Frances Barratt's Fanfiction Page 8 -Truth Will Out-

-TRUTH WILL OUT- by Frances Barratt Part 1 Two miles from Brandy Hall to the West and Crickhollow to the North; nestling against the border hedge-defence known as the High Hay, was the Brandybuck Annexe. Closer than most homes to the edge of the Old Forest, the Annexe had been home to Saradoc 'Scattergold' and his kindred since cousin Seredic had learned to use his tongue in an abusive manner. It mattered little to the brat that Saradoc would eventually inherit Brandy Hall, and that it ought to be his kindred who moved away, not Saradoc's. But Seredic had been tutored from a very tender age in the art of spite; not by his father -- as might be expected -- but by his mother: the notoriously embittered Acacia Chubb. When she had wed into the regal Brandybuck clan, she had brought with her an inflated ego and an overblown sense of importance. She had set herself up as the Mistress of Brandy Hall; ignoring family seniority and common courtesy. So in the interest of keeping the peace, Saradoc had wed Esmeralda Took and taken her away from the vitriolic nature of his cousin's wife and son. Esmerald Took had more than a hint of being 'fey' in her nature. She above most female hobbits, tapped into the very essence of life and the world beyond the borders of the Shire -- including those of Buckland. Not that she was capable of wizardry; no, that was the reserve of a limited few. Esmeralda needed no more than intuiton: the gift to be able to read folk and anticipate their actions. Given recent events and her understanding of the curiosity of Frodo Baggins, she was well prepared to receive her surrogate son when he came calling that particular Saturday morning. "Let me guess," she said to him when he virtually fell into her hallway. "You've come to pick my brains." Arrested in his urgency, Frodo narrowed his eyes at her. "Did Uncle Saradas tell you I might come?" "No. Well, not precisely that. He sent a message to say you'd fled." She crossed her arms. "Fled; yes, that was the very word. Hello, Sam," she smiled at the bewildered hobbit. "Have you had breakfast?" "Before we left Crickhollow," Sam informed. "So you'd welcome a second portion," she stated rather than invited. "If it's hot food? Yes please!" "Then come in. Merry's about the place somewhere," and she called out her son's name. "Patience, Frodo," she said as an aside. "But... Sam has to be home by tomorrow," Frodo said, skipping after her. "Tomorrow?" and her mouth puckered into a smile. "How long do you expect your query to take?" She led them to the kitchen. "I... I don't know." "Perhaps you'd best enlighten me as to its nature," beckoning for them to sit down. "Mother and Father." Frodo sat down but remained taut as if ready to run. "A broad subject." Her attention wandered to the doorway. "Here's Merry. Our Frodo has a burning desire to delve into the past," she said, winking at Merry. "Will you look after Sam whilst I try to satisfy his curiosity?" "Certainly, Ma." Merry bounced into the kitchen like some skittish animal; perched himself on a bench beside Sam and proceeded to dole out a second-breakfast -- for the two of them. "Do you like your bacon well-done, Sam?" "As a matter of fact --" "Good; so do I!" Hooking an arm through Frodo's, Esme drew him away. "The parlour is quiet," she murmured. "Saradoc's gone down to Bucklebury and won't be home until this evening," and her smile was meant to reassure Frodo. "I found notebooks, letters and a Journal belonging to Mother -- in the house at Crickhollow." "Ah." "I haven't had time to read much yet," he admitted as they walked. "How much have you read?" "Just a few dates in the Journal." Esme's stomach took an unexpected lurch and she fought to quell it; by which time, they had entered the parlour. "Which disturbed you enough to come here." She gestured for Frodo to sit on one of the fireside chairs. "They quarrelled," he stated quietly. "They did that!" she agreed, sitting facing him. "Over Bilbo," he added, watching Esme's face intently. "None of it adds up." "It wasn't an arithmetic lesson!" "Then what was it?" "A lesson in kinship and family loyalties." "I don't understand you." "Bilbo and Prim were first cousins -- like my Merry and Pippin." "I know what first cousins are." "Forbidden love." Frodo snorted. "Bilbo didn't say that; he told me she didn't love him. Now, Uncle Saradas says she did!" and his voice rose in passionate outrage. "Someone is lying to me!" he said, daring her to offer him yet another one. Esme cleared her throat; interlaced her fingers and looked Frodo directly in the eyes. "Saradas told you the truth." "Then... would you tell me the whole story?" "I can only tell you as much as she told me; some of which is sure to be amongst those books you say you found." She paused. "I wondered what had become of them..." "So you were her friend." "Yes; we were good friends," Esme asserted, as if she'd forgotten it. Recovering her composure, she asked Frodo if he'd like more food before she began the tale. He declined, accepting only a cup of tea, then sat expectantly in the arm-chair for Esme's version of events. TO BE CONTINUED...

-TRUTH WILL OUT- by Frances Barratt Part 2 Esme settled herself in the armchair; a cup of hot tea cradled in her hands. In all the years she had known Prim, she had feared the questions that Frodo now raised. Taking a deep breath, she began. "Of course, it all began when I was but a girl myself. The Tooks and Brandybucks have always been close -- as you are well aware -- but Prim was somehow one on her own. She never deliberately set out to flout customs, rules or even the Law, but that's what often happened. I suppose it must have been back in 'forty that she and Bilbo actually met; and what a meeting! I could tell they were like-minded and I spared a moment to attribute it to the Took bloodline! She hadn't finished her schooling at that time and was home on holiday for Overlithe. Glorious weather too, as I recall." Frodo listened eagerly, wanting to interrupt with questions only thinking better of it, since Esme was in full flow. "How did they meet?" he dared cut in. "What? Oh, it was Aunt Mirabella's birthday -- your Grandmother," Esme explained. "Her sister Belladonna was Bilbo's mother of course, so that's why he was there. Aunt 'Donna' hadn't been dead for long so Prim did the courteous thing and conveyed her sympathies, since she'd been away when it happened. 'Mighty oaks...'," she quoted. "Such a tiny thing... so unremarkable; but the rest was not. Bilbo had taken Drogo with him, thinking him an ideal companion for the journey and -- since Saradas and Drogo were of an age -- that the two, almost-mature, young hobbits, might enjoy each other's company. Oh, if only Bilbo had not taken your Father with him!" She looked at Frodo. "You will think me foolish -- or even that I am fabricating this -- but I remember seeing the four of them together that day: Saradas and his little sister Prim; Bilbo and Drogo Baggins, all standing in an innocent group -- and I felt uneasy." Her hands tightened around the cup until she came to her senses and set it to one side. "I read the expression on Drogo's face and knew his intent. He had already thought beyond friendship and fun." "Love at first sight?" Frodo queried. "Love? I'm not sure about that; not even to this day. He desired Prim, any fool could see that, even when they were wed; but love?" She shook her head. "The Bagginses are -- on the whole -- a level-headed bunch; but every so often a wild-card turns up. Your Father was such a one." "So Mother had no interest in him at first?" "No, Frodo." "And you believe love grew between her and Bilbo because of their love of books?" "I do; most definitely. Saradas kindled that love without ever consciously knowing it. Prim learned much at Michel Delving School and would debate with her brother. But with Bilbo, she was the pupil; he knew as much as she did on a wealth of subjects." "Because of his Great Adventure!" Frodo realised. "Partly. And that was another thing that annoyed Drogo: the rumours about the 'treasure' Bilbo brought back from that adventure. Bilbo was most secretive about the nature and amount. But that was yet to happen. Going back to Mirabella's birthday: Bilbo was simply behaving as a guest; talking to all his varied relations, and dragging Drogo around with him. Of course, he had warmed to Prim's youthful enthusiasm; perhaps was even flattered by her thirst for knowledge, but I would never, ever accept that his intentions towards her were dishonourable." "Dishonourable?" Frodo echoed. "Yes. It took a while to circulate of course -- and even Prim guessed the source -- but word was whispered that Bilbo Baggins had an unhealthy interest in Primula Brandybuck. She did her best to deny the rumours; going as far as to draw together Drogo and Bilbo and have them face her father. From what I heard about Gorbadoc, he inspired the truth! No one dared tell him a lie for if he uncovered it then his anger knew no bounds! He lectured his kindred with a proverb that Old Rory adopted too: 'you can lock up against a thief but not a liar'. Lies were regarded as the ultimate sin. I can see the point too: once begun, a lie has little chance of being withdrawn. It's llike a snowball rolling down a hillside: growing under its own momentum." So many questions swam around in Frodo's mind that he didn't know which to ask first. Meanwhile, Esme continued to talk... "When a certain Wizard went calling at Bag-End and Bilbo left in such a cloud of mystery, I noticed how disappointed Prim seemed. When I asked her about it, she simply smiled; tossed those extra-ordinarily-dark curls of hers and dismissed it all as my imagination. But I knew I was right: she yearned after Bilbo, and when he returned, it was all anyone could do to prevent her from dashing into Hobbiton to question him!" "And my Father -- what had he been doing in Bilbo's absence?" Esme returned from her self-imposed trip into the Past; focused her eyes sympathetically upon Frodo and said: "He hadn't been idle. In the long months of Bilbo's absence, he cultivated a friendship with Saradas -- remember, they were the same age -- thinking to use it as a means of ingratiating himself with Prim. Oh, he was honey-tongued in that regard!" she said contemptuously, "and our sweet-thing slowly became ensnared: like a fly on a spider's-web." Frodo gazed into the fire. "But the timespan," he muttered. A hand fell on his and he looked up. "Twenty-eight years, by my reckoning," he said to Esme. "Between them meeting and your birth," she confirmed. "A long time indeed." But there were three hobbits concerned in that 'meeting' and Esme was not specific in the pairing of which two. "I can tell you no more," she suddenly decided. "Go home, Frodo; read what Prim set down and then, if you have questions, I wil attempt to answer them." He viewed her with suspicion; there was enough Took blood in his veins to warn him of some sort of deception. "There's more, I can sense it," he insisted. "There's always more, Frodo." She rose from the chair. "I'll provide you with luncheon then you and Sam must head home. Read the books, my Lamb," she said kindly and turned her face away. A promise made could not be broken... TO BE CONTINUED...

Frodo reading his mother's journal.

-TRUTH WILL OUT-... by Frances Barratt Part 3 The books smelled of mint and lavender; the latter conjuring up images for Frodo of warm, summer-days and a pale-faced lass. "Jess," he murmured, until a far older memory fought its way to the forefront. "Mother!" he let go of on a strangled whisper. "Mercy! Was I seeing you in Jess?" It hadn't occured to him in the years he had known the lass; but older -- and perhaps wiser -- hobbits might have quoted him a long-held belief: that lads look for a lass most like their mothers; whilst a lass often weds a younger version of her father. The more he thought about it, the more similarities he found. Of course, having now seen the drawing of his Mother, had made the comparison more evident. He had taken the bundle of letters and books out of Sam's satchel as soon as they'd reached Bagshot Row. In the open air, their scent hadn't been apparent; but now, in the confines of his own room in Bag-end, they wafted on the air as fresh as newmade bread. As tempting as they were, his trembling fingers had a reluctance in them that forestalled him opening any of them. "This is no good," he told himself. "All that fuss and now you daren't read what's in there!" Summoning every ounce of determination, Frodo selected the Recipe Book from the pile on his bed. Kneeling down; elbows on the bed; the book at half-an-arm's length from him, he opened it and returned to the first of the Journal entries: 26th of Foreyule 1371: We have finally got the fire lit and this little house feels less like a tomb. I do hope my Sweet Boy will be safe here. I have to hope that he grows up more like the Brandybucks than Bagginses. At present, everyone comments that he looks like me. Good! Therein lies his security. Drogo is already jealous of the Boy. He berates me for the attention I give to Frodo. When I tell him that it is natural for a mother to dote on her son, he seems to accept the explanation. There is truth in it; he is the most precious thing in my life... A blotch on the page had partly obliterated the word 'life', though it was still decipherable. Through the words, Frodo interpreted a great sense of unhappiness. His mother had seemed at odds with herself; caught up between love for husband and son -- or so he thought. "This is no good," Frodo muttered to himself. "Random entries aren't helping, I must put them in order." Untying the blue ribbon securing the bundle of notebooks, he spread them on the eiderdown. There were nine in all but he had to look at the first page of each to find out which year -- or years -- they covered. It didn't take long to put them into chronological order, beginning in 1372; but that book began in Rethe of that year -- which seemed a little odd... Snatching up the original Recipe Book, Frodo returned to the text he'd read to himself when the book had come to light; when he'd revealed to Sam that his parents had argued over Bilbo. He squinted at the words now and digested each one: 5th of Solmath 1372: The weather is good but the atmosphere is not. Drogo will not set aside his jealousy. After all these years, I had hoped it was long-buried. My words of reassurance are now sounding empty even to my ears and the suspicion in his eyes grows brighter with each challenge. Yet I must protect Frodo. He is my Son; my Best Beloved and the sole reason I agreed to move to this desolate place. I suppose that was the plan: to remove me entirely from my past-life. My only respite comes when I take Frodo and we visit Esme. Thank Fortune for her and her integrity. Without her, these past handful of years could not have been borne. The deception of it all cuts me to the quick, but what else can I do? Drogo even resents my friendship with Esme but he cannot deny me the right to visit my cousins. But he accuses me of going there to meet Bilbo. As if I dare take Frodo! The words my husband spat out at me are still ringing in my ears. 'Infidelity' burns my soul. There is no infidelity -- not any more... Frodo heard the gasp and looked over his shoulder -- but he was quite alone. He found it difficult to read the last three words on the page; again, the ink had smudged and he now knew it to be falling tears that had all but erased them. He was not to realise that their illegibility was shielding him from a secret known only to two hobbits -- one of whom was long-dead. He turned the page -- the last one in the old Recipe Book -- and saw that something appeared to be lodged underneath the edge of the brown-paper covering. Pulling it out revealed a folded scrap of yellowing paper. Setting down the book, he unfolded the new artifact -- and that's when he discovered The Letter... TO BE CONTINUED...

Is Frodo finally going to get some answers?

-TRUTH WILL OUT... – by Frances Barratt Part 4 Curiosity controlled Frodo's actions as he hastily unfolded the paper. It wasn't large; no more than a page torn from one of the notebooks, but the creases bore witness to its age. It hadn't been opened since the day it was written -- and the date was in the top, left-hand corner... 1st of Rethe 1380 My Darling Frodo, If you are reading this then the worst has happened and we cannot speak face to face, for I have the strangest foreboding that drives me to commit these words to paper. Know this, Frodo: I love you and have always loved you, even before you were born. That may sound natural to you but it is not. Oh, how difficult this is becoming. You may come to hear slander spoken against me, and Drogo might try to poison your mind against me, but I pray you will listen to your heart, my Lamb -- always! We often do things that -- in hindsight -- seem rash, whether it be a taunt to a childhood companion or deceiving a grown-up; I was once guilty of a rash action, Frodo and I now fear that you will bear the consequences. Esme knows to what I refer. Seek her out, Frodo; show her this letter and trust her judgement as to whether she reveals the secret or not, for I made her promise never to do so. Be happy in your life, Frodo. My love goes with you -- eternally. Mother. Frodo's hands shook and he again looked at the date. It had been the fourth day of Rethe that both of his parents had drowned on the Brandywine. A boating accident it had been termed. All the lad in his twelfth year remembered was the announcement from... who had told him? Ah yes -- Saradas. The announcement that his parents could not take him home and that he was to return to the Hall with his Uncle. No one knew of course, exactly what had happened for both to have drowned. He read the letter again. Why had she written it when she had? Why hide it? Perhaps the answer lay in the Journal for that year of 1380. Then he read the part concerning Esme and her involvement. "Involvement in what?" he said aloud. "Frodo?" Bilbo's voice questioned. The lad swung around on his knees and blinked up at his benefactor. Brandishing the letter, he struggled to his feet. "This was written by Mother, three days before she died!" and he thrust the paper under Bilbo's nose. Baffled, the Master of Bag-End took it and read it for himself. Only once did he glance at Frodo. Only once did his heart race, and that was at the sight of Drogo's name and Prim's veiled fear. He sighed. "She was unhappy," he stressed. A tear trickled slowly down one cheek and to the corner of his mouth. "Why did I never insist? Had I done so..." He looked directly at Frodo. "You might well have been my son," and he actually smiled. "Now that would have been an honour!" "I must return to ask Esme what this all means," and he took back the letter. "Is that wise?" Frodo frowned. "Wise? There have been too many hints that my parents were not happy together. Unless you can enlighten me, then I must obey this instruction from beyond the grave." He bestowed a resolute expression upon Bilbo. "My dear boy, take care you do not disturb too large a nest of hornets." "The truth, Bilbo; I only seek the truth." "Sometimes, my lad, the truth is best left buried." "What can you fear in its revelation?" "Your judgement." Blinking, Frodo walked past Bilbo; turned at the door and said: "I know you loved her; I cannot judge you harshly for that," and he turned again, resuming his exit. Bilbo saw through tear-misted eyes, the notebooks still spread out on Frodo's bed. He walked towards them, put out a hand but hastily snatched it back. "No! Memories will suffice for me, Prim." Gazing up to the curved ceiling, he added a plea: "Watch over the boy, he's going to need your strength." TO BE CONTINUED...

Bilbo tells Frodo that the truth is best left burried.

-Truth Will Out….- by Frances Barratt Part 5 Esme sat rocking back and forth on the garden bench at the Annexe. In the nine years since the death of her friend and confidante, she had often speculated upon Prim's demise. There had been gossip soon after the drowning -- only to be expected, given most hobbit's aversion to water -- chiefly, that Prim had pushed Drogo from the boat and he'd dragged her into the river after him. He couldn't swim anymore than any other hobbit, so the storytellers had built up a wondrous tale around their greatest phobia. Esme had taken it all in without comment, drawing her own conclusions as to the truth of the matter. She believed there had been a final quarrel that day and in the ensuing struggle, disaster had overtaken the pair of them. Secretly, she always thought it had been Drogo's intent to survive... Frodo had been and gone. He'd brought The Letter and showed it to her. Impassively, she had read the words and recalled the images behind them; incidents known only to Prim and herself. Incidents that ought never to be revealed. What now was the point of revealing them? Frodo was where he was meant to be; Prim could rest in peace. "I made a promise, Prim; I will not break it." Nor did she. THE END

Main Page

Frodo handing over his mother' s letter to Esme. Will she reveal his family secret?