Ch. 8 ~ The Rising of Bread, Pt. I
Threshold ~ by Mechtild
Chapter 8 - The Rising of Bread, Pt. I
Rating: Adult
~ ‘The Kiss’ (watercolour study), by Auguste Rodin, c. 1886.
1400, June 26, Afterlithe ~ Bag End.
The next morning, Bilbo was able to make some headway in his work on Dwarves in the Second Age. After picking at his elevenses, however, he puttered around the house - casting an eye out the windows - when he couldn't help it. He took further sustenance an hour later, then went and sat outside on one of the benches in the gardens.
It was very fine out. The sun-baked flags radiated a comfortable degree of warmth through the bottoms of his feet. Pulling out his pipe, he prepared it while admiring the work of Sam and the Gaffer, in evidence all around him. The first flowers of summer were just passing their peaks. The oranges and scarlets and deep pinks of Bag End's high summer garden were showing their heads in the midst of the waning riot of purples, blues and yellows. From his seat, Bilbo could see the labourers striking the biggest tents of Lithe from the Party Field. Everything else had been taken away the day before. He had been closeted in his study, however, and had not seen it.
Bilbo smoked, paying only fitful attention to the gardens or the goings-on below. It was the Hill rising up behind him that drew his eye. The leaves of the great oak that grew there stirred and glittered in the light breeze under the brilliant sun. Although he tried not to, he caught himself glancing over his shoulder not once, but several times in the space of so many minutes. Confound it! Where was the boy? Not a boy, he reminded himself. It still took getting used to.
Looking at the garden dial, Bilbo saw that the sun was past its zenith. He watched the afternoon shadows stretch past the noon mark until his pipe went out. He might as well go back inside, he thought. Before he went in, he ventured one more glance back at the Hill and at the lane that curled around from Overhill behind it. There was nothing.
The interior of the house seemed dim after the glare of the midsummer sun. Bright spots swam before his eyes. On a whim, he walked back down the hall to Frodo’s room, which stood at the end. Bilbo cherished his own privacy and had hoped that Frodo would feel the same. Frodo had.
The door was part-way open, just as it had been when Bilbo had got up that morning and glanced that way. But, now that he actually stood in the threshold, Bilbo saw that Frodo’s clothes from the night before were strewn in a trail that led beyond his sight. Bilbo tiptoed in.
Frodo had been there all the time! Bilbo could have smacked his brow for a simpleton if it wouldn’t have made too much noise. Of course! Rosamunda wouldn’t allow Frodo to come sauntering back in broad day light. Bilbo gazed at his nephew, still fast asleep. A smile crept over his face, crinkling all the way up into the corners of his eyes.
Frodo hadn’t bothered with a night shirt, Bilbo could see, but it was warm enough without one. His nephew lay sprawled on his stomach beneath a rumple of summer linens, his arms and legs going this way and that, rather like a sprinter who had been stricken mid-race. His breathing was deep and peaceful.
Frodo would not be up any time soon, he guessed. When had the lad got to bed? Well, not to bed, but to sleep, Bilbo corrected himself, his eyes twinkling. When he tiptoed out and went to the kitchen, he was feeling very much improved.
Should he have lunch? No, he’d just have another little taste of something to tide him over until tea. Surely Frodo would be up by then. Bilbo didn’t like to admit it, but he had actually missed the lad, once he wasn’t there. But now that he knew Frodo was home and under his roof, he felt up to having another go at his book.
Yes, he decided, patting his waistcoat smartly with open palms. Just a snack would do for the time being, then a good-sized tea, later - with Frodo.
* * *
When Frodo did emerge, the afternoon was well advanced. He was dressed and looked as though he’d washed, the curls around his face showing the damp. Already busy in the kitchen, Bilbo restrained himself from staring at his nephew openly.
“Hungry?” Bilbo asked, with only the briefest glance at Frodo’s face.
“Starved!” Frodo answered, stretching.
Bilbo shooed his nephew’s hand away from the serving plate. “Just wait! Everything’s ready. I’ll take this. You tip those off and bring them with you.” Upon the stove, a batch of sweet rolls stood puffed up high upon a baking sheet. Heat was still rising from them.
Frodo fingered them gingerly onto a plate and carried them in behind, holding them up to his face to take in their fragrance. “Are these the honey ones?” he asked. “They smell like it, but even better.”
“Honey almond," Bilbo answered. "When I was at the merchant's last week he let me know he'd got some almonds in from the South, by way of Bree. He let me have a good-sized sack at a pretty price: a couple of bottles of my best. But I think these rolls are worth it."
Bilbo plucked up a warm roll, taking an appreciative whiff. Pulling it open, he spread it with a lump of butter and let it melt. Frodo dribbled his with honey, as well.
Nothing else was said until they had worked their way from warm rolls to the cheese and meat. Both of them seemed to want to say something, but neither knew where to begin.
Bilbo decided to go first.
“Will you be going back to Rosamunda’s?” he asked, keeping his eyes on the piece of bread as he piled it with alternating slices. He looked up only when he sensed Frodo’s eyes upon him.
“Tonight.”
A teasing exclamation was on the tip of Bilbo’s tongue. Already? he was about to ask with a wink and a grin, but something in the younger hobbit’s face kept it back. Frodo smiled, but the smile was soft and diffuse, more reflective than jubilant. Bilbo searched for a better tone before he ventured a response.
“You enjoyed yourself, then?” he asked, but was taken aback when Frodo reached across the table and covered Bilbo’s hand with his.
“Oh, Uncle,” Frodo replied, “It was - she was - I am so happy!”
The older hobbit averted his eyes from the spectacle of Frodo’s remembered rapture. It was something Bilbo himself had never felt in all his experience. He did not wish Frodo to see his own sudden regret.
“I hope you made her happy, too!” he twinkled cheerfully, instead.
Frodo dropped his eyes as colour mounted to his cheeks. “Yes - that is - I learned to.”
“Good! Well done, Frodo!” Bilbo exclaimed with hearty bluster, relieved to see the characteristic blush. Retrieving his hand, he gave Frodo's hand a pat and returned to his meal with zest.
That was more like it, he thought - much more familiar territory. Frodo, however, said no more.
Bilbo flourished the last roll before his nephew, the one that had been the largest. "Take it! Go on, I've had enough. You need it more, I think," he added with a quick grin.
Accepting the roll, Frodo smiled at Bilbo's raillery, but made no further remark.
Bilbo continued with verve, "Though I say it myself, these buns turned out exceptionally well, don't you think?"
Frodo's mouth was full but he nodded his enthusiastic assent. When he had swallowed he smiled again at his uncle, but said nothing. A very warm, appreciative smile, Bilbo thought, but the lad was doing next to nothing to liven up the conversation. He wished to rouse Frodo from this state or mood, but was not making much headway. The lad seemed…Bilbo did not quite know what Frodo seemed. Happy, certainly; attentive - yet - a little subdued, even removed.
Well, of course he was a bit removed! Frodo's mind was otherwise engaged, under the circumstances, Bilbo snorted to himself. Frodo would make better company once this first burst of passion was over and done with, he shouldn't wonder. It would all become routine - it was just a matter of time. But time was growing shorter for the two of them, just a little, was it not…?
Pish and bother. Bilbo would not think of that, not just now. He could indulge himself in such thoughts once Frodo had gone out. He wanted no shadow cast upon the time they had remaining.
Snapping the crumbs from his napkin, Bilbo rose. When Frodo stood to join him and began to clear away, Bilbo stopped him with a hand to his arm, saying, “Never mind these for now, my lad. It is so fine, let's go out and have a bit of a walk, shall we?”
"Yes, Bilbo, I should like that very much." Slipping on his waistcoat, Frodo joined his uncle at the door. The afternoon was well advanced when they walked out and down the Row: two hobbits, arm in arm, out for a stroll.
Bilbo didn't get much out of his nephew as they walked, but Frodo was companionable enough, joining in whenever the elder hobbit raised his voice in song. The shadows were getting long when they decided to round off the afternoon with a few mugs down at the Ivy Bush.
Back at home, they read until their dinner, which they brought outside to the garden. As they ate the sun began to sink behind the Hill. Frodo joined Bilbo in a glass of fine sweet wine to go with afters, taking it in little sips. With effort, Bilbo refrained from making a toast to Frodo's successful first night. Nor did he suggest a second glass. Bilbo could see the younger hobbit’s eyes glancing towards the north-west with imperfectly concealed anticipation. No, Frodo would not be staying. Bilbo did not need to ask.
* * *
Bilbo watched Frodo settle into a routine with Rosamunda, but not one that evidenced a subsiding of their mutual interest. After three weeks Bilbo saw his nephew no more than he had after the first night. Rosamunda dined with them at Bag End twice or thrice, but they had all been rather awkward together. Frodo had been unable to keep his eyes off Rosa and she, abashed by the attention paid her before his uncle, attempted to hold up the conversation for the both of them. It was just as well that Frodo saw her elsewhere (at this stage, in any case).
When it got dark Frodo would walk the hills to Rosamunda’s, coming back home by dawn. The mornings, and sometimes the early afternoons, Frodo slept away. Bilbo worked, closeted in his study.
Frodo slept through Sam's visits, too. Samwise long had been having lessons from Bilbo and still did, once or twice a week during second breakfast or elevenses, depending on the work at hand. Sam had learned his letters years before, but now it was the tales he wanted. He knew them by ear but longed to read them for himself. Frodo usually sat in on these, ostensibly to help, but more for the fun of watching Bilbo teach and embroider upon the histories as written.
Now Bilbo led his pupil through the texts without the extra listener. If Frodo continued to fail to appear, young Sam didn't complain - and didn't ask questions. An early riser, Sam had his own ideas as to what might be keeping Mr. Frodo so late abed.
When Frodo did get up, he would join Bilbo for luncheon or tea. Then they would do something together, whether seeing to business, going for a walk or a paying a call. Although it was unspoken they reserved their afternoons for each other. Even if they stayed in, if Frodo was working on a journal or deciphering a text, Bilbo made it clear he might be consulted without Frodo receiving a sense that he was interrupting.
After supper they would stroll down to the Ivy Bush or, less often, to the Green Dragon which was further off. These visits were a long-standing ritual of summer. High summer could be hot and the ale houses were dark and cool. Whenever Bilbo made an entrance he was always greeted fulsomely. He was an esteemed raconteur - as well as being good for several rounds. If Bilbo preferred to stay at home, Frodo would go on his own. He also was good for several rounds but was less accomplished as a story-teller. His arrival, therefore, was not greeted with quite as much popular notice. On his own, Frodo did not stay as long, leaving before sunset - not just that he might get back to Bilbo - but in order to get a good start on the night ahead.
In this way, Frodo was missed by some of his friends, the ones who came by after dusk.
* * *
July 14, the night of the new moon ~ Hobbiton.
It was not yet sunset when Frodo excused himself from all and sundry at the 'Bush. Even the Gamgees were not nearly finished, and they were usually the first to leave, on account of their early work day during summer.
Stepping out of the cool of the inn into the built-up warmth of the afternoon, Frodo ran smack into Folco and Marco Boffin, just walking up. This was a bit of bad luck. Frodo stopped, receiving their warm greetings. He cared for the Boffins, but inwardly he wished to be gone.
"You're not leaving, are you, Frodo?" Marco, the youngest of the Boffin brothers exclaimed with open disappointment. "Why, Rollo is here! He's just on his way down now, Frodo." Rollo, the eldest of the many Boffins, was already married to a North-Took lass and lived up near Long Cleeve, on the edge of the North Farthing's moors where the hunting was still quite good.
"Stay for a round or two, at least," Marco implored.
The sight of the sun, lower now in the sky, exerted the stronger pull on Frodo.
"I am sorry, Marco, really," Frodo said, excusing himself. "I'm just off home, actually. Another time? Give Rollo my greetings, though, will you?"
Folco gave Frodo a sidelong look - a rather knowing one, Frodo thought. The sensation of alarm it occasioned made the tips of his ears tingle. He hoped he wasn't beginning to blush. Such a thing would never go unremarked by his friend. But Folco only said, "All right then, Frodo. Another time it must be." Yet his black eyes twinkled as he clapped Frodo on the shoulder. "Give my fondest regards to your uncle,” he said, “if that's where you really are going, you sly dog!"
Folco's wink and manner were so broad, however, Frodo felt sure he was only teasing.
As soon as he saw the Boffins step inside the inn, Frodo was off, feeling much relieved.
* * *
The sun was beginning to drop behind the crest of the Hill when Frodo got back to Bag End. He would just say a quick good night. Conveying Folco's greetings to Bilbo, Frodo dashed inside to change. His clothes reeked of pipeweed and slopped ale, he had noticed. Perhaps a quick wash would be in order, too.
When Frodo emerged, he found Bilbo still sitting outside in the garden, his wine beside him on the bench, his pipe in his hand, ready to fill. Immediately, Frodo warmed to the sight of the old hobbit and checked his headlong rush. It was not as though he was expected at a certain hour and minute, not really. Joining his uncle, he sat where Bilbo had patted the bench in invitation.
"Bless me! I thought you had gone on, hours ago." Looking Frodo over, Bilbo noted the change of clothes. "Yes, those will do nicely. Though I must say, Rosa does not seem much interested in what you've got on," he said, leaning his shoulder into his nephew’s.
Frodo smiled and dropped his eyes, but exhibited only the slightest blush. "I dare say you are right, uncle," he admitted with a chuckle. "But I thought they smelled of tavern."
"I see. Women and smells. Just as I warned you, my lad." Bilbo seemed pleased to have elicited a grin. Lifting the bottle, he ventured, "Won't you join me? You'll just need to pop in and fetch a cup."
Frodo brought another capacious goblet and sat down. Topping Bilbo's, he poured his own. The sound of the wine filling its bowl seemed loud, as if he were filling a basin. The breeze had dropped to nothing. Distant sounds of isolated hobbits down the Row, doing last homely chores came up to them with remarkable clarity. Frodo drank, lifting the bowl to his lips between his cupped hands. Even his swallow sounded loud to him.
Together they sat and luxuriated in the quiet.
"Look. The sun is setting," Frodo said, his voice trailing off as together they watched the splendour of the last slanted rays striking the contours of the land that stretched off into the east beyond them, saturating everything in richest hues of purple and red and gold. His uncle's soft, enraptured voice only enhanced the loveliness of the scene.
"Ah, Frodo…! On an evening such as this, I wonder how I could ever leave!"
Frodo said nothing, his eyes and thoughts filled with the beautifully lit prospect before them. But in the ensuing pause he realized he was expected to comment.
"Leave? How could you? You know you never would," Frodo laughed. "What would become of Bag End? The Sackville-Bagginses would pounce - and you couldn't let that happen!"
A little under the influence of the wine, Bilbo leaned into Frodo again, saying in conspiratorial tones, "the Sackville-Bagginses … Hah! They shall never have Bag End! It is you who shall live on here after me, of course. It will be your Bag End. And your children's." Bilbo followed this with a series of affirming pats on his heir's arm.
Frodo, himself beginning to feel the effects of the wine on top of a few tankards of ale, returned his uncle’s affectionate nudge.
"Oh, Uncle,” he chuckled. “You're not on about dying again, are you? You are far too fit to alarm me, I'm afraid! No more, please, of 'When I am gone,' or 'When I have left you at last!' It seems to me that you will be around for many years to come!"
Bilbo did not comment, but poured himself another glass, watching with pronounced attention as the last of the ruddy liquid poured out in a dwindling stream. Picking up his pipe, he gazed into the empty bowl.
Then, lifting his eyes to his nephew, Bilbo said, "Would you care for a pipe before you go?"
Bilbo’s voice was cheerful, but his eyes bore just a trace of wistfulness, Frodo thought.
The softer shades of early twilight illumined his uncle's familiar face. But the twilight also spoke to Frodo of the cottage - of Rosa waiting. A breeze rose and the first songs of the night birds were struck up. Frodo felt it as a cue.
"Actually, Bilbo, I think I should be off." Frodo's tone was hearty as he tossed off the last of his wine, feeling its effects in earnest. Standing, he added, "But I shall take you up on the offer of a pipe tomorrow."
Frodo had to force himself to look at Bilbo beside him, for he did not want to see that his uncle wished him to linger. But Bilbo's wistful look had become merely thoughtful. He seemed about to speak, and Frodo paused, his eyebrows lifted encouragingly.
Bilbo merely observed his nephew, smiled, then grinned. With a laugh, Bilbo waved Frodo away with the back of his hand, saying, "Oh, be off, for heaven's sake!" He snorted out another laugh, but paused to add quite warmly, "I shall look forward to that pipe, Frodo."
Frodo stooped to kiss his uncle's soft cheek. Fighting off the rising love he felt for the old hobbit, Frodo turned from him where he sat, and strode away.
Bilbo watched as Frodo leapt easily up the bank, in spite of the wine and ale. At the top, Frodo paused, turning to give his now customary farewell wave. Then he was gone from sight.
* * *
Just after sunset ~ Rosa's cottage.
Looking out the open door at the pink and gold and azure light, Rosamunda leaned into a batch of dough, readying it for the first rise. The oven glowed behind her but did not make the room hot, now that the cool of evening had come. The colours of twilight, visible through the windows and open door, were so lovely she let one lamp suffice. Little light was needed, she knew her work well.
Rosamunda was a talented cook; she loved good food and was willing to prepare it, but she had not the artisan's delight in execution. Cooking was merely the necessary means to a desirable end. Bread, however, she loved to make.
It had grown too warm in the last weeks to do any baking by the time she had got up - keeping such late hours as she did these days. As she never knew just when Frodo might arrive, she preferred to keep herself busy with work for her hands in the latter part of the day. It kept her from fretting or becoming impatient and, sometimes, it kept off desire. But not bread-making. It only exacerbated it, she was learning.
She had always found the kneading of dough satisfying labour, but now, as thoughts of her lover flowed through her mind, the actions were almost mesmerizing. Everything about it recalled some facet of love. Such simple ingredients, mixed together. A pinch of yeast quickened the loaf and made it big-bellied. Up to the surface the yeast rose, frothing in its little bowl, earthy and pungent, spreading its rich, creamy head. Then, onto the board it all went where, under the work of her hands, what started out stiff and unpromising came to life. Firm and resilient, then - yielding under the rhythmic push and pull - satin-surfaced, supple and altogether pleasurable to touch.
The aroma of the dough wafted up and Rosamunda breathed it in, luxuriating in the smell. The smell of bread at every stage delighted her, whether that of the kneaded dough as it warmed under the hands, or the intoxicating aroma of it baking. These were better to her than lavender or roses! She hoped the cottage would be filled with the smell of bread when Frodo arrived. If he was not very late, Frodo might have some while it was warm, just as he liked it best - smothered with butter and honey. Warm or cool, he would want it. Frodo might be coming of age but he still had a youth's appetite. He certainly did. A growing one, she chuckled appreciatively.
Then Rosamunda paused, thinking of her own appetite, also growing. She did not chuckle at that. In fact, it troubled her. Although she continued to remind herself daily it could not go on, she was doing nothing about it. In fact, she anticipated his coming more and more. She must make a better effort! She would start tonight.
Ah, tonight…
Oh, dear, now she was becoming warm. Her hair was coming down, too. One strand was being particularly tiresome, hanging over her eye. Her fingers filmed-over with dough, she tried blowing it away, but it would not budge, floating back down each time. Giving it up, she paused to smooth the strand away with the back of her hand, glancing up as she did so.
For a second Rosamunda started, seeing a figure there, silhouetted against the round of the open doorway, for she had heard no sound of steps approaching. It was only Frodo, of course. But the little jolt she had felt did not disappear, but dispersed through her as prickles of heat, making a circuit over her skin, spiralling up from the soles of her feet all the way into the her scalp. Stop it, at once, she admonished.
Bother! He wasn't even yet in the room.
* * *
"You are making bread in the dark?" Frodo enquired, laughing with gentle incredulity. "Here; I'll bring more light."
Surveying the sideboard he chose another tall lamp, rather than candles, which were comparatively short. Lighting the lamp, he carried it to the table and set it down where it might illuminate her work better.
"There. How is that?" he asked.
"I suppose it has become rather dark in here, hasn't it? Thank you, Frodo."
Rosamunda glanced up, giving him a quick smile of gratitude, but dropped her eyes again. She did not look at him, only at her work.
Frodo chose a spot directly across from her, in order to watch. The light from the lamps glowed and wavered, playing across her face, making shimmers in her gold-brown hair. Her lashes cast shadows upon her cheeks, gleaming and burnished by the sun. She seemed too absorbed in her work to notice him, so Frodo could look his fill.
Rosamunda wore her usual clothes, a long-sleeved bodice tucked into skirts and an apron tied about her waist. The bodice was buttoned up most of the way but her sleeves were pushed up for working. She must be very warm, Frodo thought, especially with the shift she probably wore beneath. She did look a little flushed. Each time Rosamunda reached, he noted the way the cloth of her sleeves strained over her shapely arms in little folds and creases. Following the line of her arms to her shoulders, he paused to admire their comely strength before he let his eyes descend. Frodo again was grateful that Rosa disdained the use of stays for, oh! the weighty richness of her breasts - like fruit that swayed from the ends of branches ripe for the plucking.
Frodo sighed; he would be content with looking only. He had arrived determined not to become carried away.
While attending to the matter beneath her hands, Rosamunda spoke.
"I had put off lighting another lamp, before, on account of the heat," she explained. "And I wanted to see the colours. Outside, I mean - the colours of the twilight."
Rosamunda gazed out the doorway behind him, savouring the last of the twilight she loved. But Frodo was looking at her.
"Besides," she added, leaning into the push before pulling up the dough to bring it back, "I have done this so often, I don't really need to see. I can tell what I’m doing, just by the feel."
These appeared to be ill-chosen words, Frodo could see, for Rosamunda ducked her head as if suddenly embarrassed. Roses bloomed beneath the brown of her throat and cheeks. Humour won out, though, and a smile tugged up the corners of her mouth and mirth frothing up into giggles, restrained only by the back of her hand. Nearly composed, she risked a look at Frodo.
Colour had streaked up his own neck, he knew; his cheeks felt hot. She would see it, surely, as well as the look in his eyes. Indeed, at the sight of him, Rosamunda's mirth vanished. She would not - or could not - hold his gaze. She turned instead to her work.
Frodo had caught the glitter in her darkened eyes, however, and noticed the hitch in her breath. Even from the other side of the table he knew the blood was rising in her, humming a song he could only sense, not hear - an echo of the rising chorus outside of crickets and frogs as the twilight deepened into night. Frodo felt it rising within himself. Who would succumb to its music first?
Frodo had entered the cottage resolved to hold back, which meant, in practice, making Rosamunda wait. When he would arrive, she was usually so keen, Frodo would become quite swept away under her heady ministrations. Spurred by her ardour, he would plunge ahead, soon to outpace her in excitement and she would be left behind. She seemed to love to ravish him on the spot.
In the beginning, Frodo was keen to be ravished. He would be abashed but she would laugh, saying it would take the edge off - for later - and so it did. But now, Frodo felt the need to show more self-command - if not for her, then for himself. It fretted him that he was always the first to succumb. Or, nearly always.
This time, he meant to somehow keep her off; this time, Frodo meant to ravish her first.
But now that he was here, Rosamunda was showing a marked degree of reserve. Perversely, Frodo found he badly wanted to break down that reserve. He shook his head at himself for only a moment, then gave it no further thought.
He moved against her at once, with the weapon of proximity.
"May I help?" Frodo asked, beginning to move around the table.
Rosamunda smiled, but her eyes were on the table top, where she was sprinkling a bit more flour. "Thank you, Frodo," she answered, "but I am almost finished. Just a bit more, now. Then, into the bowl, for the rising."
Her manner was bright but her voice sounded a little constricted.
Frodo came to stand beside her, as if to watch. And he did watch.
Her breaths were coming quicker now, as he stood so close. She worked with greater vigour. He saw and could almost feel the press of the heels of her hands as she sank her weight into the push away, then gathered the dough to lift it deftly for the turn. With each push her long fingers flexed and splayed, up and apart. Frodo thought of her legs, the night before. The dough looked glossy and smooth as it stretched, pliant under her expert touch.
As she would become under his, he thought.
Frodo felt a little parched; he could do with another cup of Bilbo’s wine right now. He licked his lips and swallowed.
"I'll just get some water, Rosa. Would you like some?"
She gave him a glancing smile as she thanked him but declined. Reconsidering, she accepted, draining the cup he gave her quickly. She accepted another. Frodo tried not to watch her tip her head back to finish the last of it, her strong neck stretched in a graceful arch as the liquid coursed down her throat.
“How long for the rise?” Frodo asked, recovering himself. He moved a little closer to enjoy the affect he was having upon her.
“In this warmth, only about an hour - maybe less," she said, drawing the back of her hand across her brow to remove the errant strand of hair.
In this warmth, indeed, Frodo thought.
He leaned in close, taking in her scent.
“An hour? - that should be enough,” Frodo softly said, venturing a kiss in the fragrant hair behind her ear.
Rosamunda trembled and Frodo rejoiced, but she pressed on towards her work's completion, moulding the dough into a fat round. Pulling a heavy earthenware bowl towards her, it scraped loudly as it scudded across the table.
"Hand me the butter, Frodo, would you, please?"
Frodo espied it at the far end of the table, softened and spreading upon a plate. He gave it to her but she still avoided his glance as she took it. Piqued by her restraint, Frodo stepped behind her and slipped his arms around her waist, resting his chin upon her shoulder, as if to watch. He thought he heard her make a little squeak. He smiled.
"You are distracting me, Frodo," she admitted, scrunching up her shoulder to dislodge his chin.
"I know," he answered simply. Rosamunda sighed dramatically, lifting his chin as she did so, but also her breasts, he noticed.
Swiping off a generous portion, she smeared the butter between her fingers and palms. It made a squeaky, slippery noise and the smell of it wafted up to Frodo's nose. He watched as she gingerly took up the ball of dough and tossed and turned it gently between her fingers, coating it thinly all around. Nestling himself up close behind her, he enjoyed all the sympathetic movements this made.
Rosamunda appeared to be satisfied with her work. Setting the buttered round into the base of the crockery bowl, she covered it with a thin, damp towel that lay ready nearby. Frodo felt her exhalation of completion against his chest, as he held her in an easy but close embrace.
At last, he thought.
He watched Rosamunda examine her buttery hands then pluck up a towel, with which she began to wipe them clean. She had finished one, but Frodo intercepted her before she could wipe off the other.
Clasping her wrist, he drew her buttery hand up and away, holding her around the waist with his other arm. Her head naturally followed in the direction of the hand that Frodo had seized, presenting a tempting expanse of her very sensitive neck. Frodo paused in his purpose and assailed her there, in ways he knew she loved. The resulting shivers and sighs gratified him. They also removed any resistance, as he continued to bring up her captive hand behind her. The gentle backwards pull induced Rosamunda's back to arch; the shivers coursing through her caused her knees to weaken and bend; and all encouraged a tilt to her hips that fitted her more snugly against Frodo's already heated groin.
Ah, yes...Frodo thought, arching his neck and pulling air in through his teeth at the feel of her settling back against him. The urge to rip open his breeches and hike up her skirts at once possessed him but, with a fresh effort of will, he restrained himself. He would content himself merely to savour the warmth between the springy hillocks of her hips, discernible through the layers of cloth. She felt him, he was sure, for she lurched away with a tiny gasp, but acquiesced at once when he pressed her back with a splayed hand, lower now, just below her belly. Like that - There…
Frodo joined her in a shudder as he finished drawing her hand all the way up and back, till it was just behind her shoulder, her buttered palm facing him.
"Oh, you will get my hair all buttery, Frodo," she protested when she finally noticed where her hand was. She tried to retrieve it in vain.
"No I won't," Frodo answered smoothly. Popping a buttery finger into his mouth and then another, he sucked and licked off every bit, in his most luxurious manner.
"Oh! Oh!" Rosamunda cried, soft and high, as she wriggled her legs together in an excess of pleasure - which wriggled everything else.
Oh, oh, indeed, Frodo thought, again fighting off the urge to take her then and there against the kitchen table. He had pictured it often enough. Obviously, her fingers were exceedingly sensitive. Her palm, too, he noted, which was very buttery as well. He licked that off with the flat of his tongue, but across the dip in the middle, where the butter was thickest, he had to rake his teeth. Finally, sucking up the pad of flesh in the angle between her fingers and thumb, he laved it with a finishing swirl and sweep.
This brought on a fresh wave of sighs and whimpers - high but more drawn out. They were wonderful to hear. Frodo had no need to hold her to him any longer; she was pressing back against him and moving herself all about. Reaching her free hand up to find his neck, she twisted her fingers into the hair at his nape. She wanted him closer; she wanted to kiss him - he knew it.
This was becoming too much for Frodo, but he was determined not to surrender. There would be no surrender but hers. He would render her senseless, as senseless as she made him. Withdrawing her fingers from his mouth, he would let her know of this.
"Do you know, Rosa," Frodo began evenly, in spite of the huskiness in his voice - "Do you know how it feels when you do this to me?" Frodo demonstrated what he meant, slowly sliding a finger all the way into his mouth, then dragging it back through a gauntlet of suction and lips and more teeth and always a strong, sinuous tongue flickering, slithering, enfolding and grasping as he moved it slowly in, then out.
Rosamunda made him no answer, but Frodo expected none. Rather, he felt her grow weak, as if she might faint beneath his arm, but for the clutch of her fingers in his hair which she did not give up. He caught her up again with his free arm, rejoicing in her affliction. There would be no fainting, not yet.
Frodo's own breaths were beginning to come too quickly. His little demonstration was taking an unexpected toll on him. Trying to fight his rising desire only seemed to make him feel its effects more keenly. His actions became impatient, almost brusque. Pulling her against him with a rough jerk, he squeezed her under her ribs and tightened his grasp around her wrist. He heard her sharp intake of breath, but compressing her body under his hands seemed to make it easier to keep his mouth soft and silky upon her fingers.
"Your fingers are very sensitive, Rosa, are they not?" he said, forcing himself to breathe more slowly. "Yet, my body, in your mouth, is far more sensitive than your fingers." She wilted with new pleasure as he demonstrated again.
"You like that, don't you, Rosa, your fingers in my mouth? That is what it's like when you have me in yours - only so much worse!"
Frodo loosened his grip for a moment, sensing he was beginning to cross some boundary; but, having crossed it, he squeezed again. He could hear a new strain in his voice, as if he spoke through clenched teeth. Rosamunda must have heard it, too, for her body had stilled. She felt suddenly uneasy in his rigid embrace; alerted; listening.
Where was he going with this? Frodo wondered to himself. He did not clearly know. Gulping down another lung full of air, he strove to finish - but to finish what? He plunged ahead, heedless.
"I want you to know what it feels like, Rosa," Frodo said, his voice rising. He heard the edge in it, but could not sheath it. He yanked her against him again to keep himself from shouting.
"I want you to know what you do to me - what you make me feel. I want you to feel it! I want to make you feel it!"
Rosamunda twisted around to face him, in spite of her captured wrist. Looking into Frodo's flushed face, her eyes blazed.
"You say you want to ‘make me feel it.’ Feel what? What do you want me to feel? Do you really not know what you make me feel? You cannot tell? I am astonished! Must I have one of these for you to be able to tell?"
She had grasped Frodo through the cloth of his breeches, startling more than hurting him, but he grimaced and let her go.
She stumbled backwards, but pressed up close to him again to say in a subdued but almost fierce voice, "Well, Frodo, you must look for other signs, mustn't you!"
Frodo nearly shrank from her, feeling thoroughly chastened.
Rosamunda appeared to relent at the sight his dismay and altered her tone at once. Reaching out her hands she touched his face with her fingertips, as if she might feel out his thoughts.
"You do everything to make me ache to touch you, Frodo. Surely you see how you have succeeded. Or … is it your success that you regret? Oh, I do not understand what it is you want of me."
Upon the last, Rosamunda dropped her hands and turned away.
It felt to Frodo as if a portion of the room's warmth suddenly had withdrawn with her, clinging to her skirts as they swung away from him.
What did he want of her? He wanted everything she did to him. He would die without it!
He would die without it….but would she die without it? Frodo felt as though he had trod upon a serpent. Oh, he did not know, not yet! But he must speak.
"Rosa…I don't know. That is, I meant - I think - I wanted you to feel - I just want to think that you care for me, too."
Frodo struggled to find better words.
"I know that I please you -" Frodo saw her shoulders flinch. "But," he said, taking a deep breath, "I do not know -"
Frodo halted and stared at his feet. He could not say it. He would have said, I know that I please you - but I do not know that you love me. He did not say it, for he could not. If she did not love him, he did not want to know.
Frodo was relieved to look up and see Rosamunda turning to him again, with a softened face, the face he knew. She looked into his eyes. He was not certain what she saw there, for he could not veil them from her, but her own eyes shone. She came to him and twined her arms around him, swift and sure, and he felt no further reservations in that instant.
"I do care for you, Frodo!" she said, one hand upon his cheek, her dark eyes engaging his.
Frodo averted his gaze to hide his disappointment in a kiss upon her neck.
I do care for you. She might have said that to him when he was little! But that was all he had said to her, Frodo admitted to himself, nuzzling his face into her hair, burying himself in her fragrance. He must tell her how he felt at some point, or he would burst! Their private little summer was coming to an end, Frodo knew, however much he pushed the thought aside. He must tell her, and tell her soon.
But not tonight, he thought, wrapping his arms around her as far as they would go, savouring her soft closeness.
The room was restored to warmth.
"Do you think the dough is ready yet?" Frodo murmured behind her ear.
Gently, Rosamunda pushed his shoulders back to look at him. She smiled the smile he loved, tender and familiar.
"There is only one way to know for sure," she answered. "We must go and see." She brushed his nose with hers and gave his lips a feathery kiss.
Their arms about each other's waists, they moved towards the kitchen table.
* * *
Next: Chapter 8, Pt. II
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Chapter 8 - The Rising of Bread, Pt. I
Rating: Adult
~ ‘The Kiss’ (watercolour study), by Auguste Rodin, c. 1886.
1400, June 26, Afterlithe ~ Bag End.
The next morning, Bilbo was able to make some headway in his work on Dwarves in the Second Age. After picking at his elevenses, however, he puttered around the house - casting an eye out the windows - when he couldn't help it. He took further sustenance an hour later, then went and sat outside on one of the benches in the gardens.
It was very fine out. The sun-baked flags radiated a comfortable degree of warmth through the bottoms of his feet. Pulling out his pipe, he prepared it while admiring the work of Sam and the Gaffer, in evidence all around him. The first flowers of summer were just passing their peaks. The oranges and scarlets and deep pinks of Bag End's high summer garden were showing their heads in the midst of the waning riot of purples, blues and yellows. From his seat, Bilbo could see the labourers striking the biggest tents of Lithe from the Party Field. Everything else had been taken away the day before. He had been closeted in his study, however, and had not seen it.
Bilbo smoked, paying only fitful attention to the gardens or the goings-on below. It was the Hill rising up behind him that drew his eye. The leaves of the great oak that grew there stirred and glittered in the light breeze under the brilliant sun. Although he tried not to, he caught himself glancing over his shoulder not once, but several times in the space of so many minutes. Confound it! Where was the boy? Not a boy, he reminded himself. It still took getting used to.
Looking at the garden dial, Bilbo saw that the sun was past its zenith. He watched the afternoon shadows stretch past the noon mark until his pipe went out. He might as well go back inside, he thought. Before he went in, he ventured one more glance back at the Hill and at the lane that curled around from Overhill behind it. There was nothing.
The interior of the house seemed dim after the glare of the midsummer sun. Bright spots swam before his eyes. On a whim, he walked back down the hall to Frodo’s room, which stood at the end. Bilbo cherished his own privacy and had hoped that Frodo would feel the same. Frodo had.
The door was part-way open, just as it had been when Bilbo had got up that morning and glanced that way. But, now that he actually stood in the threshold, Bilbo saw that Frodo’s clothes from the night before were strewn in a trail that led beyond his sight. Bilbo tiptoed in.
Frodo had been there all the time! Bilbo could have smacked his brow for a simpleton if it wouldn’t have made too much noise. Of course! Rosamunda wouldn’t allow Frodo to come sauntering back in broad day light. Bilbo gazed at his nephew, still fast asleep. A smile crept over his face, crinkling all the way up into the corners of his eyes.
Frodo hadn’t bothered with a night shirt, Bilbo could see, but it was warm enough without one. His nephew lay sprawled on his stomach beneath a rumple of summer linens, his arms and legs going this way and that, rather like a sprinter who had been stricken mid-race. His breathing was deep and peaceful.
Frodo would not be up any time soon, he guessed. When had the lad got to bed? Well, not to bed, but to sleep, Bilbo corrected himself, his eyes twinkling. When he tiptoed out and went to the kitchen, he was feeling very much improved.
Should he have lunch? No, he’d just have another little taste of something to tide him over until tea. Surely Frodo would be up by then. Bilbo didn’t like to admit it, but he had actually missed the lad, once he wasn’t there. But now that he knew Frodo was home and under his roof, he felt up to having another go at his book.
Yes, he decided, patting his waistcoat smartly with open palms. Just a snack would do for the time being, then a good-sized tea, later - with Frodo.
* * *
When Frodo did emerge, the afternoon was well advanced. He was dressed and looked as though he’d washed, the curls around his face showing the damp. Already busy in the kitchen, Bilbo restrained himself from staring at his nephew openly.
“Hungry?” Bilbo asked, with only the briefest glance at Frodo’s face.
“Starved!” Frodo answered, stretching.
Bilbo shooed his nephew’s hand away from the serving plate. “Just wait! Everything’s ready. I’ll take this. You tip those off and bring them with you.” Upon the stove, a batch of sweet rolls stood puffed up high upon a baking sheet. Heat was still rising from them.
Frodo fingered them gingerly onto a plate and carried them in behind, holding them up to his face to take in their fragrance. “Are these the honey ones?” he asked. “They smell like it, but even better.”
“Honey almond," Bilbo answered. "When I was at the merchant's last week he let me know he'd got some almonds in from the South, by way of Bree. He let me have a good-sized sack at a pretty price: a couple of bottles of my best. But I think these rolls are worth it."
Bilbo plucked up a warm roll, taking an appreciative whiff. Pulling it open, he spread it with a lump of butter and let it melt. Frodo dribbled his with honey, as well.
Nothing else was said until they had worked their way from warm rolls to the cheese and meat. Both of them seemed to want to say something, but neither knew where to begin.
Bilbo decided to go first.
“Will you be going back to Rosamunda’s?” he asked, keeping his eyes on the piece of bread as he piled it with alternating slices. He looked up only when he sensed Frodo’s eyes upon him.
“Tonight.”
A teasing exclamation was on the tip of Bilbo’s tongue. Already? he was about to ask with a wink and a grin, but something in the younger hobbit’s face kept it back. Frodo smiled, but the smile was soft and diffuse, more reflective than jubilant. Bilbo searched for a better tone before he ventured a response.
“You enjoyed yourself, then?” he asked, but was taken aback when Frodo reached across the table and covered Bilbo’s hand with his.
“Oh, Uncle,” Frodo replied, “It was - she was - I am so happy!”
The older hobbit averted his eyes from the spectacle of Frodo’s remembered rapture. It was something Bilbo himself had never felt in all his experience. He did not wish Frodo to see his own sudden regret.
“I hope you made her happy, too!” he twinkled cheerfully, instead.
Frodo dropped his eyes as colour mounted to his cheeks. “Yes - that is - I learned to.”
“Good! Well done, Frodo!” Bilbo exclaimed with hearty bluster, relieved to see the characteristic blush. Retrieving his hand, he gave Frodo's hand a pat and returned to his meal with zest.
That was more like it, he thought - much more familiar territory. Frodo, however, said no more.
Bilbo flourished the last roll before his nephew, the one that had been the largest. "Take it! Go on, I've had enough. You need it more, I think," he added with a quick grin.
Accepting the roll, Frodo smiled at Bilbo's raillery, but made no further remark.
Bilbo continued with verve, "Though I say it myself, these buns turned out exceptionally well, don't you think?"
Frodo's mouth was full but he nodded his enthusiastic assent. When he had swallowed he smiled again at his uncle, but said nothing. A very warm, appreciative smile, Bilbo thought, but the lad was doing next to nothing to liven up the conversation. He wished to rouse Frodo from this state or mood, but was not making much headway. The lad seemed…Bilbo did not quite know what Frodo seemed. Happy, certainly; attentive - yet - a little subdued, even removed.
Well, of course he was a bit removed! Frodo's mind was otherwise engaged, under the circumstances, Bilbo snorted to himself. Frodo would make better company once this first burst of passion was over and done with, he shouldn't wonder. It would all become routine - it was just a matter of time. But time was growing shorter for the two of them, just a little, was it not…?
Pish and bother. Bilbo would not think of that, not just now. He could indulge himself in such thoughts once Frodo had gone out. He wanted no shadow cast upon the time they had remaining.
Snapping the crumbs from his napkin, Bilbo rose. When Frodo stood to join him and began to clear away, Bilbo stopped him with a hand to his arm, saying, “Never mind these for now, my lad. It is so fine, let's go out and have a bit of a walk, shall we?”
"Yes, Bilbo, I should like that very much." Slipping on his waistcoat, Frodo joined his uncle at the door. The afternoon was well advanced when they walked out and down the Row: two hobbits, arm in arm, out for a stroll.
Bilbo didn't get much out of his nephew as they walked, but Frodo was companionable enough, joining in whenever the elder hobbit raised his voice in song. The shadows were getting long when they decided to round off the afternoon with a few mugs down at the Ivy Bush.
Back at home, they read until their dinner, which they brought outside to the garden. As they ate the sun began to sink behind the Hill. Frodo joined Bilbo in a glass of fine sweet wine to go with afters, taking it in little sips. With effort, Bilbo refrained from making a toast to Frodo's successful first night. Nor did he suggest a second glass. Bilbo could see the younger hobbit’s eyes glancing towards the north-west with imperfectly concealed anticipation. No, Frodo would not be staying. Bilbo did not need to ask.
* * *
Bilbo watched Frodo settle into a routine with Rosamunda, but not one that evidenced a subsiding of their mutual interest. After three weeks Bilbo saw his nephew no more than he had after the first night. Rosamunda dined with them at Bag End twice or thrice, but they had all been rather awkward together. Frodo had been unable to keep his eyes off Rosa and she, abashed by the attention paid her before his uncle, attempted to hold up the conversation for the both of them. It was just as well that Frodo saw her elsewhere (at this stage, in any case).
When it got dark Frodo would walk the hills to Rosamunda’s, coming back home by dawn. The mornings, and sometimes the early afternoons, Frodo slept away. Bilbo worked, closeted in his study.
Frodo slept through Sam's visits, too. Samwise long had been having lessons from Bilbo and still did, once or twice a week during second breakfast or elevenses, depending on the work at hand. Sam had learned his letters years before, but now it was the tales he wanted. He knew them by ear but longed to read them for himself. Frodo usually sat in on these, ostensibly to help, but more for the fun of watching Bilbo teach and embroider upon the histories as written.
Now Bilbo led his pupil through the texts without the extra listener. If Frodo continued to fail to appear, young Sam didn't complain - and didn't ask questions. An early riser, Sam had his own ideas as to what might be keeping Mr. Frodo so late abed.
When Frodo did get up, he would join Bilbo for luncheon or tea. Then they would do something together, whether seeing to business, going for a walk or a paying a call. Although it was unspoken they reserved their afternoons for each other. Even if they stayed in, if Frodo was working on a journal or deciphering a text, Bilbo made it clear he might be consulted without Frodo receiving a sense that he was interrupting.
After supper they would stroll down to the Ivy Bush or, less often, to the Green Dragon which was further off. These visits were a long-standing ritual of summer. High summer could be hot and the ale houses were dark and cool. Whenever Bilbo made an entrance he was always greeted fulsomely. He was an esteemed raconteur - as well as being good for several rounds. If Bilbo preferred to stay at home, Frodo would go on his own. He also was good for several rounds but was less accomplished as a story-teller. His arrival, therefore, was not greeted with quite as much popular notice. On his own, Frodo did not stay as long, leaving before sunset - not just that he might get back to Bilbo - but in order to get a good start on the night ahead.
In this way, Frodo was missed by some of his friends, the ones who came by after dusk.
* * *
July 14, the night of the new moon ~ Hobbiton.
It was not yet sunset when Frodo excused himself from all and sundry at the 'Bush. Even the Gamgees were not nearly finished, and they were usually the first to leave, on account of their early work day during summer.
Stepping out of the cool of the inn into the built-up warmth of the afternoon, Frodo ran smack into Folco and Marco Boffin, just walking up. This was a bit of bad luck. Frodo stopped, receiving their warm greetings. He cared for the Boffins, but inwardly he wished to be gone.
"You're not leaving, are you, Frodo?" Marco, the youngest of the Boffin brothers exclaimed with open disappointment. "Why, Rollo is here! He's just on his way down now, Frodo." Rollo, the eldest of the many Boffins, was already married to a North-Took lass and lived up near Long Cleeve, on the edge of the North Farthing's moors where the hunting was still quite good.
"Stay for a round or two, at least," Marco implored.
The sight of the sun, lower now in the sky, exerted the stronger pull on Frodo.
"I am sorry, Marco, really," Frodo said, excusing himself. "I'm just off home, actually. Another time? Give Rollo my greetings, though, will you?"
Folco gave Frodo a sidelong look - a rather knowing one, Frodo thought. The sensation of alarm it occasioned made the tips of his ears tingle. He hoped he wasn't beginning to blush. Such a thing would never go unremarked by his friend. But Folco only said, "All right then, Frodo. Another time it must be." Yet his black eyes twinkled as he clapped Frodo on the shoulder. "Give my fondest regards to your uncle,” he said, “if that's where you really are going, you sly dog!"
Folco's wink and manner were so broad, however, Frodo felt sure he was only teasing.
As soon as he saw the Boffins step inside the inn, Frodo was off, feeling much relieved.
* * *
The sun was beginning to drop behind the crest of the Hill when Frodo got back to Bag End. He would just say a quick good night. Conveying Folco's greetings to Bilbo, Frodo dashed inside to change. His clothes reeked of pipeweed and slopped ale, he had noticed. Perhaps a quick wash would be in order, too.
When Frodo emerged, he found Bilbo still sitting outside in the garden, his wine beside him on the bench, his pipe in his hand, ready to fill. Immediately, Frodo warmed to the sight of the old hobbit and checked his headlong rush. It was not as though he was expected at a certain hour and minute, not really. Joining his uncle, he sat where Bilbo had patted the bench in invitation.
"Bless me! I thought you had gone on, hours ago." Looking Frodo over, Bilbo noted the change of clothes. "Yes, those will do nicely. Though I must say, Rosa does not seem much interested in what you've got on," he said, leaning his shoulder into his nephew’s.
Frodo smiled and dropped his eyes, but exhibited only the slightest blush. "I dare say you are right, uncle," he admitted with a chuckle. "But I thought they smelled of tavern."
"I see. Women and smells. Just as I warned you, my lad." Bilbo seemed pleased to have elicited a grin. Lifting the bottle, he ventured, "Won't you join me? You'll just need to pop in and fetch a cup."
Frodo brought another capacious goblet and sat down. Topping Bilbo's, he poured his own. The sound of the wine filling its bowl seemed loud, as if he were filling a basin. The breeze had dropped to nothing. Distant sounds of isolated hobbits down the Row, doing last homely chores came up to them with remarkable clarity. Frodo drank, lifting the bowl to his lips between his cupped hands. Even his swallow sounded loud to him.
Together they sat and luxuriated in the quiet.
"Look. The sun is setting," Frodo said, his voice trailing off as together they watched the splendour of the last slanted rays striking the contours of the land that stretched off into the east beyond them, saturating everything in richest hues of purple and red and gold. His uncle's soft, enraptured voice only enhanced the loveliness of the scene.
"Ah, Frodo…! On an evening such as this, I wonder how I could ever leave!"
Frodo said nothing, his eyes and thoughts filled with the beautifully lit prospect before them. But in the ensuing pause he realized he was expected to comment.
"Leave? How could you? You know you never would," Frodo laughed. "What would become of Bag End? The Sackville-Bagginses would pounce - and you couldn't let that happen!"
A little under the influence of the wine, Bilbo leaned into Frodo again, saying in conspiratorial tones, "the Sackville-Bagginses … Hah! They shall never have Bag End! It is you who shall live on here after me, of course. It will be your Bag End. And your children's." Bilbo followed this with a series of affirming pats on his heir's arm.
Frodo, himself beginning to feel the effects of the wine on top of a few tankards of ale, returned his uncle’s affectionate nudge.
"Oh, Uncle,” he chuckled. “You're not on about dying again, are you? You are far too fit to alarm me, I'm afraid! No more, please, of 'When I am gone,' or 'When I have left you at last!' It seems to me that you will be around for many years to come!"
Bilbo did not comment, but poured himself another glass, watching with pronounced attention as the last of the ruddy liquid poured out in a dwindling stream. Picking up his pipe, he gazed into the empty bowl.
Then, lifting his eyes to his nephew, Bilbo said, "Would you care for a pipe before you go?"
Bilbo’s voice was cheerful, but his eyes bore just a trace of wistfulness, Frodo thought.
The softer shades of early twilight illumined his uncle's familiar face. But the twilight also spoke to Frodo of the cottage - of Rosa waiting. A breeze rose and the first songs of the night birds were struck up. Frodo felt it as a cue.
"Actually, Bilbo, I think I should be off." Frodo's tone was hearty as he tossed off the last of his wine, feeling its effects in earnest. Standing, he added, "But I shall take you up on the offer of a pipe tomorrow."
Frodo had to force himself to look at Bilbo beside him, for he did not want to see that his uncle wished him to linger. But Bilbo's wistful look had become merely thoughtful. He seemed about to speak, and Frodo paused, his eyebrows lifted encouragingly.
Bilbo merely observed his nephew, smiled, then grinned. With a laugh, Bilbo waved Frodo away with the back of his hand, saying, "Oh, be off, for heaven's sake!" He snorted out another laugh, but paused to add quite warmly, "I shall look forward to that pipe, Frodo."
Frodo stooped to kiss his uncle's soft cheek. Fighting off the rising love he felt for the old hobbit, Frodo turned from him where he sat, and strode away.
Bilbo watched as Frodo leapt easily up the bank, in spite of the wine and ale. At the top, Frodo paused, turning to give his now customary farewell wave. Then he was gone from sight.
* * *
Just after sunset ~ Rosa's cottage.
Looking out the open door at the pink and gold and azure light, Rosamunda leaned into a batch of dough, readying it for the first rise. The oven glowed behind her but did not make the room hot, now that the cool of evening had come. The colours of twilight, visible through the windows and open door, were so lovely she let one lamp suffice. Little light was needed, she knew her work well.
Rosamunda was a talented cook; she loved good food and was willing to prepare it, but she had not the artisan's delight in execution. Cooking was merely the necessary means to a desirable end. Bread, however, she loved to make.
It had grown too warm in the last weeks to do any baking by the time she had got up - keeping such late hours as she did these days. As she never knew just when Frodo might arrive, she preferred to keep herself busy with work for her hands in the latter part of the day. It kept her from fretting or becoming impatient and, sometimes, it kept off desire. But not bread-making. It only exacerbated it, she was learning.
She had always found the kneading of dough satisfying labour, but now, as thoughts of her lover flowed through her mind, the actions were almost mesmerizing. Everything about it recalled some facet of love. Such simple ingredients, mixed together. A pinch of yeast quickened the loaf and made it big-bellied. Up to the surface the yeast rose, frothing in its little bowl, earthy and pungent, spreading its rich, creamy head. Then, onto the board it all went where, under the work of her hands, what started out stiff and unpromising came to life. Firm and resilient, then - yielding under the rhythmic push and pull - satin-surfaced, supple and altogether pleasurable to touch.
The aroma of the dough wafted up and Rosamunda breathed it in, luxuriating in the smell. The smell of bread at every stage delighted her, whether that of the kneaded dough as it warmed under the hands, or the intoxicating aroma of it baking. These were better to her than lavender or roses! She hoped the cottage would be filled with the smell of bread when Frodo arrived. If he was not very late, Frodo might have some while it was warm, just as he liked it best - smothered with butter and honey. Warm or cool, he would want it. Frodo might be coming of age but he still had a youth's appetite. He certainly did. A growing one, she chuckled appreciatively.
Then Rosamunda paused, thinking of her own appetite, also growing. She did not chuckle at that. In fact, it troubled her. Although she continued to remind herself daily it could not go on, she was doing nothing about it. In fact, she anticipated his coming more and more. She must make a better effort! She would start tonight.
Ah, tonight…
Oh, dear, now she was becoming warm. Her hair was coming down, too. One strand was being particularly tiresome, hanging over her eye. Her fingers filmed-over with dough, she tried blowing it away, but it would not budge, floating back down each time. Giving it up, she paused to smooth the strand away with the back of her hand, glancing up as she did so.
For a second Rosamunda started, seeing a figure there, silhouetted against the round of the open doorway, for she had heard no sound of steps approaching. It was only Frodo, of course. But the little jolt she had felt did not disappear, but dispersed through her as prickles of heat, making a circuit over her skin, spiralling up from the soles of her feet all the way into the her scalp. Stop it, at once, she admonished.
Bother! He wasn't even yet in the room.
* * *
"You are making bread in the dark?" Frodo enquired, laughing with gentle incredulity. "Here; I'll bring more light."
Surveying the sideboard he chose another tall lamp, rather than candles, which were comparatively short. Lighting the lamp, he carried it to the table and set it down where it might illuminate her work better.
"There. How is that?" he asked.
"I suppose it has become rather dark in here, hasn't it? Thank you, Frodo."
Rosamunda glanced up, giving him a quick smile of gratitude, but dropped her eyes again. She did not look at him, only at her work.
Frodo chose a spot directly across from her, in order to watch. The light from the lamps glowed and wavered, playing across her face, making shimmers in her gold-brown hair. Her lashes cast shadows upon her cheeks, gleaming and burnished by the sun. She seemed too absorbed in her work to notice him, so Frodo could look his fill.
Rosamunda wore her usual clothes, a long-sleeved bodice tucked into skirts and an apron tied about her waist. The bodice was buttoned up most of the way but her sleeves were pushed up for working. She must be very warm, Frodo thought, especially with the shift she probably wore beneath. She did look a little flushed. Each time Rosamunda reached, he noted the way the cloth of her sleeves strained over her shapely arms in little folds and creases. Following the line of her arms to her shoulders, he paused to admire their comely strength before he let his eyes descend. Frodo again was grateful that Rosa disdained the use of stays for, oh! the weighty richness of her breasts - like fruit that swayed from the ends of branches ripe for the plucking.
Frodo sighed; he would be content with looking only. He had arrived determined not to become carried away.
While attending to the matter beneath her hands, Rosamunda spoke.
"I had put off lighting another lamp, before, on account of the heat," she explained. "And I wanted to see the colours. Outside, I mean - the colours of the twilight."
Rosamunda gazed out the doorway behind him, savouring the last of the twilight she loved. But Frodo was looking at her.
"Besides," she added, leaning into the push before pulling up the dough to bring it back, "I have done this so often, I don't really need to see. I can tell what I’m doing, just by the feel."
These appeared to be ill-chosen words, Frodo could see, for Rosamunda ducked her head as if suddenly embarrassed. Roses bloomed beneath the brown of her throat and cheeks. Humour won out, though, and a smile tugged up the corners of her mouth and mirth frothing up into giggles, restrained only by the back of her hand. Nearly composed, she risked a look at Frodo.
Colour had streaked up his own neck, he knew; his cheeks felt hot. She would see it, surely, as well as the look in his eyes. Indeed, at the sight of him, Rosamunda's mirth vanished. She would not - or could not - hold his gaze. She turned instead to her work.
Frodo had caught the glitter in her darkened eyes, however, and noticed the hitch in her breath. Even from the other side of the table he knew the blood was rising in her, humming a song he could only sense, not hear - an echo of the rising chorus outside of crickets and frogs as the twilight deepened into night. Frodo felt it rising within himself. Who would succumb to its music first?
Frodo had entered the cottage resolved to hold back, which meant, in practice, making Rosamunda wait. When he would arrive, she was usually so keen, Frodo would become quite swept away under her heady ministrations. Spurred by her ardour, he would plunge ahead, soon to outpace her in excitement and she would be left behind. She seemed to love to ravish him on the spot.
In the beginning, Frodo was keen to be ravished. He would be abashed but she would laugh, saying it would take the edge off - for later - and so it did. But now, Frodo felt the need to show more self-command - if not for her, then for himself. It fretted him that he was always the first to succumb. Or, nearly always.
This time, he meant to somehow keep her off; this time, Frodo meant to ravish her first.
But now that he was here, Rosamunda was showing a marked degree of reserve. Perversely, Frodo found he badly wanted to break down that reserve. He shook his head at himself for only a moment, then gave it no further thought.
He moved against her at once, with the weapon of proximity.
"May I help?" Frodo asked, beginning to move around the table.
Rosamunda smiled, but her eyes were on the table top, where she was sprinkling a bit more flour. "Thank you, Frodo," she answered, "but I am almost finished. Just a bit more, now. Then, into the bowl, for the rising."
Her manner was bright but her voice sounded a little constricted.
Frodo came to stand beside her, as if to watch. And he did watch.
Her breaths were coming quicker now, as he stood so close. She worked with greater vigour. He saw and could almost feel the press of the heels of her hands as she sank her weight into the push away, then gathered the dough to lift it deftly for the turn. With each push her long fingers flexed and splayed, up and apart. Frodo thought of her legs, the night before. The dough looked glossy and smooth as it stretched, pliant under her expert touch.
As she would become under his, he thought.
Frodo felt a little parched; he could do with another cup of Bilbo’s wine right now. He licked his lips and swallowed.
"I'll just get some water, Rosa. Would you like some?"
She gave him a glancing smile as she thanked him but declined. Reconsidering, she accepted, draining the cup he gave her quickly. She accepted another. Frodo tried not to watch her tip her head back to finish the last of it, her strong neck stretched in a graceful arch as the liquid coursed down her throat.
“How long for the rise?” Frodo asked, recovering himself. He moved a little closer to enjoy the affect he was having upon her.
“In this warmth, only about an hour - maybe less," she said, drawing the back of her hand across her brow to remove the errant strand of hair.
In this warmth, indeed, Frodo thought.
He leaned in close, taking in her scent.
“An hour? - that should be enough,” Frodo softly said, venturing a kiss in the fragrant hair behind her ear.
Rosamunda trembled and Frodo rejoiced, but she pressed on towards her work's completion, moulding the dough into a fat round. Pulling a heavy earthenware bowl towards her, it scraped loudly as it scudded across the table.
"Hand me the butter, Frodo, would you, please?"
Frodo espied it at the far end of the table, softened and spreading upon a plate. He gave it to her but she still avoided his glance as she took it. Piqued by her restraint, Frodo stepped behind her and slipped his arms around her waist, resting his chin upon her shoulder, as if to watch. He thought he heard her make a little squeak. He smiled.
"You are distracting me, Frodo," she admitted, scrunching up her shoulder to dislodge his chin.
"I know," he answered simply. Rosamunda sighed dramatically, lifting his chin as she did so, but also her breasts, he noticed.
Swiping off a generous portion, she smeared the butter between her fingers and palms. It made a squeaky, slippery noise and the smell of it wafted up to Frodo's nose. He watched as she gingerly took up the ball of dough and tossed and turned it gently between her fingers, coating it thinly all around. Nestling himself up close behind her, he enjoyed all the sympathetic movements this made.
Rosamunda appeared to be satisfied with her work. Setting the buttered round into the base of the crockery bowl, she covered it with a thin, damp towel that lay ready nearby. Frodo felt her exhalation of completion against his chest, as he held her in an easy but close embrace.
At last, he thought.
He watched Rosamunda examine her buttery hands then pluck up a towel, with which she began to wipe them clean. She had finished one, but Frodo intercepted her before she could wipe off the other.
Clasping her wrist, he drew her buttery hand up and away, holding her around the waist with his other arm. Her head naturally followed in the direction of the hand that Frodo had seized, presenting a tempting expanse of her very sensitive neck. Frodo paused in his purpose and assailed her there, in ways he knew she loved. The resulting shivers and sighs gratified him. They also removed any resistance, as he continued to bring up her captive hand behind her. The gentle backwards pull induced Rosamunda's back to arch; the shivers coursing through her caused her knees to weaken and bend; and all encouraged a tilt to her hips that fitted her more snugly against Frodo's already heated groin.
Ah, yes...Frodo thought, arching his neck and pulling air in through his teeth at the feel of her settling back against him. The urge to rip open his breeches and hike up her skirts at once possessed him but, with a fresh effort of will, he restrained himself. He would content himself merely to savour the warmth between the springy hillocks of her hips, discernible through the layers of cloth. She felt him, he was sure, for she lurched away with a tiny gasp, but acquiesced at once when he pressed her back with a splayed hand, lower now, just below her belly. Like that - There…
Frodo joined her in a shudder as he finished drawing her hand all the way up and back, till it was just behind her shoulder, her buttered palm facing him.
"Oh, you will get my hair all buttery, Frodo," she protested when she finally noticed where her hand was. She tried to retrieve it in vain.
"No I won't," Frodo answered smoothly. Popping a buttery finger into his mouth and then another, he sucked and licked off every bit, in his most luxurious manner.
"Oh! Oh!" Rosamunda cried, soft and high, as she wriggled her legs together in an excess of pleasure - which wriggled everything else.
Oh, oh, indeed, Frodo thought, again fighting off the urge to take her then and there against the kitchen table. He had pictured it often enough. Obviously, her fingers were exceedingly sensitive. Her palm, too, he noted, which was very buttery as well. He licked that off with the flat of his tongue, but across the dip in the middle, where the butter was thickest, he had to rake his teeth. Finally, sucking up the pad of flesh in the angle between her fingers and thumb, he laved it with a finishing swirl and sweep.
This brought on a fresh wave of sighs and whimpers - high but more drawn out. They were wonderful to hear. Frodo had no need to hold her to him any longer; she was pressing back against him and moving herself all about. Reaching her free hand up to find his neck, she twisted her fingers into the hair at his nape. She wanted him closer; she wanted to kiss him - he knew it.
This was becoming too much for Frodo, but he was determined not to surrender. There would be no surrender but hers. He would render her senseless, as senseless as she made him. Withdrawing her fingers from his mouth, he would let her know of this.
"Do you know, Rosa," Frodo began evenly, in spite of the huskiness in his voice - "Do you know how it feels when you do this to me?" Frodo demonstrated what he meant, slowly sliding a finger all the way into his mouth, then dragging it back through a gauntlet of suction and lips and more teeth and always a strong, sinuous tongue flickering, slithering, enfolding and grasping as he moved it slowly in, then out.
Rosamunda made him no answer, but Frodo expected none. Rather, he felt her grow weak, as if she might faint beneath his arm, but for the clutch of her fingers in his hair which she did not give up. He caught her up again with his free arm, rejoicing in her affliction. There would be no fainting, not yet.
Frodo's own breaths were beginning to come too quickly. His little demonstration was taking an unexpected toll on him. Trying to fight his rising desire only seemed to make him feel its effects more keenly. His actions became impatient, almost brusque. Pulling her against him with a rough jerk, he squeezed her under her ribs and tightened his grasp around her wrist. He heard her sharp intake of breath, but compressing her body under his hands seemed to make it easier to keep his mouth soft and silky upon her fingers.
"Your fingers are very sensitive, Rosa, are they not?" he said, forcing himself to breathe more slowly. "Yet, my body, in your mouth, is far more sensitive than your fingers." She wilted with new pleasure as he demonstrated again.
"You like that, don't you, Rosa, your fingers in my mouth? That is what it's like when you have me in yours - only so much worse!"
Frodo loosened his grip for a moment, sensing he was beginning to cross some boundary; but, having crossed it, he squeezed again. He could hear a new strain in his voice, as if he spoke through clenched teeth. Rosamunda must have heard it, too, for her body had stilled. She felt suddenly uneasy in his rigid embrace; alerted; listening.
Where was he going with this? Frodo wondered to himself. He did not clearly know. Gulping down another lung full of air, he strove to finish - but to finish what? He plunged ahead, heedless.
"I want you to know what it feels like, Rosa," Frodo said, his voice rising. He heard the edge in it, but could not sheath it. He yanked her against him again to keep himself from shouting.
"I want you to know what you do to me - what you make me feel. I want you to feel it! I want to make you feel it!"
Rosamunda twisted around to face him, in spite of her captured wrist. Looking into Frodo's flushed face, her eyes blazed.
"You say you want to ‘make me feel it.’ Feel what? What do you want me to feel? Do you really not know what you make me feel? You cannot tell? I am astonished! Must I have one of these for you to be able to tell?"
She had grasped Frodo through the cloth of his breeches, startling more than hurting him, but he grimaced and let her go.
She stumbled backwards, but pressed up close to him again to say in a subdued but almost fierce voice, "Well, Frodo, you must look for other signs, mustn't you!"
Frodo nearly shrank from her, feeling thoroughly chastened.
Rosamunda appeared to relent at the sight his dismay and altered her tone at once. Reaching out her hands she touched his face with her fingertips, as if she might feel out his thoughts.
"You do everything to make me ache to touch you, Frodo. Surely you see how you have succeeded. Or … is it your success that you regret? Oh, I do not understand what it is you want of me."
Upon the last, Rosamunda dropped her hands and turned away.
It felt to Frodo as if a portion of the room's warmth suddenly had withdrawn with her, clinging to her skirts as they swung away from him.
What did he want of her? He wanted everything she did to him. He would die without it!
He would die without it….but would she die without it? Frodo felt as though he had trod upon a serpent. Oh, he did not know, not yet! But he must speak.
"Rosa…I don't know. That is, I meant - I think - I wanted you to feel - I just want to think that you care for me, too."
Frodo struggled to find better words.
"I know that I please you -" Frodo saw her shoulders flinch. "But," he said, taking a deep breath, "I do not know -"
Frodo halted and stared at his feet. He could not say it. He would have said, I know that I please you - but I do not know that you love me. He did not say it, for he could not. If she did not love him, he did not want to know.
Frodo was relieved to look up and see Rosamunda turning to him again, with a softened face, the face he knew. She looked into his eyes. He was not certain what she saw there, for he could not veil them from her, but her own eyes shone. She came to him and twined her arms around him, swift and sure, and he felt no further reservations in that instant.
"I do care for you, Frodo!" she said, one hand upon his cheek, her dark eyes engaging his.
Frodo averted his gaze to hide his disappointment in a kiss upon her neck.
I do care for you. She might have said that to him when he was little! But that was all he had said to her, Frodo admitted to himself, nuzzling his face into her hair, burying himself in her fragrance. He must tell her how he felt at some point, or he would burst! Their private little summer was coming to an end, Frodo knew, however much he pushed the thought aside. He must tell her, and tell her soon.
But not tonight, he thought, wrapping his arms around her as far as they would go, savouring her soft closeness.
The room was restored to warmth.
"Do you think the dough is ready yet?" Frodo murmured behind her ear.
Gently, Rosamunda pushed his shoulders back to look at him. She smiled the smile he loved, tender and familiar.
"There is only one way to know for sure," she answered. "We must go and see." She brushed his nose with hers and gave his lips a feathery kiss.
Their arms about each other's waists, they moved towards the kitchen table.
* * *
Next: Chapter 8, Pt. II
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