Chapter One
"I've been thinking about it, and I've come to a decision. I'm going to get married." Georg von Trapp paused, watching over the rim of his coffee cup for her reaction.
"Oh, Georg, I didn't know you cared," Elsa Schraeder said airily, lighting a cigarette before joining him in a hearty laugh.
He'd arrived early for their business meeting, hoping she'd feed him breakfast on her patio, so they could enjoy an uncommonly warm, beautiful spring morning. Although he was a frequent visitor to her home, he always stayed at one or another of Vienna's finest hotels, to fend off the gossips. Not, of course, that there was anything to gossip about. Elsa Schraeder and Georg von Trapp were business partners and, much to their mutual surprise, the best of friends. But no hotel could match Elsa's townhouse: tastefully decorated, with flawless service and superb food, even at breakfast.
"It's just that I can't go on this way," he explained. "My children need a mother, for one thing. They're completely out of control. They've driven ten governesses away since, uh …" he paused uncomfortably, "since their mother died, and I can't be called home from my business interests in Vienna to deal with them every time I turn around. And my staff, well," he sighed, "my housekeeper's getting on, and I just don't trust my butler. So, you see, I need someone to run the household as well." .
Georg didn't add that recently, and much to his shocked chagrin, his body had awakened from its four years' nap, reminding him that while his beloved wife was dead, he was still very much alive, a man in his prime. The very thought of another woman in his bed made him feel guilty. But he suspected that he'd feel twice as guilty if he took a mistress, even if such an arrangement would be more efficient. No, he'd have to find himself a wife, even though in his heart of hearts, he knew he'd never love anyone the way he'd loved Agathe.
Elsa refilled his coffee cup, interrupting his thoughts. "Have you settled on a candidate yet?" she asked, her eyes sparkling with interest. "Do tell me. Is it that little blonde sprite, Marilese – what was her last name again? You hate dancing, and yet you danced with her twice last night."
He snorted. "Marilese Etten. Lovely young girl. She was confiding in me about her romance with the family's chauffeur. Her parents would be thrilled to unload her on me, but come on, Elsa. She's not three years older than my oldest daughter."
"Or is it someone more – sophisticated? Like Elana Larsen?" Elsa leaned forward, lifting her beautifully groomed eyebrows so suggestively he laughed.
"Elsa. Be realistic. If Elana married me, I'd have to insist that she stop sleeping her way to the world's priciest jewelry collection. I'm not that rich."
"Well, whatever will make you happy, Georg darling. We'll have to draw up a list of suitable candidates. Now. I've got to go freshen up, and then I want to show you those tax papers, and I've got some shopping to do before we meet the Millers for lunch. Meet me in the library in a quarter hour, will you?" She blew a kiss in his direction and disappeared into the house.
Georg got himself another cup of coffee and settled into the library to wait for her, knowing that Elsa's fifteen-minute freshen-ups could easily take twice that long. His friendship with Elsa was the latest example of how his life had turned out nothing like he'd expected. The ne'er do well descendant of a barely aristocratic land-owning family, he'd found his passion at sea. An infamous rake, he'd married an heiress and settled into a long and happy marriage, fathering seven children. He'd become a national hero ("What was I supposed to do?" he'd asked his wife. "Let them sink my submarine?"). A man known for icy self-control in the most terrifying of circumstances, he'd fallen apart four years ago at the death of his wife.
And then, ten months ago, Georg von Trapp – who'd grown up an only child, schooled at home on an isolated countryside estate, who'd never sought the easy camaraderie of his fellow seamen because he rose above them at such a young age – Georg von Trapp had made a friend. A charming, witty, beautiful widow named Elsa Schraeder.
He remembered their first meeting as though it were yesterday and not almost a year ago: she'd been finishing a cigarette on the balcony at the von Appel's musicale when she'd spotted him sulking in the shadows.
"Aren't you going to come in?" she asked. "The program's about to begin."
From the beginning, he'd loved the sound of her voice. Sometimes, he made her read the newspaper aloud to him, just to revel in how she could make the dark headlines sound
"No," he snapped. "I don't listen to music." He didn't bother to complete the thought out loud: not anymore.
"If you hate music, then why are you at a musicale?" she asked, practically. Her manner was warm and friendly, but not, thank God, flirtatious. And she was awfully easy on the eyes.
"von Appel is a business associate of mine. He begged me to come, and I foolishly agreed. Only after I got here, did I realize that he has hopes of making a match for me. With his daughter," he added bitterly. "And as for music? I used to adore it. I play several instruments. My wife and I, together, we-" He stopped suddenly. What had possessed him to unburden himself to this woman? It might have been her eyes – dark sapphire pools that flickered with compassion, or her manner – breezy enough that he could trust her not to be maudlin, but genuinely interested, somehow.
"I need a drink," he said suddenly.
"I'd love that," she agreed, and before he knew it, she had taken his arm, steered him into the von Appels' library, settled him on the couch, and handed him a brandy. He regarded her warily, not sure himself if he was glad for her company or wanted to be left alone.
"What do you want, Miss – er – Madame – er – I don't believe we've met, have we?"
"Elsa," she said. "Elsa Schraeder. Baroness Schraeder, if you're not one of my friends. I hope we will be friends, though. Tell me, why do you think I want something from you?"
"People are always asking me to do things I don't want to do. They want my money to prop up their businesses. They suggest that I marry their daughters or sisters, or their widowed mothers, or in one case, their wives. They demand that I cozy up to the Germans." He didn't add, "they ask me to warm their beds, a proposition which is beginning to tempt me more than I want to admit." Nor did he add, "they expect me to love the children, whose very presence reminds me of what I've lost." After all, he barely knew this woman. "I'm von Trapp," he added instead. "Georg von Trapp."
"I know," she smiled, "The famous Captain von Trapp. And a baron as well, am I correct? But earned by birth and with acts of heroism, not by marriage, the way I earned my title. No, no, no," she waved him back into his seat, "I don't want any of those things from you, you mustn't run away. This is business."
"Business?" Georg was intrigued.
"Business," she repeated. "I'm trying to decide whether to invest in a shipping deal. With a group of Mexican investors. It looks too good to be true, so I know I ought to run in the other direction. But my manager says the numbers look fine. I'd like a second set of eyes. It's hard enough to find an honest advisor at all, let alone one who's not interested in making a more permanent connection to my money."
"Do you mean to tell me," he fumbled, something he rarely did, "that you – uh – that is, you don't look like the type …" he trailed off.
"I'm a widow. A wealthy one, who wants to stay that way, and is smart enough to make sure of it. And yes, I know I don't look like it. I'm not above taking advantage of that when I need to," and she almost preened in a way he found refreshingly honest.
"Why me?" he blurted.
"I know all about you. You know ships. You turned your wife's small fortune into a big one. And you're not interested in marrying anyone. You're exactly what I'm looking for."
Georg was hooked after that. At first, he enjoyed the challenge of familiarizing himself with her late husband's business interests, coaching her through complex negotiations, celebrating when every deal they closed turned to gold. He had to work hard to break her of her habit of wanting to close every deal, no matter the price: "The game isn't always worth the prize, Elsa. Sometimes, the smartest thing you can do is walk away."
Very quickly, however, what had begun as a business partnership had turned into an odd but satisfying friendship. They not only shared an interest in the arts and literature, a love of beautiful things and places, a cynical attitude about people, and a sometimes ribald sense of humor; Elsa and Georg had something else in common, an emotion that he'd learned was even stronger than greed, lust or even love: grief. She was the only one who understood what he'd been through, what he was still going through, who gave him the understanding he needed and asked nothing in return. She didn't want his money, she didn't want to marry him, and she never asked disquieting questions about his children, either.
He drank his third cup of coffee and had started on a fourth when she finally appeared.
"There, Georg darling , that wasn't too terribly long, was it?"
He glanced at his watch. "Fifteen minutes? More like twice that but," he grinned, "well worth the wait. You look lovely, Elsa darling."
Elsa's eyes sought her reflection in the mirror that hung on the far wall. She did look especially good today, cool and elegant in mint-green. It was a special day today, after all, even if no one else knew it: twenty years since she'd married Erich, twenty years ago today, and him ten years gone by now.
Her wedding day had been raw and gloomy, the perfect match for the mood of a very young bride whose brothers had practically auctioned her off to Erich Schraeder, a minor aristocrat twice her age. With her parents long gone, and after years of mistreatment at her older brothers' hands, Elsa had long ago stopped asking God for protection. But as it turned out, He had been watching out for her, giving her a husband who had turned out to be kind, gentle, generous and fun, who would do anything to make her happy. They'd been crazy about each other. The only thing Erich hadn't been able to give her was more time for the two of them to be together.
Her gaze drifted to his portrait hanging over the fireplace.
"If Erich were here, he'd say the same thing, only more eloquently," Georg said gently.
For a moment, she wanted to tell Georg why today's date was so special to her , but decided against it. Georg was in a far better place now than when they'd first met, but she didn't like to upset him when she could avoid it. Elsa understood, like few other people could, that even the smallest reminder of one's true love – her Erich, his Agathe – could, without warning, open wounds that took days to heal. After ten years to Georg's four, she'd had more practice managing the grief, accepting that it would always be there, and learning how to stay on top of it most of the time.
Most people went through life without being lucky enough even once to have the kind of love she'd had with Erich, and that Georg had shared with his Agathe. Georg was always telling her that some deals were not worth the cost, but Elsa Schraeder knew that her ten happy years with Erich had been worth the pain that came afterward.
Georg was still a bit of a riddle at times. There was a restlessness about him: wherever he was, it seemed like he wanted to be somewhere else. He never stayed in the same hotel twice. He was constantly racing back to Salzburg to look after his children's welfare, yet never talked of them otherwise. He turned up at every one of Elsa's soirees, where he'd sulk in the corner, complaining that the crowd was much too exciting for his tastes.
Elsa handed Georg the envelope of tax papers and watched as the familiar ritual unfolded: his face was grim with concentration at first, his fingers drumming restlessly on the desk. Then, slowly, he relaxed as he mastered the material within. Five minutes later, he looked up and, in thirty seconds, analyzed the situation for her, gave her three options and recommended the best among them. His manner was offhand, as though he'd just chosen a necktie or ordered from the wine list, but there was a certain air of smugness. Things did come easy to Georg, a man possessed of a keen mind and a strikingly handsome, vibrant physical presence.
But Elsa knew how he'd suffered. She'd sat with him through the long nights, insisting he cut back on his drinking, listening to him pour out his heart. Once she'd learned of his childhood dream of being a concert pianist, Elsa's instincts told her that music might help ease his pain. So she'd coaxed Georg into listening again, starting with baby steps – just the two of them in her salon, listening to recordings of artists that he didn't much care for, Bach or Beethoven, and of course the Strausses – he despised the waltz. Then she moved on to small doses of the darker composers he loved but Agathe had been indifferent to; that was their first concert outing, to see Rachmaninoff perform in person. Only recently had she introduced the composers Agathe loved best: Chopin, Debussy and Schubert. Last month, he'd even accompanied her to an all-Mozart performance. Elsa wouldn't quite say that Georg was finding pleasure in music, not yet, but he could actually survive an evening in Vienna's finest concert venues. Though Elsa had learned to leave her rings at home: he still made it through the hard parts by clinging to her hands until he left bruises behind.
Georg was a friend well worth a few bruises. He was the only man she'd ever met who encouraged her love for business and her bawdy jokes, but also appreciated the finer things. They knew how to make each other laugh. She admired him for being open-minded enough to maintain his ties to Max Detweiler, who had quickly forged a fast friendship with Elsa and was always available to amuse her when Georg was called home. Georg even had an eye for fashion! She sought out her reflection in once more, and their eyes caught in the mirror. Apparently, he'd been admiring her too.
She laughed, smoothing her dress over her hips. "Don't let your prospective brides catch you looking at me that way. Not everyone is as enlightened as we two, you know. Now. Off for some shopping, and then lunch at the Millers. And I want to confirm our plans for dinner with Max on Friday, before the Opera Ball."
Georg extended his arm to her. "Shall we, Baroness Schraeder?"
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Every sailor knows that bad weather can change the course of history, and indeed, Georg would look back on that late May evening more than once, wondering how things might have turned out differently had the weather stayed clear. It had started out fine, cool, with a fresh breeze. The sky held a few wispy clouds and a sliver of moon. The Opera Ball was the major social occasion of the spring season, and Elsa looked especially lovely in sapphires and silk, so much so that he made a rare exception and took her in his arms for one of the Strauss waltzes.
"You're always running yourself down! Here you made me think that waltzing with you would be like stumbling about like a drunken bear," she teased. "You're quite talented, actually."
"It must have been the partner, darling," he bowed extravagantly, looking devilishly handsome in his severe black-and-white evening clothes. "I'm still the same unexciting von Trapp you know and love." She rolled her eyes at him before going in search of Max for the last dance of the evening.
One of the things he loved most about Elsa was the girlish side she only occasionally let show. They were making their way through the crush of socialites waiting for their cars and carriages, when she turned to him, and proposed, "I know your hotel is just across the way, but will you walk me home, Georg? Please? It will be so lovely along the river."
After months of near-sobriety, he'd had perhaps one too many glasses of champagne, not to mention a whiskey or two with friends in the bar. Whether it was the alcohol, or the promise of spring, or simply the refreshing breeze when they exited the hall, he welcomed her impulse. "All right, Elsa. Go ahead and send your driver home."
By the time she'd dismissed her driver and they set out along the river, the breeze had picked up, but he was so entertained by the filthy joke she'd learned from a visiting Swedish prince – something about a sailor, a manicurist and a monkey - that he didn't pay attention to the first few raindrops. Then, before they knew it, the skies opened up. The wind whipped the trees sideways, and the rain pelted them, turning Elsa's tissue-thin dress to little more than a clinging dark shadow . He pulled his evening jacket off and threw it around her. "We'll have to run for the hotel," he shouted above the shrieking wind, and hand in hand, they ran the few blocks back to his hotel.
The hotel lobby was hot, brightly lit, and crowded. Georg took the scene in instantly: Germans, dozens of them, drunken staggering, swaggering Germans, too many of them singing loudly off key. His stomach turned.
"Elsa." She was sitting on a nearby bench, her blond curls askew, laughing as she wrung the rain out of what remained of her dancing slippers. "This rain's not stopping for a while and we'll both catch our death of cold sitting out here like this. And," he lowered his voice, "I cannot tolerate the company down here. A the risk of feeding the gossips, why don't you come upstairs with me? I've got a suite, so there will be plenty of privacy for you. It will all be very proper, I promise, and I can offer you some towels and a place by the fire until the storm stops."
A half-hour later, they were sipping brandy by a glowing fire, comfortably warm and dry. He pulled up an armchair, while Elsa curled up on the loveseat, looking dainty in his oversized robe. With her legs tucked underneath her, her blonde hair curling softly around her shoulders and her cheeks flushed by the fire, she brightened what had, until now, been just another grim, anonymous accommodation. Outside the storm roared on; lightning forked the sky as the lights flickered , and peals of thunder crashed. There was more brandy, and a lively argument over the play they'd seen last week, and conversation about the upcoming summer holidays – one-sided conversation, he realized after a while. Elsa had grown disturbingly quiet.
"Elsa? Is something wrong?"
"It- it's all right Georg, It's so silly, I'm just …."
"Just?"
"Afraid. Terrified, actually. My brothers once locked me in my room during a storm like this one. As a joke, I guess. I couldn't have been more than, I don't know, six or eight? I had no candle or heat and I thought-well," she said, with a nervous little laugh – "I'm not a little girl any more, but the fear never really left me. When Erich was alive, no matter what he was doing, when storms like this hit, he'd come and find me, and hold me close. When I'm at home, my maid knows; she always finds an excuse to be in the room for the worst of it."
His heart lurched with pity, for a young girl, as young as his Marta, with neither mother nor father to protect her. Which in turn reminded him of how his own young family had been shattered by tragedy. His children were motherless and their father wasn't doing them much good, either. Georg drained his glass, which made him think about how Elsa had patiently held his hand during his first nights without brandy. His heart overflowed with sentiment, and his brain muddled by alcohol, he slid into the space alongside Elsa on her loveseat and wrapped a comforting arm around her shoulders. She smelled delicious: sweet, but with womanly edge he recognized. Deep within, something flickered and caught fire.
Her head fell to his shoulder. Suddenly, it was a battle to draw breath. He whispered her name, or did she whisper his? He never knew; he could nothing over the roar of his blood in his ears. He only knew her mouth, lush and inviting, and then there was her soft skin, the smoked honey of her voice, the unbearable sweetness of her touch. Every conscious thought vanished as they fell into each other's arms.
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In our Proboards group, we've had dozens of conversations about Elsa, and her relationship with Georg. We've discussed E&G so much that I have to thank everyone on Proboards for the inspiration, really, and I'd better apologize in advance for any inadvertent borrowing of others' brilliant ideas. This story was inspired by an almost two-year-old comment by utilitysinger. I owe HUGE thanks to thebeestings, who got me unstuck a half-dozen times when I ran off the road with this story, and for overall cheerleading. Thanks as always to lemacd for staunch encouragement. Thanks also to everyone who filled in the blanks on A&G's musical preferences, though thoroughlymodernjulie made me laugh the most. There's more to come! I don't own anything about TSOM or its characters.