All right, so I'm
a gardener's son and you're to be Master of Buckland. You've made your point,
Mister Brandybuck.
But the comment hadn't really been aimed at him, even subtly; Sam knew that.
That didn't mean it hadn't stung.
I've never seen Lobelia so thoroughly routed, Frodo had laughed. Bravo,
Merry.
Merry had grinned fondly back at him in return. I'm much wealthier than she
is, and I'll be Master of Buckland someday; whereas you, my heart, are merely
filthy rich. No wonder she has no respect for you. And Sam had caught
himself before he flinched, for which he was eternally grateful, but it had
still hurt.
"Yes, we Bagginses have come down in the world," Frodo was saying
drily over the buzz of conversation in the Green Dragon. "If we slip
another notch we'll be poor relations."
"You Bagginses are becoming scarce, is what you're doing," said
Pippin, who to Sam's mind was a bit too young to be knocking back that ale the
way he was. "You should marry and have half a dozen children, Frodo."
Frodo lifted a skeptical eyebrow. "Marry whom?"
"Pearl."
"Your sister Pearl?"
"Or Pervinca. She'd have you."
Sam's tankard came down on the table a little harder than he'd meant. "I
should go now, Mr. Frodo. I'll come 'round tomorrow to see to those beds by the
front fence."
"Oh, Sam, do you have to go?" In the face of the disappointment in
those beautiful eyes Sam nearly relented, but didn't. He had no business
sitting here drinking with the Master and his cousins as if he were one of the
Quality himself, anyway.
"Can't all lie abed as late as we want, can we? Early hours mean laying
off the ale early." And he hadn't really meant it to sting, but to his
bemusement there was a flicker of surprised hurt in Frodo's eyes. Sam smiled,
trying to soften his words, but he was still smarting too much himself to make
it convincing. Before he could make things worse, he turned away, collared the
innkeeper to settle his tab, and made his way out into the night.
On the Bywater Bridge, he stopped to lean his arms on the railing, watching the
water beneath him glitter in the moonlight. Why do you do things like this,
Sam Gamgee? he chided himself wearily. You know all it does is rub your
skin raw and make you all of a temper for days after.
He knew why, in a way; knew why he'd let Frodo talk him into going round the
pub tonight, why he'd done it before, why for all that he knew better he'd
probably do it again. It was because Frodo had a smile like the first golden
light of sunrise and eyes like no lad was ever meant to have, because he knew
more about all sorts of things than Sam could ever hope to know, because
somehow in Sam's heart pure shining worship managed to peacefully coexist with
the far more earthy desire to pull Frodo down onto the soft grass of the garden
and do things to him that
Stop. Stop it now, before you make yourself any more miserable than you are.
Sam stretched his hands out over the water, examining them gloomily. Brown from
the sun, callused from gardening tools, dirt under the nails fine hands for
what they did, but not for unbuttoning small, delicate buttons, for stroking
through soft, sweet-smelling hair, for touching skin that nothing rougher than
the finest-spun linen had any business touching. Sam knew what was said of him
that his head was in the clouds more often than not, that he'd had no
business letting Mr. Bilbo teach him his letters but no one could say that he
didn't know his place. No one could say that he meant to get his feet under the
table proper at Bag End, nor even that he wanted to. No one could even say that
he would have let Frodo have him without ever a word or a kiss exchanged
between them if it meant that he could hold Frodo for just a while as he slept,
watching the moonlight catch and glow in touseled sable hair before he had to
ease away, dress himself, and go home to his own empty bed, leaving Frodo
asleep with rumpled sheets pulled carelessly over him and his hair all tumbled
over his eyes.
Not that Sam had thought much about that issue, mind.
No, Frodo was in one place and Sam was in another and never the twain would
meet, no matter how many times Sam jolted out of a sound sleep with the
imagined taste of Frodo's mouth still on his own. Frodo would marry one of
Pippin's sisters, maybe, and after a while she'd be big-bellied with child and
Sam's heart would crack a little more in his chest every time he looked at her.
Or maybe he'd settle on Merry, though that seemed to have cooled in spite of
the fact that they were as close as ever; Pippin was growing up fast, and Merry
was looking at him now in a way that suggested that he noticed that growing-up
as much as anyone else and felt it keener. And that was all the same to Sam,
because if he never again walked into Bag End and found Frodo and Merry at each
other on the kitchen table, too involved to notice his intrusion, it would be
too soon.
Get home, Sam. Get to bed. You're tired and making yourself heartsick.
But he made no move to go home. Instead he closed his eyes and leaned his head
on his hand, rubbing at his temples with thumb and fingertips.
"Sam?"
Sam jumped half out of his skin and whirled. "Fr Mr. Frodo. Bless you,
sir, you did give me a start."
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to. You left so suddenly, I was a little worried
that we'd done something to upset you, that's all." Frodo leaned against
the railing, hands stuffed carelessly into his pockets, and Sam swallowed hard
and turned away.
"No, Mr. Frodo. I wanted a bit of head-clearing, that's all, and I do
need to be getting home."
"Is Bag End your only job tomorrow? Sleep in, then, if you're not feeling
well. The flowers will wait."
Sam was already shaking his head. "I'm fine, sir."
"You don't look it," Frodo persisted, reaching out to lay a hand on
Sam's forearm. Sam took a deep breath and moved his arm away. The loss of
contact hurt, and what hurt worse was looking up to see Frodo looking as if Sam
had slapped him.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Frodo, I didn't mean " He should let this go, he
knew it, let them both cover up the slip with good manners and cordial business
relations, and he couldn't. "I'm your gardener, is all, and it wouldn't be
right for me to look to be treated like one of your friends."
And now he'd made that hurt in Frodo's face worse, and maybe he should just say
his goodnights and go home. "Sam if you weren't my gardener, would it be
all right then? I mean I mean for you to come and have a drink with me, or
with us, and not feel however it is that you felt?"
Sam gave him a wry look. "Thinking of sacking me?"
Sudden temper flared in Frodo's eyes, making Sam wonder miserably just how much
worse he could make things. "No, and don't change the subject."
Sam frowned, trying to work out how his being sacked was a change of subject
from his not being Frodo's gardener anymore. "Mr. Frodo, what do you want
me to say? What's the good in mulling over wherefores and what-ifs?"
"I want to know, that's what. I want to know that you came with us tonight
because you wanted to, not because the Master of Bag End asked you to and you
didn't feel that you could refuse."
Sam sighed and rubbed his fingertips over his forehead. "I did want
to," he said quietly. "I did. But I shouldn't have, and I knew it
when I went."
"Why not?" Frodo demanded in a tone of voice that suggested that he
knew perfectly well why not.
"You know the answer to that, sir. It's not proper."
"To hell with propriety!" Frodo exclaimed in frustration.
"Mr. Frodo!"
"The Bagginses aren't proper."
"Well, the Gamgees are."
Silence hung between them then, hot and uncomfortable; Sam wondered if they
were actually having an argument, and if they were really arguing about
propriety and drinks or something else altogether.
"I'm sorry, Sam," Frodo whispered finally, looking out over the
water. "I pushed too hard and now I've offended you "
"No." Sam interrupted him. "You haven't, and there's nothing for
anyone to be sorry for. It's it's the way things are, is all."
"But it doesn't have to be." There was an odd, tense note in Frodo's
voice, and what sounded so like pleading that Sam closed his eyes and turned
away.
"But it is." It is, and I've nothing to offer you but love and a
garden full of flowers, and what are those to you when you've more of both than
you'll ever need?
"You never answered me. If you weren't my gardener, would things still be
like this?"
Oh, Sam wanted to touch him. Just for a moment, a friendly touch on the hand or
the arm, and some part of his brain begged for permission to do exactly that.
But there was too much in him that kept stubbornly saying No, it isn't
proper, and the part of him that wanted that touch went and sat in a corner
of his mind and cried. "Mr. Frodo, you've got friends and kin strewn all
over the Shire, why would you "
"Don't do that, Sam. Don't make it sound as if "
"As if what?"
"As if it didn't matter to me who my friends are as long as I have enough
of them. It isn't friends I want, Sam, it's " He bit off the end
of his sentence and turned his head to look out at the water again, blinking
hard.
It's you; Sam would have given thirty years of his life to hear that
from Frodo. But the Quality might tumble their servants but they didn't stand
on bridges with them in the middle of the night making half-formed declarations
of love or desire or whatever Sam's overwrought brain was trying to twist this
into. What would he want with you, Sam Gamgee? You're tired and you aren't
thinking straight. Say your goodbyes and go home.
They might tumble their servants but they didn't do anything more; and Sam had
seen enough to know how things were when the tumbling was over. He might not
have a mind like Frodo's that could seize on anything and understand it in a
moment's flash, but he wasn't a bubble-headed tweenie with her sights set on
the Mistress' place at the dinner table either. Sam loved Frodo and thought the
world of him, and really believed that Frodo would have cut out his own tongue
before he'd be deliberately cruel, but well, relationships like that ran a
shorter course than most, and those huge, expressive eyes wouldn't be able to
hide indifference for long.
But he would have done it, even knowing. Just to be able to touch Frodo, just
for one night, even if he cried over it for the rest of his life.
Then Sam shook his head a little, disgusted with himself. Look at you, going
on like he'd asked you to bed. He knows how things are as well as you do, Sam
my lad, and with Merry warming his bed he'd never turn his eyes to you anyway.
"It's late, Mr. Frodo," he said gently. "You're tired and so am
I. I'm going home to bed now, and best you do the same."
Frodo looked over at him, face tight and set. "Sam "
"Yes, sir?" Sam asked after a moment.
Frodo sighed and closed his eyes, shoulders slumping. "Never mind. Good
night, Sam."
"Good night, Mr. Frodo," Sam answered, and started for home.
