brightened at once and ran off to join Elanor. Mam watched her with a smile, then turned back to Frodo, her expression growing serious. “You’re one of the oldest, you know. You ought to be setting an example. The little ones look up to you– especially Petal.”
Petal was Rose’s nickname, for Mr. Frodo had called her Rose-petal when she was only a baby. Over time, it had been shortened to Petal, and now, everyone called her that, except for Frodo, who didn’t think it suited her at all. Petals were soft and delicate, nothing at all like his thorn of a sister.
“If she looks up to me so much, why’s she always following me around all the time, mucking things up?” Frodo demanded to know.
“She follows you because she likes you, of course,” Mam said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “And she ‘mucks things up’ because she wants to play with her big brother, but she’s small, and she mightn’t always know how.”
Frodo shook his head. “I think she’s just evil, or something.”
“Well, evil or no, she’s your sister, and you will be nice to her,” said Mam, her patience running out. “Now, you go apologize for that business with the worm, and don’t let me hear another shriek or squeak out of any of you before dinner’s on the table!”
Frodo reluctantly apologized to Rose, and not another shriek or squeak was heard until Mam called everyone in for dinner.
Mam had Goldilocks clinging to one hip and Hamfast cradled in her left arm as she set a bread basket on the table. “Elanor, could you grab the butter from the kitchen?” she asked as Mr. Frodo passed by, carrying a large tureen of stew. Judging from the way he sank into his seat at the head of the table after putting it down, it had been quite heavy. That, or Mr. Frodo– Frodo’s real father– just wasn’t particularly strong.
In light of the rumors, Frodo studied his uncle with a critical eye. Mr. Frodo’s blue eyes and straight, sharp nose were nothing like Frodo’s own, and the elder’s hair was much darker– at least, the parts of it that hadn’t gone grey. Frodo’s skin was not nearly as pale as Mr. Frodo’s, but perhaps that was only because he spent more time out in the sun. Mr. Frodo caught his namesake staring and offered him a smile, which Frodo was too troubled to return.
“Why don’t you sit next to me tonight, Frodo-lad?” Mr. Frodo asked cheerfully. “Your father’s away– I’m sure he won’t mind if you take his seat.”
Although Frodo knew his father’s duties as mayor sometimes kept him away from Bag-End until suppertime, he couldn’t help but be dismayed. Was this why his mother was having an affair– because Da was gone too often, and Mr. Frodo seemingly never went anywhere at all? But Frodo tried to ignore his suspicions, taking the seat to Mr. Frodo’s right.
Mam sat to Mr. Frodo’s left, trying to balance Goldilocks and Hamfast in her arms as she reached for the lid of the tureen. Usually, she and Da would each have one of the littlest on their laps at mealtimes, and the same thought must have occured to Mr. Frodo, for he turned to Mam and said, “I can take Goldilocks off your hands, so you can mind the baby.”
Mam’s face shone with relief. “That’d be good of you!”
Frodo’s mouth fell open as a terrible thought crossed his mind. Was Mr. Frodo offering to hold Goldilocks to be kind. . . or was Goldilocks also his child?
Oblivious, Mam was asking Goldilocks, “d’you want to sit with your Uncle Frodo, dearie?”
“Oh-oh!” Goldilocks babbled happily, saying all she could manage of Mr. Frodo’s name.
Mam settled Goldilocks in Mr. Frodo’s lap, and Goldilocks peered at her brother with frank brown eyes. “Oh-oh!”
Frodo tugged on one of her springy curls– which, in his opinion, were more yellow than gold, but no one ever asked him what he thought his siblings should be named– and smiled. “It’s good to see you, too, Goldie.”
“Frodo, Frodo, Frodo!” Merry was tugging on his sleeve. “Look at Pippin!”
Warily, Frodo turned to look at the twins. They were identical, both with reddish hair that seemed to get exceptionally messy and eyes that fell somewhere between their father’s green and their mother’s brown. However, Mam always dressed Merry in yellow and Pippin in green, so it was easy enough to tell them apart.
Pippin was sticking his tongue out as far as it could go, and he had his spoon balanced across it. When he saw Frodo watching, his eyes widened as if to say, “see what I can do?”
Frodo laughed. “Nice work, Pip.”
Mam, who was buttering slices of bread for the children too young to be trusted with knives, cried, “Pippin, you stop that right now!” She shook her head despairingly at Mr. Frodo. “The things these children come up with!”
“Yes, they all have such fine imaginations,” said Mr. Frodo absently. He was busy filling everyone’s bowls with stew and hadn’t noticed what Pippin was up to.
Elanor’s eyes lit up. “Speaking of imagination–” She began to share a long, rambling story she had come up with regarding a mushroom fairy.
“What a wonderful story, Elanor!” Mr. Frodo beamed.
“You’re a right clever lass, no question,” said Mam warmly. “But, just now, I’d rather hear the story of you finishing your dinner. And what about you, dearie?” she added, smiling at Frodo. “Why, you must’ve been starved!” she exclaimed, noticing that his bowl was empty.
Frodo had been eating his stew as quickly as possible so he could run off and continue speculating on his parentage in peace. “I guess so.”
“I’ll get you some more, then,” she said, taking Frodo’s bowl before he could protest. Once Mam passed Frodo his newly-brimming bowl, she turned to Mr. Frodo. “And you must be hungry, too– skipping afternoon tea, and all.” Her tone was half-scolding, half-playful. . . a tone she often took with Da.
Mr. Frodo looked abashed. “Pippin– my cousin, that is, not the little lad here–” he flashed a brief smile at the small hobbit, who was now using his spoon properly. “–finally found that genealogy book I’ve been pestering him about. I knew it was somewhere in the Great Smials.” He shook his head in annoyance. “It only just arrived today, and I quite lost track of time. I couldn’t help but get distracted.”
Frodo recalled how he had been distracted by that crow while walking home, and his blood ran cold. He was not much like his uncle in looks, but perhaps in temperament . . .
Although Mr. Frodo’s bowl was still half-full, Mam took it and ladled in more stew. She passed it back to Mr. Frodo, then kissed his cheek. “Never you mind that now– eat up. We can’t have you wasting away.”
“Goodness, Rosie, you’re almost as bad as Sam,” Mr. Frodo laughed, picking up his spoon.
“Well, someone’s got to look after you when he’s not around, and I know it won’t be you,” Mam retorted.
Mr. Frodo conceded the point with a nod, then smiled softly. “Thank you, my dear.”
Frodo witnessed this exchange with mute horror. His mother had kissed Mr. Frodo, who called her ‘ my dear ’, and couldn’t that bowl of stew be considered a gift ? It was just as Elanor said! He now knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that his mother was having an affair, and Mr. Frodo was his real father.
Only one question remained– what should Frodo do?
Hours later, as Frodo sat in the living room, keeping watch on his mother and Mr. Frodo, he still didn’t have an answer. He peered over the top of his book, eyes peeled for any signs of illicit activity, but Mam and Mr. Frodo didn’t so much as glance at each other. Mam had laid her knitting aside to rock Hamfast, who had started to fuss, and Mr. Frodo was patiently trying to teach Goldilocks the names of all her siblings. They might as well have been sat in separate rooms. They hardly spoke, and, when they did, it was only to make polite conversation about the babies. If this was how two hobbits acted when they were wildly in love, Frodo thought he would just as soon live alone all his life.
Frodo could hear cheerful calls and shrieks of laughter from outside, where Elanor, Rose, Merry, and Pippin were playing, making him regret his decision to stay inside. Even so, he didn’t move from his chair. He was convinced that, the second he was out of sight, Mam and Mr. Frodo would begin their. . . affair-ing in earnest, not that his presence had stopped them at dinner earlier. If that was how they conducted themselves in front of witnesses, what kind of horrible things did they do when they were alone? Suppose they kissed each other full on the mouth? Just the thought of it was enough to make Frodo gag.
“What’s wrong, my dear lad? Are you ill?” asked Mr. Frodo, concerned.
Mam nestled Hamfast into the crook of her arm as she stood. She crossed the living room and pressed a soft yet worn hand to Frodo’s brow, checking his temperature. “You don’t feel feverish, and you ate well enough at dinner,” she said, looking worried even so. “But I might’ve guessed you was feeling under the weather when you stayed inside instead of going out with the others. Poor dearie! You’d best have a lie-down, then.”
Mr. Frodo nodded sympathetically, and Frodo scowled. They’d like that, wouldn’t they, to shuffle him out of sight? And lying in bed would be even more boring than spying had turned out to be!
“I’m fine. I was just– just teaching myself to croak like a bull-frog,” he said in a fit of inspiration. “Ned Sandyman can do it easy as anything,” he added, using the first name to come to mind.
Mam narrowed her eyes. “If Ned does it, that’s all the more reason for you not to. He’s bad company. That whole family is. It might be that there’s a Sandyman out there that ain’t a terrible gossip, but I’ve not met ‘em yet.”
“It’s not as if they’re born gossips,” said Mr. Frodo with a laugh. “Ned is only a little older than our Elanor, after all. How bad can he really be, at his age?”
Mam replied, but Frodo was too busy being horrified by the casual way his uncle had said ‘our Elanor’ to pay attention. Was Elanor Mr. Frodo’s child, too– her, the very first? If Mam had been having an affair with Mr. Frodo all that time, why had she married Da in the first place? She and Da did love each other. . . didn’t they?
Frodo had always believed his parents were perfectly happy together. Da insisted that Mam was the most beautiful lady in the world, he loved to bring her flowers, and it seemed like he could hardly go longer than a few minutes without squeezing her hand. Sometimes, Mam told him to quit fussing over her, but, even as she complained, there was a note of affection in her voice, and it was clear she admired him. She’d tell anyone who would listen just how hard-working and honorable her husband was, and she never seemed happier than when she was welcoming Da home at the end of the day.
Mr. Frodo never brought Mam flowers, and she never dropped her knitting to embrace him when he entered a room, but they never quarreled, either. Mam didn’t snap at Mr. Frodo the way she sometimes did at Da, and Mr. Frodo. . . well, he was too mild-mannered to argue with anyone, so Frodo supposed it didn’t really mean much, from his end, but, still. . . suppose Mam really did love Mr. Frodo more than Da? It would break Da’s heart into a thousand pieces. Frodo still did not know what to do with his horrible burden of knowledge, but the one thing he was certain of was that Da should never find out.
Just then, a chorus of excited cries drew Frodo from his thoughts. A moment later, the door opened, and Da came through, Merry and Pippin each holding one of his hands as Rose trailed him, jabbering away. Elanor stood further back, but she was smiling bright as any of them, and Frodo knew she was only holding herself in check because she felt it was her responsibility as the oldest. As the second-oldest, Frodo knew the mature thing to do would be to let the younger ones have their moment with Da and not demand his attention, but he couldn’t help it– he sprang out of his chair and raced across the room, flinging his arms around his father at once.
Frodo embraced his father often, for Da was the one he always turned to for comfort. Being what his parents referred to as “high-strung”, Frodo tended to work himself up over things that seemed worth the worry to him, but no one else ever saw things his way. Elanor was too easy-going, and Mam was too practical. Perhaps Da thought Frodo was being ridiculous, too, but he never said so. He never said much of anything, really, but he didn’t have to. His solid, soothing presence was enough. This time, however, Frodo wasn’t clinging to Da for his own sake– he wanted his father to know he was still loved, even if Mam preferred Mr. Frodo now.
“Hullo there, Frodo,” said Da fondly, prying his fingers out of Pippin’s sticky little hand long enough to pat his eldest son on the head. “Did you have fun with your cousins? I know you were fixing to show Jolly’s lads that hollow tree you found by the stream.”
“Hollow?” Pippin tugged on his father’s sleeve. “What’s hollow mean?”
“Is it like a willow tree?” Merry asked.
“It’s an empty tree,” Frodo explained. “You can fit inside it, if it’s wide enough, or use it to hide secret treasure.”
That was why Frodo had been so eager to show the tree to his cousins. Uncle Jolly had two sons around Frodo’s age, and they were always complaining about their little sister getting into their things. Having five younger siblings himself, Frodo was more than sympathetic to their plight. The tree would make a perfect hiding place for anything his cousins didn’t want their sister pawing at. Frodo already had a hollow tree of his own for exactly that purpose, and no one but his father knew where it was.
Mam set a soft hand on Frodo’s back as she leaned forward to give Da a kiss on the cheek. “Welcome home, me love.”
Da’s face lit up, and Frodo felt so bad for him, he had to look away. He shrugged his mother’s hand off, too, and slunk back to his chair. He sank into it, crossing his arms and glowering at the fireplace. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mr. Frodo watching him with a curious, tender look on his face, but his uncle didn’t speak.
Da chatted with Mam for a bit– they wanted to use up some fish for supper, but neither of them was sure what to cook. Didn’t grown-ups ever talk about anything interesting? Once Da decided to make fish pie, he made his way across the room to Mr. Frodo, who still had Goldilocks on his lap. Da gave Goldilocks a quick kiss on the nose, making her giggle. Then he smiled at Mr. Frodo and stroked his four-fingered hand. “And how was your day, Mr. Frodo?”
Mr. Frodo beamed up at him. “Wonderful, of course.” He began to go on about the book his cousin Pippin had sent, the one he had mentioned at dinner. Mr. Frodo seemed a lot livelier talking to Da than he had with Mam.
Da never once took his eyes off Mr. Frodo while he was speaking, nor did he let go of his hand. His smile was different than the one he gave Mam or any of the children– softer, somehow. Not quite cheerful, but not sad, either. Frodo did not know what to make of it. All he knew was, it was not a lesser smile in any way. It was loving.
With a pang in his heart, Frodo realized that, if his father ever found out about the affair, he would surely feel just as hurt by Mr. Frodo as he would by Mam. Not one but two people he loved had betrayed him. It was enough to bring Frodo to tears. He stifled a sniffle and ran down the hall to his room. He was crying under his blanket in bed when he heard Elanor’s voice from the other side of the door.
“It’s me, Frodo. Can I come in?”
“Go away, Ellie.”
“I’m not going away until you’re feeling better.” She meant it, too– there was no one as stubborn as Elanor. “Can’t you tell me what’s wrong?”
Frodo sat up, coming out from beneath the blanket as he thought it over. Our Elanor, Mr. Frodo had said. If she was truly his child, didn’t she deserve to know about the affair, too? And it would be such a relief not to be the only one in the smial who knew this dreadful secret. . . In the end, Frodo let Elanor in, and he told her everything.
“That’s just silly, Frodo. You can’t believe a word Ned says,” Elanor protested. “He’s a rotten liar. Just this summer, I had to punch him in the nose for spreading lies about my friend, Posy. I’ll punch him again, too, next time I see him,” she added, scowling. “That’ll teach him to go around frightening my brother.”
“So, you don’t believe it at all?” Frodo asked, a quiver in his voice.
“‘Course not, and neither should you,” said Elanor with a laugh. “You especially. You look just like Da, and everyone says so.”
Feeling reassured, and more than a little embarrassed to have fallen for such a ridiculous lie, Frodo wiped his eyes and smiled. “Thanks, Ellie. I’m glad you’re my sister. Really my sister, I mean.”
Elanor ruffled her brother’s curls. “And I’m glad you’re my brother, when you’re not plaguing the life out of me,” she said affectionately. “Now, let’s get you some biscuits and forget this whole affair.” She giggled. “ Affair .”
For Frodo, the pain was still too fresh for him to find amusement in it, but a biscuit or two certainly wouldn’t hurt. When they were still a little ways down the hallway, they heard voices in the living room.
“Would you mind it terribly if I sat beside you, Rosie?” Mr. Frodo asked. “It seems the youngest Mistress Gardner has taken my chair.”
Elanor nudged her brother. “See how formal he is with her?” she whispered. “They’d never have an affair, not in a million years.”
“Keep your voice down,” Mam scolded. Elanor clapped her hands over her mouth at once, but Mam went on, and it became clear she was talking to Mr. Frodo. “We wouldn’t want Sam to hear that sweet-talk,” she said with a playful lilt.
Frodo’s blood ran cold. He turned to Elanor, who looked a little worried, but nowhere near as frightened as he felt.
Then Mr. Frodo laughed. “Oh, yes, of course. We mustn’t let Sam find out that we’re having an affair.”
Elanor’s eyes widened, then she shook her head. “They don’t mean it. There’s a not a chance they mean i– Frodo?”
Frodo was running back to his room, tears stinging his eyes. Several minutes later, he still refused to come out from under his blanket.
“They were just joking, Frodo,” said Elanor for perhaps the hundredth time, exasperation creeping into her voice. “They didn’t mean anything by it. Mam and Mr. Frodo are good friends, is all. They both love Da far too much to do anything to hurt him. I promise you, they’re not having an affair.”
“But they said they were,” Frodo wailed.
“And I can say I’ve got daisies growing out my ears, but that doesn’t mean I’ve got any!” Elanor snapped. “If anything, this proves they’re not having an affair. If they were, d’you think they’d laugh about it where anyone could hear? ‘Course not,” said Elanor before Frodo could answer. “They’re joking about it because the whole idea is too silly to take seriously.” Elanor, who had been perched on the edge of her brother’s bed, stood up. “I’m getting Mam. She’ll set you straight.”
“No, Ellie, don’t!” cried Frodo, throwing the blanket aside so he could grab her wrist. “Don’t tell Mam!”
“Mr. Frodo, then,” said Elanor with determination. “You talk with him for all of five seconds and see if that doesn’t show you how silly you’re being. Mr. Frodo having an affair!” She shook her head at the notion. “I don’t think he knows how. He’s never even been courting before. I know– I asked him myself.”
“Don’t tell him,” Frodo pleaded, squeezing Elanor’s wrist tighter.
“Well, you need to talk to somebody,” Elanor insisted.
Frodo sniffled. Elanor was right. Obviously, the affair would only go on. . . unless he put a stop to it. He decided to confront Mr. Frodo, which seemed a much easier task than facing Mam. But, if Frodo was going to do it, he was going to do it right. He would firmly tell Mr. Frodo that he had been found out, that he needed to confess to Da right away. . . but, just then, Frodo was too overwhelmed to be firm about anything. The confrontation had to wait until he was calm. Tomorrow. He would do it tomorrow.
“I’ll talk to Mr. Frodo, but not right now,” he told Elanor. “Please?”
Elanor sighed. “Alright, but the sooner, the better. I don’t want you moping around forever.” Her eyes sparkled. “Someone’s got to tease Petal now and then, and it can’t be me. Maybe I should chase you with a worm to cheer you up.”
Every time Frodo found himself in the same room as Mr. Frodo the next day, he fled, much to his uncle’s puzzlement. Elanor, however, understood perfectly and kept giving him pointed looks. After tea, before she headed down the hill to spend the rest of the afternoon with Posy, she took Frodo aside and whispered fiercely, “if you haven’t talked to him by bedtime tonight, I’ll do it myself.”
Time was running out, and Frodo could not drag his feet any longer. Reluctantly, he trudged over to his uncle’s study, where Mr. Frodo often retired for a few hours of relative peace and quiet. He knocked on the door, half-hoping to be refused admission, but Mr. Frodo called for him to come in quite cheerfully.
Frodo slunk inside, lingering in the doorway.
“Hello there, Frodo-lad,” said Mr. Frodo with a kind smile. “Are you looking for a book?”
This was it– the confrontation. Frodo needed to stay firm and demand that Mr. Frodo leave his mother alone, to face him down like hero slaying a dragon. . . only Mr. Frodo didn’t look like a dragon. He looked like a harmless old hobbit. He was wearing a green waistcoat that Elanor had clumsily embroidered flowers onto, making it look like a meadow, and his eyes were gentle and fond as he regarded his namesake.
All Frodo could do was avert his eyes and mutter a sulky, “no.”
“Then, let me guess– you need a map for another of your treasure hunts.” Mr. Frodo laughed. “You know you’re welcome to my collection at any time. Just make sure your adventures take you far away from the garden,” he cautioned. “It wouldn’t do at all for you and your friends to start fighting over treasure and damage your father’s flowers. They’re worth more to him than endless chests of gold and silver.”
Frodo clenched his hands into fists. “I don’t want a map.” He forced himself to look his enemy in the eyes. “I came to talk to you.”
Mr. Frodo’s face lit up. “Really? Well, of course, my lad. Do sit down,” he said, leaning forward in his own chair and setting his book aside, folding his hands expectantly. “We can talk about whatever you like.”
Frodo felt a twinge of guilt. It was hard to stay angry at someone who seemed so happy just to spend a bit of time with him.
“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” Mr. Frodo went on a hint of wistfulness in his voice. “It seems like only yesterday, you were four years old, clamoring to sit on my lap while I told you stories. You’re growing up so fast,” he said, reaching out and laying a hand over Frodo’s as the young hobbit took the chair opposite his. His eyes were so sentimental, Frodo had to look away again. “Why, you’re nearly the age your father was when we first met.”
Frodo had never considered how his Da and Mr. Frodo met. Their friendship seemed like something that had always been, would always be. There was no end in sight, and a beginning was almost as inconceivable. “What was Da like back then?” Frodo asked, curiosity overcoming his enmity for a moment.
Mr. Frodo laughed. “Quite the same as he is now, in some respects. Your father has a steadfast heart, and he’s always been loyal, and loving, and stubborn, and true– hard-working, as well,” he added. “In those days, he wanted nothing more than to help his father tend the garden. He was always trailing after his Gaffer.”
Frodo thought of all the times he had begged his father to take him along when he traveled for work. How strange to think that, years ago, Da had done the same.
“If it’s stories about your father you want, you’ve come to the right place,” said Mr. Frodo with a conspiratorial smile. “Did he ever tell you about the time he–”
Frodo couldn’t help but be drawn in. His uncle was a consummate storyteller, and Frodo was interested in hearing about his father’s childhood. Before he knew it, the afternoon had flown by, and Mam was shouting from down the hall, telling him to wash up before dinner.
Mr. Frodo laughed. “You’d best do as she says, but, first–” He embraced his namesake, kissing the top of his head. Frodo knew he he ought to be furious, given the circumstances, but he couldn’t bring himself to shove his uncle away. After a moment, Mr. Frodo pulled back, smiling softly. “I know you’re getting older, and you have more exciting things to do than sit around with your silly old uncle in his musty study, but I love you very much, and I’ll always be here if you want to talk.”
Frodo didn’t know whether to scream, or laugh, or cry. In the end, he only nodded before running out of the room as fast as he could. Everything would be so much easier if he could despise Mr. Frodo for what he had done, but Frodo couldn’t, no matter how hard he tried. Mr. Frodo was too gentle to hate.
It just didn’t make sense . If one thing was clear from all of Mr. Frodo’s stories, it was that he loved Da dearly. It was in his voice and his eyes, plain as day, and, yet. . . if Mr. Frodo loved Da, he wouldn’t have stolen his wife’s heart, would be? If he was truly as good and kind as he seemed, how could he deceive his own friend so cruelly?
Frodo was giving himself a headache trying to figure it out. All he knew was, he wouldn’t get far, trying to have it out with Mr. Frodo. Maybe it would be easier to confront Mam, after all.
Frodo couldn’t believe that his mother would ever knowingly do the wrong thing. Was it possible she didn’t know she was having an affair? Frodo heaved a sigh of relief as soon as the thought came to him. Surely, that was it, which meant Frodo only had to make Mam see that what she was doing could hurt Da, and she would stop at once. But how should he tell her? She would feel awful once she found out– what could Frodo do to soften the blow? Nothing, he decided gloomily. Not a single thing, and he couldn’t bring himself to hurt his mother, not even to keep her from hurting Da.
Sighing, Frodo decided that he would just have to try talking to Mr. Frodo again, but he wouldn’t be swayed by smiles and stories this time. Oh, no! This time he would. . . he would. . . Well, Frodo still wasn’t quite sure what he was going to do, but he would do something , at least, besides sit there like a ninnyhammer while Mr. Frodo talked about Da.
Long after supper was finished, Frodo had not yet acted on his resolution, and Elanor seemed to know just by looking at him.
“Ten minutes until bedtime,” she said in a tone that would have seemed perfectly innocent to anyone who overheard. “If there’s anything that needs to be done, you’d best do it now.”
So, Frodo went back to the study– or, at least, he meant to, but his father was already heading down that hall, holding a tray with a teapot, two cups, and a large bowl. Curious, Frodo ducked into a doorway and watched, imperceptible as only a hobbit in hiding could be.
Da knocked on the study door. “Mr. Frodo? Mind if I come in?”
“Oh, Sam, of course you may.”
Da entered the study, closing the door behind him, and Frodo crept closer, pressing an ear to the solid wood. There was a clattering of porcelain, and Da told Mr. Frodo, “I know how you like a cup of tea in the evening, and I thought we might have some together. I brought you a bit of strawberries and cream, too.”
Frodo felt a stab of pain for his poor father. Da adored Mr. Frodo to no end, and how did Mr. Frodo repay him? By stealing his wife’s heart. Some friend he was!
But Mr. Frodo sounded genuinely affectionate, if a touch amused, when he said, “A bit? My dear Sam, if this bowl was any larger, we could use it as a soup tureen.” He laughed. “I’ll never finish all of it on my own. You must share it with me.”
“I only brought the one fork. . .”
“Well, we can share that, too, can’t we?”
“Here, let me, so you won’t have to trouble your poor hand.”
Frodo was confused. Surely, Da wasn’t going to feed Mr. Frodo by hand, like he would one of the babies? Before Frodo could puzzle it out, his uncle asked, “I haven’t done anything to worry you lately, have I? You’re being quite solicitous this evening, even for you.”
Solicitous? What did that even mean ? Frodo glared at the door in frustration. Why couldn’t Mr. Frodo use plain words any hobbit could understand?
Da spoke so softly, it was a struggle to hear him through the door. “It’s a restless time for you, fall. You’ve told me that before.” He was quiet for a moment. “And it won’t be long until. . .” Frodo couldn’t tell if Da went silent again, or if he had missed a word or two. “I want to make sure you’re taken care of, is all. I just want you to be happy.”
“And I am. Of course, I am,” said Mr. Frodo warmly. “Why, just today, Wee Frodo came and sat with me for the whole afternoon, and, now, here you are, spoiling me with strawberries.”
Frodo was torn between being offended that Mr. Frodo called him ‘Wee Frodo’ behind his back or feeling flattered that his uncle considered spending time with him to be as much of a treat as a bowl of strawberries and cream.
“There’s only one thing in all the world that could make me happier,” Mr. Frodo continued.
“What is it, Mr. Frodo?” asked Da. He sounded so eager, Frodo felt like his uncle could ask for the moon and Da would try to find a way to get it down for him.
“A sweet kiss from my Sam.”
Frodo could all but hear Elanor insisting that he meant a kiss on the hand, or the cheek, and, yet, he found himself throwing open the study door, and what should he see but his father and Mr. Frodo kissing on the mouth?
“Is everyone in this family having an affair?” Frodo cried. Da and Mr. Frodo sprung apart– guiltily, Frodo thought.
“My dear lad, what are you talking about?” asked Mr. Frodo, startled.
Frodo pointed an accusing finger at his uncle. “You and Mam, and you and Da– you’re having affairs with both of them at the same time!”
“Frodo Gardner,” said Da sternly, straightening to his full height, which wasn’t much but seemed formidable to Frodo. “You apologize to Mr. Frodo right now. He’s a respectable gentlehobbit, and he’d never do naught of the sort.”
Frodo wanted to protest that he wasn’t sorry, but he loved his father so, and hated to think that he had disappointed him. Tears stung his eyes. “But– but I thought–”
“I realize it must be. . . confusing for you, to see your father and I kiss,” said Mr. Frodo, flushing. “But, I promise, it doesn’t mean we’re having an affair, and I’m certainly not having one with your mother,” he added in a more decided tone.
“Your mother knows all about it,” said Da, leaving Mr. Frodo’s side and laying a soft hand on his son’s shoulder. “I love her, and I love Mr. Frodo, too. It’s simple as can be, when folks aren’t trying to make it complicated.” He sighed. “An affair is when a married hobbit goes sneaking around behind another’s back. It’s a nasty, secret thing, but this–” Da looked back at Mr. Frodo with stars in his eyes. “–it’s love, is all. Love that looks a bit different, but means just as much. Do you understand it, now?”
Frodo nodded. If Mam truly knew and didn’t mind, then he supposed there was nothing wrong with Da and Mr. Frodo kissing– so long as he didn’t have to see it. He didn’t want to see anyone kissing on the mouth. But–
“I heard you saying you and Mam were having an affair,” Frodo accused, glaring at his uncle.
Mr. Frodo seemed genuinely mystified for a moment, then he laughed. “Oh, yes. Yesterday evening, that’s right.” He turned to Da, eyes sparkling with amusement. “I asked Rosie if I could sit beside her, and she told me to keep my voice down so you wouldn’t overhear– you know how she likes to tease me for being overly formal with her– and then I said that we wouldn’t want you finding out about our affair.”
Da laughed, and Frodo felt the knot of tension in his chest loosen. Elanor must have been right when she said Mam and Mr. Frodo were only joking. Even Da thought the idea of the two them having an affair was funny enough to laugh at. Frodo smiled up at his father, then rushed to embrace him. Da’s strong arms wrapped around him at once, holding him close.
“I was scared,” Frodo murmured into his father’s chest. “I thought Mam and Mr. Frodo– and it would break your heart, if you knew–”
“There, now,” said Da softly, patting Frodo’s back. “Nothing to work yourself up over. No broken hearts here. No, not one. . .” He kissed the top of Frodo’s head, just as Mr. Frodo had done after “the confrontation” earlier. “My heart’s blessed more’n any other,” said Da, beaming, “because I get to love your mam, and Mr. Frodo, and every one of your siblings, and you .”
“I love you, too, Da,” said Frodo. There were tears in his eyes again, but, this time, they stemmed from joy and sheer relief. His father hadn’t been betrayed by his wife and best friend– they both loved him with all their hearts, just as he deserved to be loved. His Mam still loved his Da. And Mr. Frodo. . .
Frodo reluctantly stepped out of his father’s embrace. “I’m sorry, Mr. Frodo,” he said, his cheeks burning as he faced his uncle. “I didn’t mean no disrespect. I just– I thought–”
Mr. Frodo smiled softly and reached out to stroke Frodo’s hair. “It’s alright, my dear. I understand.”
Frodo smiled back, but he was still embarrassed to have assumed the worst about Mr. Frodo, who had never been anything but kind to him. “I’ll come and talk to you in your study more,” he promised as a way of making up for his mistake. “It’s the least I can do, if you like it so much– as much as strawberries and cream, even,” he added, glancing at the forgotten, mostly-full bowl on the tea tray.
Mr. Frodo laughed. “I enjoy spending time with you considerably more, Frodo-lad. You’re always welcome here.”
“But not after bedtime,” said Da, setting a firm yet gentle hand on Frodo’s shoulder. “It’s getting late, and I’m sure you’ve tired yourself out enough just from worrying. Let’s get you to bed, now.”
Ordinarily, Frodo would complain that he was getting too old to have such an early bedtime, but he really was tired out from worrying. Besides, it was comforting to have his father tuck him in, and tell him a bedtime story, and kiss him good night just as he always did. He and Mam would kiss all the little ones to sleep, too, and Elanor, and each other, and maybe even Mr. Frodo, as well. Frodo fell asleep smiling, glad to be part of a family that was so full of love.