Disclaimer: I don't own the Sound of Music ... except on DVD.
Author's Notes: Please read and review. Reviews only take a second and will remind me why I come home and stare at a computer screen after I've stared at one all day long at work ...
Incidentally, the term "lovers" as used in this chapter refers to the general idea of people being in love. It has no overtly sexual implications.
Clearly, I have a thing for massages (see my other story).
Chapter 9
Maria's eyelids fluttered open. The room was dark, shadowed, and peaceful. The sheer curtains that hung before the open balcony doors rippled in the breeze; her husband liked letting in the fresh summer air at night. She became conscious of her skin prickling in the cool air. Her arm, shoulder, and back had escaped the blankets. She rolled over and snuggled back into the covers—toward the source of warmth and of what seemed to her a limitless wellspring of happiness.
He lay beside her, a dark presence in the haze of moonlight that penetrated the room. The heat of his body and the rhythm of his slow, steady breathing lulled her, but she resisted the pull of sleep. Instead, she propped herself on her elbow and considered his sleeping figure. He lay on his back, his head tilted slightly toward her. One hand lay limp near his brow, and his jutting elbow formed a bridge that kept him in contact with her pillow. This idle, restful hand captivated her. In daylight, his hands were so purposeful. They were strong and masculine with long, finely sculpted fingers like those of an artist or musician. They were also gentle hands, she knew, and her body tingled with the memory of a sensation that his fingers had burned deftly into her skin.
Her gaze traced the line of these curved fingers to his forehead. His dark hair was smoothed back from his brow, except the one wayward lock that tended to fall forward. The first time she had seen him thus disheveled was on an afternoon when he had taken her out on the lake behind the villa. The wind had worked steadily against his thick hair, finally liberating it to beat rhythmically against his forehead with each gust. Perhaps he would have brushed it back into place, but his hands had been occupied with the oars.
She had loved it, and she had loved him. He must have perceived her happiness, because he had laughed suddenly, an exultant laugh that displayed his dimples and the roundness of his cheeks. She had been overcome with a desire to kiss him, a longing more keen than she had ever felt up to that point. Instead, she had begun to hum happily, letting her fingers skate across the surface of the cool water as her eyes shone in his direction.
She still found the sight of that lock of hair irresistible. Her husband was a dignified man who did not shed his air of formality and reserve in company. She, however, was granted a deeper view. Only she saw his hair tumble forward unrestrained as he hovered above her and searched her gaze hungrily.
She reveled in his hunger for her. During the first days of their engagement, it had amazed her how singularly he was devoted to her. She had never really had a low opinion of herself. But she also felt that she knew her limitations, and the intensity of his regard seemed beyond anything she could possibly merit. She was entirely sure of her love for him and his for her, but all the same ...
Her insecurities had melted away, however, as the weeks passed. He had treated her in every way as an equal, and it seemed to her that he had made the transition from employer and employee to lovers without a shred of awkwardness. Soon she found herself teasing him more, touching him more, outwardly seeking his affection, expressing her opinions as boldly as she had before she had been silenced by the overwhelming realization that she was falling in love with him. He had seemed pleased as her hesitancy and restraint crumbled bit by bit.
Now, lying beside him, she couldn't resist the indulgence of touching him. She reached out and brushed her thumb across his lower lip. He shifted, inhaling deeply. His lips parted, closed again, then were still. She knew those lips in many aspects—drawn into a thin, stern line; twitching slightly as though resisting laughter; stretching, wide and full, into a sudden smile; caressing her ear silkily as he murmured: Oh my love, my love, my love ...
She smiled and moved closer, her face only inches from his. Her fingers, light as air, traced the firm line of his jaw, skipping across his shadow of a beard. She had found that she loved watching her husband shave, though she couldn't quite pinpoint why. Perhaps it was his habit of performing this activity wearing a bathrobe slung loosely around his body. Perhaps it was his shaving cream and aftershave that she quickly identified as being the source of a scent she associated with the moment he had first kissed her, drawing his lips across her face and caressing her cheek with his. Perhaps it was the sight of the clean, sharp blade scraping expertly across his skin as though he had complete mastery of this dangerous object. He had laughed at her fascination with what he considered to be a mundane task, but he had proven himself happy to humor her in this as in all things.
Maria heard his breathing change before she noticed that he was watching her. His gaze flickered dreamily across her face as though he were half asleep. "It isn't morning, my love?" he murmured, his voice thick with fatigue.
"No." She caressed his cheek with the palm of her hand. "I'm just cold."
"Mm," he grunted softly and turned onto his side, reaching a warm arm across her to draw her against him. She rolled into him, the cool skin of her back nestling against the warmth of his chest.
"I love you," she murmured.
"Maria," he breathed.
She felt his arm rest heavier upon her as sleep reclaimed him. His chest rose and fell with each deep, peaceful breath. Wrapped in his warmth, her eyelids too began to grow heavy, and her breathing slowed until they were in perfect concert.
Maria smoothed the folds of her dress nervously as she made her way down the villa's imposing staircase. For the first time since her engagement, she was not looking forward to sitting down to eat with the family. Her sense of trepidation had nothing to do with the children, nor had Georg really caused any problems. She was just ... embarrassed.
It had been a dreadful day.
It had started before breakfast when Louisa tripped her older brother as they were all hurrying down to breakfast. Friedrich had lurched forward, knocking Gretl heavily to one side and causing Maria to collide against the banister hard enough to make her gasp in pain. As Gretl burst into tears, Maria had scolded Friedrich, who in turn had protested defensively that he too was a victim.
When a repentant Louisa had stepped forward as the guilty party, even issuing a sharp reprimand had not been sufficient to ease Maria's irritation. On the contrary, it had been compounded by her guilt afterwards at seeing Louisa's hangdog expression and by Friedrich's angry hissings of reproof at his sister all the way down to the dining room.
After breakfast, Brigitta had realized that one of her books was missing. She claimed that her brothers had hidden it from her on purpose—an accusation they firmly denied—and in an attempt to appease her, Maria helped her search for an hour until Brigitta, blushing, remembered that she had left it sitting in a window seat after all. When Maria had returned to the rest of children, prepared to exonerate the boys, she was dismayed to find Gretl in a panic because Kurt had threatened her doll. Liesl, who had been given the task of keeping an eye on her brothers and sisters, had failed to notice this drama because she was mooning over Rolf in a corner.
As the morning stretched on toward lunchtime, Maria's head had begun to throb, as had the bruise that was undoubtedly forming where her ribs had made contact with the banister. One thought consoled her—by lunchtime, Georg would be back from driving Max to town. But when she entered the dining room, Frau Schmidt had arrived with the message that the Captain had been detained by an urgent matter and would have lunch sent to his study when he arrived home.
The final straw of the day, however, had occurred when she and the children were playing a ballgame after lunch. Kurt, who had eaten too much before running around energetically for an hour, threw up all over Marta, who was wearing her favorite pink dress. Maria had rushed her upstairs to change, but Marta had been inconsolable about the stained dress.
Maria had finally ordered the children into the library to work on their studies—a command that was met by a chorus of groans—and, full of pique, she had thrown herself into a chair on the patio, rubbing her temples in exhaustion. It was at that precise moment that Georg had entered the scene. He had been absent all morning and, upon his return, had repaired directly to his study, far removed from any scenes of vomit and strife. He stepped breezily onto the patio, pacing to the railing and addressing Maria in a tone that seemed to her utterly distracted and cavalier.
"Darling, have you decided yet what invitations you want for the wedding? The printer just called me, and he needs to know immediately if we're to have them ready on time. I know how you feel about all of these 'society' details, but—"
"Really Georg, what do I care how you go about inviting your friends to the wedding?" she had snapped hotly.
He had frozen in mid-stride at this unusual outburst and had looked down at her for the first time, taking in her posture and appearance. Slowly, a small smile that seemed entirely inappropriate to the situation had pulled at his lips. It hadn't been a sneer—to her mind, a sneer might have been better. Rather, it had looked to her like an expression of restrained delight. Her irritation turned to anger. Well, if he was going to laugh at her...!
She had opened her mouth to retort but he cut her off. "You look tired," he had stated simply. "Why don't you take some time to yourself until dinner?"
As she fumed over it afterward, free from the distraction of the children, she had begun to realize how childish her outburst had been and how little he had deserved it. He hadn't made Kurt eat too much at lunch, nor had he encouraged Marta to howl over her stained pink dress. It also wasn't his fault that he had hundreds of guests to invite to the wedding whereas she had only a handful. By the time she entered the dining room that evening and saw the family seated and awaiting her, she felt completely abashed by her earlier behavior.
"Good evening, children. Good evening, Georg," she muttered as she smoothed her skirt under her and took her seat.
Georg took in her discomfited appearance. "Shall I say grace, darling?" he asked kindly.
"Uh ... yes, thank you."
Opening her eyes at "amen," Maria noticed the food that was on the table. Was it a coincidence, or had Georg specifically asked the cook to prepare her favorite meal? She felt the beginnings of another rush of remorse, but as she met her fiancé's gaze and saw the faint, forgiving smile on his lips, she experienced instead a swell of affection. She realized with gratitude that she would not be expected to talk or to explain herself. Instead, Georg engaged the children in conversation, asking each one about his or her day.
Marta informed her father with great sincerity and a gap-toothed smile that Frau Schmidt had washed her pink dress and that it was as good as new. "She showed it to me, Father!" she assured him with a nod of the head as if he had questioned the authenticity of her story.
Since it was no longer a painful subject for anyone present, Kurt interjected to recount with great gusto and an enormous grin the tale of how he had gotten sick during their game. Although throwing up was not usually a topic that Georg encouraged at the dinner table, he couldn't help but laugh heartily along with the children before he put an end to Kurt's detailed effusions.
Finally, Georg set his fork down on his plate amid the crumbs that were all that remained of his torte. "Children," he stated in a gentle but authoritative tone, "it's time to go upstairs."
They blinked at him, a bit confused. "But it's only 8 o'clock, Father," Brigitta said.
"All the same. It's been a long day."
He stood and led them from the dining room, informing them quietly when they were out of earshot that, short of a broken bone, they were in no way to come downstairs for the rest of the evening. Then he returned to the dining room and took the seat next to Maria usually occupied by Gretl.
"Georg," she began, "I'm sorry about this afternoon. I was—"
He shook his head. "Please, don't worry about it. You were tired, and I certainly didn't help matters. I had no idea the day had been so ... eventful," he added with a chuckle. She sighed heavily, but she couldn't stop a small smile from tugging at her lips. It did seem quite humorous in retrospect.
"Now," he said, reaching out and taking one of her hands in both of his, "what would you like to do this evening, my love?"
She gazed at him and then closed her eyes as his fingers slowly and methodically massaged the muscles of her hand.
"Anything?" she had asked after a slight pause.
"Of course."
"Well ... would you tell me—I've been wondering—why did you look so pleased when I was angry this afternoon? I can't make any sense of it."
He raised his eyebrows in surprise and laughed lightly. "Remind me never to underestimate your powers of observation." His brow knit in thought as he considered her question. "It was because ... it seemed proof that you are entirely comfortable with me."
She tilted her head, awaiting further explanation.
"Maria, do you remember our first conversations?"
"Our first disagreements, you mean?" she replied, an ironic smile playing at her lips.
"Exactly," he said.
"Exactly?"
"It's a side of you I haven't seen in a while, and it reminded me—quite pleasantly I assure you—of some of those clashes we had."
"Are you telling me, Captain, that you miss my temper?"
"I'm telling you that I fell in love with all of you."
She smiled at him, her countenance suffused with contentment. After a moment's silence, he continued. "You don't ask for much, Fraulein. Is there a second request?"
"Well," she said, her reticence to express her desire betrayed only by the fact that she closed her eyes again as she savored the touch of his fingers working through the tension in her hand, "you could tell me once more about what was going through your head during all of those moments we spent together before I went back to the abbey."
"It would be a pleasure."
Later, as they sat on a bench in the gazebo (she had chosen the setting for the evening's activity), she kissed him. She held a finger to his lips to silence him and reached up to kiss him as fully as she knew how. It was only the second time she had initiated a kiss. The first time had been the day of their outing on the lake. Taking hold of his outstretched hand, she had stepped awkwardly out of the boat, lost her balance, and thudded against his chest. Instead of pulling away, she had reached up to finger the lock of hair that had so absorbed her that afternoon and then pressed her lips gently to his.
Now, as then, she reveled in the way he cradled her head against his shoulder as he kissed her more deeply than he had in the first days of their engagement. She felt alive, warm, and entirely loved. At last he pulled away, ignoring her noise of protest, and dropped one last kiss on her forehead.
"Maria, let's go on an outing tomorrow, just the two of us."
"There is a place in the hills I've wanted to show you. It's one of my favorite spots."
He considered for a moment, and she saw his lips turn upward in a half-smile. "I can think of nothing more delightful than roaming the hills with you, but I think it would be wise to choose a locale that's more ... public. Unless we take Max along, which might defeat our purpose."
She blushed, then laughed. "He is a wonderful chaperon, but I do see your point. When will he be back from Salzburg?"
"He may be back already." He stood and looked toward the villa. "Shall we go see?" He seemed as reluctant to leave as she was, but he held out his hand to her, which she accepted.
"I know of an artisan in Strobl who makes marionettes. Perhaps we could go there tomorrow for a demonstration," he suggested as they started toward the house.
She nodded in approval, adding after a moment, "Don't tell Max that's why we're going, darling. I don't have the strength to put together any more theatrical productions before the wedding."
He laughed and drew her close as they reached the patio just as Max appeared in the doorway, a cup in one hand and a piece of strudel in the other.
