Disclaimer: The Lord of the Rings and all its characters and settings are the property of the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien, New Line Cinemas, and their licensees. These works were produced with admiration and respect, as fan fiction for entertainment purposes only, not for sale or profit. This story and all my others may be found on my website, http://budgielover.com.

Bilbo's Deep, Dark Secret    

For over a week now, quiet music had drifted through the shadowed halls of Bag End after Frodo had been sent to bed.  Not that its source was a mystery; Frodo had politely greeted Master Hamfast and Mistress Bell and their fiddle every night, escorted them in to see his uncle – and been sent to bed.  It was almost more than the barely-tweenaged hobbit could stand.

While Frodo adored his Uncle Bilbo, he still was not entirely comfortable with the old hobbit.  Being adopted by Bilbo and moved into Bag End was a dream come true; for the first time since his parents’ death, Frodo felt he had a place to belong.  The tweenager cared nothing for the whispers he had heard of his uncle’s “eccentricity,” and “unrespectable behavior” – he cared only that, at last, someone loved him.

But this latest development…  The odd maps and Elvish books did not bother Frodo, the sword stuck in the umbrella stand, the goblin breastplate that Bilbo piled the firewood in.  Frodo took the oddities that Bilbo had collected on his ‘Great Adventure’ in stride, having a decided inclination towards odd maps and books himself.  But Bilbo made no explanation of the nightly visits of his gardener and his wife, and Frodo wasn’t quite secure enough to ask him.

What was going on in the parlor after he was sent to bed?  Was Bilbo having Ham and Bell teach him to play the fiddle?  Hobbits are a musical folk, and rare is the hobbit that does not at least duffer one instrument.  Frodo himself played a fair set of drums.  But Bilbo had never shown any inclination towards musicianship that Frodo knew of, and at ninety-nine years old, it was rather late in life to start.

Frodo was going to burst if he didn’t find out what was going on.

He had tried asking young Samwise, his first and best friend in Hobbiton, but the child was sent to bed even earlier than he was and had no idea what his parents were up to.  Then he had delicately hinted to Mistress Gamgee that he would like to know.  She had raised an eyebrow at his hopeful probing and replied, “Now that’s your uncle’s business, young master.  If Mr. Bilbo wants you ‘ta know, no doubt he’ll tell you.”  Then she had smiled at him and ruffled his hair.

So.  It was up to him to find out what Bilbo was hiding.

Frodo laid his plans for the day carefully.  He took a nap in the afternoon (to Bilbo’s astonishment), helped his uncle prepare tea, washed all the dishes after dinner, and greeted Bell and Ham with such a courtly bow that they looked at him in surprise.  Then Frodo excused himself and sent himself to bed.

The adults stared after him.  “Right well-mannered young gentlehobbit you’re raising there, Master,” Ham ventured carefully.

Bilbo nodded grimly.  “Yes.  He’s been that way all day.  He’s up to something.”

Bell laughed, then covered her mouth with an embarrassed hand.  “Now, sir,” she remonstrated, “Master Frodo’s a caution an’ no mistake, but he don’t have a sneaky bone in his body.  He’s just curious, as any lad would be.”

Bilbo nodded again, relenting.  “You’re right, Bell. A  sweeter-natured boy than my Frodo-lad I’ve never met.  Nevertheless, I’d rather he didn’t find out his old uncle’s deep, dark secret just yet.”

“Best we get on with it, then,” Hamfast replied, and set the fiddle under his chin.  “Let’s see what you remember.”

* * * * *
The first faint strains of music was the signal Frodo had been waiting for.  He had climbed into his nightshirt, in case Bilbo came in to wish him goodnight, and snuggled under the warm blankets, watchful and impatient.  Now he slipped out of bed and followed the music down the hallway, using every ounce of his natural hobbit-stealth to avoid Bag End’s creaking floorboards.  He fetched up outside the closed door of the parlor and placed his ear against it, listening shamelessly.

“Ouch!”  It was Mistress Gamgee’s voice, and rather shrill.

“I’m so terribly sorry!” Bilbo’s voice, and also rather strained.

The fiddle rasped on the string then died away.  “What say to a break, Mr. Bilbo?  Meanin’ no disrespect, but that’s the third time.  How about I make some tea?”

“I’m all right, Ham,” came Mistress Gamgee’s breathy voice.

“Ham’s right, Bell,” said Bilbo. “Oh, bother.  I had no idea it was this difficult. I just don’t seem to be able to do it right.”

“Now, sir,” came Bell’s voice again, so softly that Frodo had to press hard against the door to eavesdrop, “Some folk have the knack and some … well, some…”

“Don’t,” Bilbo finished for her.  He sounded discouraged.  “I thank you both for trying, but I fear this is useless.  Well, it should give all the old gossips more ammunition – as if they needed it.”

Frodo crouched behind the door, trying to make sense of what he was hearing.  Perhaps if he eased the door open, just a little bit, his eyes could tell him what his ears could not.  He laid tentative fingers on the latch and –

The door jerked open in a gust, pulled by a very annoyed hobbit. Already leaning against the door, Frodo went down in a heap with a solid ‘thump’ against the floor.

A pair of hobbit-feet stood inches from his nose, the meticulously-brushed hair on them almost white. Frodo shut his eyes in mortification and hoped the ground would swallow him alive.

It was almost worse when gentle hands slid under him and lifted him to his feet.  “Are you all right, lad?” came his uncle’s worried voice.  Warm hands stroked his head, his face.  “Are you hurt?”

Frodo would almost have wished for his uncle to shout rather than this concern.  Humiliated, he cranked an eye open.  Master and Mistress Gamgee were regarding him with barely-concealed amusement, but Bilbo’s face was worried.

“No, sir,” the lad managed.  “I’m not hurt.”

“Well, thank the stars for that,” Bilbo exclaimed.  “You took quite a fall there.”  The old hobbit’s bright brown eyes narrowed.  “Now, lad, why were you listening at keyholes?”

It could not possibly get any worse.  “I wanted to know what you were doing, sir.” Frodo raised miserable eyes to meet his uncle’s, unaware of the smiles playing on the mouths of Bilbo’s guests when they saw how quickly their master’s stern countenance was softened by the blue-eyed gaze.

To Frodo’s surprise, Bilbo flushed.  “Ah, lad, I should have told you…  I was just embarrassed, you see.  We will be attending many social gatherings, you and I, and I did not want you to be ashamed of me.”

Frodo was totally lost.  He shivered, trying to make sense of his uncle’s words.  Bell caught up a quilt draped over a divan and laid it over the young hobbit’s shoulders.  “Mr. Bilbo asked Ham an’ me to teach him to dance, Master Frodo.  Seeing that you’ll soon be asked to dances in Hobbiton, to be welcomed here and ‘ta meet folk.  Mr. Bilbo wanted to learn so you’d be proud o’ him.”

Frodo stared at her incredulously.  “Bilbo’s been learning to dance?”

“Trying to, lad,” Bilbo said heavily, “and not very successfully.  Society parties demand a more traditional dance than those chicken-dances you young people do.  All flying elbows and jumping up and down…  You must be introduced to Hobbiton high society, my boy, and that means that I must introduce you.”

Frodo pulled the quilt tigher around himself.  Behind Bilbo, Ham was laying the fiddle carefully in its worn case.  “Introduce me?” he questioned.

Bell grinned over at him.  “Oh, aye, Master Frodo.  Every one of Hobbiton’s lasses is chomping at the bit to meet the new young master of Bag End.  Your uncle’s been receiving invitations for a couple of weeks now.”

“Invitations?” Frodo’s voice cracked and he winced.  There was a definite note of panic in his tone.

Bilbo smiled at his nephew’s discomforture.  “Oh, yes, lad.  Your adoption as my heir stirred up quite a kettle of fish.  All of Hobbiton wants to look you over.”  The boy looked horrified, and Bilbo’s amusement increased.  “And that means parties.  And parties mean dancing.  And dancing means your clumsy Uncle Bilbo is probably going to step on many a lady’s tender feet.”

“Not if you count, sir,” interjected Bell.  “It’s one-two-three, one-two-three, back-slide-forward, turn -”

“I just can’t get it, Bell.  I appreciate you trying to help, but -”

“What if you think of it like sword-practice?” asked Frodo.

Bilbo looked at him quizzically.  “What’s that, lad?”

“Sword practice,” repeated Frodo slowly. “Like you were showing me.”  Frodo backed up a step and demonstrated.  “Retreat, sidestep, lunge.  Parry, turn -”

“Back-slide-forward,” chanted Hamfast, as Frodo continued the time-honored movements.  Bilbo fell in beside him, copying the boy’s fluid positions flawlessly as he murmured under his breath, “Retreat, sidestep, lunge…”

Bell moved before Bilbo and caught the old hobbit’s hands, setting one on her waist and guiding the other ‘round to her back.  Frodo stumbled back, staring.  He backed up until he barked his shins on an armchair, and dropped into it, still staring.  Both chanting in a sing-song voice to themselves, Bell and Bilbo moved gracefully and faultlessly across the parlor floor.

Ham hastily unbuckled his fiddle case and cradled the instrument.  A slow waltz he played, sweet notes dripping from the fiddle like the fall of dew from flowers.  The two dancers followed the music, their movements as light as a summer day and as perfect as a morning sunrise.

Ham played for quite a while before lowering the fiddle with an approving nod.  “I’d say you have the knack o’ it now, Mr. Bilbo.”

Bell laughed and stepped out of the old hobbit’s loose embrace.  “Aye, sir.  Don’t think I’ve ever partnered a better dancer.”

Bilbo shook his head, bemused.  “The secret was all in how you think of it.  Sword-steps instead of dance-steps…”  He laughed suddenly.  “It’s getting late, my lad.  What say you to a glass of milk before bed?”

He did not receive a reply.  Bell’s eyes sparkled with mirth, and she held up a finger before her lips.  Bilbo turned around.  Frodo lay in the chair, sound asleep, the quilt pulled up to his chin.

“We’ll just let ourselves out, sir,” whispered Bell.  Ham nodded and gathered up their things.  “Goodnight, master.”  She smiled at the sleeping child.  “Both o’ you, sleep well.”

“Goodnight, Bell, Ham.  Thank you for your kindness.”  Bilbo knelt and gathered up the sleeping tweenager, cradling the dark head against his shoulder.  He walked with them to the round door.  “I treasure your friendship.  Thank you.”

Bell paused as they left, then turned back to the old hobbit, the child slumbering peacefully in his arms. She touched the soft curls gently.  “Weren’t nothing, Mr. Bilbo.  And I’d say you’ve got the best treasure, right there.”

Bilbo smiled down at the dark head.  “Yes, I do.”

The End