Author's Notes:

This is two stories, actually. They started out as a bit of backstory (written mostly for my own entertainment), but further plotting in the story arc that began with TNOT Unexpected Visit has led me to believe that it might be a good idea for the readers to know what a certain character has been up to when Uncle Artie's out of town…

The Days of the Teehaus, Part One

It was her half-day. Her daughter had fallen asleep for a nap and her students, the three Morgan girls, had eagerly begged for the chance to watch over little Missie if the toddler awakened before Mrs Sparrow returned. And so Denise Sparrow had gone out for an afternoon's shopping.

Not that her heart was in it. She roamed from one store to the next desultorily, glancing at this thing and that, buying nothing. Books normally were a passion for her; now they stirred her not at all. Dresses — she lingered at the window of a dressmaker's shop, not really seeing the lovely fabrics, but remembering instead a certain day a lifetime ago when she had stood before such a window in Chicago, leaning on Craig's arm. Craig, her husband, newly minted as a full lawyer, had laughed at the longing in her eyes as she gazed in that window and told her to go in and choose the prettiest fabric they had; of course he would buy her a new dress!

She still had that dress, but it was packed away, as were all her pretty dresses. She had brought them with her when she and her daughter had moved here to Georgetown recently, but she still couldn't bring herself to wear them. Three years on, and she still wore her widow's weeds as a sign that she was still in mourning, though not deep mourning anymore. Craig. She adored him still — she always would — and so she still dressed in mourning in his memory. How, she wondered now and again, would she ever find another to match him? A man as interesting, as fascinating — someone who was even a shadow of Craig Sparrow?

And then there was Missie, her dear dead husband's child, born six months after the accident that had taken him from her. Was there a man out there who would be willing to take on the responsibility of raising Missie? Someone who would love her as if she were his own?

She felt her eyes filling and steered her thoughts away. This is nothing but me feeling sorry for myself, she thought severely. I'll have none of that!

If only… If only Uncle Artie were here. He had such a knack for cheering her up, her wonderful uncle who was really her cousin. But he and his partner James West were absent from Washington for now, off on their train the Wanderer, doing their work, righting the wrongs, catching the bad guys — having lives. And she, she was merely a governess, ensconced in the Morgans' home teaching their children while raising her fatherless child, alone.

"Guten Tag, my dear," came a voice, soft and amiable, creaky with age, speaking from close behind her. Someone is talking to me? she wondered as she turned.

She saw an old man, grey-haired, smiling. A neatly-trimmed goatee and moustaches framed the smile, a long-healed scar tracing a line down his left cheek. The warm and almost youthful sparkle in his eye belied the age that stooped his shoulders. His smile spread even wider as he said, "Ach ja! Fräulein Niecie, is it not? You remember me, hmm?"

Remember! As if she could ever forget! The horrible sensation of falling, falling, with the certainty that the end of the fall would be the end of her. The terrible scene replayed itself in her head: how the air had whistled in her ears — how she had thought only of, What will become of Missie? — how she had closed her eyes, not wanting to see the ground rushing up at her…

And then had come the sudden THUD as something smacked into her from the wrong direction, from the side, sending her rolling, tumbling along a grassy verge until she came to rest at last. And her rescuer — who…?

She remembered the groan from close at hand, and remembered swiveling her still-spinning head to see an old man — this old man — gingerly levering himself up into a sitting position and muttering, "Ach mein Himmel!" to himself before turning to her and exclaiming, "Fräulein! You are all right?"

She blinked, pulling herself out of the remembrance — is there such a thing as a day-mare? — to find a gentle but firm hand was supporting her elbow, and that same paper-thin voice was saying the very same thing to her: "Fräulein! You are all right?"

"I… I… Yes, I'm all right," she assured him, though in fact feeling a bit shaky still.

"Ach, I am glad. You gave me a bit of a turn just now, my dear," said the old man. "But you do remember me, hmm?"

"Oh, yes indeed! You saved my life, ah…" She dredged her memory for the name. "Umm… Fri… Fritzi, wasn't it?"

He nodded, beaming. "Ach ja! Sehr gut — very good. Fritzi Drossel, from Düsseldorf. But I did not quite catch your name, my dear. Your uncle called you Niecie, I believe?"

"Denise Sparrow," she responded. "Mrs Sparrow."

"Ach, I was mistaken. Not Fräulein but Frau, hmm?" He looked her over, taking in the widow's weeds and the lack of a ring on her finger. His eyes softened as he gently took her hand in both of his, patting it consolingly. "Mein aufrichtiges Beileid, my dear. Which is to say, my most sincere condolences. I know what it is."

He was widowed as well? Oh but at his age, that was very likely so.

"So junge — so young," he was saying. And suddenly his kindly regard, his compassion — his empathy — quite overwhelmed her and she began to cry.

"Ach, my apologies, my dear!" he said and quickly produced a very large, very red bandanna from his pocket, offering it to her. She declined, pulling a handkerchief trimmed in black lace from the cuff of her sleeve and putting it to good use. "I am so sorry," Fritzi Drossel went on. "I did not mean to make you cry, my dear." He paused, thinking, then said, "Let us find a place where you may sit down, hmm?" And laying a hand gently on the small of her back, he steered her down the street to a colorful little shop with the word "Teehaus" painted in an arch of Gothic lettering on the window. He brought her inside, calling a friendly "Guten Tag!" to the waitress who then placed them at a table for two in the window. And as they waited for their tea, he began to talk.

And what a talker he was! He regaled her with tales of life back in the Old Country, and eventually, as the tears gave way to laughter, she opened up and told him about her childhood back in Chicago — and of course that included the story of how her older cousin Artemus Gordon had become her Uncle Artie. They wound up having a wonderful time together, drinking tea and chattering on and on about whatever came to mind. By the time the afternoon had flown and evening was drawing on, Denise felt as if she had known Fritzi forever.

Abruptly she realized the light was fading outside. She glanced at the locket watch pinned to her bodice and exclaimed at how late it was. "Oh, I must be getting home now!"

She rose, as did Fritzi. He paid for their tea, then offered Denise his arm. After a moment's hesitation she took it. He escorted her outside, then back up the street to the spot in front of the dressmaker's window where he had found her.

He smiled at her, taking her hand in his and patting it. "I had a lovely afternoon, my dear Frau Spatz," said he with a twinkle in his eye.

Puzzled, she asked, "Excuse me, what did you say? Frow Shpots?"

He chuckled. "Ach, that was a small whimsy of mine. 'Spatz,' you see, means 'sparrow.' Und 'Drossel' as well is a type of bird — a thrush, a little singing bird. I, ah…" he added with a modest shrug, "I am rather fond of birds."

"Frau Spatz," she repeated dubiously.

"Ja. A mere whimsy. You will permit?" He gave her a big-eyed look that reminded her of her Uncle Artie's puppy-dog eyes.

Which always worked…

She couldn't help smiling. "All right. Yes, I will permit."

"Wunderbar!" said he. Still in possession of her hand, he patted it once more and added, "Now, my dear Frau Spatz, when may we have tea together again, hmm?"

She smiled. The wily old dear! Not "May we" but "When may we"! "Well," she replied, "this is my weekly half-day off."

"Mmm! A week from today then? You will meet me at the Teehaus?"

So eager! The sweet old man — he was likely just as lonely as she was. With a nod, she said, "Yes. Yes, I would enjoy that." And she meant it.

His smile broadened. "Und may I see you home now?"

To this she shook her head. "No thank you. It's kind of you to offer, Herr Drossel…"

"Fritzi, my dear," he interjected.

"…Fritzi. But it's not that far. I'll be perfectly fine."

"Ach. I see." And from the disappointment he quickly quelled in his eyes, she wondered had she hurt his feelings. "Guten Abend then," he added, and bent gallantly over her hand.

"Guten Abend," she echoed and started for home. As she walked, she again wondered if she had hurt the sweet old man by refusing his offer. She reached the corner where she would turn, and there she paused and glanced back.

He was still standing there in front of the dressmaker's window, head to one side, frowning a bit, looking pensive. Realizing she had turned to look at him, he lit up and raised a hand in a jaunty wave. She waved in return, her own face lighting up as well. And then she lost sight of him as she went round the corner to go home.