Georg awoke with a start, feeling suddenly very cold, and realized that his wife had just fallen out of bed with a loud thud, and had taken the blankets with her. Shoving a fist in his sleepy eyes, Georg yawned and peered over Maria's side of the bed.
She was twisting and turning about, trying to detangle herself from the mess, and was not doing so very successfully. Maria looked up at him when she heard him clear his throat, and then glanced at his proffered hand, looked down at herself, and began to laugh uncontrollably. By now thoroughly confused, Georg merely watched her as she found an edge of the sheets wrapped tight around her, wound it a few times around her fist, and then shoved the entire mass away from her body, eventually struggling to her feet.
She was bent over, attempting to catch her breath, and still laughing.
"Uh," Georg ventured, "Maria? Are you alright?"
She glanced over at him and the gales of laughter intensified again. "I think," she gasped, "I think I need a cup of tea."
Bewildered, Georg nodded and switched the light on, grabbing his dressing gown from the pile of bedclothes that had been wrenched from their bed and fastening it as he hurried to stumble into the drawing room to call room service for a pot of tea.
Ten minutes later, after Maria had splashed her face with cold water, straightened her nightgown, and detangled her own dressing gown from the mess on the floor beside her place in bed, she sat down next to her husband on the sofa in the drawing room of their honeymoon suite and took the cup of tea he held out to her, thanking him before stirring it and blowing on the hot liquid.
"What in heaven's name was that?" Georg asked, unable to hold his tongue or his curiosity or his mild annoyance in check any longer.
Maria shook her head with a smile, looking down at her tea again. If she looked too long at her husband, with his sleepy face and bedhead and the unbearably attractive chest hair that was peeking through his unfastened dressing gown, she would be undone again. It was simply too much.
"I think I need something somewhat stronger than tea," Georg sighed, getting up to fetch the wine bottle from their late indulgence several hours before. He reappeared with the bottle and two empty wineglasses, setting them down on the table beside him and pouring himself a strong measure. "Prost," he said to his wife as he raised the glass to her and took her small shake of the head for refusal of the alcohol.
"I'm sorry, darling," Maria said after he had taken a long sip. "I suppose my imagination is simply overactive tonight."
Georg harrumphed at this, saying nothing. She had been chatty when they returned from the cabaret tonight, and he had done his level best to distract and silence her and channel all her energy elsewhere… but clearly he had overlooked some facet of her unending enthusiasm, and it had run away with her in her dreams.
"Oh, come, now," she admonished. "You were… well, quite simply put, you bedded me good, Georg von Trapp, good and proper."
"You haven't seen the half of it yet," he said, swirling his wineglass lazily.
"I'll hold you to that," she said, and the tone of her voice made Georg look up, a little startled. She was gazing at him intently, and had flushed just the slightest bit. She took a sip of her tea and continued to sit there, so infuriatingly regal, so infuriatingly real, so infuriatingly challenging. Her voice, always something special, had taken on some… deeper nuances than elicited merely by anger or frustration. Desire quite literally thickened it, and made it warmer, made it tantalizing.
He blinked, and then shook himself. What a ruse, he thought to himself. She couldn't normally distract him so easily. "It must be the wine," he muttered, draining his glass in a gulp.
Maria, for her part, was looking far too satisfied, and after leaning forward to set her cup and saucer down on the tray, she turned to face him and took his hands in hers.
"I wanted to see if I could startle you," she said mildly.
"I think you startled me well enough when you rolled out of bed and took my blankets with you," Georg said drily, trying to hide from her just how much she agitated him merely by sitting right in front of him, drinking a cup of tea.
"I was dreaming," she said. "I was dreaming that we had gone to a nightclub and that you had got up in front of the crowd and… you serenaded me. With one of those American jazz songs they play so often here."
Georg's first reaction was offense, offense that his wife apparently found the idea of him doing such a thing so absurd that she literally laughed her way out of the marriage bed in the dead of night. But his next reaction, oddly enough, was to start to laugh, himself.
Maria frowned at him, and said, "I think I'll have that glass of wine."
Shaking his head as he turned around to pour the last of the bottle into the remaining empty glass, Georg thought about the last few weeks that they had spent in Paris, and how Maria had so quickly cottoned to this strange aberration of Parisian culture that loved American jazz more than any other place in the world. Eventually, he had stopped waiting for her to badger him to translate the songs for her, and had begun to do it as soon as he heard something that would catch her fancy.
"You are something else," he smiled, handing Maria her glass.
She smiled uncertainly at this, reaching for her wine.
"While you are right that I would never consent to do such a thing, most certainly not in public," Georg said, "what do you say to cancelling the opera tickets and spending tomorrow night in Montparnasse?"
At this, his wife's eyes literally shone and she leaned forward eagerly. "Oh, Georg, could we?"
Georg chuckled. "I wasn't about to make you sit through an opera that you'd been moaning on about for days, when you've clearly found other things here that suit your taste, and now I know just where to take you."
"I don't suppose you would at least consider bringing some reality to my dream," Maria said hopefully.
Georg laughed. "Not a chance, love."
"I'll just have to settle for the jazz club, then," Maria sighed long-sufferingly, looking down at her wine and deciding to drink it all in several long gulps.
"I think you'll find that it suits, Montparnasse," Georg said reassuringly. "To bed?" he asked, gesturing to the now-empty glass.
His wife nodded. "To bed."
Satisfied that he had persuaded her sufficiently, he held out a hand and led her to their bedroom, where they straightened and reassembled their bed, agreeing to ask for cotton sheets to replace the silk in the morning, and then he kissed her on the forehead, turned out the light, and climbed into bed. When Maria burrowed deeper into the covers and turned over onto her side, facing away from him, Georg smiled to himself. She had given him an idea.
"You look fine, not a hair out of place," Georg reassured, escorting his fussing and overexcited wife inside the bustling, smoky club that was situated comfortably within Montparnasse, tones of warm, smooth jazz echoing through the open door.
The famed jazz district was situated just within the seventh arrondissement, lodged between the heart of Paris and the Eiffel Tower. They had spent most of their day wandering between these two points, the only break having been to return to their hotel and change for this engagement. Georg had reserved them a table with dinner and drinks, and for her part, Maria was practically buzzing with anticipation. The set currently playing was a bit brassy for Georg's taste, but his wife appeared as if she thought it was simply splendid.
Content to settle back and watch her, Georg gestured for a waiter to bring them water and wine before the meals were served.
Maria, settling down into her seat with only a cursory glance at the maître d'hôtel who offered to take her gloves and coat, looked like she would love nothing more than to remain in the nightclub.
Though tonight's excursion had been undertaken primarily to amuse her, Georg felt that the results thus far were highly satisfactory, and certainly more than one could have dreamed of when booking a table in a jazz-filled nightclub a few weeks back, especially one whose wife had, for all intents and purposes, aspired to such heights as becoming a nun. Fleetingly, an image of Maria dressed in nun's habit crossed his mind, her hunched over the table with her chin propped up on one hand as she leaned on one elbow and drank in the sights and sounds—and it almost made him laugh.
He managed, however, to hold it back by grabbing at his water glass and gulping it down, not wanting to draw Maria's ire in the case that she looked over and noticed, which would surely be followed by a demand that he explain himself.
But he needn't have worried.
The musicians that had been playing when they arrived were now clearing out the stage, while the new set was being prepared simultaneously. The room was no less empty for the lack of music; it simply happened that the conversations and enjoyment of the people sharing this evening with them filled the void more than enough. Maria, eyes wide and attention rapt, was watching the stage and was so absorbed in the routine and anticipation of the impending show that she not only failed to notice that their meals and drinks had been placed in front of them, but was also waving away cigarette smoke from the next table over with impatient flicks of her hand—as though it were merely a minor annoyance and not the typical source of horrible headaches and coughing fits. She defined—no, personified—rapture.
The lights eventually dimmed, and the blues, reds, and greens of the stage lit up the room as the musicians filed on stage with their trumpets, saxophones, trombones, and lone clarinet. The piano player came out last, sitting down and acknowledging the audience with a flourish, and then came the singers of the evening, and from there the night proceeded.
Maria, seated diagonally across from her husband, was not within easy reach and so the necessity of translating the songs was moot by means of convenience, tonight, but as Georg watched her and minutes slipped by into hours, he found himself keeping the romantic, swingy songs for himself, his smile growing ever wider as he became more convinced that what he had planned for when they returned would trump even this outing.
"Oh, some of this makes me wish we could get up and dance!" she whispered loudly after a particularly rousing song. One foot was tapping impatiently beneath their table as she said this, and the little grins he'd been stealing for himself as he observed her became apparent to her, for at last, she had torn her gaze from the stage, and was looking straight at him.
Her eyes narrowed when she realized that he appeared to be laughing at her expense, and she said, "What?"
"Oh, nothing," Georg said nonchalantly. "You're just wonderful, that's all."
Eyeing him suspiciously, Maria apparently decided it wasn't worth sullying her evening to nitpick her husband's less-than-chivalrous behaviour, and turned back to the concert, leaning back in her chair and draping her arms lazily against the armrests, tapping along with her fingers and apparently humming slightly as well, which Georg deduced from her pursed lips and slight sway of her head.
Watching her like this, mesmerized and absorbed, was such a sight to behold. She wore her passion so plainly, and yet so much of it was kept like buried treasure under the surface. Her eyes sparkled, her face so expressive when something delighted or surprised her, her cheeks flushed, her complete joy. How glad he was that this woman was his to love! She had come into his life for his children, and yet… she'd somehow laid claim to all that he was, and loving her this way was, well, rather indescribable.
"I wonder if you wouldn't mind checking for telegrams at the front desk," Georg whispered in his wife's ear as the taxicab pulled up to their hotel. "I'm afraid I need to, eh, relieve myself rather badly," he said.
"Certainly," Maria trailed after him, watching bemusedly as he hurried from the cab, only remembering at the last second to help her out of the vehicle, to which she shook her head. "Go, and I'll pay the driver," she assured, opening her pocketbook as he turned and disappeared into the hotel.
How peculiar, she thought, though perhaps he had simply overindulged tonight… if so, she hadn't noticed. Apart from the silly grins he kept giving her, of course. He didn't seem to think she'd noticed, but more than once she'd felt that familiar sense of being watched, but hadn't wanted to distract herself too terribly. God only knew he'd had plenty of time to distract her here in Paris.
After paying the driver, Maria exited the cab and entered the lobby, stopping to inquire about any mail. The concierge handed her a small stack of telegrams and letters, and she thanked him before turning toward the lifts. Distracted with sorting through the mail, she muttered absentmindedly to the bellboy to take her to the fourth floor. Upon arrival to her floor, she turned toward their suite and pocketed the correspondence, reaching out to push their door open when she reached it, which her husband had apparently failed to shut properly behind him.
Brow furrowing in confusion, Maria switched on the light, wondering why the entire suite was dark. "Georg?" she called out, unbuttoning her coat and laying it across an armchair. She slipped her shoes off and toed them underneath, realizing that she smelled something coming from the morning room.
"Coffee," she breathed, slipping soundlessly through their bedroom, which opened on the other side to a bright, full lounging room, complete with full bookshelves and a wonderful divan on which they'd spent many evenings reading together.
Flipping on the light as she stepped through the doorway, calling her husband's name as she did so, Maria looked around perplexedly, finding that there was a tray of coffee cups, cream, and sugar laid out on the table and that there was a gramophone standing near the window. Confused, Maria wondered if she'd mistakenly entered the wrong suite—her husband would never have ordered coffee this late at night, nor did they have a gramophone in their quarters. One hand on her head, Maria stood in the middle of the room, wondering…
"Ah," came her husband's voice behind her, "you're a sight for sore eyes!"
Maria turned, dropping her hand to her side. "Georg?" she questioned, "What is this?"
Stepping over to the gramophone, her husband placed the needle on the record and let it begin to play. Then, he gestured to the loveseat, indicating that she should sit down.
Eyes never removing themselves from her husband, Maria acquiesced, nodding to the coffee. "You're sure?"
"Yes, with cream," Georg nodded, coming to join her.
He waited for her to add her cream and sugar. After taking the cup and saucer she handed him, he discarded it after a long sip, and then reached out to cup her face with one hand, raising her bowed head. She looked up at him expectantly, clearly waiting for some sort of explanation.
"I won't serenade you, darling, as I don't have the voice for that, but I thought I'd bring a little of your dream to you in some other way."
She smiled at this, reaching for his free hand. "Oh, you are a dear man," she breathed, leaning in to kiss him, the strains of the warm, slow, jazzy music wrapping around her.
When she pulled away, eyelids heavy, he added, "I also wanted to bring a bit of home to you, tonight, although it is also the finest French coffee I could obtain. I know you aren't particularly fond of coffee, but the way I've seen you savour a good cup… it reminded me of how you savour other things, and how you savour these evenings out to the jazz clubs, and how I savour you."
"Keep talking," Maria intoned, leaning in to kiss him again, laughing slightly at the taste of coffee.
"I may also have imbibed a bit too mindlessly, tonight," he added with a small chuckle. "I really did have to relieve myself."
"I have so many questions," Maria said, raising to her feet, "about how you obtained this little surprise. But right now, I want to dance with you."
Gazing up at his wife, Georg noted that eager spark in her eyes, watched how she all but glittered, her fine diamond necklace catching the light and setting off the burgundy dress she wore, one which dipped generously in the front, hinting at her cleavage but not tasteless in so doing, and hugged her body in all the right ways, with a slight flare to the skirt at her hips, which fell to just below her knees. It really was an ensemble begging to have her twirled about.
Standing, Georg took her hand and led her to the open space beyond the coffee table and wrapped her in his arms, starting to sway along to the slow, mellow music. She rested her head on his shoulder and began to hum along, pleased when she realized that she recognized the song.
"Louis Armstrong is quite an easy find, here," Georg murmured low. "It's a shame he isn't playing any shows while we're here, but it's the next best thing."
"It's wonderful," Maria assured. She was lost in this quiet moment, so completely overwhelmed and in love with the man that surrounded her. The music certainly helped set the tone, and he was whispering the words to her as they swayed about the room. Having become intimately familiar with this music in the last weeks, she wondered when it would be that the slow songs stopped and some swing tune started.
She did not have to wait long, and when the next song began, she looked at her husband expectantly.
"Shall we, Fräulein?" he asked her, smiling as she took his hands and hers and stepped away, beginning to move with the fast, brassy pace, dissolving into laughter and smiles as the bright, romantic tune of "All of Me" echoed through the room and her husband twirled her around and then released her, obliging to do a silly little dance around her as she added her own little bits with a skip and a hop and a spin, her skirts flaring marvelously as she did so.
"Oh, oh!" she cried when the record scratched to a stop several songs later. "Oh, that was wonderful, Georg! Thank you!"
Pulling her with him to sit on the loveseat, he gave a little shrug. "It was nothing, really. I didn't do anything but arrange to have the gramophone borrowed and the record fetched. We get to keep that, and I thought you'd enjoy it, anyway. A bit of a memento."
"I promise not to play it too often," Maria laughed, squeezing his hand. "You truly are too good for me, Georg. It was such a silly thing, that dream, and yet you've made waking better than dreams." She shook her head, amazed. "Who does that?"
"I do," he said, leaning in to rest his forehead against hers, "because you are better than dreaming."
Hands clasped between one another, Maria let out a slow breath and smiled. "We are quite the pair, aren't we? Could you imagine if the children saw this—"
Here, Georg cut her off with a long, languid kiss, pushing away thoughts of joking wryly that he'd be a laughingstock, both among his children and among his peers. Frankly, he couldn't find it in himself to care. He would behave a fool a thousand times over if it would please her. If it was for Maria, than it was no foolishness, only joy, and most of all, belonging. When she'd fled, she'd taken his heart with her, unbeknownst to them both. And then she'd come back… and claimed him all. She'd laid complete claim to him, and he preferred it this way. The melancholic irony of lamenting words and the bright tones of the song that had started her spirited dancing in his arms…well, he would simply have to kiss her again.
Standing, Georg motioned that Maria should remain where she was, and then hurried over to the gramophone. Removing the record, he pulled another one from the sleeve that had been tucked behind the machine and read the tracks, smiling as he did so. Without a word of explanation, he replaced the old record with a new one and started the music again, letting the new songs flood through the room.
"Georg?" Maria asked, looking up at him questioningly, recognizing the slow, sensual Liebestraum No. 2. Liszt. Her eyes widened, and she swallowed, waiting for an answer.
But he simply shook his head, placing a finger to his lips, and beckoned for her to join him, pulling her through the open door into their bedroom, where the sheets were already turned down.
Music, after all, was better than words.