Thank you for your wonderful and insightful comments! I really am itching to reply to them all, but I feel that at this point, my very limited time is probably better spent finishing and polishing the upcoming chapters (and catching up on reading stories!) - but know that every comment really brightens my day. xx

Just to clarify (as per some confusion noted in the comments) - Georg did NOT send the children to boarding school (it would break my heart as much as his!)

And now, without further ado...

Chapter One

Summer Days

Georg returned to Aigen, Max in tow, half hoping the latest governess might have lasted the two days it took him to get home. That she might stay. That she might absolve him of feeling like he was balking at the door of a trap.

Forget staying. Forget two days. Georg groaned when an overworked Frau Schmidt reported that the new governess had lasted a mere two hours. He shut himself in his study, re-appearing at mealtimes, and wondered if there was a blueprint for sorting out seven unruly children. He made calls to several homeschooling and tutoring agencies, and half-heartedly polished his navy whistle he had used to call his children on his previous visits home.

He hadn't needed to use it yet. Sometime within the last year, his children had slipped into the routine of reporting to him every morning before breakfast without having to be called. Georg didn't know where they went during the day, and found he did not have a reason to call them.

Several days passed in this manner before his innocent children finally assailed him over supper. As usual, it was a mostly silent affair. The children were flanked on either side of the table, dressed impeccably in their clean evening shirts and dresses. Max sat at the other end, occasionally humming to himself as he made short work of his cook's excellent three-course meal.

It wasn't until dessert had been served that little Gretl piped up. "Father?"

"Yes, darling?"

"Who is our new governess going to be?"

He noticed the eyes of his other children dart from her to him, then quickly down to their plates. Max was the only one to meet his eyes, and he looked at him with a pointed little shrug, as if to say, the ball's in your court, old man.

Georg exhaled. "Well. You're not going to have a new governess anymore."

"We're not?" Friedrich and Marta echoed, and the others gaped at him. They'd had a governess every summer since – he cut that thought midway.

"You are going to have a set of excellent tutors," Georg said instead. "Let me see – two for your studies in the morning, and a highly recommended exercise instructor for the afternoon. And me."

Seven pairs of eyes larger than saucers stared at him in the deafening silence that followed.

"You, father?" Liesl asked blankly.

"Yes, Liesl. I'm going to oversee your summer."

There was a long pause. He saw the children glance at each other, saw the frown and answering headshake that passed between Liesl and Friedrich, saw the hope flitting across Brigitta's expressive face. Then – "how long will you be home for this time, father?"

Georg blinked at his youngest daughter. "What?" It came out more clipped then he intended.

"Gretl!" Kurt whispered, nudging her. The other children quickly looked away, but the tension in the room was palpable.

Gretl was not to be deterred, her small round face determined. "When will you be going away again?" She persisted.

It took him a minute to answer, to identify the surge of emotion he suddenly found himself struggling to hide. It was part exasperation, but greater part shame. Gretl, he realized, had never known a father who stayed home for more than several weeks at a time.

"No Gretl," he said slowly. "I'm not leaving. Not right now."

And so Georg stayed. Bit by bit, he found himself adjusting to life in Aigen, and the last few weeks of summer waxed and waned before Georg fully realized it was over.

Elsa wrote him often from Vienna. She had taken his sudden departure better than he'd expected. Of course, he admitted he hadn't exactly been the most exhilarating of guests in the preceding weeks. She'd kissed him warmly and entreated him to return when he had 'settled matters at home'. Neither had discussed how long that might possibly be. But as he pursued her letters, filled with breezy, intimate little details of her days, Georg got the sense she expected to be reunited soon.

"I've discovered the most darling patisserie, Georg," Elsa wrote recently. "You would love it. We could have afternoon tea, or sneak in late night dessert…"

Georg sighed. Elsa was certainly dear to him, but he'd discovered he found no pleasure at the thought of returning to Vienna.

Even less appealing was the idea of inviting her to Aigen for a long overdue visit, and avoided mentioning the prospect in his rather short replies. Georg couldn't quite put his finger on why the idea made him recoil. Elsa was a much sought-after woman, and he knew any number of men who would jump at the chance to have her grace his home. Attractive, graceful, and witty, she commanded any room she entered. But to him, Elsa's greatest asset was her generosity. Not in wealth, but in her time, her implicit understanding, and the space she had given him.

She never pressured him, never asked anything of him. She'd told him on more than one occasion that she didn't need him, and he didn't need her, and thus could give themselves entirely to appreciating each other's company.

It had been enough, when Georg had not cared where the road out of grief led him. And perhaps it would still be enough, once he sorted out his children. But if he was going to make Aigen his home, even temporarily, he had the sense that inviting Elsa into it would be a mistake. He knew Elsa's disdain for solitude was equal only to her indifference toward children. Her presence would surely take him so far from his already precarious resolve he may never find a way back.

Having braced himself for the worst, Georg found that between the children and Max, time passed easily enough; it was just a matter of finding enough to fill his day. He resumed some of his old habits – his early morning rides, his long hours in the study reviewing foreign naval contracts, his trips into town to conduct business and meet with the city council. Georg spent time with the children during the day, and evenings with Max in the parlour. Between the children's perpetual flurry of activity and Max's humorous grabs for attention, they largely banished the painful memories which once lurked in the silence and emptiness around every corner.

True to his word, Georg became a present figure to his children. He took his meals with them, had pleasant conversations with them, and presided over their morning studies with the new tutors he'd hired. He'd even taken over one of their history lessons, and was rewarded with seven pairs of eyes staring at him in rapt attention.

He didn't know what he had expected. Seven wild, inconsiderate, unmanageable tricksters, by the way their teachers and governesses made it sound. Certainly they were lively, but they were intelligent, curious, and respectful.

Georg might not have realized the children, regarding their father with a mixture of awe, excitement, and trepidation, were on their best behavior. He didn't notice how cautiously they approached him, or how much they held back.

But he did notice the time little Gretl scraped her elbow, and walked right past him to Liesl, eyes full of tears.

There was the time he overheard Kurt and Friedrich arguing over who would be the one to ask their father how to tie a tie. Georg had smiled indulgently. He may have forgotten about the request that evening, wrapped up in his study, but he remembered a week later when he realized neither of them had approached him.

Yet another time, Georg caught the girls hastily throwing items into a large chest when he passed the nursery. They weren't quick enough. He caught a glimpse of those dresses – dresses he knew so well he could almost smell them. His throat suddenly felt very tight, but resolutely, he pushed open the nursery door. He wanted to say, "those were your mothers," but with five innocent faces looking back at him, Georg realized he didn't have the words.

He let these moments slip by, accepting that he was the one who had set the examples; by never mentioning their mother, by never being present when his children had needed him.

He remembered the feeling of defeat the morning the tutor called in sick over breakfast. He was about to suggest that they continue their morning studies without her, when seven pairs of eyes looking at him hopefully gave him pause. The look reminded him of his own wild and carefree youth, a scamp longing for adventure. He felt a sudden rush of camaraderie toward his children.

What if, for once, he did something differently? What if he offered them the choice, to see what they came up with?

Before he could process this idea, Max suggested instead that he could take the children into town on some errands. Georg had nodded his assent. There was a part of him which felt relieved, but it was mingled with an odd sense of disappointment as he watched the children run off to ready their things, excited and chatting loudly.

He wondered then if perhaps he had been wrong. Perhaps the children didn't need him, after all. Perhaps they had outgrown him, these last few years. Grown older, grown apart, grown past the connection he'd once had with them.

And he wondered for the first time whether he could still get it back.

Georg couldn't say he looked forward to the beginning of the school year. He had grown accustomed to his summer routine, and the children were coming along so nicely in their studies under the tutelage of the three excellent and very expensive tutors. He wondered briefly if it would be better to keep them home with private schooling – after last year, Georg had the sensation he was about to deliver them to the mouth of the lion's den. And a part of him wondered if with the children gone much of the day, the house would once again seem much too silent, and much too large.

To his credit, Max had been working hard the entire month. Georg had never imagined Max would take his new role as school trustee with any degree of seriousness or purpose. It wasn't that he thought him incapable, but he was fairly certain Max had once told him that holding down a job was a prescription for death. He had expected Max to be pleasant and childish and charming and a very reliable source of comic relief, and bow out to Vienna's seduction of extravagant ballrooms and scandalous nightclubs once the novelty and excitement of the change of atmosphere wore off.

Instead, Max had plowed on. He attended board meetings he pretended to have little interest in, silently gathering information then swooping in at the right time like a bird of prey, his motions passing with unanimous support. He personally replaced half the school's staff and teachers by accessing the various connections he was so adept at forming. It was true, he still hated paperwork, but he managed to hire a local lackey to do most of it for him with minimal pay. And somehow, he did all of this while still finding time to make his way around Salzburg's social circles.

Georg was half impressed, half amused by Max's commitment, and found himself supporting his questionable methods with unusually good graces. When the new school year started, he resolved to give it and Max's new brood of staff two months. He reserved his criticism, sometimes against his better judgment. He held back, and observed.

There were changes he liked. Like how the children were now doing their homework without Frau Schmidt or one of their tutors peering over their shoulders like a hawk. Like how he started noticing his library books strewn all over the house. When he had questioned Brigitta, his most likely culprit, she claimed it wasn't her. He found out her siblings were pulling them out in order to 'look things up'. And indeed, whenever he saw them, they seemed excited and eager – there was a vitality about them that made Georg feel relieved and proud, and just a little wistful.

But then he received the letter.

Georg's first instinct was to crumple the teacher's missive in his strong grip. THE most impudent, foolish, utterly inexcusable piece of correspondence –

"What, father?"

He stopped short. Georg realized he had been muttering under his breath, pacing in tight lines behind his desk. Liesl, who had delivered the letter to his study, was still standing in front of him, watching him closely. He pursued his lips, and the harsh huff he made no effort to conceal ended in a whistle.

To buy himself time before he had to provide a reply, he held the piece of paper up in front of him and perused its contents once more. Dear esteemed Captain… started the tidy and delicate script, and immediately he felt the anger and resentment rise again.

How do you do?

I am writing to entreat you to reconsider your refusal to allow Liesl, Friedrich, and Louisa to participate in the highly anticipated charity musical the upper year class is putting together for Christmas. Your Liesl has the most exquisite voice and Louisa has quite a flair for the dramatic. Friedrich just simply sailed through his auditions, and the leading male role would be his in a heartbeat.

They have all come along so wonderfully since the beginning of the school year, when they refused to even join in our music class. I feel sure that you would change your mind if you could only hear them! They would be heartbroken if they could not participate with their classmates. I thank you very much for your reconsideration.

Yours most sincerely,

Maria Rainer

Georg snorted, pulling out the chair from behind his desk and sitting down hard. It wasn't even so much what she was asking him to reconsider – he'd glanced at and passed over the permission form for this upcoming play without giving it much thought. No, when he first read the short missive his eldest daughter had handed him, it had been the shock as much as anything which had infuriated him.

Georg had received his share of abominable letters from his children's teachers. After all, he did have seven, and between them, he'd received letters that covered everything from the children's homework, their behavior, requests for Frau Schmidt's cookie recipe, and all too frequently from female teachers who'd discovered that the child's father was none other than the mysterious, wealthy, and decidedly single Captain Von Trapp.

But nobody had dared speak that way to him in a very long time. With a rueful half-chuckle, Georg allowed himself a moment of amusement that this impudent, small-town school ma'am had, after all, dared to speak that way to him.

The letter was fiery, he admitted. And he might even have forgiven the woman for her impertinence, if it wasn't for the sting. A sting made all the more cruel by the fact that he knew it couldn't have been intended – for how could she know of his loss, his grief? How could she know that after her death, the sound of music had been the hardest to bear?

It had once been the sound of happiness, of love, of togetherness.

Georg glanced up at Liesl, who had mirrored his actions and taken a seat across his desk. She was looking down at her hands, tugging the tip of each finger in a gesture of nervousness that was oddly familiar. His breath caught as he realized – of course, that was exactly what Agathe used to do when she was nervous. And suddenly, there it was again, the familiar ache of love and pain. Of all his children, Liesl had picked up the most of her mother's mannerisms, and it seemed to him the older she grew, the more apparent they became.

Georg sighed. He felt that thinking about his children ought not to be causing him pain.

Your Liesl has the most exquisite voice… Of course she did. All the older children did. They had inherited their musicality from their mother and learned to love it because of her. Georg had no doubt his younger ones would, too, if only they had someone to teach them. He didn't consider himself a musical person by nature, but his wife had coaxed him into its embrace. Together, they had built with it a world for their children – a world that had come crashing down after her passing. The children never said they missed it, and Georg had assumed that they, unlike him – still buried under a mountain of grief – had moved on to other things.

"Liesl…"

His eldest looked up immediately, hazel eyes huge with expectation. "Yes, father?" He thought he could hear the quaver behind the bravado, and understood that she expected to be scolded. Perhaps even shouted at.

He sighed, schooling his face into a gentler expression. "Have you and the others been sitting out during class?"

"No-o."

"Did you tell this Fraulein that I… forbade you and your brothers and sisters from singing?"

"No-o."

"Well." Georg looked perplexed. "What on earth did you all tell this music teacher of yours?"

Liesl looked down. "Please father – it was at the beginning of the year. Fraulein Maria asked what songs we knew. Friedrich only told her we didn't know any."

"Hmm – was that all?"

She nodded her head, stealing a glance at him from under her lashes. Seeing his stern, appraising gaze, she slowly turned her answer into a headshake.

"We told her you didn't like us to sing," Liesl admitted in a small voice.

"I see."

"You – you used to turn away when…" She broke off as Georg closed his eyes. He remembered those days when Agathe's songs had haunted him, and how he had rebuffed the children's cautious attempts at merrymaking.

He let out a long breath. "You didn't have to… I didn't…" He stopped. While he had never expressly forbidden the children from singing, he knew that his actions had spoken for him. "I haven't heard you sing in a long time," he said finally.

"We-ell…" Liesl hesitated. "It – it wasn't the same, anymore. I haven't felt like it… much." She faltered.

"This – Maria? Fraulein Maria?" He glanced at his daughter and she nodded in confirmation, "- she says you sing very well."

He watched as Liesl blushed at the compliment – perhaps the first she had received from him in a very long time, even though it hadn't really been his to give.

"How are you all getting along in class, then?" He asked more gently.

"Oh father, we like it very much!" Liesl enthused. The hesitation in her voice disappeared abruptly with Georg's encouraging nod. "Fraulein Maria lets us pick our own projects. Last week Brigitta thought it would be fun to study something classical – Friedrich and I chose the Merry Widow."

"The Merry Widow?" Georg coughed weakly. "Is that appropriate for your age?"

"Oh yes, father. It's the most fascinating and entertaining story."

"Undoubtedly." Georg smothered a splutter, and was rather aggrieved to find that he was very amused. "And what of this teacher of yours?" He asked instead.

"Oh, we love her!" Liesl beamed. Georg caught the involuntary movement of his hand before she could notice. He hadn't heard that word spoken in his home for a very long time.

"Fraulein Maria makes class so fun. We were all nervous about it at first – all the music and singing – but she started us from the very beginning. Right from the do-re-mi, you know. And she's so kind. She said right away she wanted to get to know all of us, and something about the way she just looks at you makes it so easy to tell her anything. Even Louisa says so, and you know how Louisa is."

Liesl was so excited it took her a moment to notice her father's sudden change of expression. Closed. Pained. She backpedaled. "Oh – father, I didn't mean it like that…"

All of a sudden, Georg realized, the sting had a name. It wasn't necessarily that this woman had brought music – the very thing that had caused him unbearable agony – back to his children. It wasn't her high-handed way off running things, of assuming she knew better than he how to manage his own children. It wasn't even that he didn't approve of his family singing in public. The sting, and he had felt it keenly with Liesl's words, was that somehow, this Salzburg schoolmarm who had known his children not even two months, had somehow worked her way into their lives and their hearts, and left him as an outsider.