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Sam entered the bedroom, put his basket full of freshly ironed shirts on the bed and opened the wardrobe with grim determination. As usual, he tried to keep himself from taking a quick glance at the articles on the left side of the closet. And as usual, he failed. With a morose sigh, he started putting away the shirts, deep in thoughts.
He was the first to admit he was sentimental about old things. His dad used to rib him about the bric-a-brac Sam kept in a small chest under his bed, but no amount of teasing could convince him he ought to get rid of precious memories such as his mother's shawl, the fluffy rabbit that had been his favourite toy when he was a toddler but was now too old and fragile to be manipulated without falling apart, or the scarf Marigold had knit for him when she was seven; the garment was mustard-coloured and consisted mostly of holes with a little wool around them, and it scratched something awful, but Sam had bravely worn it through the winter before putting it away reverently, surrounded by a barrier of mothballs. The chest had followed Sam without losing a single item when he moved to Bag End; it had even collected a few more of these in the two years he had been living with Frodo, and was now filled nearly to capacity. Sam envisaged to acquire another one soon.
So, it was definitely not fair of him to show so much intolerance of Frodo's own memorabilia, all the more so since Frodo had let him put his tattered chest in a corner of the bedroom and had been sincerely interested in the stories Sam had told him about his modest treasures. But then he had not been collecting belongings from his past lovers, Sam thought with a hint of rebellion as his left hand brushed unintentionally against the fabric of a waistcoat and nearly made it drop. Glaring at the offending piece of clothing, he straightened it with a sharp jerk. Oh, it would have been such a relief to rip it to shreds, along with the nightshirt and cravat hanging on the same coat-hanger, and to permanently misplace the pipe and the pocket watch hidden inside the pocket!
This sudden burst of anger did not last, but it left him uncomfortable and ashamed of himself. He had never been of an jealous disposition before and he felt quite dismayed at finding himself so upset about the presence of some old clothes and trinkets in Frodo's wardrobe. Had Frodo been inclined to have battalions of lovers hide in his closets on a regular basis, Sam's jealousy would have been more justified, but the sad thing was that he did not doubt for an instant that Frodo was deeply in love with him, and faithful to boot. To tell the truth, the idea of Frodo having five lovers before him did bother him a little, but since he was the one Frodo had definitively settled down with, claiming his predecessors had only been rough drafts while Sam was his chef-d'oeuvre, he could hardly complain about Frodo keeping a few mementos of his time with them.
He put the last shirt on its hanger, closed the door and flopped down onto the bed with a self-deprecating snort. Really, who was he kidding? He knew it was absurd and ridiculous, but the truth was that he was awfully jealous of Frodo's previous lovers and that he was unable to forget completely about them, because every time he opened the wardrobe, those dratted things reminded him he had not been the first in Frodo's life. He could not remember without squirming in embarrassment the time he had to stop in the middle of a passionate bout of lovemaking because the closet door was ajar; he could see the clothes out of the corner of his eye, the whiteness of the nightshirt taunting him like the ghost of past love stories, and he had had to get up and close the door before being able to resume his previous activities. Ridiculous, indeed. Frodo had looked surprised, but fortunately Sam's renewed ardour had prevented him from asking about so lunatic a comportment.
Most of the time though, he managed not to think too much about it and was quite content. How could he not be happy, living with Frodo and sharing his table and his bed? And it was not as though Frodo spent a lot of time pestering Sam with nostalgic reminiscences about his love life. Unlike Sam, Frodo was not inclined to tell stories about his past; he rarely talked about his parents, and had only mentioned his ex-lovers when Sam had asked him why he kept such an ill-assorted collection of clothes in his closet.
“I'm not really sure, Sam,” Frodo had said, absently playing with the pocket watch. “I liked these lads very much at the time, though I'm aware now that I wasn't really in love with them, not like I'm in love with you... It hurt to let them go, but I still have good memories of the time I was with them. I wouldn't be the hobbit I am now without them, you know, and I like the idea of having something to make me think of them once in a while.” To say that Sam had not liked the answer would be an understatement, but he had managed to hide his discontentment pretty well, or so he thought.
He had sworn to himself not to address the question again and bother Frodo with his jealous curiosity, and he had kept his word. What he did not manage to do was to stop bothering himself with his jealous curiosity, and worrying endlessly about his predecessors.
Who were they? Gentlehobbits like Frodo or ordinary lads like himself? The nightshirt, all silk and lace, obviously belonged to a wealthy and sophisticated hobbit, and so did the purple velvet cravat with its gold embroidery, but the waistcoat was made of faded homespun fabric and had a few mud stains around the pockets. It was the kind of garment in which a gentlehobbit would not be seen dead. It was also very broad through the shoulders, and Sam could not help being tortured repeatedly by the image of some coarse peasant manhandling his fair Frodo -who, to make things worse, would not have raised any objection to a bit of a tumble with a strapping lad, as Sam knew at first hand.
As for the nondescript pipe and pocket watch, they had challenged Sam's perspicacity for months, until Frodo had mentioned in passing that they belonged to his first lover, and that the reason why the watch was not working any more was that its owner had fallen on it while trying to ride a bad-tempered pony, and had died from the accident. That tragic story had made Sam feel like a worm: although he felt sincere sadness at the unknown lad's untimely death, he also had to admit he was rather relieved he did not have to worry about this particular hobbit coming back in Frodo's life and claiming him.
“I didn't know you needed to watch the closet so closely after putting our shirts away, Sam. Are you afraid they'd go wild and break out of the wardrobe?” Frodo's amused voice startled Sam out of his ruminations, and a glance at the clock told him that he had been sitting on the bed and staring blankly at the closet door for a good half-hour.
“That's not what I'm afraid of,” Sam retorted without thinking. Then, realising what he had just said, he added quickly: “Beside, I don't think the shirts would be able to pull a stunt like that, not after an encounter with May's irons.” He was aware his smile was a little too bright, but Frodo did not seem to notice.
“May's irons are certainly a force to be reckoned with, so I suppose you can left the closet unsupervised for a little while,” Frodo commented, crossing the bedroom and sitting down next to Sam. He wrapped his arm around Sam's waist and kissed him on the cheek. Sam returned the embrace gratefully and, burying his nose in Frodo's hair, tried very hard not to think.
“If you're finished with the taming of shirts,” Frodo said after a few moments, “I'd need your advice about that recipe for wild mushroom soup cousin Peony sent me last week; it has some sherry in it, but I've just checked and we're out of sherry. Do you think we could replace it with whisky?”
“Whisky? Never! That would kill the delicate taste of the wild mushrooms!” Sam exclaimed, horrified at such culinary heresy. “No, you need something much sweeter than whisky. Port, maybe... I'm sure we have a little port left from the last time Mr. Bolger visited, somewhere in the second pantry... That will go perfectly with the wild mushrooms, I think.” Frodo gave Sam a last quick peck on the cheek and stood up, laughing.
“What'd I do without you, Sam? Well then, let's raid the second pantry!” Sam got to his feet and followed Frodo eagerly, all his worries about haunting memorabilia forgotten for the time being.
*****
The next week found Sam in the bedroom, standing once again in front of the wardrobe with an armful of shirts and staring at the inside of the closet. But this time, instead of the determined glower that was his customary expression every time he had to confront the wardrobe and its contents, he had a look of complete befuddlement on his face.
The waistcoat, nightshirt and cravat were gone, and probably the pipe and pocket watch along with them.
Sam blinked several times, then heard himself make a small strangled sound. Heedless of May's wrath, he dropped the shirts on the floor and started rummaging through the clothes, making the coat hangers clatter noisily and several silk waistcoats slid onto the floor. There was no sign of the mementos anywhere.
A warm wave of relief surged inside Sam, followed by a deep feeling of gratitude. How considerate it was of Frodo to have noticed Sam's discomfort and removed what was causing it from his sight! Wearing what he was sure was a foolish smile, Sam picked the shirts and began putting them away in a happy daze, basking in the wonderful feeling of being loved and understood without having to explain himself. He blushed a little at the thought of Frodo being aware of his unwarranted jealousy, but then Frodo did not seem to hold it against him, was he? And it was not as though Sam had asked him to throw these things away. The souvenirs had been whisked away without a word of reproach, despite Frodo's attachment to these relics of his past...
Sam's brisk movements slowed gradually and his smile faded, replaced with a thoughtful frown. There was no way Frodo had destroyed the mementos; he had made very clear they were important to him; he must have tucked them away somewhere... But where? In Mr. Bilbo's wardrobe, maybe, or in Mrs. Belladona's unused sewing room... Or in the third bathroom... Sam could always do a little discreet search of the nooks and crannies of the smial in his free time, just to be sure... With a sudden sense of foreboding, Sam saw himself, obsessively sneaking through Bag End to find an used waistcoat, a yellowed nightshirt, a gaudy cravat, a pipe and a broken pocket watch, hiding from Frodo and working himself up in yet another agony of jealousy. The image made him freeze in horror.
No, he would not let that happen again. He had to pull himself together. He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders and closed the closet door firmly. It was time he stopped being afraid of Frodo's past and started enjoying the present without reservation. It was time he stopped being a fool.
The clock on the mantelpiece chimed softly, announcing it was also time to start making tea, and Sam headed for the kitchen reflexively, still thinking. It was true that he had been stupid, but then it could be said in his defence that he was madly in love, and that love tended to make even the most trivial detail such as old clothes significant and potentially painful, but let real treasures go unnoticed . Bag End was filled with memorabilia that aroused nothing but a mild interest from Sam, and Frodo himself had inherited some pretty valuable objects from his kin that Sam had never given a second thought to.
Sam filled the kettle, chuckling a little derisively to himself. He was a sentimental hobbit and no mistake, but at least nobody could accuse him of being a greedy one. Take that heavy gold ring Mr. Bilbo had given Frodo: it was a lot more precious than a silk cravat or even a pocket watch, but Sam would never have gotten himself in such a state about it. But then, who would have? It was just a meaningless trinket, and apart from being stolen -which would be unfortunate but definitely not the end of the world-, Sam was certain it would never cause any trouble. But love stories... these were another matter entirely, weren't they?