The seasons changed quickly – of the many lessons that Maria felt she should have learned in her youth, this one had become glaring that summer.
Following her outing with the von Trapps a week ago, Maria had already been back in town once, making this her second visit since. On that last trip, summer had still been lingering about lazily, with its warm, sweet air and golden touch. But today, though still pleasant, it was impossible to ignore the hurried pace of passerbys and the bend of tree branches above, as if the leaves' yellowing tips were already becoming too much for them to bear. To Maria though, it felt like many winters had already passed since.
You can't run from your problems; you have to face them. Maria begged to differ.
Prior to today, Maria had taken the bus in to speak with the Mother Abbess only days after being in town with the Captain and the children. Already then, the abbey beneath her footsteps had felt a little further away from her as she followed Sister Margaretta through its deferential halls. She was always grateful though for the Reverend Mother's astute presence, and not knowing when would be the next time, if ever, she would have the privilege of a private audience made her feel all the more indebted.
Behind her desk, the Mother Abbess had been waiting alone for Maria. The elderly nun balanced a piece of paper between her fingers, a thick piece of parchment the colour of heavy cream. It was marked with an efficient, yet elegant script, scrawled onto the sort of letterhead that was telling of a well-established household. It had just arrived that morning.
Reverend Mother, it began. The ink had not spilled anywhere outside of the carefully formed strokes, the author not one to let much of anything slip despite his confessions which followed: an apology; an admission; and finally, a request.
I eagerly and humbly wait for your word in response. A well-practiced signature concluded the letter at the bottom of a third page.
Upon reading it for the first time, the Reverend Mother had the sense that something had finally come around full circle. As such, it also came as no surprise to hear that Maria would be visiting – in fact, despite the Mother Abbess' devotion to letting greater plans fall into place as they would, she was eager for the news she anticipated from the young woman.
It was unexpected then when Maria entered through the simple doorway and lowered herself onto her knee with an even greater despondency than when she had last returned to the abbey half a month ago. The letter still sat discretely on the desk, folded neatly.
"Child, you've returned," the Mother Abbess began once they had both been seated. "For a visit, Sister Margaretta tells me. Will you be returning to the von Trapps?"
"Yes… well, in a way…" Maria tried to recall the explanation she had rehearsed on the bus ride over, but could only look down at her lap. Her knees were draped in a burnt orange dress that would almost be incandescent in comparison to the stark black she had borne every other time she had been in this chamber. "I… I…"
And then came the tumble of apologies and half-formed thoughts, unrecognizable even in the crudest versions of what Maria had intended to say. Her tears also betrayed her, despite having told herself that she would not cry in front of the Reverend Mother. One more forgotten vow, she thought to herself bitterly.
However, despite the overwhelming nature of her ridiculous predicament, it was not shame or embarrassment or even bewilderment that caused her tears to spill over. In that moment, it was relief. Relief at being surrounded once more by the familiarity of worn wood furniture and the lamplight which bounced off the papered walls, accompanied by the Reverend Mother's soft tone of voice. It felt as if she had come home once more. She could hardly believe that she was about to forfeit it all, to subject herself to the unpredictability she had sought to escape when she first entered the abbey.
Yet still, Maria knew that what she told the Mother Abbess that afternoon was true: she could not shake her resolve as much as she tried. God had placed this decision on her heart as surely as when she had made the one to join the sisters seasons ago.
"And where will you go next then, child?" There was no judgement in the Reverend Mother's tone, nor any mention of the last time Maria had swept back into the abbey, her intentions muddled and clarity robbed by what the Baroness had spoken of.
It was a logical question, to which Maria blushed and admitted quietly, "I don't know."
The Mother Abbess had let Maria's tears fall. She had not pretended to offer Maria guarantees, both her and what was once the young postulant keenly aware that the Lord did not work in certainties, evident in Maria's distress that day despite the letter that teased in between neat piles of prayer books and devotionals. But she had offered Maria a small piece of refuge, for her to return to the abbey after her time with the von Trapps, not to complete her postulancy, but for her to spend time in prayer and for the Reverend Mother to send word to some families and schools who might be in need of a teacher or governess.
Maria had accepted with a ceaseless stream of thanks, willfully omitting the fact that her prayers at the villa thus far had proved to be fruitless for she had not been successful in keeping the light touch of experienced hands from her whispered petitions.
Following her time with the Reverend Mother, Maria had returned directly to Aigen. She had not been able to bring herself to indulge the bolder sisters and their curiosities as to what Captain von Trapp was really like, so instead she bid them a hasty, apologetic farewell soon after. Catching the very next bus, she willed it along, over each hill that soothed like a mother rocking her child. Upon arriving at her stop, she bid the driver adieu and very nearly dashed down the road all the way to the villa, past the large wrought iron gates and loose gravel. The imposing front doors greeted her breathless figure, and she was about to turn the key in its keyhole when suddenly, she hesitated.
At the front steps, the ridiculousness of what had driven Maria all the way back from town in such a haste dawned on her: somewhere, somehow, there had been a fear that the villa could have disappeared in the time she had spent with the Reverend Mother, perhaps deciding to abandon her before she could do the same or having been a figment of her imagination all along. But now that she found it standing as stately as she had left it that morning, she had the strong desire to move in slow motion rather than with the speed that had propelled her journey.
Her homecomings were now numbered after a summer, which despite it all, had been brimming with light and laughter. To pass her time left at the villa simply trying to forget it all would be ignorant at best, negligent at worst. No, despite her apprehension, or her pride, or Heaven forbid, her lust, she would have to do what she could to acknowledge everything, and everyone, her stay with the von Trapps had given her. After all, her decision to leave had already been made.
With each step I am more certain,
Everything will turn out fine.
With this newfound confidence, Maria finally leaned a little weight against the doors, easing them open. They obliged silently, failing to alert the Captain who had just crossed the foyer. At the von Trapp villa, there was no such thing as a creaky hinge, no corner left for want even when its Master had been absent, save for the ballroom. The spotlessness of it all had captivated Maria when she had first arrived, had beckoned her down hushed passageways and beneath archways overhead, as if the entire home were begging for company beyond dusters and obedient feet.
Slipping past the small opening she left herself in the doorway, Maria turned to face the familiar tableau before her, trying her best to see it with a fresh eye. To her surprise, gone was the impression of having ventured into unchartered territory; instead, the tall columns and plush carpet welcomed and humbled her, almost as if the pillars were towering trees and it were soft grass kissed with dew drops below instead of smooth hardwood flooring. She had somehow been allowed to make a place amongst them, and it was staggering.
"Ohhh," Maria muttered aloud. Her resolve to not be distracted by her own turmoil any longer threatened to waver already, for somehow, both the abbey she had just fled and the expansive estate in which she now stood sang of home. And she had made the choice to leave both.
Out of her line of vision, Georg heard an utterance from the steps he had just passed. The children were out with Max, who was in the area for the day, and the quiet had not been broken all morning. Franz had failed to bring the day's mail to his study as he had ordered, so he had come looking for it impatiently now that it was well past midday. Not finding what he was looking for in the ever-growing stack of letters on the entrance table, his frustrated pace had led him into the drawing room absentmindedly. He turned at the interruption and retraced his few steps to emerge and see his governess.
"Ah, Fräulein, you've returned." What an uninspired thing to say. As if he hadn't known it had been her.
If she was startled to see him there, she did not show it. "Good afternoon, Captain," she greeted him with a distant, yet sincere smile. "Thank you for the time off today."
Georg watched as she took the few steps down the stairs and stopped at the landing. He wished, as he so often did, that she would continue across the sweeping entryway straight into his arms. However, curiosity for the way she was now looking at him distracted him momentarily; it was an honest gaze, void of shame, almost like she had come to some new conclusion about him previously unconsidered. Georg had not a clue what that evaluation was and was no longer arrogant enough to hazard a guess.
Instead, he chuckled, perhaps a moment too late. "It's necessary for me to remind myself that occasionally, you might have want to spend your time elsewhere." The irony of this was impossible to ignore, and once more his earlier frustration with the Austrian postal service returned.
Maria coloured, but whatever certainty she had found in town, that which caused her to continue looking at him with such clarity, held her steady now too. "I'm grateful nonetheless, Captain."
Georg cleared his throat. Her tone seemed to imply a gratitude for something beyond time away from the villa, but she did not elaborate, and he did not press. Not until the letter, not until the letter.
Despite not always living up to it, the Captain liked to consider himself a gentleman; further than that, he was a military man, dedicated to conscientious planning and meticulous attention to detail, lest the disastrous, the tragic, occur. And in this minefield, his first step had to be waiting anxiously, patiently, for permission to engage.
She deserves a gentleman. This was one of the only reminders that eased his edge.
And so, in a gesture of which even his mother would be proud (and not having any other excuse to keep her in his company), he gestured to the drawing room from which he had emerged. "Would you care for tea? Considering the children aren't home, I was going to take it alone in here, but I would appreciate the company."
Maria stared at him, but she seemed to remember whatever realization she had had moments ago and nodded slowly. "Thank you, Captain."
Leaning back against the open door, he waited for Maria to cross the distance and let her pass by him at the threshold where he stood. She smelled of sunshine and, he was happy to discover, the same clean, slightly floral scent that the villa boasted thanks to the diligent work of the housemaids. He gestured to one of his staff walking past and requested for two sets of tea to be brought to them before following Maria into the room.
While they had not been ignoring one another since their outburst at breakfast a few days prior, a certain distance had been adhered to even after he had apologized to her earnestly that same evening. For the Captain, he had not trusted himself to not be brash after he had penned that letter to the Reverend Mother directly following his conversation with Marta. As for Maria, he wasn't sure if she had intentionally been avoiding him out of hurt, but he was immensely relieved that she agreed to have tea with him.
He let her have the settee and sat across from her in an armchair. The pot and dishes arrived shortly after, and he prepared a cup for each of them, hers, black, his with two sugars and a splash of cream. She did not remark as to how he already knew how she took her tea.
"Thank you, Captain."
"My pleasure, Fräulein." They both sipped silently.
He was surprised when she spoke first, reaching for a biscuit on the tiered tray and looking at him playfully. "Do you remember when I caught you in the kitchen that one time?"
Georg groaned, doing what he could to mask his pleasure at the memory, but he grinned at her. "I don't believe I remember any such occurrence."
Maria chewed on her biscuit thoughtfully, a devilish gleam in her eye. "Oh, but I do, Captain," she teased, swallowing. "I was looking for a snack for Gretl, before I completely lost her focus, perhaps an apple or such. But there you were, not looking for an apple, but rather–"
"–in my defence–"
"–biscuits! And not just one, but an entire box!"
The Captain groaned, this time without pretense, but he laughed with her. It was always easy to laugh with her. At the time, he had tried to convince her that he intended on sharing with Max, but instead they had opened the box then and there, pouring themselves glasses of milk, the children and Gretl's apple forgotten momentarily.
Once their laughter subsided, Georg did in fact take a chocolate biscuit for himself as if to prove that he had no regrets about that memory they shared. He leaned back in his seat. "How was your trip into town today?" he inquired politely. He could do this, he could enjoy the pleasant company of a young woman without an ulterior motive, making enjoyable small talk, just until word arrived. Then, he could confess, he could ask what he needed to ask, and he could live with the response.
Somehow though, in the simplicity of his question, the easy nature of their conversation faltered. Maria coughed slightly on her tea before setting it down before her and looking him precisely in the eye. The same clarity, but clouded with something darker, a sad regret that the Captain knew well. He wasn't sure if she was going to respond at all until she did.
"It was… Well, I… I visited the Reverend Mother."
Georg's stomach dropped for reasons he was still unsure, along with Maria's gaze, which darted between the small bowl of sugar cubes and the ridiculously tiny finger sandwiches on the tray. Had the Reverend Mother told her what he had wrote her? Had the nun advised Maria to run, to not throw her life away with a man like him? He gulped at his tea, wishing it was the burn of whiskey instead of hot water.
Finally, Maria lifted her eyes back to him, the alarm in his own easy to read. She took a deep breath, steadying herself. If she were to follow through with what she had vowed to herself, she could not afford to be unforthcoming, not with the Captain. She owed him honesty in this when she had kept so much else of how she felt from him.
"I went to tell her that I will not be taking my vows at the end of the summer."
His breath caught, regretting the single biscuit he had just ate and wondering how he had stomached half the box with Maria that time in the kitchen, what seemed like a lifetime ago. A memory that he wanted to turn into a lifetime if he was given the opportunity.
And then, as soon as hope had kindled, it gave out.
"…but that I would also be leaving the villa."
There was silence. He did not have any wit to insert into the situation, no dry remark or sly retort. He sat there, staring at her openly, and she, him.
If he had been thinking logically, he would have reminded himself that part of this had been what he had hoped for. Yes, he wanted to marry her. But more than that, more poignantly, more desperately, he had wanted her to be audacious with her life. Yes, he wanted her to choose to spend it with him, but he had told himself that he could be pacified with the simple knowledge that she was out there somewhere between mountain tops, on the sea, in a far-flung country, wherever. That she would be afforded the same opportunities that he had once relished, to seek adventure, to fall in love. He would make the gamble, but he would not expect to be handed the same cards twice. He would give her his hand, whether in marriage or in his own previous good fortune.
Did it matter now, whatever the Reverend Mother would write back to him? In the same way that he had been resolute in never once suggesting she not take her vows, how could he insert himself when she had decided, on her own accord, that she did not wish to stay with them? With him?
"Captain…" She must have sensed him drifting away, closing off, a defence mechanism he had tried so hard to unlearn. "I want to… I need to… thank you – thank you for –"
"Where will you go?" He did not let her finish, the beginning of her little speech laced with too much permanency.
She stared at him blankly, no more certain of her response than she had been when the Reverend Mother asked her earlier that day. "I don't know," she admitted once more.
He closed his eyes. He envisioned a ship, the anchor slowly lifting from its wedge in the sand, pulled by an invisible force above the waves, and the vessel easing its way from the shore, gliding gently. He had practiced this in the Navy, during the war, where idle time to say goodbye did not exist and one had to learn to let others go without the selfish luxury of one. He had practiced it when Agathe had died.
He stood. He buttoned his suit coat. He made to turn and leave, but then he stopped. He was doing it all over. Instead of imagining his fallen soldiers or his beautiful wife or the governess he had come to love sailing peacefully away to somewhere lit soft and golden, it was him on the boat, him fleeing far away regardless of who he left behind. It was the woman sitting across from him whohad taught him that that would not do, that that was unacceptable to who he was as a man and a father.
And so, for the first time, he grasped for a different strategy, one that had been suggested to him by a doctor in a single session that Max had forced him to attend following Agathe, to help him "cope with his grief".
The doctor had suggested that when he felt like turning away, felt like opting for a drink or a city that knew him only by name, that he remind himself of things that were invariably true. The doctor had made some suggestions that Georg could never have imagined himself repeating, even silently, but he had been encouraged to make his own and even to say them aloud.
Georg had never given it much thought or effort, still preferring the burn of whiskey or the unfamiliar texture of hotel sheets far from home at the time, but today, he turned to Maria and did what the doctor had urged him to consider. He spoke a small, yet indisputable part of the truth to her.
"Nothing was the same when you were away. And it will be all wrong again after you leave."
He stayed long enough to see her gape at him, before turning and walking out the door.
Her trip into town today then had been far less tumultuous, but no less a sort of escape. The entire household had dedicated itself to the endeavour of preparing seven children for their return to school, so while Frau Schmidt sorted through paperwork and Franz drove the von Trapp brood to an orientation, Maria had volunteered to come back into town and pick up the last pieces of their uniforms. Franz would come to pick her up on his way home.
It was the least she could do, she figured, for the children – and their father.
Miraculously, since their exchange over tea, her and the Captain had still spent time between the two of them, perhaps more so than ever before. Early morning walks, late evening murmurs. What she had spoken to herself outside those front doors seemed to be echoed in their careful company: they would take what was given to them, not more, not less, and they would make it feel like time being marked in a ledger and not time that was slipping away.
And so, as Maria sat down at a quiet tea salon to rest her tired feet amidst the packages she had collected, old wallpaper peeling from the walls but a friendly elderly lady running the till, she found herself longing for the Captain – his conversation, his humour, his presence. It was a decidedly female voice however that approached her table.
"Fräulein, I apologize, but I believe we met last week? You are the Captain's governess, are you not?"
Maria looked up from the saucer she had been gripping, eyes widening at the beautiful woman before her. "Yes – Yes, I am. Forgive me, Fräulein –" she had not forgotten in the slightest, but what else was there for her to say?
The woman smiled, "It's Marianne. Marianne Stark."