21. A Mother’s Touch

April 23, 1392 – late afternoon

Bilbo’s head nodded slowly toward his chest, but the sharp pain in his neck woke him before he could entirely fall asleep. The old hobbit sat up stiffly and forced his eyes open. This wouldn’t do at all.

“Lotho! No...” the child in the bed cried out, then subsided into vague murmuring.

“Hush, Frodo. You’re all right, you’re safe, lad,” Bilbo said, leaning forward to grasp the flailing hand of his restless ward.

The red and swollen eyes opened slightly, and Bilbo watched them move edgily around the dark room, looking for whatever apparitions Frodo’s feverish mind had conjured up.

Bilbo sighed and stroked his nephew’s matted curls soothingly. The poor lad was so sick. Dr. Hornblower had come again this morning, and had gone away looking grim. Hamfast had been here as well, and Bell had stayed all afternoon, coaxing Bilbo to eat and taking turns sitting with Frodo, but she had gone home a few hours ago to look after her own family, promising to return soon.

Bilbo looked up blearily when he heard the front door open and close. Bell must be back. Bilbo felt relieved; although he would never ask her or the Gaffer to spend so much time here, he was grateful beyond words not to have to cope with this alone.

“Any change, Mr. Bilbo?” Bell asked softly from the doorway.

Bilbo shook his head.

“I think we’d best follow Dr. Hornblower’s orders, then, and try the bath,” Bell said.

“Yes,” Bilbo answered reluctantly. Dr. Hornblower had been dismayed that the fever had shown no signs of breaking after four days, and had recommended a cool bath as a last resort if Frodo did not improve by this afternoon. Bilbo tried to gather his muddled thoughts; he would need to draw a bath, then, and have a bucket of cold water handy to cool the bath water...

“I’ll draw the bath, sir,” Bell said, and disappeared with a smile before Bilbo could argue. The old hobbit shook his head at this newest display of Gamgee kindness, and applied himself to undressing his nephew.

After several attempts, Bilbo succeeded in getting Frodo’s nightshirt over his head and off. The child was still mumbling incoherently to himself. Bilbo glanced quickly at the large, red splotches that now covered the lad’s entire body before covering him again with the blanket to prevent chills. The old hobbit helped Frodo drink a little ginger tea and then allowed him to rest.

“It’s all ready, Mr. Bilbo,” Bell said from the doorway, a few minutes later.

Bilbo carried Frodo to the bathroom down the hall and eased the child carefully into the tub. Bell had filled it with lukewarm water which came up to Frodo’s chest. The lad seemed to emerge from his fog somewhat when he felt the water on his skin. Bell added a little more cold water to the tub and watched Frodo carefully for signs of shivering. There were none, and Frodo opened his eyes a little as he adjusted to the cooler water.

Bell began cupping water in her hands and pouring it over Frodo’s narrow chest and back, while Bilbo gripped his shoulders from behind to prevent Frodo from slipping and submerging his head. The boy blinked and turned to stare at Bell, but oddly enough he showed no trace of embarrassment.

“How are the sweet peas under the kitchen window?” Frodo said quite clearly.

Bell blinked and stared at the lad for a moment, perplexed. “They’re fine, Mr. Frodo,” she replied finally.

“That’s good,” Frodo mumbled, closing his eyes as he relaxed slowly into the water. “That’s good...”

Bilbo shifted position to keep a grip on the boy’s shoulders and glanced up at Bell.

“I don’t think he can handle any more, sir,” Bell’s hazel eyes lifted to meet Bilbo’s brown ones. “Let’s get him back ta bed.”

Bilbo nodded and lifted Frodo gently out of the tub. The bucket of cold water that Bell was supposed to add was still half full. Bell was ready with a towel, and between the two of them they got the confused child dried and into a fresh nightshirt.

“Sam won’t like it if something happens to the sweet peas,” Frodo announced as Bilbo carried him back to bed.

“Don’t worry, lad,” was all Bilbo could think to say as he pulled the blanket over his young heir.

Frodo closed his eyes immediately and slept, exhausted from the bath. Bell bent down to feel the boy’s forehead, and straightened up again, frowning to herself in worry. Bilbo looked at her and quickly returned his attention to his nephew. He knew without asking that the fever remained dangerously high.

“My lot’ll be wantin’ supper soon,” Bell said finally. “I’ll be back in an hour, and then you’d best be gettin’ some sleep.”

Bilbo nodded to show he’d heard but did not look up. He reached out to take the sleeping child’s hand in his, and he listened to the door shutting softly as Bell departed. Bilbo closed his weary eyes, allowing a few tears to escape as he squeezed that precious little hand.

“Please get well, dear boy,” Bilbo whispered.

April 23, 1392 – early evening

Sam sat quietly in the grass by the door of Number 3, Bagshot Row. He could hear Hobby and Sappy Twofoot playing next door, but he wasn’t paying attention to their noisy chatter. It didn’t seem right, somehow, that folks should play and be happy when Mr. Frodo was so ill.

No one discussed the subject in front of Sam, but the youngest Gamgee lad was sharp as a bite of Oatbarton cheese when it came to matters concerning those he cared about. Sam had certainly noticed the worried looks and anxious whispers that his parents exchanged whenever one or the other of them returned from Bag End. He knew it was the carnelian fever, and he knew it was serious; much more serious than Ted Sandyman’s case.

“Oh, it ain’t fair!” Sam whispered furiously to the gathering dusk. Mr. Frodo had done nothing but give help to that miserable Sandyman and his miserable cart, and this was how he was repaid. Of course, Sam knew that Frodo was not likely to see the matter in those terms. Mr. Frodo had his own special way of seeing things, of which Sam in fact approved; it was part of what made Frodo special.

Sam glanced toward the path that led up the Hill to Bag End. His mother had disappeared up that path not twenty minutes ago, and Sam had decided to wait outside to greet his brothers. Hamson and Halfred worked for Farmer Cotton nearly every day now, and were often invited to stay to supper; but they were always home before dark.

The dusk continued to deepen, and Sam leaned back on his elbows to look at the stars that were beginning to appear. Sam had always loved the stars; they reminded him of the elves in Mr. Bilbo’s stories. And Mr. Frodo’s stories, too. Sam tried to swallow the lump in his throat, but it was no good; fat tears started to roll down his cheeks. Sam sniffled and held his hands over his mouth. He didn’t want his Gaffer and sisters to hear him blubbering.

“Sam?” a voice said softly.

Sam looked up to see Ham and Hal quietly coming up the walk. Both were peering at him in concern, and Sam hastily took his hands away from his mouth. The elder Gamgees exchanged a look.

“I’ll go on inside, Ham,” said Halfred.

Hamson sat down beside Sam and pulled the child into his lap. “Are you worryin’ about Mr. Frodo, Sam-lad?” the tweenager said quietly.

“Aye,” Sam sniffled.

They sat in companionable silence for awhile. Sam had wanted to be alone, but he was glad for his eldest brother’s reassuring presence, and his tears soon ceased to flow. Sam sighed and rested his head on Hamson’s shoulder.

“Ham, why doesn’t Mr. Frodo have a mother?” Sam asked presently.

Hamson paused. “Ye knew that both Mr. Frodo’s parents died many years ago, didn’t you, Sam-lad?”

“O’ course I knew that,” Sam said impatiently. “But what happened to ‘em? Mr. Frodo never talks about ‘em.”

“Well,” Hamson hesitated. “Well, Sam, they both drowneded, in an accident on the Brandywine river, about eleven years back. I reckon Mr. Frodo doesn’t remember them real well; he were only twelve at the time.”

“Oh,” Sam said in a small voice, trying to process the enormity of his friend’s past. Sam couldn’t fathom what it would be like to have no parents, just like that.

Hamson looked at Sam carefully. “Does it bother ye, Sam-lad? That our Mum’s been spendin’ so much time up at Bag End?”

“O’ course not!” Sam said, surprised. “Mr. Frodo oughta have a Mum about when he’s sick; I’m right glad he’s gettin’ ours, ‘cause there ain’t one better!”

For some reason, Hamson laughed at this remark, and ruffled Sam’s light brown curls. “You have a good heart, Sam Gamgee,” was all he said.

Sam sighed. “I hope he gets better real soon, Ham,” the child said.

“We all hope so,” Hamson replied quietly. He got up to go inside, but Sam sat down again in the grass. “Come inside soon, Sam-lad,” Hamson paused in the doorway. “It’s gettin’ near your bedtime.”

“I will,” Sam said, and Hamson closed the door.

Sam looked up at the stars. There were many more out now than a few minutes ago; the heavens were awash with the tiny, sparkling jewels.

“Oh, please make Mr. Frodo well again!” Sam whispered fervently to the sky. “Make him get better, so I can look after him always!” Sam’s small fists clenched with the urgency of his plea, and he squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them, the stars were twinkling at him just as brightly. Sam wiped his eyes on his sleeve and went inside.

April 24, 1392 – just after midnight

Frodo was sitting in a little wooden chair in front of a warm hearth, which perhaps explained why he felt so dreadfully hot. He knew this chair. Frodo looked down. It was the miniature rocking chair that his father’s loving hands had carved for Frodo’s sixth Yule. Frodo smiled to see the old rocker again. He had thought it lost long ago; broken by some careless cousin a year after the boating accident that had claimed his parents.

Frodo remembered crying when he’d seen it lying there in a hundred pieces, offhandedly pushed over to the side of the parlour for some servant to clean up. Frodo had tried to fix it himself, frantically snatching up the broken sticks at a grave cost in splinters to his soft, thirteen-year-old hands. But he was too little, and he didn’t know how to put the pieces back together. And Papa was gone, and no one else would fix it.

“Don’t cry, darling,” a familiar voice said.

“Mama?” Frodo gazed up into a pair of sapphire eyes that he hadn’t seen clearly in twelve years, except perhaps when looking into a mirror.

“Hullo, little Frodo,” Primula said gently.

Frodo put his arms around his mother’s neck and rested his head on her shoulder, feeling the reassuring beat of her pulse. His little rocking chair was gone; now he was sitting on Primula’s lap, still in the old smial where he lived before Brandy Hall.

“I miss you,” Frodo sobbed.

Primula ran her fingers through his dark curls. “And I miss you. Don’t ever forget how much I love you, my Frodo.”

“And I love you, Mama,” the child whispered.

“My poor lad,” Primula said, holding him close. “You’ve been so very sick. But you’re almost done, my dear!”

“Am I going to die, Mama?” Frodo asked. He felt oddly unafraid, as though he were asking about the weather.

Primula smiled, her eyes softening as she regarded her only son, and she was as beautiful as Frodo remembered. “Not tonight, darling,” she whispered. Then she leaned down and kissed Frodo’s forehead, and her lips were wonderfully cool on his hot skin. Suddenly he began to feel pleasantly cool all over. But Primula was gone.

“Mama?” Frodo said desperately. He began to cry.

“Hush, hush, me dear,” a lady said.

Frodo continued to cry, disoriented and miserable. Eventually he became aware that the lady was holding him on her lap, rocking him gently back and forth. He could hear her breathing because his head was pressed against her shoulder.

“Mama?” Frodo croaked.

The lady’s breath caught in her throat, and the rocking paused. “It’s only Bell Gamgee, love,” she said finally. The rocking resumed.

Frodo gathered his wits as much as he could after another minute, and lifted his head off Bell’s shoulder. “Hullo, Mrs. Gamgee,” he murmured experimentally.

Bell smiled at him. “How d’ye feel, lad?” she asked.

“Tired,” was the only answer Frodo could think to make. He shifted uncomfortably in Bell’s arms; he realized that his nightshirt was soaked with sweat.

Bell’s smile broadened slowly as she felt his forehead and chest, and her whole face seemed to light up in the dark room. Frodo blinked, realizing that he was looking at her with his eyes wide open and not hurting in the least.

“The fever’s broken, me dear,” Bell said quietly. “You’re on the mend!”

Frodo tried to smile, since this news was apparently so important, but he wound up yawning instead.

Bell immediately got down to business and laid Frodo back in his bed. “Hmm, I’ll get you a fresh nightshirt,” Bell said, realizing that he was drenched.

Frodo closed his eyes and stretched a little. His nose was still running and his head ached a bit, but he felt oddly light and carefree. He could tell he was in his own bed at Bag End, and knowing with certainty where he was and what was happening was very pleasant indeed. Frodo frowned and opened his eyes. There was one thing that needed further explanation...

“Where is Uncle Bilbo?” Frodo asked.

Bell turned around from where she was rummaging through his bureau. “Why, he’s asleep in his bed, lad! It’s well after midnight, Mr. Frodo, and your uncle has been sittin’ with you nearly day an’ night since you took ill.”

“He has?” Frodo said, astounded.

“Aye,” Bell replied with a smile. “I’ll wake him if you wish, o’ course.”

“No! Don’t do that,” Frodo said hastily. “I expect I’ll see him tomorrow.”

“I expect ye shall,” answered Bell dryly. “Now then!”

And before Frodo realized what she was doing, Bell had grasped his sweat-soaked nightshirt by the hem and drawn it swiftly over Frodo’s head. Frodo yelped in self-conscious surprise, reaching hastily for the blanket.

“Aye, you’re on the mend all right, Mr. Frodo,” Bell chuckled, and lowered the clean nightshirt quickly onto her young charge. “But ye needn’t fret; Daisy-lass isn’t anywhere about!”

Frodo put his arms into the sleeves and laid back on his pillow, trying not to blush.

Bell’s laughter softened into a smile as she lifted a glass to Frodo’s lips. “I reckon you’re a mite thirsty about now,” she said kindly.

The boy found that he was indeed dreadfully thirsty, and he drank as much of the honey-sweetened tea as Bell would let him. When she finally lowered him back down to the pillow, Frodo could barely keep his eyes open. He relaxed slowly into the soft familiarity of his bed, and watched Bell gather up the empty cups. When she made to go, however, Frodo stopped her with a hand reaching for her arm.

“Mrs. Gamgee,” the lad said. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Bell said quietly. She bent down to kiss him on the forehead. “Now get ye back to sleep! You’ll want ta be well-rested for when Sam-lad pays you a visit.”

“I will,” Frodo said, happy at the thought of a visit from Sam, and yawned again despite himself.

Bell paused at the door to smile warmly at the boy in the bed. “Mind ye do, then. I’ll be back later to check you’re asleep!”

Frodo’s eyes were closed before Bell had shut the door behind her, and the exhausted child settled quickly into a deep, healing sleep.