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And without further ado...
Chapter Six
I Want You To Know
Let me see you home.
The words repeated themselves in his mind days after his walk with Fraulein Maria, made all the more significant by his surprise at how much it affected him. He hadn't intended to say them, that much was certain. And despite Fraulein Maria's notions of common courtesy, he knew he had not been motivated by any standard of social custom.
Instead, he had acted on what was ironically more her predisposition than his. Impulse. Driven by a feeling he was unable to identify.
A week after Georg had surprised his children singing in the nursery, he had gone to the school for the purpose of speaking with Fraulein Maria. While he still didn't fully have the words to describe the impact of all she had done for the children – and for him – which only became more evident each day as they grew closer as a family, he knew he owed her, at the very least, a formal apology. His behavior toward the young teacher who had nothing but the best of intentions had been inexcusable.
He had arrived in time to catch the tail end of their practice – of course, it would have run late under Fraulein Maria's rule, Georg thought with a rueful chuckle. He found himself rather aggrieved that this idea bothered him less than it used to.
He lingered in the shadows just outside the door, watching the students dance their way across the floor that Maria had marked out for a makeshift stage. He smiled to see Liesl, Frederich, and Louisa among them, their faces happy and carefree. He watched the girls laugh as Frederich gave a particularly comical groan. What character he was supposed to be, he had no idea, but Fraulein Maria clapped and gave him a thumbs up.
Georg watched her, long arms and legs everywhere at once as she maneuvered amongst the children. Even her heavy brown skirt seemed to float behind her. Her laughter and her voice filtered through the students', sweet and clear.
Something in her dancing blue eyes had made him want to call out. Made him want to be a part of the exhilarating scene before him. But Georg nipped that thought almost immediately. There was something about this young woman that made all his inhibitions slip a little, and up until now, it had clearly been for the worst.
Nonetheless, the feeling held him, made him step aside as his excited children raced out the door after practice, not sparing him a glance, even though the practical thing would had been to drive them home.
The same feeling had him putting off the stiff, formal words he had come to deliver, had him irrationally making excuses to linger, and finally, had him offer – like a naïve schoolboy – to see her home.
And she had wanted to walk. It didn't occur to him to refuse, although he had not walked anywhere with anyone in a very long time. Nobody in Vienna walked. And perhaps that was what had made all the difference. From his place behind the wheel, with half his mind diverted to navigating Viennese traffic, he could hardly be expected to spare a thought for the inane chit-chat Elsa's contemporaries inundated upon him. With his eyes on the road, he could never notice them like he had noticed Fraulein Maria, during their leisurely twilight walk. She had been unexpectedly flustered, quieter than he'd ever imagined she could be, but he'd noticed her beguiling mixture of eagerness and shyness, of boldness and of trepidation. He'd noticed the little details – how frequently she blushed, how easily her eyes conveyed what her tongue was reluctant to say, how her entire body seemed to still when he spoke, like she wanted to catch every syllable he said.
She had been completely and utterly disarming.
He found himself surveying her attentively, wanting to learn more about her, and even more unusually, wanting to divulge pieces of his own past. Georg was surprised that he should find in her company a level of comfort and ease he had not experienced in either Salzburg or Vienna for many years. He wanted more of it. Craved it, even.
Perhaps Max had been right, and Fraulein Maria simply had that effect on everybody.
And so, that afternoon became the first of their many walks. Reticent at first, with the strange feeling that he might be imposing, Georg only sought out her company in connection with the children. Liesl had left her notebook behind at school. There was some paperwork that needed to be dropped off for the boys' gym class. Marta wished to borrow some of the school's art supplies. One afternoon, he found Fraulein Maria waiting for him by the door of her classroom, her face lit with a bright smile. He found his heart beating a little faster with the thrill of anticipation, and decided she was excuse enough.
Together, they witnessed the days growing ever shorter, watched as the multi-coloured autumn leaves overhead began carpeting the ground, felt the increasing chill in the air. Sometimes, they tripped over each other's sentences as they both talked at once. Sometimes, they walked the entire way in near silence. Sometimes they were playful, sometimes competitive (for they were both fiercely stubborn), sometimes thoughtful. They could talk about everything, and sometimes nothing at all. He felt a strange sense of freedom, as though, however briefly, they would cease being Captain Von Trapp and Fraulein Maria, and exist in another world entirely of their own.
Respectful of her boundaries, Georg always walked her to the little square near her home, before handing over her bag. Maria would take it from him, and they would talk for a few minutes longer. It seemed that each day, they became more reluctant to say farewell – he thought perhaps she felt it too when 'good evening Captain' turned into an impish 'see you tomorrow, Captain'.
Maria had, he realized, a wicked sense of fun, her sly humour frequently astonishing a chuckle out of him. She had an infectious sort of energy, and a lovely, crystal-clear little laugh he always angled to provoke. But underneath her bubbly enthusiasm – that he initially slandered her as undisciplined seemed another lifetime ago – there was a depth and understanding that drew him most of all.
True to her word, Maria talked enthusiastically about the children. Georg was careful to be receptive, biting back the snap judgments that, despite her influence, were still quick to bubble at his lips.
From her, he learned that Friedrich wanted to be a pilot, that Marta was ashamed of her poor arithmetic grades despite trying her best, that Brigitta was writing a series of poems she hoped to publish one day.
Georg learned that Liesl had written a composition about her mother full of happy, cherished memories. He was surprised and a little taken aback when Maria told him that Liesl had included a photo. Georg knew exactly which one it was as soon as she began to describe it – he had taken it himself, one memorable summer when Agathe had come to visit him in Pula.
"She was very beautiful," Maria gushed.
"Yes, she was." Georg went quiet after that, startled to realize that thinking of her was no longer the painful exercise it used to be.
He heard from Fraulein Maria the week Kurt got into his first fight at school. Georg never imagined gentle, good-natured Kurt would be the one getting into fights, but having been a bit of a scrapper himself in his youth, a part of him was secretly proud.
"Did you tell him it was wrong?" He asked innocently.
Maria shook her head. "I told him there are usually better ways to resolve a conflict than fighting, but something it's necessary as a last resort if you're standing up for something or someone you love."
"Other ways such as writing letters?" Georg asked slyly.
She blushed – a look he secretly delighted in eliciting – and laughed. "That can be a start."
"I'll say," he had murmured, suddenly realizing she was wearing a new blouse, for he found himself trying not to see the way the blush had crept down her neck to her collarbone and dipped lower still.
Then there had been that unforgettable afternoon when they had been drinking tea in the staffroom, waiting out a sudden chilly fall rain that had come over the town. Unforgettable because in all the discussions they'd had about the children, and all the progress he'd made, that had been the most painful and yet somehow, the most momentous.
They had been talking about the concerns that had plagued the children the preceding school year, of which Georg had received an earful that awful summer day.
"… And the tricks they played on the governesses…" Georg lamented over his steaming cup of tea, as he watched Maria rummaging in the cupboard for snacks.
She laughed, her strawberry blond head bobbing. "It wasn't just the governesses, Captain," she replied into the cupboard.
"What do you mean?"
Maria peered over the cupboard door at him. "Didn't I tell you about that time they put spiders in my desk drawer?"
Georg sputtered into his tea. "No. You absolutely did not."
"Or the time they placed a pinecone on my chair?"
He groaned, shaking his head. "Ah yes, the old pinecone trick. That was a classic with the governesses." The beginning of a smirk appeared on his face. "What did you do?"
"Jumped up and screamed," Maria replied serenely.
Georg laughed. Somehow, he could perfectly and vividly picture Maria leaping out of the chair with a squeal before seeing the offending pinecone, and he found the image oddly warming.
"Did you call them out on it?"
"No, of course not," she scoffed.
He raised his eyebrows.
"I said it was rheumatism," she admitted, smiling a little ruefully.
He sighed again. "I just don't understand how the children are able to play such tricks. Why do it at all?"
Maria slid into the chair across from him with her trophy – a package of ginger snaps – but didn't open them. She looked levelly at him, her large eyes serious and earnest. "How else could they get your attention, Captain?"
Georg's eyes flew to her face. Her voice was very matter-of-fact, with no hint of accusation. "All their pranks… their behavior, the poor effort in school – don't you see?"
He drew a long breath through his nose. "I see," was all he said.
Maria bit her lip at his hard tone, but didn't look away. He wondered if she was remembering their initial disastrous exchange, waiting for him to explode. But Georg was different now – he could recognize the truth in her words, as difficult as they were. Accept it.
She spared him the necessity of answering when she plowed on, a little more hesitantly. "You were wondering how they happened to be doing so well this year? You said it was me – and perhaps I did help things along, but really, it was you, Captain." Her voice fell but her eyes fairly glowed. "They're glad to have you back."
They stared at each other for a moment. "I know," Georg said at last, his voice low. But he wanted to say something else – to tell her that somehow, they were in this together. Although he had come back to Salzburg with the best of intentions, it was her influence that helped him rebuild the bridge to his children. This moment belonged to the both of them.
Before he could begin to voice his thoughts, Maria said suddenly, "and I learned something about Louisa this week." There was an odd catch in her voice. "She – " Maria took a breath, then went on with a look of determination, " – she said I could tell you, if I got the chance."
Caught off guard by the sudden change in conversation, Georg only looked at her in inquiry.
Maria took a sip of her tea, and said softly, "she's afraid of thunderstorms."
"Thunderstorms?" Georg echoed, confused, still trying to step out of his earlier thoughts. The revelation seemed a strange thing for his fearless, daring daughter.
"Well, perhaps not afraid. The rest of your children are afraid of storms, as I found out the afternoon when that sudden tempest broke out. We had to close all the shutters and sing songs about our favourite things." She paused. "But Louisa – it seemed to affect her more than all the others. She dreaded every moment of it."
"And you found out why?" Georg asked, curious. It suddenly occurred to him how little he knew about his second eldest daughter. He always had a nagging inkling that of all his children, she was the most like his in temperament – reckless, yet reserved; slow to care, but cared deeply once her walls were down. But he had not let her get close enough to him these past years to get past hers.
Louisa I don't know about, but someone has to find out, he remembered Maria admonishing him. And now, she had.
"I kept her in at recess and asked her." Maria nodded. Her voice was gentle, and all of a sudden, he was seized with a cold dread at what she was about to tell him. "The week before Baroness Von Trapp became ill, there was a storm. Louisa said you were away for business."
He remembered that week well. It was unlikely he would ever forget it.
"She loved rain, and wanted to play. Your wife took the girls out, splashing in puddles and dancing in the rain."
Georg stared at her. He'd never heard this story.
"Then Marta got sick. Then the Baroness."
"But – scarlet fever… the rain has nothing to do with – "
"Louisa was a child. She didn't know – she blamed herself very much for her mother's death." Maria's voice was a whisper, swallowed by the open room.
"Blamed herself?" Georg repeated, white-lipped. He felt sick.
"Yes, Captain. She knows now that it isn't true, of course, but sometimes, I think the guilt still torments her, especially when it rains."
Guilt. Did he ever know about guilt. How he had not been there when Agathe fell ill. How he had not been able to save her. How his love had not been enough. How he still lived but she was gone. And recently, how thoroughly he had abandoned the children. Abandoned Louisa – with her dreadful secret and undeserved guilt, allowed her to become angry, withdrawn, boisterious by turn. How he had failed her. "I never knew…" he murmured helplessly.
And suddenly, there it was again. The overwhelming grief and sorrow that surged from the depths of his chest that left him struggling for breath. A despair which had consumed him after his wife's death, magnified now by Louisa's pain. A despair that threatened to crush him. A despair that demanded instant oblivion. But instead of liquor, all he had now was a cup of tea and the young woman sitting in mute sympathy in front of him.
The understanding in her sad, limpid eyes held him and somehow, kept him from coming entirely undone.
"Agathe – she was…" He started, and swallowed. "When she died, I was…" He found he couldn't continue.
And yet, somehow, he wanted her to know.
He wanted her to know the years he had spent, wanting nothing more than to live in the past, yet afraid even the smallest memory might just break him.
He wanted her to know that he would have given anything to have just a little more time with his beloved. Anything, including the rest of his life.
He wanted her to know of the empty years that stretched ahead, years where he would always wonder just how they might have filled them, together.
He wanted her to know everything.
A part of him was surprised when she reached across the table and took his hand in hers, the back of his hand warm against her palm. Her eyes were huge and full of anguish, as though his pain had become hers. As though she did know.
They sat there, in the old staffroom, and Georg grasped onto the comforting pressure of her hand and let the wave of despair crash over him, then slowly recede. It was like coming out of shell shock, dazed and numb, as the crushing heaviness in his chest faded into a dull ache.
Harder. Much harder than oblivion.
She gave his hand a gentle squeeze. He returned it, but couldn't quite manage a smile.
"How do you do it, Maria?" He asked quietly.
"Do what?"
"Get through moments… like these." He knew of her parents' passing – from the same fever that had taken his wife – when she was very young. He knew of her miserable childhood. In a world that had been less than kind to her, Maria was remarkable.
"Well," Maria started, elfin face thoughtful. "I learned to use a trick I taught your children, when they're sad or scared. I try to think of something good. My favourite things. A happy memory."
"Hmm – and does that work?" This time, he did manage something that could pass for a smile.
"Mm-hmm."
"Tell me something good."
"Now, Captain?"
"Yes."
"Well," she started again. "My happiest memory was when I was a young girl. My mother would sweep me up and lift me onto her feet, and we would dance around the room in circles to the sound of a fiddle. I think my father was the one playing it. I can't be sure, but I'd like to think so."
Maria sounded content, but Georg couldn't suppress a twinge of sadness for the extraordinary woman in front of him whose most precious memory had occurred so long ago.
"Also, I like mittens." Her face was a mask of seriousness.
"Mittens? Those are your favourite things?"
"Mm-hmm. The warm, woolen kind."
"What else?" He asked, a touch of humour returning to his voice.
"Bells."
"What kind of bells?" He inquired, his smile broadening.
"Doorbells. Sleigh bells. Church bells. Any kind."
"Anything else?"
"Strudel. Schnitzel."
"With noodle?"
"Of course." She grinned, and he had to chuckle. "Now you, Captain," she encouraged him.
"Hmm? Me?"
She nodded eagerly.
"Err. Horses. Edelweiss." Georg paused. "This? I like this. Afternoon tea."
Maria glowed. "With jam?" She added mischievously.
"Yes. Tea and jam. Next time, I'll bring the jam."
They both laughed. And when the rain finally stopped, he walked her to the square by her home. It was that afternoon – one filled with despair, but also the knowledge that it could be overcome – that he felt something shift.
Perhaps, maybe, finally, truly, he was ready to start again.
