West of the Moon
A Tolkien Fanfiction Archive
Matchmaker
Hobbiton needs the services of a matchmaker - whimsical story
Author: Angharad
Rating: PG
When Rufus Barnstock died suddenly and tragically at the age of forty-five he left behind him a prosperous farm, with freehold and leasehold planted and stocked, no debt, an enviable reputation for straight dealing and a young widow, Lily, whose family had cast her off without a second thought when she'd married underage, for love, and beneath her station some twelve years earlier. There were no children and ownership of the farm passed to a second cousin who'd never shown much interest in Rufus or Lily before the will was read and who set about selling off his unexpected windfall as quickly as possible.
Lily had been given life occupancy of the smial, of course, but that was small comfort as she wandered through the rooms alone and tried to block out the noise of the increasingly enthusiastic bidding.
She'd cried her tears and dried them. Her bags were packed. She wouldn't stay here.
Once more she blessed the day when the infamous Bilbo Baggins had dropped by on his way to Brandy Hall and struck up a friendship with Rufus. When Rufus died Bilbo came for the funeral and asked, in his blunt, kind way what Lily intended to do.
"You're not to wither around this place watching strangers take things that were once yours, my dear. I'll not allow it."
She'd sobbed into the old hobbit's comforting shoulder and allowed herself to be persuaded. She would move to Hobbiton after the sale; into a small but pleasant smial on the edge of town and she would build a new life for herself.
* * *
Lily Barnstock had the gift of listening and listening well. Instead of finding herself regarded as a foreigner from the East Farthing she soon became everyone's best friend and confidante and that was why, after a few years in Hobbiton, she began to find herself sought out at all times of the day and sometimes - annoyingly - in the middle of the night to advise and chastise and comfort an astonishing range of discontented, lonely and just plain miserable hobbits.
If Dahlia Sandheaver was pining because Gordo Pitman seemed more interested in the current price of pipeweed than he was in her substantial charms, Lily knew that the apparently oblivious hobbit was merely shy and just needed some encouragement at the Harvest Dancing; when old Ford, the smith, complained about his lonely state since his formidable wife had died of the fever three seasons back, Lily knew of a pleasant widow whose children were all grown and who would like nothing better than to be courted by the taciturn smith. And when the younger lads and lasses poured out their hopes and heartbreaks Lily listened to them all.
So the list wasn't something that she'd planned but, since the need was there, she began to compile a catalogue of names and ages and interests and availability and then she started to cross-reference the list and to make delicate and careful suggestions.
She never told her visitors about the list . . . that would be uncouth. The only person she ever told was Bilbo, when he stopped by one evening to tell her that he'd done a foolish thing and invited his young, orphaned cousin to come and live with him.
They sipped brandy and laughed quietly about the lengths to which some folk would go to ease their loneliness.
Lily wasn't always successful in her matchmaking of course but she had a knack - a sure feeling for the sensibilities of the folk around her and after a little while it was as though she had a family after all. The list grew longer and every evening she found herself making notes and adding names and feeling all the time that this task had somehow become her responsibility.
* * *
Turning seasons and changing lives and all the richness that joys and overwhelms and sometimes clouds the senses: a hint here and a suggestion there and Lily was glad to know that she could make a small difference in her rather humdrum world. And so she watched and she listened and she drank to the health of the happy couples . . . and she smiled and winked at the old Baggins at every gathering when he cast harassed looks in her direction as his wilful cousin kissed brides and grooms alike and refused to conform to anybody's expectations for the heir to Bag End.
Frodo Baggins defeated her. He was charming, impossibly likeable, and certainly attractive - socially and personally. Frodo Baggins was in every way a 'good catch'. And there was no denying the number of smitten lads and lasses who beat a path to Lily's smial and begged her to tell them how to fix an interest with the fascinating blue-eyed hobbit but Frodo was as elusive and difficult as his eccentric cousin - just the thing to keep Bilbo on his toes, thought Lily even as she scanned her lists and despaired of finding any answers.
* * *
Gaffer Gamgee's elder sons Ham and Hal found their way without any help from Lily Barnstock - although the matchmaker wondered a little about Hal when she saw him watching Frodo Baggins drinking himself into an unaccustomed stupor at that merry wedding and then laughing too heartily at some quip from his new father-in-law.
Over light red wine and fresh cream trifle Lily asked Bilbo whether he thought there was something a little odd about Frodo's behaviour that day but the venerable hobbit merely rolled his eyes, muttered something about being too old for all this nonsense and poured more wine.
She couldn't help but notice Bilbo sitting on the dancing lawn late that night with his arms wrapped around a rather sick and miserable Frodo . . . and she walked home alone and unsettled.
* * *
It was high summer and the curtains were drawn against the afternoon heat when Lily sent Violet Chubb happily on her way with assurances that if she could bring herself to find a new and enthusiastic interest in Boffin genealogy she might make rather more headway with young Folco. They were too young and too foolish anyway - although not so young as that cheerful, tow-haired Hornblower lad who seemed to have set his sights on the Cotton lass despite her being a mere babe and despite the difference in their social standing . . . she sighed and set the kettle on the range. Perhaps she needed a holiday but . . .
There was still a light burning in the sconce by the porch so Lily could hardly complain when the bell tinkled and she opened the door to find Bilbo Baggins standing disconsolate on her step.
He'd come to tell her that he was leaving the Shire. Lily poured brandy and refused to cry . . . she'd finished with her crying long ago. And he seemed glad, excited to be leaving - like a silly lad after all, thought Lily, laughing as he recounted some long ago adventure about giant spiders and dwarves with silver belts and tasselled hoods.
Before he left - just as the last stars faded into a new morning - Bilbo kissed her hand and asked her to keep an eye on Frodo.
* * *
Across the party field torn ribbons rippled and turned in the breeze, stained cloths flapped against the trestle tables and Lily Barnstock sat alone with her thoughts.
"Beggin' your pardon, Mistress . . . are you needin' aught?"
It was the youngest Gamgee lad - Samwise? - a kind, sweet-natured hobbit: she'd seen him around the place and noticed his quiet care and she'd smiled at his attention to the gardens and the small things that made up his life . . . he was on her list but had never been to visit and she'd always thought that he would follow his brothers and find his own way.
"No, thank you, Sam; it's kind of you to ask." He stood there a while longer as if he wanted to say more but then turned away, collecting empty dishes into a basket and moving beyond the flickering torch-light.
It was a mild night but Lily pulled her shawl around her shoulders and shivered. If a part of her had died with Rufus all those years ago, Bilbo had challenged her to live despite her loss - and now he was gone. She wished him well . . . she envied his choice to leave on his own terms.
The lanterns still burned in the party tree and Lily watched young Samwise as he moved quietly across the field. She remembered that lad as a child, open-mouthed and absorbed in old Bilbo's tales of elves and wonders: always the one who lingered after the tale was told and finished as if to ask what happened next . . .
"Sam?"
Lily heard Frodo Baggins before she saw him stumbling across the deserted field.
"Sam?"
"Aye, Mister Frodo, I'm right here."
"He's gone."
"Aye, Sir."
Lily watched as Samwise opened his arms and Frodo fell against him . . . and the last stars faded and the gaudy ribbons snarled and snapped in the breeze. Sometimes there was no need to intervene . . .
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