Yuletide’s Legacy

Bag End, the Shire, 5 Afteryule, 1421, S.R.

“Thank you,” Frodo said to Sam, who had brought a tea tray to his friend. Then Frodo sniffed and smiled. “I’ve been smelling Rosie’s ginger biscuits all morning long!” he added when he uncovered the dainties lightly coated with icing set upon a small platter.

Sam smiled in kind, “Rosie knows they’re your favourite, Mr. Frodo. She also happens to know that you favour her butter biscuits, too.”

“I do,” Frodo laughed, “And her sugar biscuits, her apple pie, mince pie, and the way she makes her delicious stuffed mushrooms! Shall I keep going, Sam?”

Frodo’s jest made Sam laugh, then he spied the open journal that Frodo had been writing in and suddenly felt as if he were intruding. Blushing, he responded quietly, “Well, perhaps you can say as much to Rosie later today. She likes it when folks pay compliments t’ her cooking and baking. I...I’m going t’ walk down t’ the Green Dragon t meet with the Postmaster and First Shirrif for lunch. Rosie will be here all afternoon, though. If you need anything...”

“I’ll be just fine, Sam,” Frodo answered reassuringly, perceiving his friend’s demeanour. “Later I will go out to the kitchen to see if Rosie needs help with tidying up and such.”

“I’d be grateful if you did that,” said Sam. “The midwife doesn’t want her doing anything too laborious. Not until it’s time, of course.”

“I understand perfectly, Sam,” said Frodo. “The weather seems fair for an Afterlithe morn; do try to enjoy your walk.”

“I will, Mr. Frodo, and thank you,” Sam replied as he made to leave the room. “Well...have a good day.” He turned, quietly closing the door behind him.

Once Sam had left, Frodo turned back to his journal, taking a ginger biscuit to nibble on while he re-read that day’s entry. As he thoughtfully chewed, he brooded upon his recent visit to Brandy Hall for Yule, which is what his entry included. Throughout his visit, with so many kith and kin around to ensure that he did not spend much time alone, Frodo’s Yule entries were a mere few lines of scattered musings and memorable accounts of the time he spent there. It seemed every hobbit in Buckland was knocking at the door of his guestroom, though Frodo did not begrudge it; in a way, it was precisely why he was spending his last Yule at Brandy Hall and not Bag End.

Nevertheless, Frodo had always enjoyed solitude -- maybe a little more than he should these days, however, being alone gave him greater opportunity to write down his thoughts and feelings in his journal; recording memories that he knew he would want to read over and over again in the future. The latter being exactly what Frodo was doing before Sam brought him his tea.

Frodo noted that many things had changed at Brandy Hall...and he also had changed. In spite of the transformations Frodo enjoyed himself immensely throughout the Yuletide, seeing old friends and family, meeting new ones. He even danced to his heart’s content at the Yule Party -- after his dear cousin got him out of his seat.

Oh, yes, he danced -- quite happily, in fact, and more than a few times with Miss Sorrel Goold, a niece of Uncle Dinodas on his wife’s side. Sorrel had pretty hazel eyes and a pile of sandy curls pinned up behind her head with decorative jewelled hair combs. She wore a lovely frock with a purple velvet bodice and silver silk skirt that complimented her creamy complexion. The bachelor smiled contentedly, remembering Sorrel’s sweet smile that lit up any room she entered.

Then Frodo grimaced; he couldn’t allow himself to ponder the lovely lass no mater how much pleasure it brought. “For goodness sake,” he thought to himself, “I’m fifty-three years old -- not thirty-three!” With his non-biscuit hand Frodo rubbed the tension out of his forehead, trying to pin what exactly had transpired during that visit to leave such an empty void in his heart. His thoughts went back to the night of the Feast of 1 Yule...

“Enjoying yourself, Cousin?” Merry asked Frodo, sitting down beside his friend. Both hobbits sat upon chairs that were situated along the side wall; chairs that were normally filled with other wallflowers watching the dancers on the dance floor.

“I am,” Frodo replied, taking a sip of his mulled wine. His gaze travelled from couple to couple tenderly embraced as they danced to a slow waltz.

To Merry, Frodo’s countenance said otherwise; more pained than enjoyment, which only served to renew his efforts to ensure his dear cousin had a lovely time. “You look in need of a dance.”

"Don't be absurd!"  Frodo wasn‘t annoyed with his cousin’s comment, but certainly wasn’t in the mood for a dance.

Without warning, Merry took the wine goblet out of Frodo’s hand, placing it on the floor beside the chair. He grabbed Frodo’s hand, pulling his stunned cousin to his feet.

“What are you doing?” Frodo demanded.

Merry said not a word, merely dragging his cousin behind him until they stopped in front of two handsome lasses far down the row of chairs. One appeared to be just out of her tweens and the other a little older, probably in her early forties.

“Hello, Sorrel!” said Merry, addressing the elder maiden. “My cousin Frodo would like to dance with you, if you please.” Then Merry addressed the younger lass, “And he should love a dance with you, too, Daisy, when he’s finished with Sorrel.”

Frodo would have vehemently protested, however, shock took him by surprise. Instead he gulped down his nerves. “Sorrel Goold?” he asked. Merry, satisfied that his ploy had worked, walked off in the direction of his betrothed. Sorrel stood, blushed and nodded.

“I remember you,” said Frodo, reaching far back into his childhood memories. He held out his arm for her to take, and was relieved when she took it. So far, so good.

Again, Sorrell blushed. “From where?”

Escorting her to the dance floor, Frodo instantly heard the music of a songbird when Sorrel spoke. It seemed like an age had passed since this peculiar sensation last occurred. His legs felt like jelly and his palms began to sweat. His stomach felt like it was doing summersaults.

When they reached the dance floor Frodo put his one arm around Sorrel’s waist and took her hand in his other, then felt her hand rest upon his upper arm. “If you are indeed the Sorrel that I once met, the last time I saw you was at Cousin Finodas’ birthday party. You were one of the youngest cousins present, at, I believe, around nine years of age. You wore a pretty frock with an apron and a large bow on the back of your head.”

Sorrel smiled. “You remember all of that? I barely remember Finney’s birthday at all.”

“I remember it because you were not only the youngest, but also the only lass present at an all-lads affair. I don’t recall what circumstances brought you, but you accompanied your older brothers to Finodas’ party. I must say, however, that you’ve grown up quite...beautifully.”

“Well, I am flattered, to say the least,” she replied shyly.

Sorrel’s movements were smooth and graceful as they glided across the floor. Frodo nearly lost his composure when he accidentally stepped on Sorrel’s foot. “I haven’t danced in a long while,” he said, feeling his mortification run hot from his ears to his toes. “I’m a bit rusty, I fear.”

“I don’t mind at all,” she said, smiling.

* * *

Back in his room at Bag End, Frodo ate another ginger biscuit, washing it down with his tea. Was it that Sorrel conversed so easily? No, he thought; while that played a large part, Frodo searched his heart for something less obvious. Perhaps it was how she didn’t change the subject when the matter of travelling beyond the borders came up.

Frodo sighed; he couldn’t allow himself to muse on Miss Goold for long or else she’d fill every crevice of his mind. He shook the dreamy thoughts from his head, fingering the new quill set he received as a gift from Cousin Saradoc and Esmeralda. The set contained five different quill sizes, each quill a different colour for however large or small one wanted his letters to be. Frodo knew he’d use the yellow quill the least, as it had the smallest point. He liked the blue one the best, for the point was medium and easiest on his eyes. Eyes...

“I’m glad you like your gift, Frodo,” said Saradoc, his arm around the waist of his beloved wife. “We both know you’ve inherited a penchant for reading and writing from Bilbo.”

“I do like it very much,” Frodo responded, smiling, but found a lovely distraction just beyond Saradoc’s left shoulder. He tried desperately to divide his attention between the two.

Esmeralda noticed Frodo’s diversion, smiled, then kissed her husband, whispering something in his ear. Saradoc winked, “I’ll join you at the table in a minute.” He looked at his younger cousin then followed his gaze.

Saradoc grinned kindly. “Her name is Sorrel Goold, although I’m quite certain that you’ve met her before,” he said to Frodo, “as she is cousin to Gorbidas, Harimas, and Finodas. “She is in her early forties, I believe, was once betrothed to a fellow in Whitfurrows, but never married. Her family lives in Newbury where her father is a trader, whose business takes him on occasion to Bree.”

“I like it very much,” Frodo repeated absently. “I plan to use it... What did you just say? She lives in Whitfurrows?”

Saradoc bit his lip to keep from laughing...and embarrassing his cousin. “No, she lives in Newbury.”

Frodo shrugged. “Oh...well, I--I was...well, I really wasn’t interested, you know. He sighed, feeling awkward. “Besides, weren’t we just talking about my Yule gift?”

“Frodo,” said Saradoc, tenderly putting his hand on the younger hobbit’s shoulder. “It’s perfectly normal to appreciate a beautiful lady. Actually, at your age and marital status, it’s quite healthy. Now that the burden you were carrying all these years is gone, you should feel free now to choose a wife who will help you leave an heir...a legacy, if you will. In fact, I encourage you to do so.”

* * *

Frodo had left his desk and now sat upon his bed toying with the game set his beloved cousins, Merry and Pippin, had given him at Yule. It was a combination Chess and Draughts game encased in a polished wooden box. Inside, the box contained slots for both sets of game pieces sheathed in blue velvet. Unfolded and placed face down, the box would become the chequered board used for either game. Folded back up, the box had a latch on each side to keep the game pieces inside. It was a gift made for travel and Frodo knew that the lads obviously meant for it to be a source of entertainment whenever they went on a ramble with him. Unwittingly, the pair had gifted their elder cousin with something he and Bilbo would enjoy on their last adventure together.

Frodo pondered with delight about his younger cousins, but them without any real reason, envy crept into his heart. Unlike himself, even Merry and Pippin had prospects of heirs. On 1 Yule, Merry announced his and Estella’s betrothal. Not too distant in the future, Merry would be raising a family, leaving his own legacy to Buckland. Eventually, Pippin would follow his own dreams of marriage and children. Sam and Rosie were expecting their first child in the spring.

Frodo wondered where all of this would leave him in the scheme of things. He stared long and hard at the half-empty page of the journal on his desk as if it would give him his answer. Frodo’s thoughts, however, were far off in a distant day dream.

Frodo dream was suddenly interrupted. He turned at the sound of a knock upon his door. “Come in,” he said, though he knew exactly who was behind the door.

Rosie stepped inside the doorway. “I was wond’rin if you’d be needing anythin’, Mr. Frodo?”

“I don’t think so, Rosie,” he answered. Frodo could not ignore the lass’s rounded belly. He laid aside the game box and stood to his feet, ready to assist with any task if that was what she required. “Is anything the matter? Do you need help in the kitchen?”

“No, thank you, Mr. Frodo. I’m fine and so is the baby, but I’ve grown a bit tired,” she said. “I’ve written a note for my Sam when he comes back from his meeting, telling him I’m going t' lie down and take a nap -- that is if you don’t need anythin’.”

“Thank you, Rosie, but no. If I should have need of something, I know how to fetch it myself.” Frodo gave the mother-to-be a friendly smile to put her at ease. “Pleasant dreams.”

Rosie smiled and thanked Frodo before taking her leave.

Frodo stood staring at the “shadow” of Rosie, but in her place stood the figure of Sorrel, her hand caressing her swollen tummy. Frodo winced, putting his hands over his eyes to make the fantasy disappear. “Oi! I only danced with her!” he thought in frustration. “It isn’t as if I made her stand underneath every bit of mistletoe in Brandy Hall as Merry did with Estella.”

In desperation, Frodo decided a bit of a kip might do him good as well. He put another log onto the grate, grabbed the lap quilt that Cousin Eglantine had made for him as a Yule gift, then laid atop his bed. At once, he fell into a troubling dream...Frodo bolted upright in bed. “What!”

“How is she?” Frodo asked the midwife. Although this wasn’t their first child, throughout this lying-in period Sorrel had some difficulty which confined her to bed. This is what chiefly had Frodo concerned.

The midwife gave Frodo a comforting smile, “’Tis a lad -- both mother and child are doing fine. Now get you in there and see to your wife and child’s needs.”

Frodo let out a yelp of elation, swept up little Primula into his arms and then marched in the direction of his and Sorrel’s bedroom. The sight that Frodo beheld made him quiver with joy unspeakable. In their bed was his beautiful wife holding a swaddled infant. Frodo gingerly sat upon the mattress with little Primula in his lap.

“Here he is,” said Sorrel, tilted the baby in a way so that Frodo and their daughter could see him. She spoke softly so as not to wake the baby. “Your son and heir to the Shire. Now what do we do?”

Frodo smirked. “Well, we still have one month before we must come up with a name for him.”

Sorrel fought to keep from laughing. “But we’ve had the past seven months or so!” She looked at the slumbering bundle of joy in her arms. “Oh, you poor child; you’re now born and your parents had not the wits to make ready a proper name for you.”

Frodo was quiet for a moment, then broke the silence with an ominous announcement. “Once he is presented on his Name Day, I must leave at once.”

A quizzical expression appeared on Sorrel’s face. “Leave? Where must you go, dear?”

“I am sailing west on the last ship going to the Undying Lands. You and the children cannot come with me; you will live here at Bag End with Sam and Rosie. They will help you raise our children.”

Frodo would never forget the tears in Sorrel’s eyes upon the realization that he was serious; that they would never grow old together...

“Mr. Frodo!”

A startled Sam stood in the doorway. “I was just checking on you, Mr. Frodo. I saw Rosie’s note and thought t’ see how you were farin’.”

Frodo was still shaken by the disturbing dream. He gasped for air, his heart pounded in his chest. The air felt chill upon waking; Frodo had the sensation of dampness in his hair, under his shirt. He clasped the white gem that hung around his neck. “I’m all right.”

“You don’t look all right, Mr. Frodo. I can fetch you more tea.”

“No -- please, Sam. I’m fine. I just need to be alone.”

Sam stood there for a moment, contemplating what he should do. Mr. Frodo didn’t look too bad off; more likely another bad dream, and more often than not Mr. Frodo kept them to himself. “Very well,” he finally said, backing his way into the hall. “Call me if you need anything.”

“I will.”

When Sam had closed the door, Frodo wrapped the lap quilt around himself and went over to the hearth. He put two more logs onto the dying embers and then sat down to watch the fire renew itself with the added fuel.

“Yes, I’m all right,” he said to himself rather glumly. “I feel as if I’m being torn in two. What do I do?”

TBC