Sam lost sight of Lad immediately after Fleetfoot's morning race. Lad had been talking with two hobbits at the far end of the field as he climbed off the pony, but they were gone before Sam could cross the length of the racing course to meet them. It didn't worry him much--he assumed that they'd gone to meet Frodo, and Lad wasn't required to run his pony again until after lunch--but he thought it best to leave the fairfield to follow and be sure that everything went well. He was still concerned that Frodo would get himself into trouble by intervening in Lad's problem; Frodo meant well, as he always did, but he didn't know what these racing toughs could be like.
As he approached the White Chestnut, he saw one of the hobbits he'd glimpsed with Lad leaning on the curved jamb open front door of the inn, smoking a pipe. Lad and the other one must be inside with Frodo.
Before Sam could make his way across the market square to enter the inn, a young lady in a blue dress with a large straw hat tied closely around the sides of her head, following behind a group of chattering ladies as if she were one of them, darted out of the front door past the hobbit lounging there. Keeping her face carefully averted from sight, she came up to Sam and took him by the arm. For a startled, confused moment, Sam thought it was Angelica, but before he could say a word, an astonishing thing happened: this strange young lady leaned close and warm lips brushed his cheek. An all-too familiar voice whispered in his ear, "Behave naturally, Sam. Don't draw attention to us."
Sam turned to peer at the face under the hat's brim. In spite of the injunction to behave naturally, he couldn't help nearly blurting out, "Fr-!"
Fingers gently pressed over his mouth to silence him before he spoke the name. "Hush! I'll explain it as soon as I can." And, holding the bewildered Sam's arm with unladylike firmness, his companion escorted him swiftly across the square.
When they were several hundred yards away from the inn and heading down the high street, Sam asked, "Frodo, what's going on? Why are you dressed like that?"
Frodo glanced over his shoulder to be sure they hadn't been noticed or followed. "It's rather a long story. Let's find a private place where we can talk. I've got a lot to tell you."
At the nearest lane, they turned and left the high street; the lane wound between the hummocks of several smials dug into the downs, then sloped steeply down toward the broad stream at bottom. They crossed the stream and followed a footpath on the opposite bank that led westward out of town, until they eventually came to a grove of trees with a bench made of a split log at its center. This was obviously a common trysting-place for courting couples, but no one was in sight today.
Frodo sat down on the bench and undid the ribbons tied beneath his chin to take the hat off and set it down beside himself. While he recited the key points of his encounter with the Longchalks, and how his attempt to deal with them had turned out, Sam plunked himself down onto the grass at Frodo's feet and gaped up at him in a state of dazzled wonderment. Now that he could see Frodo's face, his appearance was even more astonishing.
"I knew I had to get out and find you, Sam, but those Longchalk brothers were keeping watch to see that Lad and I couldn't leave," Frodo concluded his tale. "You saw the one standing guard at the door, and the other was at the stable-yard gate. I couldn't even climb out a window. If Angelica hadn't come in, I might be sitting there still, with no hope of sneaking out. Fortunately, there were so many women in and out of the inn today that one more would go unnoticed. I was just working up my nerve to go out, when I saw you."
Sam realized now why he had at first mistaken Frodo for Angelica: the dress was one he'd seen her wear many times: a skirt of becoming robin's-egg blue with a lace-work blouse and darker blue bodice, laced more tightly around Frodo's slender waist and flat chest than around Angelica's buxom figure. The ends of Frodo's hair had been curled into little ringlets; Angelica had probably done that for him. Until now, Sam hadn't noticed how much the two cousins resembled each other. Dressed this way, Frodo might almost be Angelica's sister. "And where's Angelica now?" he asked.
"I left her in our room. We had to go there to change clothes, of course, after Angelica borrowed this nice, big hat from a friend of hers who was having lunch in the common room."
"Didn't Lad see this?"
"Oh, no. He was hiding from his wife. He didn't want her to know what was going on, remember, although Angelica's no fool and knew very well that there was some mischief about." Frodo sat forward, elbows on his knees. "Listen, Sam, we'll need your help to get out of this fix. When is the next race Fleetfoot runs in?"
"That'll be the first after lunch, in just about an hour." Sam's eyes went wide. "Only, Lad won't be there to ride 'm!"
"Yes, that's just what those Longchalks intend, to see the pony taken out of the betting. When you go back to the fairfields, you must see that he does run. Tell Milo Lad has been detained and he'll have to ride- No," Frodo stopped as a better idea occurred to him. "Tell him that Mosco should ride. The boy is old enough now, and he's his father's son. He knows how to sit a pony as well as any youngster in the Shire, and he's light enough that he may give Fleetfoot the advantage he needs to win. Tell Milo."
Sam nodded.
"I want you to wager whatever money you have with you on that race. Have Merry and Pippin do so too. If Fleetfoot does win, bring your winnings back to me at the White Chestnut."
"What if Fleetfoot doesn't win?" asked Sam.
Frodo sighed. "Then I will just have to think of something else."
As he sat back again, he crossed his legs, revealing a froth of lace-edged petticoats and pantalets--more than a lady would show. Sam had seen plenty of lacey undergarments in his lifetime. He'd grown up in a tiny bungalow with three sisters who left their laundry out to dry everywhere, and he'd been married for more than two years. He'd never found women's clothing especially fascinating or exciting before, but the sight of Frodo wearing these things made his heart beat faster. He couldn't help staring.
"I have to go back to the inn soon," Frodo continued. "I don't want to leave Lad and Angelica waiting and wondering what's happened to me. No matter how the race turns out, come there to find me."
"I wouldn't leave you there in a muddle in any case," Sam answered.
"Dearest Sam." Then Frodo noticed the way Sam was staring at him. "What is it?" he asked. "Do I look so odd, Sam? I know I must, dressed in these clothes." He tugged at the skirt. "I feel very silly."
"No," Sam responded quickly. "You don't look odd at all. You look... beautiful. I never saw you look so pretty."
Frodo stared back at him, then laughed. "I wanted to look passable as a girl--not better!" He regarded Sam thoughtfully for a moment; a small smile flickered on the corner of his mouth and a impish look appeared in his eyes. "Oh, very well." He stood up. "We still have a little time before we have to go back."
He ruffled up the skirt and petticoats, reaching beneath them into the small of his back until, to Sam's astonishment, he undid the waistband of the pantalets and they dropped about his ankles.
"What're you doing?"
"Precisely what you were hoping I'd do, Sam," Frodo answered as he stepped out of the pantalets, then picked them up to toss them onto the bench. "Don't deny it. I can see it in the way you've been looking at me--You'd like to try this out." He sat down again. "You'd better give me your coat to put beneath me, otherwise I'll get splinters in hard-to-explain places."
Sam glanced fretfully out through the gaps in the trees around them at the empty fields and downs beyond. "What if somebody comes along and sees?"
"I don't think that's likely. Everyone's over at the races or in town at the fair, and if somebody should happen along, they won't intrude. They won't know who we are. I'm sure this sort of thing goes on all the time in this secluded little spot. It's just made for it." Hiking his skirts high onto his thighs, Frodo patted a bare knee. "Come on, then. We don't have that much time, and we may never have another such opportunity."
Thus summoned, Sam crawled swiftly over to the foot of the bench. Frodo took his hand, and placed it on his knee where his own hand had been a minute before. As they began to kiss, Sam let his hand travel slowly up Frodo's flank. A caress bestowed a hundred times or more, but that he should do it this once up beneath layers of rustling, starched petticoats made the touch all the more thrilling for them both.
Frodo laughed, "That tickles!"
As he wriggled to move closer, Sam slid both hands beneath his bottom--remembering what Frodo had said about splinters--and tried to lift him up off the bench, and at the same time shove the skirts up out of the way. Then he lost his balance; his hands slipped and he fell backwards onto the grass, petticoats in his face as Frodo landed atop him. Sam puffed to blow the cloth from his face and struggled to untangle his fingers, which had been caught in the eyelets of the lace, when Frodo's hands quickly closed over his.
"Take care, Sam!" Frodo said and placed a light kiss on the exposed tip of his nose. "Hold still. You'll tear it, and Angelica will never forgive me if I muss up her best clothes."
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