HOW THEY MET
Prologue
"You may call me Captain," he snapped at the new governess, turning to flee for the safety of his study. He couldn't resist looking back over his shoulder, just for a split second, for confirmation: could it be that he had just imagined it? But no, he hadn't, no such luck. All he could do was stride from the foyer as quickly as possible, hoping his haste would convey military efficiency, and not what he was really experiencing: shock, fear and confusion.
When he gained the safety of his study, Georg locked the door behind him, breathing deeply and trying to recover his shredded composure. He could feel the sweat trickling down his back. Although it was still early afternoon, he poured himself a brandy. His hands shook so badly that there was more brandy puddled on the bar, than made it into the glass.
"What the hell?" he asked aloud, but the empty room had no answer for him.
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The first time he kissed a girl, Georg von Trapp was barely out of short pants. Although it would have been more accurate to say that the girl kissed him: Elaina Miller, fourteen years old to his twelve. He was still reeling from the shock of her soft, insistent mouth on his, when Elaina's governess yanked her charge from their hiding place in the closet of her family's villa. He hadn't had a chance to participate as much as he might have liked.
But he never forgot the look Elaina gave him from beneath her thick, dark lashes. At twelve, he hadn't known the meaning of words like erotic, or carnal, or passionate. But at that moment, something inside him shifted, the same way it had the first time his grandfather had shown him the sea, when he'd known he'd turn his back on the family tradition of army service to spend his life on the water.
Within six months, he'd discovered in himself a talent that apparently few of his schoolmates possessed: the ability to distinguish the relatively few girls who liked to kiss from the majority, who didn't. You couldn't draw any conclusions from how pretty a girl was, how warm her smile and engaging her chatter. No, there was something in their eyes that gave it away.
By the time Georg left for the Naval Academy at fourteen, he had honed this new skill to perfection. Which came in handy; there were few enough weekends when they were allowed off the grounds, and he was eager to spend as much time as possible kissing girls, and taking other liberties he quickly learned about.
He didn't have a name for this sixth sense, although years later, as a submarine commander, he smiled to learn about the new weapons, sonar and radar and such, because they reminded him of nothing so much as his ability to survey a crowded room and hone in on the girl who promised the most fun, all while his friends were still checking their coats and lining up for drinks.
If he'd had any reason to doubt his personal radar, the events of his eighteenth birthday convinced him. His birthday fell between Christmas and New Years', so he was home from his last year at the Academy, celebrating with his parents and sister. His sister had brought home two friends from university, American girls who could not make the long trip home for the holidays.
The first girl, whose name he'd long since forgotten, was exactly his sort of beauty: dark curls, a wide mouth, a petite body with generous curves. Even though her warm brown eyes held no promise, he'd spent the afternoon flirting extravagantly with Fraulein Forgettable. But when, after teatime, he invited her to meander through the family portrait gallery – a dark hallway full of cozy private nooks – she informed him stiffly that even this little adventure would require them to be chaperoned. As though it were 1810, not 1910! And when he patted her shoulder forgivingly, she let out a shriek that nearly shattered his eardrums.
The other visitor, whose name – Lily - he would never forget as long as he lived, was the earnest type, quoting poetry one moment and political claptrap about labor unions the next, and sporting spectacles and a long, black braid. Georg treated Lily politely – he prided himself on being a gentleman toward every woman he met, regardless of age, appearance or romantic promise - but he didn't give the girl another thought until, while the butler passed slices of birthday cake, his eyes met hers. Even through thick lenses, what he saw there was unmistakable.
Late that night, he lay awake in the darkness, not entirely sure what he was waiting for. The big hallway clock had just struck midnight when the door to his room opened. Lily stood in the backlight just long enough for him to appreciate the myopic, dark-blue gaze no longer hidden by spectacles; the shining black curtain of hair that fell to her waist; and the glowing pink skin peeking from beneath a sheer chemise. Then there was darkness again, and only sounds: the snick of the door locking, her bare feet padding across the floor, the whisper of her chemise dropping to the floor before she slipped between the sheets.
The sky was just starting to lighten when she left him. He was beyond sated, so completely drained it was at least another hour, or possibly two, before he had the strength to move from his bed. The interval gave him plenty of time, however, to review everything he'd learned from Lily about love between men and women, lessons that went well beyond anything he had ever even imagined. By the time he managed to collect himself sufficiently to bathe, dress and join the family downstairs, his sister and her friends were gone.
His special talent came in very handy as Georg roamed the globe in the early years of his naval service. It led him to an opera singer in Milan, a princess in Stockholm, and at least a dozen other women – none of whom were well-brought-up girls from polite society - in whose eyes he found the promise of passion.
Without fail, once he recognized the potential in a woman, it didn't take more than a certain look from him before sparks began to fly, and the encounters that followed were breathtakingly satisfying. But unlike other men, he didn't preen or brag about his prowess as a lover. He simply took it for granted: his carnal appetites were greater than other men's, and if he was going to satisfy them during the short spells of shore leave, he had to learn to give as much pleasure as he got.
Another thing Georg took for granted, so much so that he barely thought about it, is that he would never marry. It wasn't only that he wanted to spend his life at sea. It was the memory, from his earliest childhood, of how his parents adored each other, how closely their everyday lives had been intertwined. It was, especially, the searing memory of the scene at his father's deathbed, the year he turned twenty: his father's last whispered words of love and his mother's answering sobs. Georg loved and respected his parents deeply, and he realized that the way he felt about women, and the way women felt about him, he could never be the only kind of husband he would want to be, the kind his father had been.
The fleet was on Christmas leave in London the year he celebrated his twenty-fifth birthday. The rising young stars of the Empire's Navy were encouraged to represent their country in the social whirl of the holiday season and so one evening, with nothing else planned, he put in a brief appearance at the Austrian ambassador's reception. He'd make the rounds quickly, he thought, and then perhaps end the night by visiting a young widow he'd met in the National Gallery the previous day. She'd worn a smart hat with a veil that shaded her eyes, so he wasn't completely certain, but he rather thought he'd liked what he thought he'd seen.
He was standing in the foyer, looking around absently while he tugged off his gloves, when it happened.
On the wide stairway above him, people came and went, eddying around a group of young women clustered on the landing, their bright gowns massed like a colorful bouquet. Georg admired the striking sight, though the girls were far too young to catch his interest, the kind who still giggled and blushed their way through every social affair. His eyes rested for a moment on the center of the bouquet, where a tall, graceful young woman blossomed like some exotic flower. She was fair, slender, ethereal, clad in a white gown shot with silver threads: too delicate. Not his type at all. He was about to turn away when she turned in his direction and smiled.
She had pale green eyes that contributed to the overall impression of fragility. But it was impossible to miss what shimmered below the surface: the promise of some kind of secret and unspeakable erotic pleasure, like a mysterious treasure hidden at the bottom of the sea. A treasure he knew, with complete certainty, was going to be his someday.
"I believe you dropped these."
Georg turned to find a man, elfin of stature and impeccably dressed in the uniform of the Austrian Navy, handing him back his gloves. He hadn't realized he'd dropped them.
"I'm Detweiler," the man said. "A fellow servant of the Empire. I'm in Intelligence."
"von Trapp. U-boats. Isn't it supposed to be a secret, being in intelligence?"
"I'm not very intelligent," Detweiler laughed.
"Well, thanks anyway," Georg said, tucking his gloves in his pocket and letting his eyes roam back to the stairway.
"Don't waste your time," Detweiler advised.
"Who is she?" Georg asked.
"Agathe Whitehead. The youngest child of the English ambassador to Austria, and his only daughter after three sons. And you're wasting your time."
"You don't know who you're talking to," Georg said. He couldn't take his eyes off her.
"No, but I know who I'm talking about. Agathe Whitehead's mother is a cousin to my father's second wife. Or maybe his third wife, I can't recall. In any event, Miss Whitehead's parents are pursuing the best possible match for her, an earl, if not a duke. Her brothers keep all the other suitors away. She'll be a duchess, or a countess at least, by this time next year."
It was exactly the kind of challenge Georg relished. Tearing his eyes away from Miss Whitehead, he exchanged addresses with Detweiler, gulped down a whiskey for confidence, and elbowed aside a small crowd to claim the first dance with the green-eyed sprite.
She might have looked fragile, but he'd had her in his arms no more than a minute when he saw his mistake: she sparkled with intelligence and wit, and met his eyes with a clear, unafraid gaze. Years later, neither one of them could remember that first conversation, but they remembered what happened during their third dance – or was it the fourth?
"Why is it," she asked, laughing, "that you are the only man here who wants to dance with me tonight?"
"They're afraid of me," he boasted.
"How many drinks did you have to buy them to keep them away?" she said, rolling her eyes.
"A few," he admitted. "I'm just trying to protect you, that's all. There are a lot of unsavory types here tonight."
"Judging by the way every woman in the place is watching you, I suspect you are the unsavory one," she teased. "Really, I can't dance with you again. It will cause a scandal, which will cause my mother to get one of her headaches, which will cause my father and brothers to…"
"All right," he said, "but let me call on you tomorrow."
"N-no," she shook her head, and his heart dropped into his shoes, before she continued, "Wait two days, and then come. If you don't make such a fuss, you won't alarm my brothers quite so much. You know Detweiler, don't you? Bring him too. For a chaperone."
Georg stopped in the bar to conduct a bit of background research on the Whiteheads, made arrangements with Detweiler, and whistled his way back home, forgetting entirely about the widow from the National Gallery.
Two days later, as instructed, he and Max presented themselves at the Ambassador's residence, where they were greeted by Miss Whitehead, her father, and her three brothers. All of whom settled into various armchairs in a way that made clear they weren't going anywhere.
"Bit crowded in here," he muttered, and was rewarded by a laugh from Agathe. His background research paid off, though: Ambassador Whitehead's face lit up when Georg presented him with a large box of Cuban cigars. Georg spent most of the visit discussing the international situation with the Ambassador, and letting Agathe's oldest brother – Lewis, wasn't it? Or was it Charles? Or Arthur? – beat him at chess.
He spoke to Agathe only long enough to ascertain that she was in good health, and to earn her agreement that the weather lately had been fine. But the memory of her smile when she said goodbye to him warmed him all the way home.
When he and Max returned two days later, they were joined by only two of the Whitehead brothers, who could hardly wait to open the bottle of French brandy Georg had brought with him. Max tactfully disappeared behind a book, and then the afternoon flew by in conversation with Agathe, until, the next thing Georg knew, the lamps were being lit. It turned out that they shared the same tastes in music, and adored the classics, but they disagreed violently about the latest schools of painting on the Continent. He let her beat him at chess, only to discover in the next game that she was quite capable of trouncing him without any assistance.
Over the next six weeks, it became an established pattern: every second or third day, he and Max presented themselves at the Whiteheads' shortly after luncheon, and left just after teatime. Agathe's parents or brothers might appear briefly, but they seemed to have decided to trust Georg, or at least tolerate his presence, at least so long as Max remained on duty. So while their chaperone read or napped in the corner, he and Agathe spent the long afternoons together.
She was wonderful company: intelligent, spirited, inquisitive, and they never ran out of things to talk about. Occasionally she would play the piano for him, or he would read aloud to her, and there were always rematches to be fought over the chess board. Before long, they developed their own little traditions, like the way that, without fail, she would virtuously refuse treats from the tea tray, and then shamelessly steal from his plate, which he kept full of her favorites.
And threaded through it all, through every hour they spent together, was the sound of her voice, low and musical. It followed him into his dreams.
He calculated that he should not squander the good-will he'd earned by asking to escort her out in public, and so was forced to endure the occasional sight of her on another man's arm at the opera or symphony. And if they found themselves at the same party, she wouldn't allow him more than one dance, even though it was obvious that she held other men to no such rule.
"Who's that?" he growled to Max, motioning toward a tall, cadaverously thin man with a drooping blond mustache who was gazing adoringly into Miss Whitehead's eyes while stumbling his way through a waltz with her. "He dances like an elephant."
"The Duke of Manchester. Well, not the Duke yet, but his father can't live forever," Max responded. "And don't glare at him that way. Don't glare at me, either. I warned you, didn't I?"
"I suppose you serve as chaperone when he calls on her?" Georg asked tightly.
Max laughed. "She's allowed to see him, and all the rest of his ilk, without any chaperone at all. This is the twentieth century, after all. It's only for you, my dear von Trapp, there such an exception exists. A well-deserved one, I might add, given your reputation. Speaking of which, what exactly has gotten into you lately? You're obsessed with a woman you can't have, and disregarding all the ones lined up for a shot at you."
Georg waved the question away, but the truth was, that he was losing sight of how his pursuit of Agathe Whitehead had started, with the erotic promise he'd seen in her eyes the night they'd met. He did occasionally awaken in the middle of the night, the sheets twisted around him as he thrashed his way awake from dreams so shameful he could barely face her the next time they met. In his dreams, her low, lovely voice became high pitched and frantic, and … For God's sake! The very idea of her – it was absurd. He hadn't spent a moment alone with her, hadn't even held her hand!
He told himself he was simply conducting the kind of campaign that won wars: slow, steady and patient. Meanwhile, he was extremely careful to stay under the formidable radar of Ambassador and Mrs. Whitehead and their sons while he waited for his chance. And while he waited, he tried not to think about how the days of his leave were passing by, more and more quickly. Or the fact that he hadn't looked at another woman since Christmas.
One day, he took an atlas down from the bookshelf and, as he turned the pages, told her about the places he'd visited, India and China, Africa and the Americas. She sat next to him on the sofa, her blond curls brushing the pages, close enough that he could feel the warmth rise off her skin. She smelled wonderful, like lemons and mint and fresh air.
"Hold on," she said, placing her hand on his. "Go back a page."
His heart began to race like a schoolboy's at her touch. What was happening to him?
"What is it?"
"I like hearing about the places you've been, Georg. But do you know, I've noticed when your face really lights up. It's when you talk about the voyages in between the ports. When you were out at sea." She paused. "You love it, don't you?"
"I do love the sea." He was silent for a moment. "I love it more than anything. I do," he said, and for a dizzy moment, it seemed like neither one of them was talking about the sea at all.
Georg finally got his chance with her in early February, although the timing couldn't have been worse, what with the telegram that had arrived the previous evening.
Still, as arranged, he met Max at the Whiteheads' front door just after breakfast. It had been snowing for days, until even Agathe's normally cheerful demeanor began to fray with the strain of being cooped up inside. Today, at last, the weather had dawned calm and sunny, if bitter cold.
"What, may I ask," Max said, "is that? And who are they, while we're at it?"
"A sleigh, Max. Complete with horses and driver. I'm going to give poor Miss Whitehead some fresh air and sunshine," Georg promised. "You're welcome to come, of course, although unfortunately, it's a bit of a squeeze for three."
At that moment, a delighted Agathe made her appearance, wrapped warmly in hat, scarf, gloves and a heavy coat, exclaiming excitedly over the handsome pair of horses and the uniformed driver.
Max shivered. "Why would anyone choose to be outdoors on a day like this? I'm sorry, Georg, but there is no way-"
"Please, Max. Let me take her out alone," he asked, watching Agathe's cheeks turn pink as she pretended not to hear. He could feel the telegram in his pocket, as heavy as a stone. "I only need an hour with her. We'll stay in the sleigh the whole time, I promise."
Max sighed heavily, and, with a wordless glare of warning, turned into the house.
Georg helped her into the sleigh and pulled the heavy fur robes around them before signaling the driver, and then they were on their way, gliding through the quiet, still-empty streets that sparkled a magical silver and white. By some unspoken agreement, they didn't converse, simply enjoying the fresh, cold air, the rhythmic jingle of harnesses, the shush of the runners through snow, the glitter of sun against ice. They were on the outskirts of the city now. Under the fur robes, he could feel her warm body, leaning into his as the sleigh followed a deep curve into a wooded park, where the dark green trees speared a perfect blue sky.
"Stop here," he directed the driver. The man sat with his back to them, motionless, no doubt remembering the handsome tip he'd been promised.
He turned to her, his heart pounding so fiercely he was sure it could be heard across London. The telegram in his pocket weighed him down like an anchor.
"Agathe-"
"Are you going to kiss me now?" she asked breathlessly.
"What?"
"You are going to kiss me. I mean, aren't you? she faltered, looking adorably flustered.
There was no other possible answer. He drew a finger across her cheek – surely it was the cold that made him tremble so – before lifting her chin until his mouth could meet hers, with only the gentlest pressure.
Around them, all of nature, the sky, the trees, the snow-covered ground, all of it held its breath, until she smiled.
"That was my first kiss," she confessed.
"I know," he said drily.
She narrowed her green eyes at him. "You've kissed dozens of girls, haven't you?"
He nodded.
"How was I? Did I kiss you properly? "
"Well," he said carefully, "it was appropriate. Yes. A perfectly appropriate first kiss. Look, Agathe, there's something I've got to tell you-"
"Appropriate," she lamented. "Appropriate? Is that all you can say?"
Before he could respond, she wound her arms around his neck and demanded, "Show me!"
"Agathe, it wouldn't be – I can't-"
"If you don't kiss me properly, I'll tell my brothers you did."
"Don't blackmail me," Georg protested, but he felt himself weakening, defenseless against that pink mouth, and worse, what he now saw again, more clearly than ever – the passionate glow in her green eyes.
He kissed her thoroughly, until they were both breathless, until he so ached with desire that, for one insane moment, he wondered if it were possible to make love to a woman in the back of a sleigh. Then his mind cleared enough to remember who he was with, and the angle of the sun told him that they'd already been gone far longer than the hour he'd promised Max. So he pulled her into his arms, glorying in the way she melted against him under the heavy robe, and ordered the driver to return home.
"Agathe," he murmured.
"Hmm?" she said dreamily. With her hair in disarray and her cheeks flushed, there would be no hiding what they'd been doing, he thought ruefully, but he pressed on.
"Agathe. Darling. I've got to tell you something."
"Darling?" she repeated, smiling.
"Agathe. Agathe," he repeated urgently. "I got my orders. I've got to report to Portsmouth in less than a week. To go back out to sea. It's a long campaign, but an important one, you see-"
She bolted upright. "Oh, no! No! Georg, what awful news!"
"I know," he nodded. He longed to unburden himself of the elation and excitement and fear he felt, but the grief on her face silenced him.
"I don't think I can bear it, Georg!"
"Nor can I. I knew it would come to this, eventually, but the time flew by, and-"
"I'll miss you terribly," she said, her lower lip trembling.
"Agathe. Please don't." He hated that he was hurting her, so much so that for one wild moment, he found himself wishing he didn't have to leave at all, but that was ridiculous, of course, he'd been looking forward to these maneuvers since last summer.
"What will I do without you?" she whispered, her eyes fixed on his. "What will I do?"
The words flew from his mouth. "What you will do is wait for me."
A glowing smile transformed her face.
"Oh, Georg, do you mean it?"
"Of course," he answered, puzzled by her sudden change in mood.
They were back in the city by now, the houses crowding in on them. People were out and about, and the snowy streets had turned dirt-brown from traffic, while the sun struggled to shine through a gathering haze. There were only a few minutes left before they arrived at the Ambassador's residence.
"I don't want to come back and find you turned into a duchess," he reassured her. "Or a countess. Or anything of that sort. I'll come back. It might be three months, or even six, but I'll come back, and things will go on just as they were before," he promised, pushing aside the fear that lurked deep within.
"So you'll talk to Father?"
He stared at her uncomprehendingly. "Talk to your father? About what?"
Her falling face told him everything he needed to know.
"Oh, God. Agathe. No! Wait. I don't mean 'no,' not exactly, it's not like that, like I don't want to. But I can't – I didn't mean-"
He couldn't meet her eyes.
"Agathe. I can't marry. I'm going to spend my life at sea. I can't be the kind of-" The word caught in his throat. "The kind of husband you deserve."
The kind of husband his father had been, he meant, and he wanted to explain it to her, so that she'd understand, but they were pulling up outside the residence now, Max, the Ambassador and all three brothers marshaled threateningly on the front steps, arms crossed.
"Then it's just as well," she said spitefully, "because, as it happens, I am the kind of woman who deserves better than you."
Without a backward glance, she slid from the sleigh, shouldered her way through her personal blockade, and disappeared into the house.
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I wrote this story for the February Proboards "meet cute" prompt, though it seems to have taken on a life of its own and is growing like a weed. Please leave me a review to push me across the finish line. Throughout this story, I had to do violence to a whole bunch of historical stuff to make it work, for which I apologize to history buffs. Don't own TSOM, all for love, etc.
